acy, and
besides I thought it was--I thought you--" Mrs. Murray paused, while
Maimie's face grew hot with fiery blushes, but before she could reply
they heard Harry's step on the stairs, and in a moment he burst into the
room.

"Ranald isn't coming!" he exclaimed. "Here's a note for you, Maimie.
But what the--but what he means," said Harry, checking himself, "I can't
make out."

"Not coming?" cried Maimie, the flush fading from her face. "What can
he mean?" She opened the note, and as she read the blood rushed
quickly into her face again, and as quickly fled, leaving her pale and
trembling.

"Well, what does he say?" inquired Harry, bluntly.

"He says it is impossible for him to come tonight," said Maimie, putting
the note into her bosom.

"Huh!" grunted Harry, and flung out of the room.

Immediately Maimie pulled out the note.

"Oh, auntie," she cried, "I am so miserable; Ranald is not coming and he
says--there read it." She hurriedly thrust the note into Mrs. Murray's
hands, and Mrs. Murray, opening it, read:

MY DEAR MAIMIE: It is impossible for me to go to you tonight. Your
father and I have had a difference so serious that I can never enter his
house again, but I am writing now to tell you what I meant to tell you
to-night. I love you, Maimie. I love you with all my heart and soul. I
have loved you since the night I pulled you from the fire.

"Maimie," said Mrs. Murray, handing her back the note, "I do not think
you ought to give me this. That is too sacred for any eyes but your
own."

"Oh, I know, auntie, but what can I do? I am so sorry for Ranald! What
shall I do, auntie?"

"My dear child, in this neither I nor any one can advise you. You must
be true to yourself."

"Oh, I wish I knew what to do!" cried Maimie. "He wants me to tell
him--" Maimie paused, her face once more covered with blushes, "and I do
not know what to say!"

"What does your heart say, Maimie?" said Mrs. Murray, quietly.

"Oh, auntie, I am so miserable!"

"But, Maimie," continued her aunt, "in this matter, as I said before,
you must be true to yourself. Do you love Ranald?"

"Oh, auntie, I cannot tell," cried Maimie, putting her face in her
hands.

"If Ranald were De Lacy would you love him?"

"Oh yes, yes, how happy I would be!"

Then Mrs. Murray rose. "Maimie, dear," she said, and her voice was very
gentle but very firm, "let me speak to you for your dear mother's sake.
Do not deceive yourself. Do not give your