“I will not grieve you much,” said Menie gently; “only I beg you to give me your countenance when I see Randall—Mr Home. I want you to be as my mother might have been in other circumstances; but I will not trouble you much, aunt—I will not trouble you.” Miss Annie could not stop her tears; she was very timid and afraid, sobbing helplessly. “What will I do? what can I do? Oh, Menie, love, you will make it up to-morrow;” for poor Miss Annie knew no way of conquering grief except by flying out of its sight. Menie led her back to the house tenderly. Menie had never known before this necessity of becoming comforter, when she had so much need to be comforted. It was best for her—it gave her all the greater command over her own heart. And to hear poor innocent July, in her own young unclouded joy—to hear her unsuspicious mother at their breakfast-table—to have Randall’s name cross her now and then, like a sudden blow—Randall, Randall;—Menie knew nothing of all these depths, nor how such sorrows come in battalions; so, one by one, her inexperienced heart gained acquaintance with them now,—gained acquaintance with that sorest of human truths, that it is possible to love and to condemn—possible to part, and know that parting is the best—yet withal to cling and cling, and hold, with the saddest gripe of tenderness, the heart from which you part. Poor Menie! they said she looked very dark and heavy; that last night’s exertions had wearied her—it was very true. Miss Annie sent a message that she was not well, and would breakfast in her own room. In the forenoon, when she came down stairs again, even Menie was startled at the change. Miss Annie’s ringlets were smoothed out and braided on her poor thin cheek—braided elaborately with a care and study worthy of something more important; her step tottered a little; when any one spoke to her, a little gush of tears came to her eyes; but, notwithstanding, there was a solemnity and importance in the hush of Miss Annie’s manner, which no one had ever seen in her before. Half-a-dozen times that day she asked, in a startling whisper, “Menie, when is he to come?” Poor Menie, sick at heart, could scarcely bear this slow prolonging of her pain. CHAPTER XXVI. “Aunt, he has come.”