I had been an invalid for a long time, and had mingled but little with the outer world. With the affairs at Schuyler Hill, however, I was pretty well acquainted, for Edith and I were great friends now. At first she had stood aloof from me, but when she heard of my illness, she came at once, and, with kind words and many delicate attentions, made my life far happier than it could have been without her. After the little grave was made under the evergreen and Gertie went away, she came to me oftener, and, during the long rides which we took together in her pretty phaeton, she told me much of her life at Schuyler Hill. A very happy life it had been for the most part, though it had its dark side, as what life has not? Miss Rossiter had been a trouble while she stayed, and, even after she was gone, her influence was felt in Julia’s fitful moods and peculiar temper after the receipt of the letters, in which allusions were always made to “that woman who has usurped your poor dear mother’s place.” And still Miss Rossiter came every summer to the Hill, and stayed a month or six weeks, and took upon herself such insufferable airs that Edith was glad when she was gone, and made the day of her departure a sort of jubilee. Julia was now nearly twenty-two, and very handsome it was thought, though her beauty was of that dark, bold, dashing style which I did not admire. Emma, with her paleness and light brown hair, suited me better; for there was a sweet, gentle expression in her face, while in grace of manner and form she far excelled her haughty sister, who patronized her generally. Since their coming out neither of the young ladies had been much at home, and we missed the style, and dash, and city airs which they used to bring us, and had only Rosamond Barton and Mrs. Schuyler to admire and copy,—except, indeed, on the rare occasions when Gertie was allowed to pass her vacations in Hampstead. I say _allowed_, for the colonel managed so adroitly that she never came to Schuyler Hill when Godfrey was there or expected, but spent her vacations elsewhere in happy ignorance of the real reason for her banishment. And so we did not see her often in our quiet town; but when we had her with us it was a season of rejoicing, and we made the most of it. How I used to wait and listen for the rapid step and the clear, ringing voice, which always set my heart throbbing, and did me so much good. I did not wonder that everybody loved her, from old Mrs. Vandeusenhisen in the Hollow, to Tom Barton on the Ridge, and when the former brought me fresh eggs for my breakfast, and told me with a beaming face that “her young lady came home last night looking handsomer than ever,” I knew she meant Gertie Westbrooke; and when Tom Barton looked in and said, with a falter in his voice, “She went this morning,” I knew that he meant Gertie, too, and pitied him for the hope he was cherishing, and which I was sure would never be fulfilled.