, troubled eyes.

"I don't know whether a surgeon could help her or not, but he could at
least make an examination. I don't suppose there is even an ordinary
physician in this neighborhood."

"There is one at Lorton, but that's twenty miles away, and I've heard
people say he wasn't very good. Father sent for a surgeon from
Albuquerque when Aunt Jessie was hurt, and he said it was her spine that
had been injured, and that she could never be cured. Do you think a
doctor from the East might say something different?"

"My dear child, don't get so excited. I really have not the slightest
idea; I was only speculating on my own account. It seems such a pity
that one so young--well, well, it can't be helped, I suppose, and there
is no use in talking about it."

Marjorie sighed as she took up her work again, and they were both silent
for several minutes. Then Marjorie spoke again, and her voice was not
quite steady.

"If I thought there was any surgeon in the world who could cure Aunt
Jessie, I believe I would go and find him myself, and bring him here, if
it took me years to earn the money, and I had to work day and night to
do it. She's the dearest, bravest--oh, Uncle Henry, you haven't any idea
what Aunt Jessie is!"

Marjorie broke off, with a half-suppressed sob, and dashed away some
tears, which would come in spite of a brave effort to keep them back.
Mr. Carleton's face softened as he watched her; he had grown to have a
high opinion of this niece of his. He could not help wondering rather
sadly whether there were any one in the world of whom his own little
daughter would have spoken in such glowing terms.

"You're a loyal little soul, Marjorie," he said kindly. "I wish Elsie
had you for a friend."

Marjorie smiled through her tears.

"I wish I had her for my friend," she said. "Don't you think she would
like to come out here and make us a visit some time? She might find it
rather hot in summer, if she wasn't accustomed to it, but the winters
are beautiful."

"Elsie has her school in winter," Mr. Carleton said, "but perhaps she
may come some day. Hark, who is that singing?"

"Only Jim coming with the mail. He always sings when he rides. It's
generally 'Mandalay,' but it's 'Loch Lomond' to-day."

"'Oh, you'll tak' the high road, and I'll tak' the
low road,'"

sang the clear tenor voice, and Jim Hathaway, on his big brown horse,
came galloping up to the door.

"There's only one letter fo