lips trembled, and the
tears stood in the sweet eyes. She turned to the physician, and drew
back a little as the head upon the pillow moved restlessly.

'I--I have not seen him for some time. Do--do you think it could
possibly startle him--if--if he should recognise me?'

'If it were possible, which, I fear, it is not--now--there is nothing
that would benefit him so much.'

She went close to the cot then, and, bending down, looked into the
restless blue eyes.

'How do you do?' she said clearly.

The restless eyes were still for a moment; then the head upon the
pillow moved as if essaying a bow, and the right hand was feebly
lifted.

She took his hand as if in greeting, and said again, speaking softly
and clearly:

'Won't you go and speak with my Aunt Charlotte?'

A startled look came into the eyes; a look of distress crossed the
face. He made a feeble gesture with the right hand; a great sigh
escaped his lips, and then they parted.

'Strange,' they muttered feebly, 'cruel--mistaken--heartless!' His
hand dropped heavily, and, quick as thought, Miss Jenrys lifted her
head and drew back, her face one rosy glow from temples to chin; and
now the sweet Quakeress interposed with womanly tact:

'He does not know thee, dear; and perhaps our presence may disturb
him, in this weakened state.' She bent over the sick man for a moment,
scanned the pale, handsome features closely, gently put back a stray
lock of hair that had escaped from beneath the bandage and lay across
the white full temple. Then she turned to the doctor:

'In the absence of nearer friends, doctor, we will stand in their
stead. Will you give him your best care and let nothing be lacking?
When we can serve him in any manner, thee will inform us through Mr.
Masters, I trust; and, with your permission, I will call to ask after
him each day until he is better.'

Sweet soul! How plain to me was the whole tender little episode! I
could imagine June Jenrys telling the story of her rupture with young
Lossing as frankly as she had written it to her friend Hilda O'Neil,
and more explicitly, with fuller detail. I could fancy the sweet
sympathy and tender admonitions of the elder woman; and here, before
me, was the visible proof of how she had interpreted the heart of the
girl, at once so proud, so honest, and so fearless in an emergency
like this.

Had the sweet little Quakeress come to the bedside of this suffering
young stranger because he was a fellow b