that Amy, with
only a graver face, replied,

"Yes, there was my Aunt Martha."

"I remember all. She is gone; my dear young lady, you will forgive me,
but your face recalls other years." Then turning to the widow, he said,
"Mrs. Simmer, I am sure that you could have no kinder, no better friend
than this young lady."

The young lady looked at him with a gentle inquiry in her eyes as who
should say, "What do you know about it?"

Lawrence Newt's eyes understood in a moment, and he answered:

"Oh, I know it as I know that a rose smells sweet."

He bowed as he said it, and took her hand.

"Will you remember to ask your mother if she remembers Lawrence Newt, and
if he may come and see her?"

Amy Waring said Yes, and the gentleman, bending and touching the tips of
her fingers with his lips, said, "Good-by, Mrs. Simmer," and departed.

He called at Mrs. Waring's within a few days afterward. He had known her
as a child, but his incessant absence from home when he was younger had
prevented any great intimacy with old acquaintances. But the Darros were
dancing-school friends and partners. Since those days they had become
women and mothers. He had parted with Corinna Darro, a black-eyed little
girl in short white frock and short curling hair and red ribbons. He met
her as Mrs. Delmer Waring, a large, maternal, good-hearted woman.

This had happened two years before, and during all the time since then
Lawrence Newt had often called--had met Amy in the street on many
errands--had met her at balls whenever he found she was going. He did not
ask her to drive with him. He did not send her costly gifts. He did
nothing that could exclude the attentions of younger men. But sometimes
a basket of flowers came for Miss Waring--without a card, without any
clue. The good-hearted mother thought of various young men, candidates
for degrees in Amy's favor, who had undoubtedly sent the flowers. The
good-hearted mother, who knew that Amy was in love with none of them,
pitied them--thought it was a great shame they should lose their time in
such an utterly profitless business as being in love with Amy; and when
any of them called said, with a good-humored sigh, that she believed her
daughter would never be any thing but a Sister of Charity.

Sometimes also a new book came, and on the fly-leaf was written, "To Miss
Amy Waring, from her friend Lawrence Newt." Then the good-hearted mother
remarked that some men were delightfully faithful to