Never had the little dining-room looked more inviting than when I entered it that morning.  One of Uncle Keith’s carefully hoarded logs blazed and crackled in the roomy fireplace, a delicious aroma of coffee and smoking ham pervaded the room.  Aunt Agatha, in her pretty morning cap, was placing a vase of hothouse flowers some old pupil had sent her in the centre of the table, and the bullfinch was whistling as merrily as ever, while old Tom watched him, sleepily, from the rug.  I was rather long warming my hands and stroking his sleek fur, for somehow I could not bring myself to look or speak in quite my ordinary manner; and though Uncle Keith did his best to enliven us by reading out scraps from his newspaper, I am afraid we gave him only a partial attention.  When Uncle Keith had bade me a husky good-bye, and had gone to his office, Aunt Agatha and I made a grand feint of being busy.  There was very little to do, really, but I considered it incumbent to be in a great state of activity.  I am afraid to say how many times I ran up and down stairs for articles that were safely deposited at the bottom of my box.  Aunt Agatha put a stop to it at last by taking my hand and putting me forcibly in Uncle Keith’s big chair.

“Sit there and keep warm, Merle; the cab will not be here for another half hour; what is the use of our pretending that we are not exceedingly unhappy?  My dear, you are leaving us with a sore heart, I can see that, and it only makes me love you all the better.  Yes, indeed, Merle,” for I was clinging to her now and sobbing softly under my breath; “and however things may turn out, whether this step be a failure or not, I will always say that you are a brave girl, who tried to do her duty.”

“Are you sure you think that, Aunt Agatha?”

Then she smiled to herself a little sadly.

“You remind me of the baby Merle who was so anxious to help everyone.  I remember you such a little creature, trying to lift the nursery chair, because your mother was tired; and how you dragged it across the room until you were red in the face, and came to me rubbing your little fat hands, and looking so important.  ’The chair hurted baby drefful, but it might hurted poor mammy worser:’  that was what you said.  I think you would still hurt yourself ‘drefful’ if you could help someone else.”

It was nice to hear this.  What can be sweeter or less harmful than praise from one we love?  It was nice to sit there with Aunt Agatha’s soft hand in mine, and be petted.  It would be long before I should have a cosy time with her again.  It put fresh heart in me somehow; like Jonathan’s taste of honey, “it lightened my eyes,” so that when the final good-bye came, I could smile as I said it, and carry away an impression of Aunt Agatha’s smile too, as she stood on the steps, with Patience behind her, watching until I was out of sight.  I am afraid I am different to most young women of my age—­more imaginative, and perhaps a little morbid.  Many things in everyday