like a bird in its cage, thrilled with rapture at the prospect of deliverance!  Had he not saved the life of my darling brother, and in my heart down deep, so deep I could bring no light of words upon the thought, I felt that I loved them both.  The tenth day (since our removal to Mr. Hanson’s) arrived, and then came our departure.  I cried every minute, and only because I was glad.  Mr. and Mrs. Hanson and Louis thought it due to over-exertion, and when I tried to explain I made an unintelligible murmur, and only succeeded in bringing out one thought—­my gratitude to them and the hope that I might one day repay it.  Oh, how kind they were!  Everything to make the transit easy for Hal was cared for, even to the beautiful blanket Mrs. Hanson gave him, which was doubly precious since her grandmother span the wool and colored and wove it with her own hands.  It was a happy party which left Chicago on that memorable morning, and our journey was delightful.  Father was waiting for us at the old home station, and instead of the old stage we rode home in an easy carry-all behind our own horses.  Mother and Clara met us with outstretched hands, and the latter, as she stood in the doorway, looked a perfect picture.

Hal was very tired, and for days after our return was threatened with a relapse, which was averted only by the unvarying care and strength of Louis.  When this risk was over and he was fairly started on the road of recovery, came the departure of our friend and his return to his studies.  Oh, how we dreaded it!  Hal said afterward the thought of his going sent a chill to his head.  The evening before his departure we walked over the hill through the pleasant path his mother and myself always chose when we walked and talked together.  I said: 

“Go with us, Clara,” as we sauntered along the yard path toward the gate, but Louis looked at her and she turned gaily from us with the words: 

“I will look after the invalid.”

It seemed to me I was made of stone that evening, and we walked long before the silence was broken.  At last Louis stopped, and taking both my hands looked into my heart (it seemed so to me) and said: 

“I leave to-morrow.”

My eyes grew moist, but only a sigh escaped my lips.  I did not even say I was sorry.

Then we sat down on the mossy trunk of our favorite tree, and he said: 

“Are you sorry, Emily?  Will you miss me, and will you write to me, and will your dark eyes read the words I send to you?”

Dumb, more dumb than before, I sighed and bowed my head, and again he spoke, this time with that strange, terribly earnest look in his eyes I had seen before.

“Oh, Emily! my dear Emily!  I am only a boy in years, but I love you with the strength of a man.  I have saved the life of your brother because I loved his sister; and,” he added in a low tone, “I love him too, but not as I do the dark eyes of his sister.  Oh!  Emily, do you love me?  Can you and will you love me, and me only?”