The next morning Mrs. Coolidge and Isabel started off on a shopping expedition, and as the carriage drove from the door, Wilbur rang the library bell, and desired the servant who appeared to ask Miss Douglas to grant him a few moments’ conversation. The young man was pale and excited, and after the servant disappeared, he walked the floor nervously. Brownie soon came down, looking haggard and wan, her usually bright eyes heavy and lusterless, and great dark circles underneath them. Wilbur hastened forward to meet her as she opened the door. “My dear Miss Douglas,” he said, flushing deeply, “I do not know what to say to you, but I am more indignant than I can express at the treatment you received yesterday.” Brownie smiled wearily, though her lips quivered at his kindly words. It was so comforting to be treated civilly. “Can I do anything for you, Miss Douglas?” Wilbur asked, eagerly, his heart deeply touched by her sorrowful appearance. “Thank you; I do not suppose it is in your power to do the one thing I wish—give me back my jewels, for they are mine, Mr. Coolidge, notwithstanding it seems improbable for a poor girl to own such valuables,” she replied, her color rising. “I do not doubt it in the least,” he answered, impulsively. “I know that you are truth and purity itself, and, believe me, you shall yet have your own.” “Ah! can I?” she interrupted, her face lighting up with its wonted beauty for a moment. Oh, how he loved her; and how it thrilled him, that any words of his should have the power to make her beautiful countenance brighten like that. “Yes, you shall have them again,” he said. “I cannot restore them to you to-day, but just as soon as my father returns I shall acquaint him with what has happened, and he will see that justice is done.” “Thank you,” Brownie said, appreciating his kindness, yet fearing that his mother and sister would outwit him, and influence his father against her. “I feel deeply mortified,” he went on, dropping his eyes, “that anyone who is akin to me should be guilty of doing what my sister did yesterday; and the treatment which you afterward received—there can be no excuse for it.” “Do not speak of it again, Mr. Coolidge; it is past and cannot be recalled. Your kindness and sympathy have lightened my heart already; and as I go away, it will be a comfort to know that I have your esteem and friendship.” “Go away! What do you mean?” he asked looking up startled. His mother had not told him that she was going away. “Surely you do not think that I would remain where my truth and honesty are called in question!” she replied, with dignity. “Where will you go?” and his brow contracted with pain. She could not stay; it were folly to think of it, he knew. But it was like taking the sun from the heavens to have her go. “I do not know,” she said, with a sigh, and her tone, so sadly sweet, moved him to his very soul.