to be obliged to walk four miles! Don't do such a
dreadful thing again, Floyd."

I sprang up and limped about, feeling impatient and cross. "In spite of
my poor leg," I returned, "I am a fair walker. Don't set me down as a
helpless cripple, Helen."

I was bitter and wrathful still, or I trust I was too magnanimous to
have wounded her so.

"Floyd!" exclaimed my mother in a tone of reproof; but I did not turn,
and went down the long suite of parlors and stood at the great window
which overlooked the sea. It was all open to the summer night, and the
lace curtains waved to and fro in the breeze. Solemnly came up the
rhythmic flow of the waves as they beat against the rocks. I pushed
aside the draperies and looked out at the wide expanse of waters lying,
it seemed, almost at my feet, for everything else but the great silver
plain of sea was in shadow. Above, the moon had it all her own way
to-night: the constellations shone pale, and seemed weary of the
firmament which at other times they span and compass with their myriad
splendors. Mars moved in a stately way straight along above the southern
horizon to his couch in the west: even his red light was dim.

But what stillness and peace seemed possible beneath this throbbing sea?
I sighed as I listened to the sound of the waves and gazed at the great
golden pathway of the moon across the silver waters. I knew that some
one had followed me and stood timidly behind me: I guessed it was Helen,
but did not know until a slim satin hand stole into mine, for surely it
was not my mother's hand. Hers was warm and firm in its pressure: the
touch of this was soft and cool like a rose-leaf. I held the hand close,
but did not turn.

"Floyd!" she whispered timidly, "dear Floyd!"

"I hear you, Helen," I returned wearily.

"Are you angry with me? Do not be angry."

"I am only angry with myself: I am not behaving well to-night."

She came in front of me and looked up in my face. "I don't want you to
think," she said in a little faint trembling voice, "that--that I--that
I--" She quite broke down.

"I really don't know what you mean, Helen."

"Floyd," she cried passionately, "I think I would die before I would
wilfully hurt your feelings!"

"Why, my poor little girl," said I, quite touched at the sight of her
quivering face and the sound of her impassioned voice, "you did not hurt
my feelings for an instant. What I said was in answer to my own
thoughts. I like to say such things