not seem to notice her silence: he rattled on volubly.

"I think we were hard on the mother, Gracie, you and I," he said.
"After all, I believe she was right in not giving us our own way in
the spring."

"I am glad you think so," replied Grace, coldly. Archie winced at her
tone, but recovered himself, and went on gayly:

"It does one good sometimes to have one's wishes crossed; and, after
all, it was only fair that poor Mattie, being the eldest, should have
her turn. She does her best, poor little soul! and, though I find her
terribly trying sometimes, I can hold out pretty patiently until
Christmas; and then mother herself suggested that you should take her
place at the vicarage."

"I! oh, no, Archie!" And here the color flushed over Gracie's face,
and her eyes filled with tears. The news was so unexpected,--so
overwhelming. Another time the sweetness of it would have filled her
with rapture. But now! "Oh, no, no!" she cried, in so vehement a tone
that her brother turned in surprise, and something of her meaning came
home to him.

"Wait a moment," he said, deprecatingly. "I have not finished yet what
I want to say. Mother said Mattie was greatly improved by her visit,
and that she was infinitely obliged to me for yielding to her wish.
She told me plainly that it was impossible to have spared you
before,--that you were her right hand with the girls, and that even
now your loss would be great."

"I do not mean to leave mother," returned Grace, in a choked voice.

"Not if I want you and ask you to come?" he replied, with reproachful
tenderness, "Why, Grace, what has become of our old compact?"

"You do not need me now," she faltered, hardly able to speak without
weeping.

"We will talk of that by and by," was the somewhat impatient answer.
"Just at this minute I want to tell you all the mother said on the
subject. Facts before feelings, please," with a touch of sarcasm; but
he pointed it with a smile. "You see, Grace, Isabel's marriage makes a
difference. There is one girl off my father's hands. And then the boys
are doing so well. Mother thinks that in another three months Clara
may leave the school-room; she will be seventeen then, and, as Ellis
has promised her a course of music-lessons, to develop her one talent,
you may consider her off your hands."

"Clara will never do me credit," returned his sister, mournfully: "she
works steadily and takes pains, but she was never as clever as
Isabel."

"No; she