young as I am, after years of trouble and
sorrow, and find in it a quiet, home, governed
by my good uncle, it seems a place where
one must needs be happy."

"I hope, indeed, you will be happy here."

"Ah, yes! I have already known a
tranquillity in this place which I have never
known before—not, indeed, since I was so
young that I have almost forgotten it. And
my uncle, whom some people have thought
harsh. They do not know what a gentle and
affectionate nature lies under that sharp
manner, which he has sometimes with strangers.
And because he loved retirement, and
from disappointment in his youth shut himself
up here, and seldom came to see us, they said
that he hated men. We did not say so; for
my mother knew him better."

"Let me add, that I know him better,"
said I. I looked at her again for some
moments in silence, thinking that I could
read something of the sorrow that she spoke
of, in the expression of her face. She glanced
at me once more with a look of curiosity;
and then bidding me "good morning," turned
and went through the archway, leaving me
alone.

About a week after that morning, the winter
began suddenly. The weather had continued
to be fine and calm—although we were at the
end of October—until one evening, as I was
returning from the College, I felt the air strike
chill; and that night, I was awakened by a
high wind turning the sails of a windmill, near
the back of our house, with a noise like the
roaring of the sea. In the morning, the trees
about and within the College were stripped
of their leaves; and the wind continued all
day to drive the clouds across the sky; and
the dusk came on earlier than usual. I had
not seen Amy since, although I had walked
again in the garden. I sat all day, thinking
of the long winter before us, and of the many
months that must pass before I could walk
with her again in the garden. I paced to
and fro in the library, and, from the window,
looked out into the quadrangle, and watched
the leaves as the wind whirled them in eddies,
or swept them up in corners and doorways.
When it became dark, I went out, and seeing
no one, I passed by the Warden's door, and
listened at the window for Amy's voice.
The firelight shone through the holes in the
shutters, and I could hear speaking.
Sometimes I could plainly distinguish the house-
keeper's voice; and sometimes, I thought, the
voices of Amy and her uncle. I turned away
and went home, feeling a loneliness that I had
never known before.

Every night I saw the same light through
the Warden's window; and picturing to
myself the scene within, felt this loneliness more
strongly than before.

And still I saw nothing of Amy. Sometimes
her uncle visited me in the library;
but he never again invited me into the house.
His manners were still strange: so strange at
times, that I thought I observed some signs
of a falling away from that shrewd and
practical mind which I had always known him to
possess. His manner with me had become
habitually querulous; sometimes he seemed
forgetful and almost childish. One day,
remarking that it was the twelfth of the month,
he repeated the words, and stood musing
awhile.

"This should be my birthday," said he.
"Let me see! The twelfth!  I am eighty-one,
and I have been here fifty years; and, indeed,
this winter I feel myself getting old—too old
for work. And why should I harass myself
with work? I will go away from here. Yet
Amy likes the place; and perhaps I have
been here too long to leave it now. The
duties are getting irksome to me: but I must
stay. Yes, Amy likes the place, and she is a
good girl—she is the comfort of my life."

He did not address his words to me, though
I sat beside him; but he stood looking towards
one of the windows, as if speaking to himself.
I would not interrupt him. There was
something that touched me in the sound of his
voice, and in the thoughtful expression of his
features; nay, even in his attitude, as he
stood there, tall and thin, as an afternoon
shadow, undecided whether to go or to stay. It
was a curious thought, but it struck me that
I had found the key to his childishness, in his
sudden affection for his niece. I thought
that he might have gone on yet for many
years in that round of habit in which he had
lived, carrying on his duties almost
mechanically, if nothing had occurred to disturb
him, even after the intelligence which
originally directed them was partially
extinguished. But this feeling of affection, so
long benumbed, and awakened thus late in
life, had brought forth his true nature, and
shown that he was become a child. He
turned away, afterwards, and, without saying
a word, walked slowly down the length of
the library, and went out, leaving me there.

The weather became colder. After three
dark days, the wind dropped, and the snow
began to fall, slowly covering everything until
it lay deep in the quadrangle, and on the roofs
and porches of the doors, and on the
rainspouts, and window-ledges, and on the gnomon
of the sun-dial. No one stirred abroad then;
sometimes no footstep but my own was
imprinted in the snow all day. It ceased to
fall at last, but the weather was still cold.
On the afternoon of that day, I read in the
library by lamp-light, and, going out afterwards,
the moon was shining. That side
where I stood was in shadow; but the
moonlight shone upon the opposite wall, and made
a broad line before the doors. As I looked
across, I saw one of the doors of the blind
inmates' habitations, open, and Amy come out.
She heard me try the lock to see if the door
was fast, and called to me. She held the door
almost closed behind her, and said, as I
approached: