determined to go my own way, would he have
so suddenly and rashly bound himself to one for
whom he cared nothing? Yet why should he
not care for Sylvia? What, then, had I lost,
since his love was so easily transferred? Oh,
much—much; I had lost very much! A crazy
idea this that I was chasing through my brain.
What did it matter to me? What could it
ever have mattered to me? I hastened to look
on my father's altered face and nerveless hands,
lest my heart should cry out against him.

There seemed to me something inexpressibly
sad in the fact that Mark had loved me. Had
I, being free, made a mistake which women
have made before now, giving forth the music
of their hearts and finding no response, it
would not have been half so hard. Had I
learned that his happiness was in the keeping
of others, I could have plucked the love out of
my heart, and shed it in flowers under his feet
—ay, and under the feet of his bride. But Mark
had set his heart upon me, had stretched out his
hand to me, and I had turned away. This was
what I had to forget as I sat by my father's
head, and counted the hours of each weary day
going past.

Luke dropped completely out of my Iife at
this time. Where was he? What was he
doing? I did not know. I did not think at
all of the future. I thought only of what I had
lost.

How faithful and kind were my two friends,
Dr. Strong and Miss Pollard, I could never
tell. The little woman shone out in the time of
trouble like gold thrice refined. She watched
me as tenderly as a mother, and mourned over
my pale cheeks and thin hands. In the goodness
of her heart she became a sort of Nemesis,
overtaking me at all hours of the day with
spoonfuls of tonic draughts, glasses of wine, and
mutton-chops. I did not like her doses, but I
liked the hand that gave them, and often
swallowed them against my will for the sake of
seeing her look happy. So neat she was, so
quick, so quiet and cheery, with her kind
sympathetic eyes that saw everything and intruded
into nothing, and her childish button of a mouth
touched at the corners with a simple content.
When I had a thought to spare, I gave it to her,
big with admiration.

"If ever you are ill, Dr. Strong," I said to
him one day when we had both been watching
her at some of her handiwork—"if ever you
are ill, I hope you will have Miss Pollard to
nurse you."

"No man could have a better fate," said the
doctor, solemnly; and put on his hat and went
out. And, after he had gone, I could not help
wondering at the oddity of his answer, and
thinking that he had taken my words for more
than they were worth.

Mrs. Hatteraick had come to the Mill-house
several times while my father lay waiting, as
we thought, for death; but I had never spoken
to her outside the door of the sick-room, and
never even there except in whispers about the
patient. But one afternoon she came during
the time when my father was supposed to be
recovering, and we walked up and down the
orchard paths together.

The chill of advanced autumn was in the air;
the dear old lady had on her furs; a fire burned
invitingly in the drawing-room; but it seemed
that by mutual consent we must go out of doors
and walk while we talked. The winds hurried
about as if they should never have time for all
the devastating work they had to do. River
and sky were cold and grey as steel. Yellow
leaves flapped on the creaking boughs, and the
crimson apples glowed between. A sad
unthrifty ripeness of beauty struggled with the
disfigurements of decay. It was a hectic,
withering, weeping world.

"You have heard our strange news, Mattie?"
said Mrs. Hatteraick, clinging to me as she
leaned with her frail hand on my arm.

"Yes, Mrs. Hatteraick," I said; "I hope it
will make you all happy."

"I do not look for it," she said. "It is too
strange—it is unnatural. She will never make
my son's happiness. He is so changed—he is
gloomy and bitter. He has not done this thing
in his right senses. If the woman loved him, I
should not despair, but she does not. Oh,
Mattie, Mattie! the world has gone wrong with
my son! and it's your fault. We took you into
our hearts; we counted you all our own. You
saw how it was with us, and you never said a
word."

"Do not blame me," I said—and I said it
very meekly, for my heart felt quite broken at
the time—"do not blame me. We have each
our own share of trouble to bear."

She stopped our walk, put back the hair that
was blowing about my eyes with her trembling
hands, and looked in my face.

"Mattie dear," she said, "you are not
happy in this engagement of yours. Tell me
about it. I am not Mark. I am not Sylvia.
An old woman going fast towards her grave can
keep a secret. Tell me, are you happy?"

I felt what was coming, for my pride was
sinking, sinking; but I struggled as long as I
could.

"It need not matter to any one," I said,
"whether I am happy or not. It must not
matter."

"Those are hard words for the young, my
darling," she said. And oh, she said it so
pitifully, so lovingly. "You do not like this
Mr. Elphinstone, who is to be your husband,"
she went on; "I know that, and I may as
well know the rest. He is very rich, I hear,
but it is not that which influences my Mattie.
There is something else that cannot be got
over?"

"Mrs. Hatteraick," I said, "don't you think
that when there are things that cannot be got
over it is best to be silent?"

"Silence is an excellent rule, my love," she
said; "but there must be exceptions, or hearts
would break."

Had mine been sheathed in steel, it must have
been pierced by the home-thrusts of her tenderness.