“What a pity! it must be a great hindrance to your work.”

“Yes, indeed, and my eyes ache so that I can seldom sew or read for more than an hour or two at a time.  Ah, I’m afraid I’m going to lose my sight altogether.”

The tone was inexpressibly mournful, and Elsie’s eyes filled again.

“Don’t fret about it,” she said, “I think—­I hope you can be cured.”

The rain had nearly ceased, and Philip, saying the worst was over, and they were in danger of being late at dinner, hurried the girls into the phaeton.

“What was that woman whispering to you?” asked Gertrude, as soon as they were fairly off.

Elsie looked uncomfortable.  “It was something I was to tell mamma,” she replied.

“But what is it?”

“I’m afraid she wanted to keep it a secret from you, Gerty, or she would have spoken out loud.”

“I think you’re very mean and disobliging,” retorted Gertrude, beginning to pout.

“No, she isn’t,” said Philip pompously, “she’s honorable, and one of the few females who can keep a secret.  But I overheard it, Elsie, and feel pretty sure that the reason she whispered it, was to keep the poor girl from hearing.  It’s very natural she shouldn’t want her to know she’s afraid her sight’s leaving her.”

“Oh, yes; I suppose that was it!” returned Elsie.  “But you were very wise to think of it, Phil.”

“Don’t flatter him,” said Gertrude; “he thinks a great deal too much of himself, already.”

Dinner was just ready when they reached home, and their mammas were on the porch looking for them.

“So there you are at last! what detained you so long?” said Mrs. Ross.

“Went further than we intended; and then the rain, you know,” said Philip.

“And, oh, we had an adventure!” cried the girls, and hastened to tell it.

Mrs. Travilla had not forgotten her old governess, and though no pleasant recollection of her lingered in her memory, neither was there any dislike or revengeful feeling there.  She heard of her sorrows with commiseration and rejoiced in the ability to alleviate them.

“That Mrs. Gibson!” exclaimed Lucy, “I’ve seen her many a time at the door or window, in driving past, and have often thought there was something familiar in her face, but never dreamed who she was.  That hateful Miss Day! as I used to call her; Elsie, I wouldn’t do a thing for her, if I were you.  Why she treated you with absolute cruelty.”

“She was sometimes unjust and unkind,” said Mrs. Travilla, smiling at her friend’s vehemence, “but probably my sensitiveness, timidity and stupidity, were often very trying.”

“No such thing!—­if you will excuse me for contradicting you—­everybody that knew you then, would testify that you were the sweetest, dearest, most patient, industrious little thing that ever was made.”

Elsie laughed and shook her head, “Ah, Lucy, you always flattered me; never were jealous even when I was held up to you as a pattern an evidence that yours was a remarkably sweet disposition.  Now, tell me, please, if you know anything about these Gibsons?”