must be terrible to lose any one whom one loves.” And then she added, with a smile, “I did not mean to hurt your feelings by calling your brother a boy, but he seemed very young to me. You see, I am engaged, and Mr. Sinclair (that is my fiancé) is nearly thirty, and he is so grave and quiet that any one like your brother seems like a boy beside him.”

“You are engaged?” ejaculated Bessie, in an awestruck tone.

“Yes; it seems a pity, does it not? at least mamma says so; she thinks I am too young and giddy to know my own mind; and yet she is very fond of Neville—Mr. Sinclair, I mean. She will have it that we are not a bit suited to each other, and I dare say she is right, for certainly we do not think alike on a single point.”

Bessie’s eyes opened rather widely at this candid statement. She was a simple little soul, and had not yet learned the creed of emancipation. She held the old-fashioned views that her mother had held before her. Her mother seldom talked on these subjects, and Bessie had inherited this reticence. She listened with a sort of wondering disgust when her girl acquaintances chattered flippantly about their lovers, and boasted openly of their power over them.

“If this sort of thing ever comes to me,” thought Bessie on these occasions, “I shall think it too wonderful and precious to make it the subject of idle conversation. How can any one take upon themselves the responsibility of another human being’s happiness—for that is what it really means—and turn it into a jest? It is far too sacred and beautiful a thing for such treatment. I think mother is right when she says, ‘Girls of the present day have so little reticence.’”

She hardly knew what to make of Edna’s speech; it was not exactly flippant, but it seemed so strange to hear so young a creature speak in that cool, matter-of-fact way.

“I don’t see how people are to get on together, if they do not think alike,” she observed, in a perplexed voice; but Edna only laughed.

“I am afraid we don’t get on. Mother says she never saw such a couple; that we are always quarrelling and making up like two children; but I put it to you, Miss Lambert, how are things to be better? I am used to my own way, and Mr. Sinclair is used to his. I like fun and plenty of change, and dread nothing so much as being bored—ennuyée, in fact, and he is all for quiet. Then he is terribly clever, and has every sort of knowledge at his fingers’ end. He is a barrister, and rising in his profession, and I seldom open a book unless it be a novel.”

“I wonder why he chose you,” observed Bessie naïvely, and Edna seemed much amused by her frankness.

“Oh, how deliciously downright you are, Miss Lambert. Well, do you know I have not the faintest notion why Neville asked me to marry him, any more than I know why I listened to him. I tell him sometimes that it was the most ridiculous mistake in the world, and that either he or I, or both of us, must have been bewitched. I am really very sorry for him sometimes; I do make him so unhappy; and sometimes I am sorry for myself. But there, the whole thing is beyond my comprehension. If I could alter myself or alter Neville, things would be more comfortable and less unpleasantly exciting.” And here Edna laughed again, and then stifled another yawn; and this time Bessie declared she would not stop a moment longer. Christine would be asleep.

“Well, perhaps I should only talk nonsense if you remained, and I can see you are easily shocked, so I will allow you to wish me good-night.” But, to Bessie’s surprise, Edna kissed her affectionately.

“You have been a Good Samaritan to me,” she said quietly, “and I am really very grateful.” And Bessie withdrew, touched by the unexpected caress.

“What a strange mixture she is!” she thought, as she softly closed the door. “I think she must have been badly brought up; perhaps her mother has spoiled her. I fancy she is affectionate by nature, but she is worldly, and cares too much for pleasure; anyhow, one cannot help being interested in her.” But here she broke off abruptly as she passed a half-opened door, and a voice from within summoned her.

“Oh, Hatty, you naughty child, are you awake? Do you know it is nearly twelve o’clock?”

“What does that matter?” returned Hatty fretfully, as Bessie groped her way carefully toward the bed. “I could not sleep until you had said good-night to me. I suppose you had forgotten me; you never thought I was lying here waiting for you, while you were talking to Miss Sefton.”

“Now, Hatty, I hope you are not going to be tiresome;” and Bessie’s voice was a little weary; and then she relented, and said gently, “You know I never forget you, Hatty dear.”

“No, of course not,” returned the other eagerly. “I did not mean to be cross. Put your head down beside me on the pillow, Bessie darling, for I know you are just as tired as possible. You don’t mind stopping with me for a few minutes, do you? for I have not spoken to you for three weeks.”

“No, I am not so tired as all that, and I am quite comfortable,” as a thin, soft cheek laid itself against her’s in the darkness. “What has gone wrong, Hatty dear? for I know by your tone you have been making yourself miserable about something. You have wanted me back to scold you into cheerfulness.”

“I have wanted you dreadfully,” sighed Hatty. “Mother and Christine have been very kind, but they don’t help me as you do, and Tom teases me dreadfully. What do you think he said yesterday to mother? I was in the room and heard him myself. He actually said, ‘I wonder my father allows you all to spoil Hatty as you do. You all give in to her, however cross and unreasonable she is, and so her temper gets worse every day.’”

“Well, you are very often cross, you know,” returned Bessie truthfully.

“Yes, but I try not to be,” replied Hatty, with a little sob. “Tom would have been cross too if his head and back had ached as mine were aching, but he always feels well and strong. I think it is cruel of him to say such things to mother, when he knows how much I have to suffer.”

“Tom did not mean to be unkind, Hatty; you are always finding fault with the poor boy. It is difficult for a young man, who does not know what an ache means, nor what it is to wake up tired, to realize what real suffering all your little ailments cause you. Tom is really very kind and good-natured, only your sharp little speeches irritate him.”

“I am always irritating some one,” moaned Hatty. “I can’t think how any of you can love me. I often cry myself to sleep, to think how horrid and disagreeable I have been in the day. I make good resolutions then, but the next morning I am as bad as ever, and then I think it is no use trying any more. Last night Tom made me so unhappy that I could not say my prayers.”

“Poor little Hatty!”

“Yes, I know you are sorry for me; you are such a dear that I cannot be as cross with you as I am with Tom; but, Bessie, I wish you would comfort me a little; if you would only tell me that I am not so much to blame.”

“We have talked that over a great many times before. You know what I think, Hatty; you are not to blame for your weakness; that is a trial laid upon you; but you are to blame if that weakness is so impatiently borne that it leads you to sin.”

“I am sure father thinks that I cannot help my irritability; he will never let Tom scold me if he is in the room.”

“That is because father is so kind, and he knows you have such a hard time of it, you poor child, and that makes