a light; I only wanted to indulge my thoughts, unnoticed and undisturbed; and sitting down on a low stool before the easy chair, I sunk my head upon its cushioned seat, and thought, and thought, until the tears gushed out again, and I wept like any child. Presently, however, the door was gently opened and some one entered the room. I trusted it was only a servant, and did not stir. The door was closed again—but I was not alone: a hand gently touched my shoulder, and a voice said, softly—
"Helen, what is the matter?"
I could not answer at the moment.
"You must and shall tell me," was added more vehemently, and the speaker threw himself on his knees, beside me on the rug, and forcibly possessed himself of my hand; but I hastily caught it away, and replied—
"It is nothing to you, Mr. Huntingdon."
"Are you sure it is nothing to me?" he returned, "can you swear that you were not thinking of me while you wept?"
