“Oh, Miss Carry, I do so grieve to see that you are not happy.” “Not happy, James!” Carry said, starting from her reverie and colouring deeply; “not happy! What makes you think such an extraordinary thing as that?” “There is no thinking about it, Miss Carry,” the boy said, sadly; “I am as sure of it as I am that I am sitting here. I have watched your face for so many years that I can read it as I can an open book. Oh, Miss Carry, I am miserable to see that you are sad, and that I can do nothing. Had I been like other men I might perhaps have made you happy. I would have made a place and a name for myself, and I would have loved you so much that you could not have helped loving me a little in return. But that was not to be. I am a cripple, and my love for you is as the love I might have for a dear sister. It is hard on me then, to know that you are not happy, and to be able to do nothing but sit here helpless, when I would so willingly give my life if it could do you good.” Carry had sat pale and quiet while he was speaking. Then she took his hand, and said, “It is better as it is, James. I should never have made such a wife as you ought to have had. I have always known that you loved me, always, James, and as a brother I shall always love you. But had you been a brother, had you been well and strong, you could have done no good here, James. But you must not think I am unhappy,” she said, trying to speak cheerfully; “I am rather worried, but it will soon be over now, and then I shall be very happy. I will tell you then, James; you shall be one of the first to hear it. You will always love me, James, whatever comes, won't you?” she asked, wistfully, as she rose. “Always, Carry, till I die.” “You will never judge me harshly, whatever people say, James?” “Never, Carry; as God hears me, nothing will ever change me.” “Thank you, James,” she said, “I believe you. God grant you may never be put to the test.” And then, leaning over him, she kissed him quietly, and without a word went out from the cottage. The next morning Stephen Walker was in the shop with Carry when Fred Bingham came in for his paper, but he was busy arranging his books, and did not hear Carry's whispered sentence, “At the old place, this evening at five.” And then, as he seemed to hesitate, she added in such an agonised whisper, “You must, you must,” that he nodded assent as he went out of the shop. “I wonder what she wants,” he said moodily to himself as he waited at the end of the street for an omnibus; “the same thing as usual, I suppose. Bah, I begin to think I have made a fool of myself.”