ever could be quenched.

It was a grievous trial to Gerty to learn that the Graham's were about
to go into the country for the summer. Mr. Graham had a pleasant
residence about six miles from Boston, to which he resorted as soon as
the planting season commenced; for though devoted to business during the
winter, he had of late years allowed himself much relaxation during the
summer; and ledgers and day-books were to be supplanted by the delights
of gardening. Emily promised Gerty that she should pass a day with her
when the weather was fine; a visit which Gerty enjoyed three months in
anticipation, and more than three in retrospection.

It was some compensation for Emily's absence that, as the days got long,
Willie was often able to leave the shop and come home for an hour or two
in the evening; and Willie's visits always tended to comfort Gerty.

CHAPTER XI.

PROGRESS OF KNOWLEDGE.

It was one pleasant evening in April that Gerty, who had been to see
Miss Graham and bid her good-bye, before her departure for the country,
stood at the back part of the yard, weeping bitterly. She held in her
hand a book and a new slate, Emily's parting gifts; but she had not
removed the wrapper from the one, and the other was bedewed with tears.
She was so full of grief that she did not hear any one approach, until a
hand was placed upon each of her shoulders; and, as she turned round,
she found herself encircled by Willie's arms, and face to face with
Willie's sunny countenance. "Why, Gerty!" said he, "this is no welcome,
when I've come home on a week-night to stay with you all the evening.
Mother and grandfather are gone out, and when I come to look for you,
you're crying so I can't see your face for tears. Come, come! _do_ leave
off; you don't know how you look!"

"Willie!", sobbed she, "do you know Miss Emily's gone?"

"Gone where?"

"Way off, six miles, to stay all summer!"

But Willie only laughed. "Six miles!" said he; "that's a terrible way,
certainly!"

"But I can't see her any more!" said Gerty.

"You can see her next winter," rejoined Willie.

"Oh, but that's so long!" said the child.

"What makes you think so much of her?"

"She thinks much of me; she can't see me, and she likes me better than
anybody, but Uncle True."

"I don't believe it; I don't believe she likes you half as well as I do.
I _know_ she don't! How can she, when she's blind, and never saw you in
her life, and I see you all the time,