"O, my dear Horace!"

"Well, it does seem so. Of course it is
right that you should be kind and attentive to
your aunt. I am sure I am nearly as fond of her
as you are. But you seem so indifferent,
Margaret. As if you didn't care to be with me!"

His tone was petulant, irritable, and unlike
himself; looking at him more closely, I saw
that he seemed harassed, and was very pale, now
that the flush of exercise had faded from his
face.

"O, Horace!"

If I could have told him but a tenth part of
the joy it gave me to be with him! But no, I
could not. And yet the tone of his voice, the
sound of his footfall, the glance of his eye, made
my heart overflow with happiness. And surely he
might have known this. If he did not, I could
not make him know it by any words of protestation.
I have said that it was my weakness to
be too keenly sensitive to reproof, especially
where my affections were concerned. I
always saw that other side of things too plainly.
What he thought and felt, was almost as vividly
within my perception as were my own thoughts
and feelings; but though I knew he was wrong,
I could not plead my cause. It would have been
better to have spoken frankly and fearlessly,
setting forth the strength of my love; it would
have been better, even, to have grown angry, and
flamed at him as my sister might have done.
But I could only withdraw into myself and bear
my hurt in silence.

We walked to the end of the path without
speaking, and, when we turned to go back
towards the house, he suddenly took me in his
arms, upsetting the flower-basket and scattering
its contents upon the gravel. "No, my darling!"
he said. "Don't mind me. I don't believe it."

"Believe what, Horace?"

"That you are anything but the sweetest,
dearest, truest, most unselfish girl in the world."

"I am not that, Horace; but do me justice.
At least I am not indifferent."

"No, no, no, my own love. I arn sure you are
not. Forgive me."

We kissed each other with wet cheeks, like
two children, as we were.

"Look at my poor flowers, you bad boy.
There! Put them all in the basket. I would
not have old Stock see one blossom lying trampled
on the ground, for more than I can tell. I
must not keep Dr. Dixon any longer. You will
come to aunt's room when she sends for you,
and tell us all about Anna? Of course you see
her constantly?"

"Yes; I—have seen her. Must you go
now?"

I only shook my head in answer, and ran into
the house. Uncle Gough was in my aunt's
room when I reached it, and Dr. Dixon. The
doctor was a mild middle-aged man, well known
and much respected in Willborough. He was
brother of that Mr. Dixon, the organist, of
whom I said in my childhood that he "played
so kindly."

"Good evening, Miss Sedley." The doctor
stretched out his right hand, which held a
leather driving-glove. I had never seen Dr.
Dixon with that glove on, in my life, but he
always carried it.

"How do you find my aunt, sir?"

"Mrs. Gough is better, decidedly better.
If we can get a little strength, a little tone, we
shall do very well."

"I am so glad!"

"Yes; a little tone. Do you know what I have
been proposing to your uncle, Miss Sedley?"

"Proposing! Nay, it's all fixed and settled,
lassie," put in my uncle, who was sitting by his
wife's chair, gently smoothing her frail hand
with his broad heavy one.

"I have been proposing," continued the doctor,
who had a mildly obstinate way of sticking to
his own form of words, " that Mrs. Gough
should go for some months to the sea-side. To
get tone; a little tone, you know."

"I believe it would do her great good, Dr.
Dixon."

"Yes, yes; that's the thing, Madge," said
my uncle. "She shall go, next week, to
Beachington. I wonder we didn't think of it before."

"It wouldn't have done before, my good
friend," said Dr. Dixon. "It is early in the
season even yet. But I have been proposing
something else, Miss Sedley."

"No, no," interrupted my aunt, faintly. "I
won't allow it."

"Pardon me, my dear madam. I have also
been proposing, Miss Sedley, that you should
accompany her."

Accompany her! Go away from Horace
during the short time he had yet to stay in
Willborough! I felt ashamed of my selfishness
even as I thought this.

"Of course I will go with her, Dr. Dixon, if
she will let me."

"It is too bad to ask the dear child," said
Aunt Gough. My uncle looked at me wistfully.
"I'm loth to part the bairn from her
sweetheart," said he. "But yet I know she'd wish
to do whatever she could for her good aunt.
She's the best lassie in the world, doctor."

"My kind darling uncle," said I, "pray, pray,
don't speak in that way, as if you were asking
any favour of me. I am thankful and rejoiced
to be of use."

"Of the very greatest use, Miss Sedley," said
Dr. Dixon, taking up his hat. "You are very
patient, very gentle, and very pleasant to look
at—three inestimable qualities in a nurse."
And with those words, the doctor betook
himself down-stairs.

"Bless thee, my bairn," said my uncle.

"Horace will never forgive me," said my
aunt; "but he'll have Madge to himself all his
life, and perhaps I may not be here to trouble
him much longer."

CHAPTER X.

SEA and sky, sky and sea, sea and sky!
Deep blue, or pale green, livid under the clouds,
dazzling in the sunshine, sleeping with a slow