n
Lockhaven, and misses her. What do you think, sister?"

"It is not impossible," answered Miss Deborah; "but, dear me, sister,
if only Helen Jeffrey had not married so young! I always felt that
Providence pointed to her for dear Giff."

"Well," said Miss Ruth, a little color creeping into her cheek, "I think
Providence does arrange such things, and as Helen seems much attached to
Mr. Ward, no doubt that was meant. It is gratifying to think such things
always are meant. I have even thought that when a person no longer very
young, even quite advanced in life, remains unmarried, it was because the
other, appointed by Heaven, died, no doubt in infancy."

Miss Deborah sniffed. "I should be sorry to think all marriages were
planned by Providence," she said, "for it would seem that Providence
showed very poor judgment sometimes. Look at Henry Dale. I'm sure there
were--_others_, who would have made him happier, and been quite as good
housekeepers, too."

Miss Ruth mentioned her suspicion of the "nice girl in Lockhaven" to
Lois, while Miss Deborah added that it was really no pleasure to cook for
dear Giff; he was so out of spirits he didn't seem to care for anything;
he did not even eat the whigs, and Lois knew how fond he was of whigs.
Very likely dear Ruth was right.

This made Lois's interest in Gifford still deeper, though she said,
tossing her head with airy impatience, that she did not believe there
were any nice girls in Lockhaven; there were only working people there.
Then she thought of that talk with Gifford at the stone bench, and
recalled the promise she had made, and how she had sealed it. Her cheeks
burned till they hurt her.

"He has forgotten it all, long ago," she said to herself; "men never
remember such things. Well, he sha'n't think I remember!"

But how often Gifford remembered!

One afternoon he walked over to the stone bench, and sat down on the very
same sunken step from which he had looked up into Lois's face that June
evening. He saw a bunch of violets growing just where her foot must have
rested, and what was more natural--for Gifford was still young--than that
pencil and note-book should appear, and, with a long-drawn sigh, he
should write hastily,--

O Violet,
Dost thou forget?

and then stop, perhaps to sharpen his pencil, and, if the truth be told,
to cast about for a rhyme.

Alas, that love and poetry should be checked by anything so commonplace
as syllables! Let--wet--yet,--o