"He told me a few days ago he was thinking of going to be married again; but this is so sudden--I am very much distressed about it." "You must not let it worry you." "But I can't help it worrying me; I can't bear the idea of it--it has made me very unhappy." May was standing with her hand leaning on the back of the chair from which she had risen at John's entrance, and somehow it seemed only natural that he now should put his brown hand over her white one in a consoling manner. "I am very sorry," he said; "and I can not bear to think of you being unhappy." "It's very good of you," began May, "but--" "I won't allow you to be unhappy," continued John; "come, you must cheer up--you dear little girl." He really did not mean to do it, but when a man has once nearly kissed a pretty girl, it seems very natural for him to do it again. At all events John did kiss the lovely blooming face before him, and all the rebuke he got was: "Oh! Mr. Temple, you should not do that!" "I know I should not," answered John, penitently; "but you are so sweet, so dear, I could not help myself--and then you are unhappy, you know, so you must forgive me." "I am really unhappy." "Don't think about the horrid woman," consoled John, taking the two pretty hands in his; "think of something else--think a little bit about me." The last few words were half-whispered, and they seemed to console May somehow. She began to smile again, and she looked softly at John, though she drew her little hands away from his grasp. "It seems such a thing," she said, "for him to forget my mother." "Ah--well; he is only mortal, I suppose." "Then do you think everyone forgets, Mr. Temple?" "I think men--" and then he paused. "I know someone that I never could forget," he continued. May did not inquire who this "someone" was. "Someone whose face I would dream of if I did not see it for twenty years," went on John, energetically. "It would be changed in twenty years," replied May, with a little sigh. "Not in my eyes; in my eyes it could never change." This was the way in which John kept to his resolution. They went into the garden awhile after this, and sat listening to a black bird singing to his mate. Then they went to May's fernery, and walked beneath the shadow of the trees, and talked fond foolish words. May forgot all about her father's marriage and her hated stepmother. She was with the man she liked best in all the world, and she believed he loved her. What happiness is like this? The golden hours of youth and hope; the vague foreshadowings of still greater joy. Before they parted John had promised to call again. "I shall be so lonely," May had said softly, and how could he leave her lonely? Yet he did not mean any wrong; it was the drifting tide bearing him on to he knew not where.