Hammond's cold look fixed upon my face, but I dared it back
again, and my color rose and my eye sparkled from the excitement. I felt
my triumph when I saw the surprise on Mr. Hammond's face, when I heard
the patronizing tone of Mr. Worthington's voice changed to one of
equality, as he said,--

"You are a worthy champion of Sandy life, Miss Janet. I believe Amy will
be tempted to try it."

There was a quick blush on Amy's face as I turned to look at it, and a
glance of proud affection towards her from George Hammond, which took
away my false strength as I stood, leaving me, weak and trembling, to
seek my home in the evening twilight.

That evening's short-lived triumph cost me dear. It betrayed my scarcely
self-acknowledged secret to another. Miss Hammond's woman's-eye had read
the poor fool who laid her heart open before her. I was made to feel my
weakness before her the next morning, when, walking into our kitchen,
she asked, with her hard, yet dignified calmness, that I should gather
for her some of the Summer Sweetings that hung so thick on the tree
behind our house.

She followed me to the orchard. I gathered the apples diligently and
spoke no word, but not for that did I escape. She stood calmly looking
on till I had finished, then began with that terrible opening from which
we all shrink.

"I should like to speak to you a few moments, Janet."

I quailed before her, for I had somehow a perception of what she was
going to say, though I scarcely dreamed of the hardness with which it
would by said. The blow came, however.

"My brother has been in the habit of taking notice of you ever since he
has been on the Sandy, and he has been of great advantage to you; but
you must be aware that such notice as he gave you when you were a mere
child cannot be continued now that you are a woman."

I bowed my head, and my lips formed something like a "Yes."

She went on.

"I say this to you because I was surprised to find by your behavior last
night that you had allowed yourself to presume upon that notice, and I
do not suppose you know how unbecoming this is, from a person in your
position, especially before Miss Worthington."

I was stung into a reply.

"What is Miss Worthington to me?" came out sullenly from my lips.

"Nothing to you, certainly, nor can she ever be; but as the future wife
of my brother, she is something to me."

It was true, then; but so fully had I felt the truth before that this
certainty ga