drooping and torn, and more ripples on the waves than had been in the journey out. Godfrey was no longer in the boat, Gertie had lost him somewhere, and was hunting sadly for him until a voice, which sounded much like his, said to her: “Gertie, I am here, and shall never leave you again.” Then her little plaintive moan, “Godfrey, oh, where is Godfrey?” ceased, and when she spoke again, it was to a beautiful woman, who, she thought, was standing by her, and calling her “my daughter.” Oh, how that mother-love brooded over the sick girl, soothing and quieting and comforting her, and with its pleading prayers bringing at last the healing power which unlocked the sleeping senses, and made Gertie whole again. For Edith was there with her, and had been since the third day of her illness, when the colonel’s telegram went up the river, saying: “Gertie is very sick. Come immediately.” CHAPTER LIX. THE STORY IN HAMPSTEAD. I was at the Hill when the telegram was received. In fact I had been there ever since the day of Edith’s return from Europe and the colonel’s departure for New York. I had with others been waiting anxiously for them, for I knew how sick Godfrey was, and that Gertie, whether right or wrong, was helping to nurse him. So when I saw the carriage drive past the door, and caught a glimpse of Edith, I went over at once, and was shocked beyond measure to see how she had changed. All the roundness had left her cheeks, her bright color was gone, and in her tresses of golden brown there were a few threads of silver. And still, despite all this, she was very lovely, with such a subdued gentleness of manner and sweet expression of face that I felt the tears rush to my eyes every time I looked at her. “Stay with me, Ettie, while the colonel is absent,” she said, and she seemed so anxious for my company that I consented to remain, and after Colonel Schuyler was gone we went up to her room, where she paced up and down, up and down, with a restlessness for which I could not account, unless it came from anxiety for Godfrey. At last I said: “You are troubled about Godfrey, Mrs. Schuyler,” and she replied: “Yes,—no. I was not thinking of him, but of Gertie. Ettie, do you remember the people who lived in the cottage years ago, Mrs. Fordham and her daughter?” “Yes,” I replied, “I remember them well. Why do you ask me that question?” She was standing by the window now, gazing wistfully at the cottage and the smoke curling from the chimney. “Did you like that girl? Heloise was her name,” she said, without answering my question. “Yes,” I answered, “I was very fond of her, and thought her so beautiful, and I have often wondered where she was that she neither came back nor wrote, when she promised to do both.” Crossing swiftly to my side and laying a hand on each of my shoulders she looked me steadily in the eye, and said: “Ettie, is there anything in _my_ face which reminds you of that girl?”