strong helpers in her life as women in books always found? Compared with the grand, good, winning lover in books, what were the men she knew? Why, Dr. Lake was frivolous, Felix Harrison weak, Gus Hammerton practical and pedantic, and Mr. Towne heartless and stupid!

“Gus is here,” said Dinah, her head appearing at the door, “and he has brought you a book! But I’m going to read it first.”

“Well, I’ll come,” she answered. But she did not go for half an hour; Mr. Hammerton took the new book to her immediately and talked to her until her pale cheeks were in a glow.

The last day of the year, what a day it was!

It was like a mellow day in October; in the afternoon Tessa found herself wandering through Mayfield; as she sauntered past the school-house a voice arrested her, one of the voices that she knew best in the world. She stood near the entrance listening.

That thrilling pathetic voice; it had never touched her as it touched her to-day.

    “Old  year,  you  shall  not  die;
    We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you,
    I’ve  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you,
    Old  year,  if  you  must  die.”

She stood but a moment, the voice read on, but she did not care to listen; she went on at a slow pace, enjoying each step of the way past the barren fields lying warm and brown in the sunlight, past the farm-houses, past the low-eaved homestead of the Harrisons, past the iron gates of the Old Place with the voice in her ears and the sigh for the old year in her heart. She almost wished that she could love Felix Harrison; she had refused him five times since her seventeenth birthday and in May she would be twenty-five! He had said that he would never ask her again. Why should she wish for any change to come into her life? If she might always live in the present, she would be content; she had her father and mother and Dine and Gus; her world was broad enough.

The sound of wheels had been pursuing her; a sudden stoppage, then another voice that she knew called to her, “Miss Tessa, will you ride with me?”

“Perhaps you are not going my way,” she said lightly.

“I am going to Dunellen.” He answered her words only.

As soon as they were seated in the carriage, she said very gravely, “I wrote you a letter last night, but I burned it this morning.”

“I am sorry for that.”

The words came out with a gasp and a jerk; she did not know that words could choke like that, but she was glad as soon as she had spoken. “Mr. Towne, are you engaged to Sue Greyson?”

“Engaged! And to Sue Greyson!”

“I did not ask to be saucy—I did not believe it—but don’t be heartless—don’t be cruel—don’t be stupid, do think about her, and don’t let her die of shame.”

“Excuse me, Miss Tessa. Why should you talk to me about Sue Greyson?”

“I knew that you would not understand.”

“Perhaps you can explain.”

“I can’t explain; you ought to know.”

“What ought I to know?” he queried, looking down at her with the sunshine in his eyes.

“It seems mean in me to tell you such a thing, but I do not know of any other way for your sake and hers. I would do any thing to keep you from doing a heartless thing.”—Another heartless thing, she almost said.—“I would do any thing for Sue, as I would for Dine if she had been led into trusting in a lie.”

His face became perplexed, uncomprehending.

“Are you trying to tell me that Sue Greyson thinks that I am intending to marry her and that I have given her an occasion to believe it? You are warning me against trifling with Sue?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know that she thinks so?”

“Nonsense! How do I know any thing?”

“I should as soon have thought—” he ended with a laugh.

“A woman’s heart is not made of grains of sand to be blown hither and thither by a man’s breath,” she said very earnestly.

“Miss Tessa, you accuse me wrongfully. I have been kind to Sue—I have intended to be kind. Her life at home is too quiet for her, she has few friends and no education; you call me heartless. I thought that I was most brotherly and thoughtful.”

His sincerity almost reassured her. Had she misjudged him?

“I beg your pardon,” she said, after an uncomfortable pause. “I did not know that Old Place was a monastery and that you were a monk. If you are speaking sincerely, you are the most stupid human being that ever breathed; if you are not sincere, you are too wily for me to understand.”

The color rose to his forehead, but he was silent.

“Mr. Towne! Excuse me. I am apt to speak too strongly; but I care so much for Sue. She is only a child in her experiences; she has no fore-thought, she trusts every body, and she thinks that you are so good and wonderful. She does not understand any thing but sincerity. Will you think about her?”

“I will.”

She was almost frightened, was he angry?

“Are you angry with me?” she asked, laying her hand on his arm. “You can not misinterpret me; I don’t want Sue to be hurt, and I do not want you to be capable of hurting her.”

“I understand you, Miss Tessa.”

He spoke gently; her heart was at rest again.

“You say that you can not understand whether I am wily or sincere?”

“I can not understand.”

“Neither can I. But I think that I am sincere!”

“And please be careful how you change your attitude towards her; you are unconventional enough to refuse a woman upon the slightest pretext. I know that you will say ‘I regret exceedingly, Miss Sue, that you have misinterpreted my friendly attentions.’”

“I would like to; I think many things that I do not speak, Miss Tessa.”

“Your head and heart would echo a perpetual silence if you did not,” she laughed. “The Sphinx is a chatterbox compared to you.”

As they drove up under the maple-trees before the low iron gate, he said, “Has this year been a happy year to you? Do you sleep well?”

“Wouldn’t you like to look at my tongue and feel my pulse?” she returned in her lightest tone.

“Will you not answer me?” he asked gravely.

“This year has been the best year of my life.”

“So has it been my best year. This winter I shall decide several things pertaining to my future; it is my plan to practice for awhile—and not marry!”

Were those last words for her? Discomfited and wounded—oh, how wounded!—her lips refused to speak.

“Good-by,” she said, just touching his hand.

He turned as he was driving off and lifted his hat, the sunshine of his eyes fell full upon her; her smile was but a pitiful effort; what right had he to say such a thing to her?

“I hope,” she said, as she walked up the path, “that I shall never see you again.”

“I wish that I had never seen her,” he ejaculated, touching his horse with the whip.

And thus a part of the old year died and was buried.

Shaking with cold, not daring to go away by herself, she irresolutely turned the knob of the sitting-room door; her face, she was aware, was not in a state to be taken before her mother’s critical eyes; but her heart was so crushed, she pitied herself with such infinite compassion, that she longed for some one to speak to her kindly, to touch her as if they loved her; any thing to take some of the aching away from that place in her heart where the tears were frozen.