“I dined at Mr. Cameron’s, Kitty.”

But the brightness gradually faded as Morris described his call and then repeated Wilford’s message.

“And that was all,” Katy whispered sorrowfully as she beat the damask cloth softly with her fingers, shutting her lips tightly together to keep back her disappointment.

When Morris glanced at her again there was a tear on her long eyelashes, and it dropped upon her cheek, followed by another and another, but he did not seem to see it, talking of New York and the fine sights in Broadway until Katy was herself again, able to take part in the conversation.

“Please don’t tell Helen that you saw Wilford,” she said to Morris as he walked home with her after tea, and that was the only allusion she made to it, never after that mentioning Wilford’s name or giving any token of the wounded love still so strong within her heart, and waiting only for some slight token to waken it again to life and vigor.

This was in the winter, and Katy had been very sick since then—­so sick that even to her the thought had sometimes come:  “What if I should die?” but she was too weak, too nearly unconscious, to go further and reflect upon the terrible reality death would bring if it found her unprepared.  She had only strength and sense enough to wonder if Wilford would care when he heard that she was dead; and once, as she grew better, she almost worked herself into a second fever with assisting at her own obsequies, seeing only one mourner, and that one Wilford Cameron.  Even he was not there in time to see her in her coffin, but he wept over her little grave and called her “darling Katy.”  So vividly had Katy pictured all this scene, that Morris, when he called, found her flushed and hot, with traces of tears on her face.

In reply to his inquiries as to what was the matter, she had answered laughingly:  “Oh, nothing much—­only I have been burying myself,” and so Morris never dreamed of the real nature of her reveries, or guessed that Wilford Cameron was mingled with every thought.  She had forgotten him, he believed; and when, as she grew stronger, he saw how her eyes sparkled at his coming, and how impatient she seemed if he was obliged to hurry off, hope whispered that she would surely be his, and his usually grave face wore a look of happiness which even his patients noticed, feeling themselves better after one of his cheery visits.  Poor Morris! he was little prepared for the terrible blow in store for him, when one day early in April he started, as usual, to visit Katy, saying to himself:  “If I find her alone, perhaps I’ll tell her of my love, and ask if she will come to Linwood this summer;” and Morris paused a moment beneath a beechwood tree to still the throbbings of his heart, which beat so fast as he thought of going home some day from his weary work and finding Katy there, his little wife—­his own—­whom he might caress and love all his affectionate nature would prompt him to.  He knew