nd and heart. Why worry
about it? Some great strong soul would come by and by and take this
child in his arms and make a woman of her. Some strong soul--

She stopped short in her walk and her thoughts went back to the red
rose lying on the doctor's desk.

"Will he know?" she said to herself; "he loves flowers so, and I don't
believe anybody ever puts one on his desk. Poor fellow! how hard he
works and how good he is to everybody! Little Tod would have died but
for his tenderness." Then, with a prayer in her heart and a new light
in her eyes, she kept on her way.

Lucy, as she bounded along the edge of the bluff, Meg scurrying after
her, had never once lost sight of her sister's slender figure. When a
turn in the road shut her from view, she crouched down behind a
sand-dune, waited until she was sure Jane would not change her mind and
join her, and then folding the cloak over her arm, gathered up her
skirts and ran with all her speed along the wet sand to the House of
Refuge. As she reached its side, Bart Holt stepped out into the
afternoon light.

"I thought you'd never come, darling," he said, catching her in his
arms and kissing her.

"I couldn't help it, sweetheart. I told sister I was going to see Mrs.
Cavendish, and she was so delighted she said she would go, too."

"Where is she?" he interrupted, turning his head and looking anxiously
up the beach.

"Gone home. Oh, I fixed that. I was scared to death for a minute, but
you trust me when I want to get off."

"Why didn't you let her take that beast of a dog with her? We don't
want him," he rejoined, pointing to Meg, who had come to a sudden
standstill at the sight of Bart.

"Why, you silly! That's how I got away. She thought I was going to give
him a bath. How long have you been waiting, my precious?" Her hand was
on his shoulder now, her eyes raised to his.

"Oh, 'bout a year. It really seems like a year, Luce" (his pet name for
her), "when I'm waiting for you. I was sure something was up. Wait till
I open the door." The two turned toward the house.

"Why! can we get in? I thought Fogarty, the fisherman, had the key,"
she asked, with a tone of pleasant surprise in her voice.

"So he has," he laughed. "Got it now hanging up behind his clock. I
borrowed it yesterday and had one made just like it. I'm of age." This
came with a sly wink, followed by a low laugh of triumph.

Lucy smiled. She liked his daring; she liked, too, his resources. When
a thing