said, when she gave her her greeting kiss, and Dolly smiled and kissed
her in return.

But it was a terribly hard matter to fight through at first. Of course,
as the girl had become weaker she had lost power over herself. She was
restless and listless by turns. Sometimes she started at every sound,
and again she lay with closed eyes for hours, dozing the day away. The
mere sight of her in this latter state threw poor Phemie into an agony
of terror and distress.

"It is so like Death," she would say to Aimee. "It seems as if we could
never rouse her again."

And then again she would rally a little, and at such times she would
insist upon being propped up and allowed to talk, and her eyes would
grow large and bright, and a spot of hectic color would burn on her
cheeks. She did not even mention her trouble during the first two
days of Aimee's visit, but on the third afternoon she surprised her by
broaching the subject suddenly. She had been dozing, and on awakening
she began to talk.

"Aimee," she said, "where is Miss MacDowlas?"

"In her room. I persuaded her to go and lie down."

"I am very glad," quietly. "I want to do something particular. I want
Grif's letters, Aimee."

"Where are they?" Aimee asked.

"In a box in my trunk. I should like to have them now."

Aimee brought them to her without comment. The box had not been large
enough to hold them all, and there was an extra packet tied with that
dear old stereotyped blue ribbon.

"What a many there are!" said Dolly, when she came to the couch with
them. "You will have to sit down by me and hold some of them. One can
write a great many letters in seven years."

The wise one sat down, obediently holding the box upon her knee. There
were so many letters in it that it was quite heavy.

"I am going to look them over and tie them in packages, according to
their dates," said Dolly. "He will like to have them when he comes
back."

It would not have been natural for her to preserve her calmness all
through the performance of her task. Her first glance at the first
letter brought the tears, and she cried quietly as she passed from
one to the other. They were such tender, impetuous letters. The
very headings--"My Darling," "My pretty Darling," "My own sweetest
Life"--impassioned, youthful-sounding, and Grif-like, cut her to the
heart. Ah! how terrible it would be for him to see them again, as
he would see them! She was pitying him far more than she was pitying