"What ails Mrs. Atherton?" asked Edith, fancying it must be something serious which could keep the old negress so long from her bread. On ordinary occasions the tolerably discreet African would have made some evasive reply, but with her feathers all ruffled, she belched out, "The upshot of the matter is, she's in love?" "In love? Who does Mrs. Atherton love?" "Him--the blind man," returned Rachel, adding fiercely, "but if you ever let her know I told you, I'll skin you alive--do you hear? Like enough she'll be for sendin' you up thar with more posies, an' if she does, do you hold your tongue and take 'em along." Edith had no desire to betray Rachel's confidence, and slipping one shoulder out of her low dress she darted off after a butterfly, wondering to herself if it made everybody faint and sick at their stomach to be in love! It seemed very natural that one as rich and beautiful as Grace should love Richard Harrington, and the fact that she did, insensibly raised in her estimation the poor, white-faced woman, who, in the solitude of her chamber was weeping bitterer tears than she had shed before in years. Could it he so? She hoped there was some mistake--and when an hour later she heard Kitty Maynard's cheerful voice in the lower hall her heart gave a bound as she thought, "She'll know--she's heard of it by this time." "Please may I come in?" said Kitty, at her door. "Rachel told me you had a headache, but I know you won't mind me," and ere the words were half out of her mouth, Kitty's bonnet was off and she was perched upon the foot of the bed. HAVE you heard the news?" she began. "It's so wonderful, and so sad, too. Squire Harrington is not married; he's worse off than that--he's hopelessly blind." "Indeed!" and Grace Atherton's manner was very indifferent. "Yes," Kitty continued, "His French valet, Victor, who travelled with him in Europe, told brother Will all about it. Seven or eight years ago they were spending the summer upon the banks of the Rhine, and in a cottage near them was an American with a Swedish wife and baby. The man, it seems, was a dissipated fellow, much older than his wife, whom he neglected shamefully, leaving her alone for weeks at a time. The baby's name was Eloise, and she was a great pet with Richard who was fond of children. At last, one day in autumn, the little Eloise, who had just learned to run alone, wandered off by herself to a bluff, or rock, or something, from which she fell into the river. The mother, Petrea, was close by, and her terrific shrieks brought Richard to the spot in time to save the child. He had not been well for several days, and the frightful cold he took induced a fever, which seemed to settle in his eyes, for ever since his sight has been failing until now it has left him entirely. But hark! isn't some one in the next room?" and she stepped into the adjoining apartment just as the nimble Edith disappeared from view.