yet seems both, with which a young
woman hears for the first time that she is loved, stung through all her
consciousness of grief at having wounded her old friend. Tears came into
her eyes once, and yet she did not know why; perhaps it was anger. How
could Gifford have been so foolish as to talk that way, and make her have
to say what she did? The old friendship was what she wanted. And then
more tears came; and for the first time in her simple girlish life, Lois
could not understand her own heart.

It was because Helen had gone away, she said to herself, and she was
tired; and that gave her the right to cry with all her heart, which was
a great relief.

But Lois was young. The next morning, when she pushed back her windows,
she felt joy bubble up in her soul as unrestrainedly as though she had
never said a word to Gifford which could make his heart ache. The
resistance and spring of the climbing roses made her lean out to fasten
her lattices back, and a shower of dew sprinkled her hair and bosom; and
at the sudden clear song of the robin under the eaves, she stood
breathless a moment to listen, with that simple gladness of living which
is perhaps a supreme unselfishness in its entire unconsciousness of
individual joy.

But like the rest of the world, Lois found that such moments do not last;
the remembrance of the night before forced itself upon her, and she
turned to go down-stairs, with a troubled face.

Of course there is plenty to do the day after a wedding, and Lois was
glad to have the occupation; it was a relief to be busy.

Ashurst ladies always washed the breakfast things themselves; no length
of service made it seem proper to trust the old blue china and the
delicate glass to the servants. So Lois wiped her cups and saucers, and
then, standing on a chair in the china-closet, put the dessert plates
with the fine gilt pattern borders, which had been used yesterday, on the
very back of the top shelf, in such a quick, decided way Jean trembled
for their safety.

The rectory dining-room was low-studded, and lighted by one wide latticed
window, which had a cushioned seat, with a full valance of flowered
chintz; the dimity curtains were always pushed back, for Dr. Howe was
fond of sunshine. In the open fireplace, between the brasses, stood a
blue jug filled with white lilacs, and the big punch-bowl on the
sideboard was crowded with roses. There were antlers over the doors, and
the pictures on the walls were