ave long wished you to have a little holiday, so your mind may be quite
at rest." And after this Bessie was satisfied.

But it was with very different feelings that Bessie left her home in the
mild-tempered sunshine of that January day, to those when, seven months
ago, she paid her first visit to The Grange. Things had been well with
her then; no trouble since her brother's death had checkered her bright,
sunshiny existence. She had gone in holiday mood to seek fresh interests
and new enjoyments; but now how utterly changed were her feelings! She
could no longer look out upon the world through the rose-colored
spectacles that youth generally wears. For the second time in her life
she had been brought face to face with death, and the great reality had
sobered her. A deep sense of responsibility, of the inner meaning of
life, seemed to cast a weight of gravity over her. A bond of sympathy
seemed to unite her with all those who were in sorrow; so many were
unhappy, so many had lost their nearest and dearest. Oh, how she longed
to comfort them all!

Bessie was not one to speak of her feelings; the best of her life was
out of sight. Only once she said to Christine, as they were walking home
from church in the starlight:

"People are very proud when their relatives achieve any worldly honor or
attain to any rank, yet no one seems to feel an added dignity when any
dear one has finished his or her earthly conflict most gloriously, and
has won a heavenly crown. Why is it, Chrissy? Somehow it seems such an
honor to me to feel I have a sister as well as a brother in heaven; it
makes one more careful not to do anything unworthy of them."

Bessie's gray eyes had a softer look in them than they had of old; her
voice had grown more gentle. Mrs. Sefton, who was at the station, hardly
recognized the girl as she came quickly toward her; the black dress and
crape bonnet made her look older, but when she smiled it was the same
Bessie.

"My dear, are you very tired?" she asked, looking at her kindly. "It is
such a cold evening that I dare not let Edna come with me, for her
cough is still troublesome. I had some difficulty with her, but at last
I got my way. Edna is not nearly so self-willed as she used to be." But
here Mrs. Sefton sighed.

"Do you think Edna is really better?" asked Bessie, when the carriage
door was closed, and they drove away from the station.

"I do not know," returned Mrs. Sefton, in a troubled voice. "Dr. Milton