“I like her, of course, for she is very kind to me, but I would not have father marry her for the world. Not that he ever thought of it, though she has; and the time he rode out with Ettie Armstrong, the schoolmistress, she was so angry, and wondered how he could let himself down, and he a Schuyler, who had married a Rossiter!” “Ettie Armstrong! That’s a pretty name,” Edith said, while there came before her mind the vision of a dark-eyed girl who had promised to care for Abelard’s grave, and to whom she had confessed her love for the dead. “Yes, ’tis a pretty name,” Godfrey said; “though Ettie herself is not pretty. She is most an old maid, I guess, and teaches the village school, and thrashed me like fun the summer I went to her, but never hit me a lick amiss. Father rode with her once,—a mere happen-so,—and Aunt Christine was furious. I say, Edith, except his age, father is a catch, and you a lucky fellow. Why, half the women in New York and Hampstead are after him, and have been ever since mother died. Even at her funeral, when the clergyman, in eulogizing her and telling what a loss she was to her family, asked ‘Who is there to fill her place?’ twenty old maids hopped up——” “Oh, Godfrey!” Edith exclaimed, shocked at his levity; “you should not talk that way.” Up to this point Godfrey had rattled on as if he had never had a serious thought or known a genuine feeling of affection; but at Edith’s rebuke the whole expression of his face changed instantly. His chin quivered, and his voice trembled, as he said: “You think me, no doubt, an unfeeling wretch, who never cared for anybody; but you mistake me there. I loved my mother so much that I never go to sleep at night without thinking of her in heaven, and praying, in my poor way, that I may go to her some day; and I feel her hand on my head, and hear her dying voice bidding me try to be good; and I have tried every day. I loved my mother dearly, and the knowing that father will marry again brings her back to me, and I’ve rattled on like a fool just to keep—to keep—to keep from crying outright for the mother who died.” He was crying now, and Edith cried with him and held his head on her lap, where he involuntarily laid it, while he sobbed out his grief. Nor did she like him less for it. Indeed, the bond between them was stronger than ever, now that she saw how deep his feelings were, and that under his gay exterior was hidden so much genuine affection and sterling worth. As she would have soothed and comforted a brother, she soothed and comforted him until the little burst was over, and lifting up his head, he said in his old playful way: