rkling with
joy and malice, "but I've thought lately that I was just mistaken," and
she presently related what had passed between her and John that
morning.

Emily's fair cheek took a slight blush-rose tint. If she felt relieved,
this did not appear; perhaps she thought, "Under like circumstances John
would speak just so of me." The old lady had been silent some moments
before Emily answered, and when she did speak she said--

"What! you and John actually joked about poor Justina in her presence,
auntie?"

"Did I see him in her absence?" inquired Miss Christie, excusing
herself. "I tell ye, child, I've changed my mind. John Mortimer's a
world too good for her. Aye, but he looked grand this morning."

"Yes," answered Emily, "but it is a pity he thinks all the women are in
love with him!" Then, feeling that she had been unjust, she corrected
herself, "No, I mean that he is so keenly aware how many women there are
in the neighbourhood who would gladly marry him."

"Aware!" quoth Miss Christie, instantly taking his part. "Aware, indeed!
Can he ever go out, or stop at home, that somebody doesn't try to make
him aware! Small blame to them," she added with a laugh, "few men can
hold their heads higher, either moreally or pheesically, and he has his
pockets full of money besides."

Emily got away from Miss Christie as soon as she could, put on her
bonnet, and went into the garden.

The air was soft, and almost oppressively mild, for the bracing east
wind was gone, and a tender wooing zephyr was fluttering among the
crumbled leaves, and helping them to their expansion. Before she knew
what instinct had taken her there, she found herself standing by the
four little gardens, listening to the cheerful dance of the water among
the stepping-stones, and looking at the small footsteps of the children,
which were printed all over their property.

Yes, there was no mistake about that, her empty heart had taken them in
with no thought and no fear of anything that might follow.

Only the other day and her thoughts had been as free as air, there was a
sorrowful shadow lying behind her; when she chose, she looked back into
it, recalled the confiding trust, and marital pride, and instinctive
courage of her late husband, and was sufficiently mistress of her past
to muse no more on his unopened mind, and petty ambitions, and small
range, of thought. He was gone to heaven, he could see farther now, and
as for these matters, she had hi