Such, no doubt, had been the case with that poor boy, who “died young.” Out of England, no doubt, or surely they would have brought him home and buried him under the shadow of his father's church, and his memory would have left some trace in the family, the village, or the neighbourhood. As it was, it seemed blotted out--as if he had never existed. No one knew about him--no one spoke about him, not even the sisters, his playmates. So she--the second sister--had said. It was a tacit hint for me also to keep silence; otherwise I would have liked to ask her more about him--this poor fallen boy. I know how suddenly, how involuntarily, as it seems, a wretched boy can fall--into some perdition never afterwards retrieved. Thinking thus--sitting by the bedroom fire with Mr. Johnston asleep opposite--poor old man, it must have been his boy's case and not his own which has made him so sensitive about only sons--I suddenly called to mind how, in the absorbing anxiety of the last three weeks--_that day_--the anniversary---had slipped by, and I had not even recollected it. It could be forgotten then?--was this a warning that I might let it pass, if it would, into oblivion--and yield like any other man, to pleasant duties, and social ties, the warmth of which stole into me, body and soul, like this blessed household fire. It could not last--but while it did last, why not share it; why persist in sitting outside in the cold? You will not understand this. There are some things I cannot explain, till the last letter, if ever I should come to write it. Then you will know. Tea over, Miss Theodora came to see after “our patient,” as she called him, asking if he had behaved well, and done nothing he ought not to have done? I told her, that was an amount of perfection scarcely to be exacted from any mortal creature; at which she laughed, and replied, she was sure I said this with an air of deprecation, as if afraid such perfection might be required of me. Often her little hand carries an invisible sword. I try to hide the wounds, but the last hour's meditation made them sharper than ordinary. For once, she saw it. She came and knelt by the fire, not far from me, thoughtfully. Then, suddenly turning round, said:-- “If ever I say a rude thing to you, forgive it. I wish I were only half as good as you.” The tone, so earnest, yet so utterly simple,--a child might have said the same, looking into one's face with the same frank eyes. God forgive me! God pity me! I rose and went to the bedside to speak to her father, who just then woke, and called for “Dora.” If in nothing else, this illness has been a blessing; drawing closer together the father and daughter. She must have been thinking so, when to-day she said to me:--