, and was studious and well-behaved in every
respect, except that she steadily refused to have anything whatever to do
with Signor Foresti.

She had attended church regularly with the family, had seen them all
occasionally on weekdays, but had not been once permitted to visit
Viamede, Magnolia Hall, or the parsonage.

If either she or Mr. Dinsmore regretted having begun the struggle which
now appeared so interminable, no one else was aware of the fact.

Grace had kept up her habit of driving over to Oakdale every morning and
afternoon, and the pleasure of seeing her so often had helped Lulu
greatly in the endurance of her exile, as had also her daily intercourse
with Max, Evelyn, and Rosie.

But one morning in March they came without Grace, and all looking grave
and troubled.

"Where's Gracie? Why didn't she come?" asked Lulu, with a vague feeling
of uneasiness.

"She's sick," Max answered, trying to swallow a lump in his throat, and
keep the tears from coming into his eyes; "and so is the baby, and the
doctor--Cousin Dick Percival--says they both have the scarlet-fever in
almost its worst form."

Lulu, who knew something of the deadly nature of the disease, stood
speechless with surprise and dismay; the other two girls were crying now.

Presently Lulu burst out vehemently, "I must go home! I _will_ go! It's
the cruelest thing in the world to keep me away from my darling Gracie
when she's so sick and may be going to--oh, I can't say it! I can't bear
to think it!" and she began sobbing as if her heart would break.

Evelyn put an arm about her.

"Lu, dear Lu, don't be so distressed. The doctor has not said that either
case is hopeless; and they may both get well."

"The dear baby, too!" sobbed Lulu; "oh I do love her, she is such a
darling!"

"Indeed she is," said Max, vainly trying to steady his tones; "and it's
hard to see her suffer. Gracie, too--she's so sweet and patient, and so
good. I heard some of the old servants talking together this morning
about her, saying she was just like a little angel, and too good to live;
and--and I'm afraid she is."

He quite broke down with the last word.

"No, she ain't," cried Rosie; "she's just as good as they think her, but
good children are not any more likely to die than bad ones. Everybody
that knew mamma when she was a child says she was as good as she could
be, and see how long she has lived."

"That's true, and I'm obliged to you for reminding me of it, Ro