troubled me! He was as kind as ever, but he said much less to me, and
seemed like one pre-occupied. One chance remark of Clara's brought the
color to my cheeks, as we sit together.

"Louis, my dear boy, what is it? A shadow crossed your face just then."

He looked surprised, and only half answered:

"The shadow of yourself. I was thinking about you."

Mr. Benton did not talk of leaving us; he had some unfinished pieces,
and my father had said:

"Remain as long as you please, if my wife is willing."

After Hal left, I felt his studio marred by Mr. Benton's presence, for
he had become a perfect torture to me, and I began to believe he
delighted in it, secretly. Then again, I had the room to attend to, and
I must in consequence be annoyed. Of this I was tired, and when day
after day passed and brought no word from Louis, save in common with the
rest, I said, hopelessly:

"Let it go. I will try to love no one but father and mother and Clara
and Hal, and oh, dear! when shall I ever be ready to say, 'Now Clara,
let me help you'?"

She said to me through these days I was not happy. "Wild flower, what
troubles thee?" one day, and again, "Emily, my royal Emily, art thou
sighing for wings?"

November came and passed, and the gates of the new year were opening,
still all the way lay dark before me. Night after night my tear-stained
pillow told my sorrow mutely, and day after day I sighed. Mother was not
well, and I felt that everything was wrong. I was worrying myself sick,
I knew, and could not help it.

It was a cold, bitter day, and in my heart lay bitter thoughts when
Matthias came over to tell us, that "Peg was right sick, 'pears like
she's done took sick all in a minit, onions and onions, mustard and
mustard, an nothin' don't do no good. Here's a piece of paper I foun' in
de road, 'pears like you mus' want it," and he handed it to me.

I put it in my pocket and went to ask Aunt Hildy what to do for Aunt
Peg. She proposed to go over, and Ben went with her.

While they were gone I read the paper, which proved to be a letter,
evidently written to Mr. Benton, and the signature was plainly, "your
heart-broken Mary," I could only pick out half sentences, but read
enough to show me the treachery and sorrow, aye, more, a life cursed
with shame, and at the hands of Wilmur Benton.

"Thank God," I cried aloud--I was in the sitting-room alone--and then
tears fell hot and fast, and I sobbed and cried as if I had found a wi