heart
was often touched by the cheerful alacrity with which Bessie would yield
her place to Christine. Even Hatty's plaintive, "Oh, must you go,
Bessie?" seemed to make no impression; but how long those two hours
seemed!

Bessie did not forget her friends in her trouble; she sent frequent
notes to Edna, and heard often from her in return. Now and then a kind
message came from Richard, and every week a hamper filled with farm
produce and fruit and flowers were sent from The Grange. Hatty used to
revel in those flowers; she liked to arrange them herself, and would sit
pillowed up on her bed or couch, and fill the vases with slow, tremulous
fingers.

"Doesn't the room look lovely?" she would say, in a tone of intense
satisfaction. When her weakness permitted she loved to talk to Bessie
about her friends at The Grange, and was never weary of listening to
Bessie's descriptions.

"What a nice man Mr. Richard must be, Betty!" she would say. "I should
like to see him." And she often harped on this theme, and questioned
Bessie closely on this subject; but often their talk went deeper than
this.

One evening, about five weeks after Bessie's return, she was alone with
Hatty; she had been reading to her, and now Hatty asked her to put down
the book.

"Yes, it is very nice, but I feel inclined to talk. Come and lie on the
bed, Bessie, and let us have one of our old cosy talks. Put your head
down on the pillow beside me. Yes, that is how I mean; isn't that
comfortable? I always did like you to put your arm round me. How strong
and firm your hand feels! Look at the difference." And Hatty laid her
wasted, transparent fingers on Bessie's pink palm.

"Poor little Hatty?"

"No, I am not poor a bit now. You must not call me that. I don't think I
have ever been so happy in my life. Every one is so kind to me--even
Tom--he never finds fault with me now."

"We are all so sorry for you."

"Yes, but you must not be too sorry. Somehow I am glad of this illness,
because it makes you all think better of me. You will not remember now
how cross, and jealous, and selfish I used to be. You will only say,
'Poor little thing, she always wanted to be good, even when she was most
naughty and troublesome.'"

"Don't, Hatty; I can't bear to hear you!"

"Yes, let me say it, please; it seems to do me good. How often you have
helped me over my difficulties. 'If I could only tell Bessie,' that was
what I used to say. I am glad you went away and g