fell in love with on the yachting-trip, and for whom you deserted the
crowd." It was his turn to look confused, and he did, in a way that
smote his keen-eyed sister with sudden dread. "It is true, Bertie," she
said quickly; "I can see it in your face. That explains your short
letters." A little quiver passed over her lips and down the round chin
like a tiny ripple on still water, and she added pathetically, "I hated
to believe it, but it cannot be helped, I suppose. I shall feel more
desolate now than ever." Then womanlike she said, "Is she very pretty,
Bertie? She must be, or you would not have fallen in love with her so
soon."

There was no use in concealment or evasion, and it was not like him to
resort to either. "Alice, my sweet little sister," he replied,
resolutely drawing his chair near and taking her hand, "it is true, and
I intended to tell you all about it, only I hated to do it at first, and
so put it off. She is more than pretty, she is beautiful, and the most
unaffected and tender-hearted girl I ever met. But you need not worry.
She is so devoted to the two old people who have brought her up as their
own that she will not leave them for me as long as they live." Then he
added regretfully, "So you see I must be a patient waiter for a long
time yet." Then he frankly told Alice the entire story of his waif of
the sea, and how even at the last moment she had refused to yield to his
pleading.

"And now, sweet sister," he said at last, "I have a plan to unfold, and
I want you to consider it well. I am now earning enough to maintain a
home, and I am sick and tired of boarding-house life. It is not likely I
shall marry the girl I love for many years to come, and there is no need
for us to be separated in this way. I think it is best that we close the
house, or rent it for the present, and you and Aunt Susan come to
Boston. I can hire a pretty flat, and we can take down such of the
furniture as we need, and store the rest. What do you think of the
plan?"

"Oh, I shall be so glad of the change, Bertie!" she answered,
brightening; "it is so desolate here, and you do not know how I dread
the long winter." And then she added quickly, "But what can I do in
Boston? I cannot be idle; I should not be contented if I were."

"Will not housekeeping for me be occupation enough?" he answered,
smiling, "or you might give music lessons and study shorthand. I need a
typewriter even now, and in a few months must have one."

S