finished, she again placed
herself at the foot of the old rock, removed her gloves, pushed back
from her forehead the braids of her hair, and appeared to be resting
from her labours.

It was seven years that day since Uncle True died, but Gertrude had not
forgotten the kind old man. As she gazed upon the grassy mound that
covered him, and scene after scene rose up before her in which that
earliest friend and herself had whiled away the happy hours, there came,
to embitter the cherished remembrance, the recollection of that third
and seldom absent one who completed the memory of their fireside joys;
and Gertrude, while yielding to the inward reflection, unconsciously
exclaimed aloud, "Oh, Uncle True! you and I are not parted yet; but
Willie is not of us!"

"Oh, Gertrude," said a reproachful voice close at her side, "is Willie
to blame for that?" She started, turned, saw the object of her thoughts
with his mild sad eye fixed inquiringly upon her, and, without replying
to his question, buried her face in her hands.

He threw himself upon the ground at her feet, and, as on the occasion of
their first childish interview, gently lifted her bowed head from the
hands upon which it had fallen, and compelled her to look him in the
face, saying at the same time in the most imploring accents, "Tell me,
Gerty, in pity tell me, why I am excluded from your sympathy?" But still
she made no answer, except by the tears that coursed down her cheeks.

"You make me miserable," continued he. "What have I done that you have
so shut me out of your affection? Why do you look so coldly upon me--and
even shrink from my sight?" added he, as Gertrude, unable to endure his
searching look, turned her eyes in another direction and strove to free
her hands from his grasp.

"I am not cold--I do not mean to be," said she, her voice half-choked
with emotion.

"Oh, Gertrude," replied he, relinquishing her hands and turning away, "I
see you have ceased to love me. I trembled when I first beheld you, so
lovely, so beautiful, and so beloved by all, and feared lest some
fortunate rival had stolen your heart from its boyish keeper. But even
then I did not deem that you would refuse me, at least, a _brother's_
claim to your affection."

"I will not," exclaimed Gertrude eagerly. "Oh, Willie, you must not be
angry with me! Let me be your sister!"

He smiled a most mournful smile, and said, "I was right, then; you
feared lest I should claim too much, and