seemed suddenly filled with life and joy, as a graceful figure, with reddish, golden hair, bounded across the floor, and winding its arms around his neck gave him the hearty kiss which Katy had in her mind when she declined Aunt Betsy's favorite vegetable.

Morris Grant was not averse to being kissed, and yet the fact that Katy Lennox had kissed him in such a way awoke a chill of disappointment, for it said that to her he was the teacher still, the elder brother, whom, as a child, she had in her pretty way loaded with caresses.

"Oh, Cousin Morris!" she exclaimed, and, still holding his hand: "Why didn't you come over at noon, you naughty, naughty boy? But what a splendid-looking man you've got to be, though! and what do you think of me?" she added, blushing for the first time, as he held her off from him and looked into the sunny face.

"I think you wholly unchanged," he answered, so gravely that Katy began to pout as she said: "And you are sorry, I know. Pray, what did you expect of me, and what would you have me be?"

"Nothing but what you are—the same Kitty as of old," he answered, his own bright smile breaking all over his sober face.

He saw that his manner repelled her, and he tried to be natural, succeeding so well that Katy forgot her first disappointment, and making him sit by her on the sofa, where she could see him distinctly, she poured forth a volley of talk, telling him, among other things, how much afraid of him some of his letters made her—they were so serious and so like a sermon.

"You wrote me once that you thought of being a minister," she added. "Why did you change your mind? It must be splendid, I think, to be a young clergyman—invited to so many tea-drinkings, and having all the girls in the parish after you, as they always are after unmarried ministers."

Into Morris Grant's eyes there stole a troubled light as he thought how little Katy realized what it was to be a minister of God—to point the people heavenward and teach them the right way. There was a moment's pause, and then he tried to explain to her that he hoped he had not been influenced either by thought of tea-drinking or having the parish girls after him, but rather by an honest desire to choose the sphere in which he could accomplish the most good.

"I did not decide rashly," he said, "but after weeks of anxious thought and prayer for guidance I came to the conclusion that in the practice of medicine I could find perhaps as broad a field for good as in the church, and so I decided to go on with my profession—to be a physician of the poor and suffering, speaking to them of Him who came to save, and in this way I shall not labor in vain. Many would seek another place than Silverton and its vicinity, but something told me that my work was here, and so I am content to stay, feeling thankful that my means admit of my waiting for patients, if need be, and at the same time ministering to the wants of those who are needy."

Gradually, as he talked, there came into his face a light, born only from the peace which passeth understanding, and the awe-struck Katy crept closer to his side, and, grasping his hand in hers, said, softly: "Dear cousin, what a good man you are, and how silly I must seem to you, thinking you cared for tea-drinkings, or even girls, when, of course, you do not."

"Perhaps I do," the doctor replied, slightly pressing the warm, fat hand holding his so fast. "A minister's or a doctor's life would be dreary indeed if there was no one to share it, and I have had my dreams of the girls, or girl, who was some day to brighten up my home."

He looked fully at Katy now, but she was thinking of something else, and her next remark was to ask him, rather abruptly, how old he was.

"Twenty-six last May," he answered, while Katy continued: "You are not old enough to be married yet. Wilford Cameron is thirty."

"Where did you meet Wilford Cameron?" Morris asked, in some surprise, and then the story which Katy had not told, even to her sister, came out in full, and Morris tried to listen patiently while Katy explained how, on the very first day of the examination, Mrs. Woodhull had come in, and with her the grandest, proudest-looking man, who the girls some of them said was Mr. Wilford Cameron, from New York, a very fastidious bachelor, whose family were noted for their wealth and exclusiveness, keeping six servants, and living in the finest style; that Mrs. Woodhull, who all through the year had been very kind to Katy, came to her after school and invited her home to tea; that she had gone, and met Mr. Cameron; that she was very much afraid of him at first, and was not sure that she was quite over it now, although he was so polite to her all through the journey, taking so much pains to have her see the finest sights, and laughing at her enthusiasm.

"Wilford Cameron with you on your trip?" Morris asked, a new idea, dawning on his mind.

"Yes; let me tell you," and Katy spoke rapidly. "I saw him that night, and then Mrs. Woodhull took me to ride with him in the carriage, and then—well, I rode alone with him once down by the lake, and he talked to me just as if he was not a grand man and I a little schoolgirl. And when the term closed I stayed at Mrs. Woodhull's, and he was there. He liked my playing and liked my singing, and I guess he liked me—that is, you know—yes, he liked me some," and Katy twisted the fringe of her shawl, while Morris, in spite of the pain tugging at his heart-strings, laughed aloud as he rejoined: "I have no doubt he did; but go on—what next?"

"He said more about my joining that party than anybody, and I am very sure he paid the bills."

"Oh, Katy," and Morris started as if he had been stung. "I would rather have given Linwood than have you thus indebted to Wilford Cameron or any other man."

"I could not well help it. I did not mean any harm," Katy said, timidly, for at first she had shrunk from the proposition, but Mrs. Woodhull seemed to think it right, urging it on until she had consented, and so she said to Morris, explaining how kind Mr. Cameron was, and how careful not to remind her of her indebtedness to him, attending to and anticipating every want as if she had been his sister.

"You would like Mr. Cameron, Cousin Morris. He made me think of you a little, only he is prouder," and Katy's hand moved up Morris' coat sleeve till it rested on his shoulder.

"Perhaps so," Morris answered, feeling a growing resentment toward one who, it seemed to him, had done him some great wrong.

But Wilford was not to blame, he reflected. He could not well help liking the bright little Katy—some; and so, conquering all ungenerous feelings, he turned to her at last and said:

"Did my little Cousin Kitty like Wilford Cameron?"

Something in Morris' voice startled Katy strangely; her hand came down from his shoulder, and for an instant there swept over her an emotion similar to what she had felt when with Wilford Cameron she rambled along the shores of Lake George, or sat alone with him on the deck of the steamer which carried them down Lake Champlain. But Morris had always been her brother, and she did not guess how hard it was for him to keep from telling her then that she was more to him than a sister. Had he told her, this story, perhaps, had not been written; but he kept silence, and so it is ours to record how Katy answered frankly at last: "I guess I did like him a little. I could not help it, Morris. You could not, either, or any one. I believe Mrs. Woodhull was more than half in love with him, and she is an old woman compared with me. By the way, what did she mean by introducing me to him as the daughter of Judge Lennox? I meant to have asked her, but forgot it afterward. Was father ever a judge?"

"Not properly," Morris replied. "He was justice of the peace in Bloomfield, where you were born, and for one year held the office of side or associate judge, that's all. Few ever gave him that title, and I wonder at Mrs. Woodhull. Possibly she fancied Mr. Cameron would think better