because you feel yourself so safe. I am afraid for you,
Harry."

It was useless to speak, she knew that quite well. The words of another
can never make danger real, to those who are assailed with poor Harry's
temptation. So she shut her lips close, as he rose from her side, and
sat in silence; while he walked up and down the room. By and by he came
back to her side, again.

"Graeme," said he, gravely. "Indeed, you may trust me. The shame of
that night shall never be renewed. You shall never have the same cause
to be sorry for me, or ashamed of me again."

She put her arms round his neck, and laid her head down on his shoulder,
but she did not speak. It was not that she was altogether hopeless
about her brother, but Harry understood it so.

"Graeme, what shall I say to you? How shall I give you courage--faith
to trust me? Graeme, I promise, that till I see you again I shall not
taste nor touch that which so degraded me in your eyes. I solemnly
promise before God, Graeme."

"Harry," said his sister, "it is a vow--an oath, that you have taken."

"Yes, and it shall be kept as such. Do you trust me, Graeme? Give me
that comfort before I go away."

"I trust you, Harry," was all she had voice to say. She clasped him and
kissed him, and by and by she prayed God to bless him, in words such as
his mother might have used. And Harry vowed, with God's help, to be
true to himself and her. He did not speak the words again, but none the
less was the vow registered in Heaven.

That was the real farewell between the brother and sister. Next morning
there was little said by any one, and not a word by Graeme, but the last
glimpse Harry had of home, showed his eldest sister's face smiling and
hopeful, saying as plainly as her words had said before,--

"Harry, I trust you quite."

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

The brilliant sunlight of a September morning was shining full into the
little breakfast-room, where Graeme sat at the head of the table,
awaiting the coming of the rest. The morning paper was near her, but
she was not reading; her hands were clasped and rested on the table, and
she was looking straight before her, seeing, probably, further than the
pale green wall, on which the sunshine fell so pleasantly. She was
grave and quiet, but not in the least sad. Indeed, more than once, as
the voices of Rose and Arthur came sounding down-stairs, a smile of
unmistakable cheerfulness overspread her face. Present