ilford does not think it best--that is, at
present. Next fall I am surely going. I picture to myself just how it
will look; Morris' garden, full of the autumnal flowers--the ripe
peaches in our orchard, the grapes ripening on the wall, and the long
shadows on the grass, just as I used to watch them, wondering what made
them move so fast, and where they could be going. Will it be unchanged,
Marian? Do places seem the same when once we have left them?" and Katy's
eager eyes looked wistfully at Marian, who replied: "Not always--not
often, in fact; but in your case they may. You have not been long away."

"Only a year," Katy said. "I was as long as that in Canandaigua; but
this past year is different. I have seen so much, and lived so much,
that I feel ten years older than I did last spring, when you and Helen
made my wedding dress. Darling Helen! When did you see her last?"

"I was there five weeks ago," Marian replied. "I saw them all, and told
them I was coming to New York."

"Do they miss me any? Do they talk of me? Do they wish me back again?"
Katy asked, and Marian replied: "They talked of little else--that is,
your own family. Dr. Morris, I think, did not mention your name. He
has grown very silent and reserved," and Marian's eyes were fixed
inquiringly upon Katy, as if to ascertain how much she knew of the
cause for Morris' reserve.

But Katy had no suspicion, and only replied: "Perhaps he is vexed that
I do not write to him oftener, but I can't. I think of him a great deal,
and sometimes have so wished I could sit in his public library, and
forget that there are such things as dinner parties, where you are in
constant terror lest you should do something wrong--evening parties,
where your dress and style are criticised--receptions or calls, and all
the things which make me so confused. Morris could always quiet me. It
rested me just to hear him talk, and I respect him more than any living
man, except, of course, Wilford; but when I try to write, something
comes in between me and what I wish to say, for I want to convince him
that I am not as frivolous as I fear he thinks I am. I have not
forgotten the Sunday school, nor the church service, which I so loved to
hear, especially when Morris read it, as he did in Mr. Browning's
absence; but in the city it is so hard to be good, particularly when one
is not, you know--that is, good like you and Helen and Morris--and the
service and music seem all for show, and I feel