“Indeed, I won’t keep other folks’ love-tokens!  There,—­it belongs on that finger, I know!  But do tell me about it!—­do!  I will tell you something, if you will.  Yes, indeed, I have got a secret you would give anything to know!  Walter told it to me, and it is about you.  He spoke of it in his last letter, and said he meant to—­Come, I’ll tell you, though he said I mustn’t, if you will only let me into the mystery of this ring.  The secret is in my letter, and I will let you read it, if you will.”

Lina looked at me with meaning eyes.  The contents of the letter were doubled in value by this confession, and yet this was no temptation at all.  She was not alone.

“You foolish little thing,” she said, kissing the sweet, entreating face, “do you suppose I will tell you my secrets, when you are so easily bribed to betray your brother’s?”

Alice’s conscience was alarmed.

“Why!” she ejaculated.  “How near I came to betraying confidence,—­and without meaning to do it, either!  Oh, how glad I am you did not let me go on so thoughtlessly!  I should have been so sorry for it afterwards!  I know Walter will tell you himself, some day,—­but I have no business to do it, especially as he did not voluntarily make me his confidante; I found out the affair by accident, and he bound me to secresy.  Oh, I thank you for stopping me when I was forgetting everything in my eager curiosity!  And this letter, too, I offered to show you!  How strangely indiscreet!”

“Perhaps I read it while you were gone,” said Kate, in a low voice.

“No, you didn’t, Kate!  You can’t make me believe that of you!  I know you too well!”

“Indeed!” said Kate, blushing violently; “I can tell you, I came very near it.”

“‘A miss is as good as a mile,’ Lina.  And I know you were far enough from anything so mean.”

“I was so near as to have my hand upon your letter, Alice dear.  One feather’s weight more stress of temptation, and I should have fallen.”

“Pure nonsense!  Isn’t it, Charles?”

“Yes.  Kate, you need not flatter yourself that you have universal ability, clever as you are.  In anything dishonorable you are a perfect incapable, and that is all you have proved this morning.”

V.

New York; July.

I was too comfortable, Mary!  Such peace could not last, any more than a soft Indian-summer can put off relentless winter.

Oh, for those sweet June days when I had my couch wheeled to the deepest shade of the grove, and lay there from morning until evening, with the green foliage to curtain me,—­the clover-scented wind to play about my hair, and touch my temples with softest, coolest fingers,—­the rushing brook to sing me to sleep,—­the very little blossoms to be obsequious in dancing motion, to please my eye,—­and the holy hush of Nature to tranquillize my soul!

I had brought myself, by what I thought the most Christian effort, to be content with my altered lot.  I gave up ambition, active usefulness, fireside, and family.  I tried but for one thing,—­peace.