g down he filled it to the brim, gave one spring
to the spot where I stood, whirled the bucket upside down and set it
down on the grass without spilling a drop.

"That is too large and heavy for you to carry, Gabriella," said he.
"Look at the palm of your hand, there is quite a red groove there made
by that iron handle."

"Never mind," I answered, twisting my handkerchief carelessly round the
tingling palm, "I must get used to it. Peggy is sick and there is no one
to carry water now but myself. When she is well, she will never let me
do any thing of the kind."

"You should not," said he, decidedly. "You are not strong enough,--you
must get another servant.--I will inquire in the village myself this
morning, and send you one."

"O no, my mother would never consent to a stranger coming into the
family. Besides, no one could take Peggy's place. She is less a servant
than a friend."

I turned away to hide the tears that I could not keep back. Peggy's
illness, though not of an alarming character, showed that even her iron
constitution was not exempt from the ills which flesh is heir to,--that
the strong pillar on which we leaned so trustingly _could_ vibrate and
shake, and what would become of us if it were prostrated to the earth;
the lonely column of fidelity and truth, to which we clung so
adhesively; the sheet anchor which had kept us from sinking beneath the
waves of adversity? I had scarcely realized Peggy's mortality before,
she seemed so strong, so energetic, so untiring. I would as soon have
thought of the sun's being weary in its mighty task as of Peggy's strong
arm waxing weak. I felt very sad, and the meeting with Richard Clyde,
which had excited a momentary joy, now deepened my sadness. He looked so
bright, so prosperous, so full of hope and life. He was no longer the
school-boy whom I could meet on equal terms, but the student entered on
a public career of honor and distinction,--the son of ambition, whose
gaze was already fixed on the distant hill-tops of fame. There was
nothing in his countenance or manner that gave this impression, but my
own morbid sensitiveness. The dawning feelings of womanhood made me
blush for the plainness and childishness of my dress, and then I was
ashamed of my shame, and blushed the more deeply.

"I am glad to see you again," I said, stooping to raise my brimming
pail,--"I suppose I must not call you Richard now."

"Yes, indeed, I hope and trust none of my old friends will