lessons, and torn frocks, of
hay-making, and butter-making; and if Graeme had any misgiving as to the
perfect enjoyment of her sister, it could not have been her letters that
had anything to do with it.

At last there came word of an expedition to be undertaken to a lake
far-away in the woods, where there were pond-lilies and lake trout in
abundance. They were to carry a tent, and be out one night, perhaps
two, and Mr and Mrs Goldsmith were going with them, and all the
children as well. This was the last letter. Rose herself came soon
after, to find a very quiet house, indeed. Fanny and her son had gone
to the seaside, whither Graeme and Rose, perhaps, might go, later. Mr
Millar had gone, too, not by the first steamer, nor by the second,
however. If Rose had been home two days sooner, she might have seen him
before he went, Harry told her; and Rose said, "What a pity! If I had
only known, I could so easily have come!" That was all.

How quiet the house was during those long summer days! It was like the
coming again of the old time, when they and Nelly used to have the house
in the garden to themselves, with only Will coming and going, till night
brought the brothers home.

"What happy, happy days they were!" said Rose, with a sigh.

"They _were_ happy days," said Graeme. "Very happy days."

She did not seem to hear the regretful echo in her sister's voice, nor
did she take her to task for the idle hands that lay folded on her lap,
nor disturb by word or look the times of silent musing, that grew longer
and more frequent as those uneventful days passed on. What was to be
said? The doubts and fears that had made her unhappy in the spring, and
even before the spring, were coming back again. Rose was not at peace
with herself, nothing was easier to be seen than that; but whether the
struggle was with pride, or anger, or disappointment, or whether all
these and something more had to do with it, she could only wait till
time, or chance, or Rose of her own free will, should tell.

For Graeme could not bring herself to speak of the trouble which her
sister, sad and preoccupied, in so many nameless ways betrayed. She
would not even seem to see it, and so strove to make it appear that it
was her own industry, her occupation with book, or pen, or needle, that
made the silence between them, on those days when Rose sat listless or
brooding, heedless of books, or work, or of whatever the day might
bring. And whe