“Yes; she must be vastly fond of flowers, though I sometimes fancied the fact of being noticed by you afforded almost as much satisfaction as the bouquet itself. She evidently regards you as a superior being, and Aikenside as a second Paradise, and asking innumerable questions about you and Jessie, too.” “Did she honor me with an inquiry?” Agnes asked, her tone indicative of sarcasm, though she was greatly interested as well as relieved by the reply: “Yes; she said she heard that Jessie’s mother was a beautiful woman, and asked if you were not born in England.” “She’s mixed me up with Lucy. Guy, you must go down and enlighten her,” Agnes said, laughing merrily and appearing more at ease than she had before since Maddy Clyde had been the subject of conversation. Guy did not go down to Honedale—but fruit and flowers, and once a bottle of rare old wine, found their way to the old red cottage, always brought by Guy’s man, Duncan, and always accompanied with Mr. Remington’s compliments. Once, hidden among the rosebuds, was a childish note from Jessie, some of it printed and some in the uneven hand of a child just commencing to write. It was as follows: “DEAR MADDY: I think that is such a pretty name, and so does Guy, and so does the doctor, too. I want to come see you, but mamma won’t let me. I think of you ever so much, and so does Guy, I guess, for he sends you lots of things. Guy is a nice brother, and is most as old as mamma. Ain’t that funny? You know my first ma is dead. The doctor tells us about you when he comes to Aikenside. I wish he’d come oftener, for I love him a bushel—don’t you? Yours respectfully, “JESSIE AGNES REMINGTON. “P. S.—I am going to tuck this in just for fun, right among the buds, where you must look for it.” This note Maddy read and reread until she knew it by heart, particularly the part relating to Guy. Hitherto she had not particularly liked her name, greatly preferring that it should have been Eliza Ann, or Sarah Jane; but the knowing that Guy Remington fancied it made a vast difference, and did much toward reconciling her. She did not even see the clause, “and the doctor, too.” His attentions and concern she took as a matter of course, so quietly and so constantly had they been given. The day was very long now which did not bring him to the cottage; but she missed him much as she would have missed her brother, if she had had one, though her pulse always quickened and her cheeks glowed when she heard him at the gate. The inner power did not lie deeper than a great friendliness for one who had been instrumental in saving her life. They had talked over the matter of her examination, the doctor blaming himself more than was necessary for his ignorance as to what was required of a teacher; but when she asked who was his proxy, he had again answered, evasively: “A friend from Boston.” And this he did to shield Guy, whom he knew was enshrined in the little maiden’s heart as a paragon of all excellence.