that in some points she was weak—­a silly little thing she called herself when comparing her mind with Helen’s—­but there was about her so much of purity, innocence, and perfect beauty, that few men, however strong their intellect, could withstand her, and Morris, though knowing her weakness, felt that in possessing her he should have all he needed to make this life desirable.  She would improve as she grew older, and it would be a most delightful task to train her into what she was capable of becoming.  Alas! for Dr. Morris!  He was very near the farmhouse now, and there were only a few minutes between him and the cloud which would darken his horizon so completely.  Katy was alone, sitting up in her pretty dressing gown of blue, which was so becoming to her pure complexion.  Her hair, which had been all cut away during her long sickness, was growing out again somewhat darker than before, and lay in rings upon her head, making her look more childish than ever.  But to this Morris did not object.  He liked to have her a child, and he thought he had never seen her so wholly beautiful as she was this morning, when, with glowing cheek and dancing eyes, she greeted him as he came in.

“Oh, Dr. Morris!” she began, holding up a letter she had in her hand, “I am so glad you’ve come, for I wanted to tell you so badly Wilford has not forgotten me, as I used to think, and as I guess you thought, too, though you did not say so.  He has written, and he is coming again, if I will let him; and, oh, Morris!  I am so glad!  Ain’t you?  Seeing you knew all about it, and never told Helen, I’ll let you read the letter.”

And she held it toward the young man leaning against the mantel and panting for the breath which came so heavily.

Something he said apologetically about being snow blind, for there was that day quite a fall of soft spring snow; and then with a mighty effort, which made his heart quiver with pain, Morris was himself once more, and took the letter in his hand.

“Perhaps I had better not read it,” he said, but Katy insisted that he might, and thinking to himself:  “It will cure me sooner perhaps,” he read the few lines Wilford Cameron had written to his “dear little Katy.”

That was the way he addressed her, going on to say that circumstances which he could not explain to her had kept him silent ever since he left her the previous autumn; but through all he never for a moment had forgotten her, thinking of her the more for the silence he had maintained.  “And now that I have risen above the circumstances,” he added, in conclusion, “I write to ask if I may come to Silverton again.  If I may, just drop me one word, ‘come,’ and in less than a week I shall be there.  Yours very truly, W. Cameron.”

Morris read the letter through, feeling that every word was separating him further and further from Katy, to whom he said:  “You will answer this?”

“Yes, oh yes; perhaps to-day.”