and was able to join in her deep thankfulness, and give
her hope for the days to come.

"But what is to be done with Guy?"

"God knows," John answered. But his tone expressed a meaning different
from that generally conveyed in the words: a meaning which the mother
caught at once, and rested on.

"Ay--you are right. He knows!"--And so they went away together, almost
content.

Next morning, I woke late; the sunshine falling across my bed, and the
sparrows chattering loud in the ivy. I had been dreaming, with a
curious pertinacity, of the old days at Rose Cottage, the days when
John first fell in love with Ursula.

"Uncle Phineas." I heard myself called.

It was John's son, who sat opposite, with wan, wild eyes, and a settled
anguish on his mouth--that merry, handsome mouth--the only really
handsome mouth in the family.

"You are up early, my boy."

"What was the good of lying in bed? I am not ill. Besides, I wish to
go about as usual. I don't wish anybody to think that--that I care."

He stopped--evidently fighting hard against himself. A new lesson,
alas! for our Guy.

"Was I too violent last night? I did not mean it. I mean to be a man.
Not the first man whom a lady has refused--eh?" And braving it out, he
began to whistle; but the lips fell--the frank brow grew knotted with
pain. The lad broke into a passion of misery.

The chief bitterness was that he had been deceived. Unwittingly, we
well believed--but still deceived. Many little things he told
me--Guy's was a nature that at once spent and soothed itself by
talking--of Miss Silver's extreme gentleness and kindness towards him;
a kindness which seemed so like, so cruelly like love.

"Love!--Oh, she loved me. She told me so. Of course!--I was Edwin's
brother."

Ay, there was the sting, which never could be removed; which might
rankle in the boy's heart for life. He had not only lost his love, but
what is more precious than love--faith in womankind. He began to make
light of his losings--to think the prize was not so great after all.
He sat on my bed, singing--Guy had a fine voice and ear--singing out of
mockery, songs which I had an especial aversion to--light songs written
by an Irishman, Mr. Thomas Moore, about girls and wine, and being "far
from the lips we love," but always ready enough "to make love to the
lips we are near." Then, laughing at me, he threw up the window and
looked out.

I think it was wrong of those two, wron