“Oh!  I am so very sorry for all this,” she said half crying; “but aunty, dear, I do not think uncle will have those nice old trees cut down.  He loves you too much to do it; I am sure he is sorry now for all those sharp things he said; but his pride keeps him back from telling you this, and maybe he thinks you are angry with him still.  Aunt Margaret, let me go and say to him that your love is as warm as ever, and that you forgive him freely.  Oh! it may do so much good.  May I not go?”

But Miss Greylston tightened her grasp on the young girl’s hand.

“Annie, you do not know your uncle as well as I do.  Such a step can do no good,—­love, you cannot help us.”

“Only let me try,” she returned, earnestly; “Uncle John loves me so much, and on the first day of my visit, he will not refuse to hear me.  I will tell him all the sweet things you said about him.  I will tell him there is not one bit of anger in your heart, and that you forgive and love him dearly.  I am sure when he hears this he will be glad.  Any way, it will not make matters worse.  Now, do have some confidence in me.  Indeed I am not so childish as I seem.  I am turned of sixteen now, and Richard and Sophy often say I have the heart of a woman, even if I have the ways of a child.  Let me go now, dear Aunt Margaret; I will soon come back to you with such good news.”

Miss Greylston stooped down and kissed Annie’s brow solemnly, tenderly.  “Go, my darling, and may God be with you.”  Then she turned away.

And with willing feet Annie Bermond went forth upon her blessed errand.  She soon found her uncle.  He was sitting beneath the shade of the old pines, and he seemed to be in very deep thought.  Annie got down on the grass beside him, and laid her soft cheek upon his sunburnt hand.  How gently he spoke—­

“What did you come here for, sweet bird?”

“Because I love you so much, Uncle John; that is the reason; but won’t you tell me why you look so very sad and grave?  I wish I knew your thoughts just now.”

“And if you did, fairy, they would not make you any prettier or better than you are.”

“I wonder if they do you any good, uncle?” she quickly replied; but her companion made no answer; he only smiled.

Let me write here what John Greylston’s tongue refused to say.  Those thoughts, indeed, had done him good; they were tender, self-upbraiding, loving thoughts, mingled, all the while, with touching memories, mournful glimpses of the past—­the days of his sore bereavement, when the coffin-lid was first shut down over Ellen Day’s sweet face, and he was smitten to the earth with anguish.  Then Margaret’s sympathy and love, so beautiful in its strength, and unselfishness, so unwearying and sublime in its sacrifices, became to him a stay and comfort.  And had she not, for his sake, uncomplainingly given up the best years of her life, as it seemed?  Had her love ever faltered?  Had it ever wavered in its sweet