learn what might be the behests which she would be called on
to obey.

She was sitting one evening alone, thinking of all this, having left
Martha with her aunt, and was trying to reconcile the circumstances
of her life as it now existed with the circumstances as they had been
with her in the old days at Nuncombe Putney, wondering at herself in
that she should have a lover, and trying to convince herself that for
her this little episode of romance could mean nothing serious, when
Martha crept down into the room to her. Of late days,--the alteration
might perhaps be dated from the rejection of Mr. Gibson,--Martha, who
had always been very kind, had become more respectful in her manner
to Dorothy than had heretofore been usual with her. Dorothy was quite
aware of it, and was not unconscious of a certain rise in the world
which was thereby indicated. "If you please, miss," said Martha, "who
do you think is here?"

"But there is nobody with my aunt?" said Dorothy.

"She is sleeping like a babby, and I came down just for a moment.
Mr. Gibson is here, miss,--in the house! He asked for your aunt, and
when, of course, he could not see her, he asked for you." Dorothy for
a few minutes was utterly disconcerted, but at last she consented to
see Mr. Gibson. "I think it is best," said Martha, "because it is bad
to be fighting, and missus so ill. 'Blessed are the peace-makers,'
miss, 'for they shall be called the children of God.'" Convinced by
this argument, or by the working of her own mind, Dorothy directed
that Mr. Gibson might be shewn into the room. When he came, she found
herself unable to address him. She remembered the last time in which
she had seen him, and was lost in wonder that he should be there. But
she shook hands with him, and went through some form of greeting in
which no word was uttered.

"I hope you will not think that I have done wrong," said he, "in
calling to ask after my old friend's state of health?"

"Oh dear, no," said Dorothy, quite bewildered.

"I have known her for so very long, Miss Dorothy, that now in the
hour of her distress, and perhaps mortal malady, I cannot stop to
remember the few harsh words that she spoke to me lately."

"She never means to be harsh, Mr. Gibson."

"Ah; well; no,--perhaps not. At any rate, I have learned to forgive
and forget. I am afraid your aunt is very ill, Miss Dorothy."

"She is ill, certainly, Mr. Gibson."

"Dear, dear! We are all as the grass of the field