n was radiant in the bloom of
young womanhood when this great grief first smote her brother, but from
that very hour she put away from her the gayeties of life, and sat down
by his side, to be to him a sweet, unselfish controller for evermore,
and no lover could ever tempt her from her post.

"John Greylston will soon get over his sorrow; in a year or two Ellen
will be forgotten for a new face."

So said the world; Margaret knew better. Her brother's heart lay before
her like an open book, and she saw indelible lines of grief and
anguish there. The old homestead, with its wide lands, belonged to
John Greylston. He had bought it years before from the other heirs; and
Margaret, the only remaining one, possessed neither claim nor right in
it. She had a handsome annuity, however, and nearly all the rich plate
and linen with which the house was stocked, together with some valuable
pieces of furniture, belonged to her. And John and Margaret Greylston
lived on in their quiet and beautiful home, in peace and happiness;
their solitude being but now and then invaded by a flock of nieces
and nephews, from the neighbouring city--their only and well-beloved
relatives.

It was long after sunset. For two full hours the moon and stars had
watched John Greylston, sitting so moodily alone upon the porch. Now
he got up from his chair, and tossing his cigar away in the long grass,
walked slowly into the house. Miss Margaret did not raise her head; her
eyes, as well as her fingers, seemed intent upon the knitting she held.
So her brother, after a hurried "Good-night," took a candle and went up
to his own room, never speaking one gentle word; for he said to himself,
"I am not going to worry and coax with Margaret any longer about the
old pines. She is really troublesome with her sentimental notions." Yet,
after all, John Greylston's heart reproached him, and he felt restless
and ill at ease.

Miss Margaret sat very quietly by the low table, knitting steadily on,
but she was not thinking of her work, neither did she delight in the
beauty of that still autumn evening; the tears came into her eyes, but
she hastily brushed them away; just as though she feared John might
unawares come back and find her crying.

Ah! these _way-side_ thorns are little, but sometimes they pierce as
sharply as the gleaming sword.

"Good-morning, John!"

At the sound of that voice, Mr. Greylston turned suddenly from the
book-case, and his sister was standing