endeavours to make him happy?  These memories, these thoughts, closed round John Greylston like a circle of rebuking angels.  Not for the first time were they with him when Annie found him beneath the old pines.  Ever since that morning of violent and unjust anger they had been struggling in his heart, growing stronger, it seemed, every hour in their reproachful tenderness.  Those loving, silent attentions to his wishes John Greylston had noted, and they rankled like sharp thorns in his soul.  He was not worthy of them; this he knew.  How he loathed himself for his sharp and angry words!  He had it in his heart to tell his sister this, but an overpowering shame held him back.

“If I only knew how Madge felt towards me,” he said many times to himself, “then I could speak; but I have been such a brute.  She can do nothing else but repulse me;” and this threw around him that chill reserve which kept Margaret’s generous and forgiving heart at a distance.

Even every-day life has its wonders, and perhaps not one of the least was that this brother and sister, so long fellow-pilgrims, so long readers of each other’s hearts, should for a little while be kept asunder by mutual blindness.  Yet the hand which is to chase the mists from their darkened eyes, even now is raised, what though it be but small?  God in his wisdom and mercy will cause its strength to be sufficient.

When John Greylston gave his niece no answer, she looked intently in his face and said,

“You will not tell me what you have been thinking about; but I can guess, Uncle John.  I know the reason you did not take Aunt Margaret to the rock to see the sunset.”

“Do you?” he asked, startled from his composure, his face flushing deeply.

“Yes; for I would not rest until aunty told me the whole story, and I just came out to talk to you about it.  Now, Uncle John, don’t frown, and draw away your hand; just listen to me a little while; I am sure you will be glad.”  Then she repeated, in her pretty, girlish way, touching in its earnestness, all Miss Greylston had told her.  “Oh, if you had only heard her say those sweet things, I know you would not keep vexed one minute longer!  Aunt Margaret told me that she did not blame you at all, only herself; that she loved you dearly, and she is so sorry because you seem cold and angry yet, for she wants so very, very much to beg your forgiveness, and tell you all this, dear Uncle John, if you would only—­”

“Annie,” he suddenly interrupted, drawing her closely to his bosom; “Annie, you precious child, in telling me all this you have taken a great weight off of my heart.  You have done your old uncle a world of good.  God bless you a thousand times!  If I had known this at once; if I had been sure, from the first, of Margaret’s forgiveness for my cruel words, how quickly I would have sought it.  My dear, noble sister!” The tears filled John Greylston’s dark blue eyes, but his smile was so exceedingly tender and beautiful, that Annie drew closer to his side.