Sedley." He had very nearly omitted his parting
salutation to me altogether; but I could
not let Horace's father go without a farewell,
that night, of all nights; so I had
emerged from my nook behind the tea-table.
Mr. Lee tried to look as if he had been
purposely reserving the pleasure of shaking hands
with me for the last, and had meant to come
round to my side of the room if I would but
have awaited him patiently. But I am afraid I
must make the humiliating confession, that I
believe he had quite forgotten I was present.

My aunt rose as soon as Mr. Lee had
departed, and said she would go to bed. She
seemed very feeble when she got upon her
feet, and I began to fear that the day's exertion
had been too much for her. Horace gave her
his arm to the room door, and then I think my
uncle observed her weakness with some anxiety.
"Shall I carry you up-stairs, my dear?" he
said. " It wouldn't be for the first time."

"No, love, no; I'm not so dead tired as that.
Madge will come with me. Good night, all. I
shall be strong again to-morrow after a night's
rest." So I went up the wide old-fashioned
staircase with mv aunt, she leaning on my arm;
and we made the journey slowly, though the
ascent was far from being a steep one.

Anna had seemed inclined to linger a little;
but Horace was preoccupied, and did not
talk; and my uncle's dear face had a rather
troubled look as his eyes followed his wife's
slow steps out of the room. Anna, to whom
silence and dulness were always intolerable,
forthwith began to yawn, and followed us
up-stairs almost immediately. Horace
remained in the morning-room, and I saw in his
eyes, and I felt in the parting pressure of his
hand, that he would speak in the fulness of his
heart to my uncle, before he went away that
night. The thought made me a little nervous
and agitated, though Heaven knows I had never
had cause to dread my dear guardian and
benefactor. I longed to speak to Aunt Gough,
and tell her of my great happiness, and receive
the sweet motherly sympathy that she had ever
been ready to lavish on me from my childish
days; but she seemed so fatigued and
unstrung that I dared not venture to excite her
that night for my selfish pleasure. I remained
with her until her eyes were closed and her
head lay placidly on the pillow; then, lamp in
hand, I crossed the broad landing to my
bedchamber.

Anna and I shared a large, low, oak-panelled
room with three deep windows looking on to
the lawn. Our white-curtained beds stood
side by side on an island of crimson carpet
relieved against the darkness of the polished
floor. I found that my sister was already in
bed, and apparently asleep; shading the lamp
with my hand, I walked softly to the
dressing-table, and looked in the glass. It was
a large old-fashioned oval mirror, set in a
black carved swing frame. How plainly it all
comes back to me! I can see the blue gleam
of moonlight that slanted in at the many-paned
windows, and threw a fantastic pattern on the
oaken boards; I can see the wide stretch of garden
and shrubbery, shimmering ghost-like out of
a silver veil of mist; I can see the long shadows
of the trees rocking and swaying noiselessly on
the lawn, as the trees themselves moved with a
soft whispering sound in the night breeze; I
can smell the fragrance of a bunch of rich brown
wallflowers that stood in a china vase on the
window-sill. It all fixed itself in my mind
during the moment in which I set my lamp upon
the dressing-table, and tilted down the glass to
an angle at which I could see my face reflected
in it. Not a touch or tint in that picture has
faded in fifty years. " This, then, is the happy
girl whom Horace loves!" said I to myself,
looking at the face which looked at me out of
the dark sea-green depths of the mirror. I
knew very well that it was not a beautiful face.
I knew very well that it was scarcely even
pretty. But it was irradiated now, with a light
that transfigured it. " O I am so glad!" I
whispered through my blissful tears. " I almost
believe that being so dearly loved, and loving so
dearly, will make me grow pretty." Then I
bent forward and put my lips to the cold surface
of the glass, and said, "That means good night
for Horace!"

I turned away from the glass with a heart
full of happy thoughts, and yet my tears fell
fast. Anna was lying asleep on her white
bed, and, as I looked at her lovely fresh face
in its nest of rippling hair, I yearned to tell
my joy to anything so sweet and young and
beautiful, to receive her sisterly kiss, and to
feel the clasp of her arms around my neck, as I
had felt it many a time when she had come
to me to be soothed in some baby sorrow, and
we had fallen asleep together. I thought I could
tell her better, if I put out the light; therefore,
when I was undressed I extinguished the lamp
and kneeled down by her bedside. The
moonlight shone into the chamber, and her hand
and arm, tossed carelessly outside the coverlet,
were bathed in a flood of pale brightness;
but her face was in shadow.

"Anna," I said in a low voice, putting my
cheek down on hers, "Anna, I have something
to tell you."

She did not answer me.

"Anna, darling! It is something that makes
me very, very happy, and I cannot sleep without
telling you."

She breathed quicker, and the white hand
that lay in the moonlight clenched itself.

"Don't be frightened, dear. It is good, good
news I have to tell you."

No reply. The cheek on which mine rested
turned a little away, but she did not speak.

"Anna, Horace Lee loves me. He has told
me so!"

She dashed herself out of my arms, turning
so as to bury her face in the pillow, and the moonlit
hand went up into the black shadow around
her head, and stayed there.

"Why did you wake me, Margaret? I
was asleep. I was dreaming. 1 was so happy,