ould gladly clasp her to his bosom and soothe her like a
little child, but he repressed the emotion. "Gertrude," said he, leaning
forward and fixing his eyes full upon hers, "what have these people done
to you? Why do you care for them? If that young man has injured you--the
rascal!--he shall answer for it;" and he sprung to his feet. The words
and the action brought Gertrude to herself. "No, no!" said she, "he is
not that. I am better now. Do not speak of it; don't tell," and she
looked anxiously in the direction of the bowling-alley. "I am a great
deal better;" and to his astonishment--for the fearful, rigid look upon
her face had frightened him--she rose with composure and proposed going
home.

He accompanied her silently, and before they were half-way up the hill,
where they had left the carriage, they were overtaken by the rest of
their party, driving toward Saratoga. During the whole drive and the
evening which followed Gertrude preserved this same unnatural composure.
Once or twice before they reached the hotel Dr. Gryseworth asked her if
she felt ill. The very tones of her voice were constrained--so much so
that Emily asked, "What is the matter, my dear child?"

But she declared herself quite well, and went through all the duties of
the evening, bidding farewell to many of her friends, and arranged with
the Gryseworths to see them in the morning.

Emily was the more troubled of the two, for she could not be deceived,
and reflected back, in her whole demeanour, the better concealed
sufferings of Gertrude. Gertrude neither knew at the time, nor could
afterwards recall, one-half the occurrences of that evening. She never
could understand what it was that sustained her and enabled her, half
unconsciously, to perform her part in them. How she so successfully
concealed her misery she never could comprehend or explain.

That Willie was faithless to his first love she could not doubt; and
with this conviction she realised that the stay of her life had fallen.
Uncle True and Mrs. Sullivan were both her benefactors, and Emily was
still a dear and steadfast friend; but all of these had been more or
less dependent upon Gertrude, and although she could ever repose in the
assurance of their love, two had, long before they passed away, come to
lean wholly upon her youthful arm; and the other trusted to her to guide
her uncertain steps, but those steps were tending downwards to the
grave. Upon whom, then, should Gertrude lea