“You are a darling,” Rosamond whispered to her, when at a late hour she and her brother were saying good-by to the young people at the Hill. “Nobody but you could have kept Tom from drinking. I shall tell mother about it.” Tom, too, subdued, and ashamed that he had been so near falling again, and very grateful to his deliverer, whispered his words of thankfulness. “You are my good angel, Gertie; but for you I should have been as drunk as a fool by this time. Heaven bless you as you deserve!” Then the brother and sister went away, and the young ladies, tired and sleepy, started for their rooms, Alice looking around for Godfrey, with whom she would gladly have tarried a little longer to hear the soft nothings which she liked and had a right to expect from him. But Godfrey had disappeared, and only Gertie stood at the end of the broad piazza, leaning against a pillar, with the moonlight falling full upon her as she looked off upon the river and the mountains beyond, wondering at the strange unrest which filled her soul, and at the coldness of Godfrey toward her. As yet he had not addressed her a word since he came home, neither had she spoken to him. To be sure there had been a reason for this, for since the moment of his arrival, when he held her hand in his and looked so curiously at her, he had been occupied with some one else. His seat at dinner had been far away from hers. After dinner she had sat an hour or so with little Arthur, whom she always put to sleep, and on her return to the drawing-room she had at once been claimed by Tom Barton, who kept constantly at her side until he bade her good-night. So Godfrey was not so much to blame, and she acquitted him of intentional neglect, but felt a little hurt and grieved, and was saying to herself, “He does not care for me now,” when a voice said, close to her ear, “Gertie!” It was Godfrey’s, and he was there beside her, looking into her face, on which the moonlight shone so brightly. He had eluded Alice, and when he heard her voice in her own room he stole out upon the piazza, intending to walk up and down a while before retiring to rest. First, however, he made the circuit of the building and glanced up at the room in the south wing, which he had heard from Edith was Gertie’s. But the windows were dark; Gertie was not there; or, being there, must have retired, and he retraced his steps to the piazza in front, where he saw the little, white-robed figure leaning over the railing. That was Gertie, and he went swiftly to her side, and spoke the one word, “Gertie,” which brought the color to her cheeks, while the sparkle of the blue eyes, lifted so quickly, kindled a strange fire in his veins, and made him shiver as if he were cold. “What, Godfrey?” Gertie answered softly, her eyes confronting him steadily a moment, and then dropping beneath his ardent gaze. “Gertie, do you know you have not spoken to me since I came home? And I thought you would be so glad to see me.”