see her? She knew the peculiar whim,
or principle, Miss Sampson always acted on, of never taking cases of
common illness. She could not have sent for her in the hope of keeping
her merely to wait upon her wants as an invalid, and relieve Glory? Was
her aunt aware of symptoms in herself, foretokening other or more
serious illness?

Faith could only wonder, and wait.

Glory came back, presently, into the southeast room, to say to Faith
that her aunt was comfortable, and thought she should get a nap. But
that whenever the nurse came, she was to be shown in to her.

The next half hour, that happened which drove even this thought utterly
from Faith's mind.

Paul Rushleigh came.

Faith lay, a little wearily, upon the couch her aunt had quitted; and
was thinking, at the very moment--with that sudden, breathless
anticipation that sweeps over one, now and then, of a thing awaited
apprehensively--of whether this Saturday night would not probably bring
him home--when she caught the sound of a horse's feet that stopped
before the house, and then a man's step upon the stoop.

It was his. The moment had come.

She sprang to her feet. For an instant she would have fled--anywhither.
Then she grew strangely calm and strong. She must meet him quietly. She
must tell him plainly. Tell him, if need be, all she knew herself. He
had a right to all.

Paul came in, looking grave; and greeted her with a gentle reserve.

A moment, they stood there as they had met, she with face pale, sad,
that dared not lift itself; he, not trusting himself to the utterance of
a word.

But he had come there, not to reproach, or to bewail; not even to plead.
To hear--to bear with firmness--what she had to tell him. And there was,
in truth, a new strength and nobleness in look and tone, when,
presently, he spoke.

If he had had his way--if all had gone prosperously with him--he would
have been, still--recipient of his father's bounty, and accepted of his
childish love--scarcely more than a mere, happy boy. This pain, this
struggle, this first rebuff of life, crowned him, a man.

Faith might have loved him, now, if she had so seen him, first.

Yet the hour would come when he should know that it had been better as
it was. That so he should grow to that which, otherwise, he had never
been.

"Faith! My father has told me. That it must be all over. That it was a
mistake. I have come to hear it from you."

Then he laid in her hand his father's letter