“No such thing, Miss Em.! I heard young Captain Bruce come in just now, and I ain’t a-gwine to take you away from his company for de sake o’ my supper. So you go right straight downstairs and entertain de young gentleman as you ought for to do!” “No, Aunt Monica; you know that I will not. Mrs. Whitlock has always been a kind friend to me, and I must help to wait on her. Go now and get your supper.” “Well, Miss Em., when you have once said a thing I know you’ll stick to it; so I’ll go down,” replied the old woman, getting up and leaving the room. Em. went to the bedside and looked at the paralytic. Ann Whitlock lay there like one placidly sleeping; there was no sign of suffering about her. Em. knelt beside her and offered up an earnest prayer for her recovery, and then she returned to her arm-chair before the fire, sat down and lapsed into thought. She had so much to think of! Her meeting with the Lady of Edengarden; her discovery of the identity of this lady with that of the long mourned Emolyn Wyndeworth; the strong, mutual attraction that seemed to draw and bind her to that lady and that lady to her; the fatal attack of Ann Whitlock; the unexpected arrival of Dr. Willet; the sudden reappearance of Ronald Bruce;—all these unexpected events that seemed to have in them something of the nature of destiny took hold on her imagination, filled her mind and occupied all her thoughts. Time passed unheeded until the re-entrance of old Monica, who unceremoniously said: “Now, honey, if you please, I’ll jes’ take my old rocking-chair, and you’ll go downstairs to your young man! Young man for young gal, and ole rocking-chair for ole ’omen. Behold de beauty ob de ’daptations!” concluded Aunt Monica as she settled herself in the depths of the softly-cushioned arm-chair and put out her feet to the fire. Em. stepped on tiptoe from the room, noiselessly closed the door behind her and went downstairs, where she found the family circle gathered around the kitchen fire listening to one of Ronald’s sea yarns. The young man arose and gave her his chair and went and got another, which he took good care to place beside her as he seated himself. How Ronald taxed his brain that night to invent marvelous stories of voyages, storms, battles, fires, shipwrecks, rescues, pirates, barbarous shores, desert islands, deliverances, and treasure-trove! And how John listened with eyes wide open and mouth often agape to swallow such huge prodigies. In a short pause, while John mended the fire, Ronald found time to whisper to Em.: “If everything else goes by the board, my dear, and you and I have to go to housekeeping together in a cottage I can keep the pot boiling by writing stories for the papers, can’t I?” “Oh, Ronald! Then it is not all true?” whispered Em.