; to be looked upon and treated as
a child was bitter almonds; but the thought of losing her altogether was
distraction.

The summer was at an end. The days were perceptibly shorter, and now and
then came an evening when it was chilly enough to have a wood-fire in
our sitting-room. The leaves were beginning to take hectic tints, and
the wind was practising the minor pathetic notes of its autumnal
dirge. Nature and myself appeared to be approaching our dissolution
simultaneously--

One evening, the evening previous to the day set for Nelly's
departure--how well I remember it--I found her sitting alone by the wide
chimney-piece looking musingly at the crackling back log. There were
no candles in the room. On her face and hands, and on the small golden
cross at her throat, fell the flickering firelight--that ruddy, mellow
firelight in which one's grandmother would look poetical.

I drew a low stool from the corner and placed it by the side of her
chair. She reached out her hand to me, as was her pretty fashion, and so
we sat for several moments silently in the changing glow of the burning
logs. At length I moved back the stool so that I could see her face in
profile without being seen by her. I lost her hand by this movement, but
I couldn't have spoken with the listless touch of her fingers on mine.
After two or three attempts I said "Nelly" a good deal louder than I
intended.

Perhaps the effort it cost me was evident in my voice. She raised
herself quickly in the chair and half turned towards me.

"Well, Tom?"

"I--I am very sorry you are going away."

"So am I. I have enjoyed every hour of my visit."

"Do you think you will ever come back here?"

"Perhaps," said Nelly, and her eyes wandered off into the fitful
firelight.

"I suppose you will forget us all very quickly."

"Indeed I shall not. I shall always have the pleasantest memories of
Rivermouth."

Here the conversation died a natural death. Nelly sank into a sort of
dream, and I meditated. Fearing every moment to be interrupted by some
member of the family, I nerved myself to make a bold dash.

"Nelly."

"Well."

"Do you--" I hesitated.

"Do I what?"

"Love anyone very much?"

"Why, of course I do," said Nelly, scattering her revery with a merry
laugh. "I love Uncle Nutter, and Aunt Nutter, and you--and Towser."

Towser, our new dog! I couldn't stand that. I pushed back the stool
impatiently and stood in front of her.

"That's not what