rom all eyes but my own? would you tear up the clods with unhallowed
fingers? To no living person but my Saviour"--and here Archie looked
up with reverent eyes--"will I speak of this thing." Then she clung to
his arm, and tears flowed over her cheeks.

"Oh, Archie! forgive me! forgive me! I never meant to hurt you like
this; I will not say another word!"

"You have not hurt me," he returned, striving after his old manner,
"except in refusing to live with me. I am lonely enough, God knows!
and a sister who understands me, and with whom I could have sympathy,
would be a great boon."

"Then I will come," she replied; drying her eyes. "If you want me, I
will come, Archie."

"I do want you; and I have never told you anything but the truth. But
you must come and be happy, my dear. I want you, yourself, and not a
grave, reticent creature who has gone about the house the last few
days, looking at me askance, as though I had committed some deadly
sin."

Then the dimple showed itself in Grace's cheek.

"Have I really been so naughty, Archie?"

"Yes, you have been a very shadowy sort of Grace; but I give you full
absolution, only don't go and do it any more." And, as she looked at
him with her eyes full of sorrowful yearning, he went on, hastily:
"Oh, I am all right, and least said is soonest mended. I am like the
dog in AEsop's fable, who mistook the shadow for the substance. A poor
sort of dog, that fellow. Well, is your poor little mind at rest,
Grace?" And the tone in which she said "Yes" seemed to satisfy him,
for he turned their talk into another channel.

When Mrs. Drummond saw her daughter's face that evening, she knew the
cloud had passed between the brother and sister.

Grace followed her to her room that night,--a thing she had not done
for months.

"Mother, I must thank you for being so good to us," she began,
impulsively, as soon as she had crossed the threshold.

"How have I been good to you, Grace?" observed her mother, calmly, as
she unfastened her brooch. "Of course, I have always tried to be good
to my children, although they do not seem to think so."

"Ah, but this is very special goodness: and I am more grateful than I
can say. Are you sure you will be able to spare me, mother?"

"After Christmas?--oh, yes: things will be possible then. If I
remember rightly, I had to endure some very bitter words from you on
this very subject. I hope you will do justice to my judgment at that
time."

"Yes, m