at the head of the class and have got the medal.”

Fidelia laughed. “I’m not the best scholar by a good many. But I have got on pretty well.”

“Well, you have got up a step, I hear.”

“I have been taking some of the studies of the second year. My Latin helped me on, and—other things. And—I mean to graduate next year.”

“Do in two years what other girls are expected to do in three or four, and injure your health for life doing it? That would be a poor kind of wisdom, little girl.”

“Oh, I haven’t been doing too much, and I don’t mean to! But you know, two years means more to Eunice and me than it does to most people. Oh, it will be all easy enough! I was well prepared. You see Eunice knew just what was needed.”

“Yes, and Eunice is a good teacher.”

“Isn’t she?” said Fidelia eagerly. “I haven’t seen one yet to compare with her. Oh, if Eunice had only had my chance!”

“Softly, little girl! Your chance, indeed! Dear Eunice is far beyond all that sort of thing. She has had better teaching.”

“Yes; but Eunice would have liked it. You know she was at the seminary one of its first years. And she would have gone on. She told me the last night I was at home that it was years before she could quite give up the hope of going there again. And I don’t see why she shouldn’t. She is not thirty-two years old yet; and it was not just for young girls that the seminary was built; and—”

“My dear, Eunice has got past the need of all that. It would be like sending you and Susie back again to the old red schoolhouse, to send Eunice there.”

The doctor had cut his hickory stick, but he had not used it, and old Grey had been moving on but slowly. There was still a long hill to climb before they reached the spot where Fidelia could catch a first glimpse of home. Old Grey moved slowly still, but neither of them spoke another word till he stood still at the door.

It was a low wooden house, which had once been painted brown; but the weather-stains on the walls, and the green moss and the lichens on the roof, made its only colouring now. It had wide eaves, and many small-paned windows, and a broad porch before the door. A wild vine covered the porch and one of the windows, and the buds were beginning to show green upon it. The house stood in a large garden, which might be a pretty garden in the summer-time, but nothing had been done to it yet. The sunshine was on it, however, and it was beautiful in Fidelia’s eyes. She had lived in this old brown house more than half of the eighteen years of her life; she had been faithfully cared for and dearly loved; and there were tears in her eyes, though her face was bright, as she went in at the door.

“You are coming in, Dr Everett?” said she.

“Yes, I am coming in. Do you suppose Eunice has a glass of buttermilk for me this morning?”

“If she has not, she has got cream for you, I am quite sure,” said she, laughing.

Then they went in, and, finding no one, they went through the house to the garden beyond, where a woman with a large white sun-bonnet on her head was stooping over some budding thing at her feet. She raised herself up in a little, and came towards them, closely examining something which she held in her hand. So she did not see them till she came near the door where they stood. As she glanced up and saw them a shadow seemed to pass over her face. The doctor saw it; but Fidelia only saw the smile that chased it away.

“My little girl!” said Eunice softly.

Fidelia hid her face on her sister’s shoulder, and no word was spoken for a minute or two. Then they went into the house, and Fidelia said, with a little laugh,—

“I got homesick at the last minute, dear, and so I came home.”

“All right, dear. If you could spare the time, it was right to come. I am very glad.”

The doctor got his buttermilk and cream as well, but he sat still, seeming in no hurry to go away. He listened, and put in a word now and then, but listened chiefly. He lost no tone or movement of either; and when Fidelia went, at her sister’s bidding, to take off her bonnet and shawl, he rose and took the elder sister’s hand, putting his finger on her pulse.

“Are you as well as usual these days, Eunice?” said he.

For an instant she seemed to shrink away from him, and would not meet his eye. Then she said, speaking very slowly and gently,—

“I cannot say that I am quite as well as usual. I meant to see you in a day or two. Now I will wait a little longer.”

“Had you better wait?”

“Yes, I think so. I am not going to spoil Fidelia’s pleasure, now that she is at home for a few days, and I will wait. It won’t really make any difference.”

“Eunice,” said the doctor gravely, “are you afraid of—anything?”

A sudden wave of colour made her face for the moment beautiful. Tears came into her eyes, but she smiled as she said,—

“No, not afraid; I hope I should not be afraid even if I should be going to suffer all that I saw her suffer.”

“Eunice, why have you not told me before? It was hardly friendly to be silent with any such thought in your mind.”

“Well, it is as I said. A little sooner or later could make no difference.”

“And because you did not like to make your friends unhappy you ran this risk.”

The doctor was standing with his face to the door at which Fidelia at the moment entered, and his tone changed.

“Well, to-morrow you must send your little girl down to see my little girls, unless they should hear of her home-coming, and be up here this afternoon. No; they shall not come, nor any one else. You shall have this day to yourselves. And mind one thing—there must be no school-books about during vacation time. Miss Eunice, I will trust to you to see to that.”

And then he went away.