everything, I
told myself with profound dreariness. I laid my own letter from Mr.
Floyd open in her lap without a word. It ran thus:

"MY DEAR BOY: I have had a trying week: Helen has been at the point of
death, and that she is now convalescent fills me with gratitude to God
too great for words. I think she would have died if I had not been here.
As soon as she is well I want you to spend a few weeks at The Headlands:
you need the change, and my little girl needs a friend. Love to your
dear mother and for yourself.

"JAMES FLOYD."

But although my mother took up the letter, something seemed to blind
her: she could not read it, and put it by and resumed her work. We spent
an hour in complete silence.

"We are very dull," she said at last, looking over at me with a little
trembling smile. "Have you nothing to tell me, Floyd?"

"Why do you not read your letter, mother?"

"Oh, Floyd!" she cried, "it seems to me you are a little hard and cruel
to me of late."

"Read your letter, mother, and mine too. If it is impossible for you to
open a letter from Cousin James before me, I will leave the room."

She obeyed me, calmly taking her missive out from its hiding-place,
opening it and reading it through: then she handed it to me with her old
habit of command: "I wish you to read it, my boy."

I did so: it was just as I had thought. Mr. Floyd loved her: he had
spoken of his feelings many times, and was waiting for her answer.

"Poor little Helen!" said my mother tenderly. "I am so thankful she is
better! You will like to go to The Headlands, Floyd? 'Tis a beautiful
place: your father and I attended Cousin James's wedding there. I
remember still how superb and stately the place was."

"I do not feel as if I ever wanted to do anything any more, mother."

She gave me a piteous glance, and her hands locked and unlocked as they
lay together in her lap.

"I used to think you loved me, mother," I blurted out.

In another moment she had me in her arms. There was no more doubt
between us: she had given him up, and our old sweet, strong comradeship
returned.

ELLEN W. OLNEY.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE WASHER AT THE WELL: A BRETON LEGEND.

Nigh a league to the castle still:
_Twelve_! booms the bell from the old clock-tower.
Now, brave mare, for the stretch up the hill,
Then just a gallop of half an hour.

Half an hour, and home and rest!
Is she watching for him on the oriel stair,