“Yes,” Bessie answered.  “He once spent a day at Stoneleigh with Neil, and he came again when father died, and was so kind to me.  I was alone, for mother, you know, was on the ocean, and he did everything a man could do.  Then, when I was sick in Rome, he was there too, and gave up his room to mother, and took every care from her.  Oh, auntie, he is the noblest man I ever knew.  He told Neil once that he tried to make somebody happy every day, either by a pleasant word, or look, or act of kindness; and only think, if he lives to be old, how many, many people will have been happier because he has lived.”

In the excitement, Bessie forgot everything but her enthusiasm for and her interest in Grey Jerrold; and her aunt, who was watching her closely, guessed the truth pretty accurately.  But she made no remark except to say that from the garret window one could see Grey’s Park, where Miss Lucy lived, and which Grey would probably one day inherit.  Nor was she at all surprised when later in the afternoon she knew by certain sounds that Bessie was at the garret window looking at the park.

The next day was a hard and busy one, for there was sweeping to be done, and the silver to be cleaned, and the dining-room windows to be wiped; and Bessie went through it all patiently and uncomplainingly, serving her aunt at breakfast and dinner, taking her own meals with the cook, and never by a sign showing that she was other than the hired maid she had chosen to be.  But when the last thing was done which belonged to her to do, the fatigue and the heat overcame her, and, sitting down in the shaded porch, by the kitchen door, she leaned her aching head against the back of her chair and fell asleep.  And there Miss Betsey, who had scarcely lost sight of her during the day, found her, and for a few moments stood looking at her intently, noticing every curve, and line, and feature, and feeling a lump in her throat as she saw about the sweet mouth that patient, sorry expression which had come there years ago when Bessie was a child, and had deepened with every succeeding year.

“Poor little girl, you have had a hard time, I know,” she said; and at the sound of her voice Bessie awoke and with a bright smile and blush, started up, saying: 

“Excuse me; I was very tired and warm, and must have fallen asleep.  My work is done, and now, if you have any sewing, please let me have it.”

“Aren’t you tired?  You look pale,” Miss Betsey asked so kindly that Bessie’s lip quivered as she replied: 

“Yes, a little; but I do not mind that.  I should like to do something for you.”

“Then go out into the garden in the fresh air and stay there till you are rested,” Miss Betsey answered, abruptly, and, turning on her heel, she walked away to her own room, where she held communion with herself, wondering how much longer she could or ought to hold out, “I have tried her pretty well, and she has not flinched a hair; but I guess I will wait a day or two, till I have heard from Sarah,” she thought, but this resolution she did not carry out for two reasons, one of which was found in the letter which she received that afternoon, and the other in the fact that at tea-time Bessie fainted dead away as she stood by her auntie’s chair.