bottom of the first page without communicating a word of its contents. Then suddenly she gave a sigh that was almost a sob, and covered her face with her hands.

"Why, Ida! what is the matter?" Angela threw down her book and flew to the side of the lounge.

"I can't tell you—don't ask me," said Ida, in a smothered voice.

"Is your Aunt Stina ill?"

"Oh, no; it isn't that. It is only— Oh, Angela, I have been so ungrateful, so unkind; I—" she broke off, sobbing, the letter crushed in her hand.

"In what way have you been ungrateful and unkind? I don't understand you at all. In fact, Ida, you're not at all like you were last spring. I have been noticing it ever since you came here to visit us. I don't know how to describe it; but you're altogether changed!"

Ida sobbed on. It was that first page of her Aunt Stina's letter which had affected her so powerfully. It ran as follows:

"I must decline to accept your thanks for the box you received early in July. I do not deserve any credit whatever. Your sister wrote me that you needed the dress, and enclosed thirty dollars from your Aunt Patty, which I was directed to spend for you as I saw fit. Cynthia requested me not to write you that they had arranged the surprise for you. I suppose they did not wish you to be burdened with a debt of gratitude. But after this length of time it can do no harm for you to learn that your Aunt Patty and not I bore the expense of your outfit for Mrs. Lennox's lawn party."

So that was how Aunt Patty had spent the money she had received for the yellow heifer. What wonder that Ida, remembering what she had said about her aunt's shabby clothes, should be overwhelmed with contrition now?

"Ida," said Angela, after regarding her friend in silence a few moments, "I do believe you caught the fever from that woman tramp you insisted on taking into Edgerton."

"I deserve to be punished in some way," said Ida. "Not for my interest in that poor sick woman," she added, as Angela stared at her with an expression of surprise, "but for various offences. I have been selfish, inconsiderate, deceitful, and unkind."

"Ida, you are certainly going to be ill," said Angela. "I never heard you talk that way before."

Angela's supposition proved correct. By night Ida had a high fever, and the pains in her limbs had grown very much worse.

Doctor Stone was sent for, and pronounced her sickening with scarletina.

Soon after he had made his visit Ida fell asleep, and dozed at intervals all night. At about eight o'clock she woke from a longer nap than usual. The sun was shining in between the slats of the closed blinds, but the house seemed strangely still. She listened intently, but could hear no one stirring, no sound of voices; only the sullen roar of the mighty ocean.

Her throat was parched; her blood seemed to course through her veins like liquid fire.

"Oh, if I only had a drink of water; how good it would feel," she said aloud.

As she spoke, a portly figure rose slowly from a seat by one of the windows. It was Old Dinah, the black cook Mrs. Leverton employed every summer.

"Dinah'll get yo' the water, honey," she said.

"Dinah!" exclaimed Ida. "Why, what are you doing up here?"

"I's nursin' yo', honey, de bes' I knows how. De doctor, he done tole me de directions."

"But where are Angela and Mrs. Leverton, and why is the house so still?"

"Dey's all gone, my lamb. Dey cl'ared outer heah early dis mawnin'. Miss Angela, she didn't give her mammy no res' after she done knowed yo' had de fever. Dey lef' me ter take keer ob yo' till yo' aunt git heah. Dey done sent er telegraph fo' her las' ebenin'."

Ida's first feeling at finding herself thus deserted was one of poignant humiliation and pain, but like balm to her wounded spirit came the thought that Aunt Patty would soon be with her—the dear Aunt Patty whom she had never known how to value until lately. Oh, how she longed to see that kind face, to feel those strong, tender arms about her; to bear the gentle loving voice which she had never heard utter one unkind or impatient word to any one!

"I will tell her how sorry I am that I ever hurt and grieved her," thought Ida. "I will never again be too proud and stubborn to confess my faults, and ask pardon of those that love me."

But when Aunt Patty arrived at Rocky Beach—having travelled as fast as steam and stage could bring her—Ida was delirious, and did not recognize her.

The tears coursed down the old woman's cheeks as she stood beside the bed, watching the restless movements of the pretty young head, shorn of all its golden locks; listening to the whispering voice as it babbled incoherently of Cynthia, the farm, Mrs. Lennox, Angela, and a hundred other persons and things.

"She will require the most careful and assiduous nursing," said the doctor. "Only that can pull her safely through."

"She shall have it," answered Aunt Patty. "I'll take her back as well as ever to the old farm six weeks from now, please God."

The crisis of the fever came on the ninth day. Dr. Stone came early, and staid until midnight. Then he left Ida sleeping quietly, the flush gone from her thin cheeks, her breath coming regularly.

"She will live," he said, as he parted with Aunt Patty outside, under the quiet stars. "All danger is over now, I believe."

It was several days, however, before Ida knew who it was who bent over her so lovingly, who soothed and tended her with all a mother's care, whose kindly hands bathed her fevered face, whose feet were ever ready to move at the least need.

A week later, however, Ida was able to sit up, and the healthy color was stealing into her pale cheeks. She enjoyed sitting by the open window, where she could watch the restless ocean. Mrs. Leverton had written that they must stay in the cottage until Ida was entirely well. Old Dinah kept house for them, and had become devoted to Aunt Patty.

"Yo' aunt ain't nuffin' on fash'nable style," she confided to Ida, "but she's a bawn lady, sho's de worl'. She doan nebbah hector nobody."

"I think you'll be able to travel by Saturday, Ida," Aunt Patty said one day. "Doctor Stone thinks there wouldn't be any risk now in your undertaking the journey."

"And, oh, how glad I will be to get home again," said Ida.

"Does it really seem like home, dear?"

"Yes, Aunt Patty. A better home than I deserve, and I can't share it again with you and Cynthia until I have told you something."

Aunt Patty drew near the chair in which Ida sat, and, standing at the back of it, put both arms around her. She could feel that Ida trembled a little.

"Of course you'll forgive me," went on Ida, "for you are so good, you could never feel harshly toward any one, however great the provocation. I did many unkind and even cruel things when I was at the farm this summer, Aunt Patty. When I think of them I don't understand how I could have acted so. I know it would be impossible for me to do such things now."

"You have had a change of heart, Ida."

"Oh, Aunt Patty, I hope so. There was need of a change. I can look back and see it now, though I used to think myself almost perfection."

"And now?"

"I see all my faults," said Ida, "and I realize how patient, generous, and forgiving you and Cynthia were all those unhappy weeks. Aunt Patty, one of the things I must tell you is that I deceived Cynthia about that lawn party. Mrs. Lennox did invite her."

"She knew that, dear."

"Knew that she was invited? Oh, Aunt Patty!"

"Yes; you see, I felt sure Mrs. Lennox must have intended to invite you both, and as Cynthia was so terribly hurt and disappointed, what did I do but go straight to Mrs. Lennox and ask her about it. She said of course Cynthy was to come, and she would depend on seein' her; that she was so sorry her invitation had not been understood."

"And you