to you, Miss Innes?" she said slowly. "To have come
like this--"

I thought she was going to break down, but she did not.

"You are not to think of anything but of getting well," I said, patting
her hand. "When you are better, I am going to scold you for not coming
here at once. This is your home, my dear, and of all people in the
world, Halsey's old aunt ought to make you welcome."

She smiled a little, sadly, I thought.

"I ought not to see Halsey," she said. "Miss Innes, there are a great
many things you will never understand, I am afraid. I am an impostor
on your sympathy, because I--I stay here and let you lavish care on me,
and all the time I know you are going to despise me."

"Nonsense!" I said briskly. "Why, what would Halsey do to me if I even
ventured such a thing? He is so big and masterful that if I dared to
be anything but rapturous over you, he would throw me out of a window.
Indeed, he would be quite capable of it."

She seemed scarcely to hear my facetious tone. She had eloquent brown
eyes--the Inneses are fair, and are prone to a grayish-green optic that
is better for use than appearance--and they seemed now to be clouded
with trouble.

"Poor Halsey!" she said softly. "Miss Innes, I can not marry him, and
I am afraid to tell him. I am a coward--a coward!"

I sat beside the bed and stared at her. She was too ill to argue with,
and, besides, sick people take queer fancies.

"We will talk about that when you are stronger," I said gently.

"But there are some things I must tell you," she insisted. "You must
wonder how I came here, and why I stayed hidden at the lodge. Dear old
Thomas has been almost crazy, Miss Innes. I did not know that
Sunnyside was rented. I knew my mother wished to rent it, without
telling my--stepfather, but the news must have reached her after I
left. When I started east, I had only one idea--to be alone with my
thoughts for a time, to bury myself here. Then, I--must have taken a
cold on the train."

"You came east in clothing suitable for California," I said, "and, like
all young girls nowadays, I don't suppose you wear flannels." But she
was not listening.

"Miss Innes," she said, "has my stepbrother Arnold gone away?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, startled. But Louise was literal.

"He didn't come back that night," she said, "and it was so important
that I should see him."

"I believe he has gone away," I replied uncertainly. "Isn't it
somet