"Never mind why, child. I can't tell you now. Of course it's something, or I shouldn't want her. Something I should like to know, and that I suppose she could tell me. Do you think she'd come?" "Why, yes, auntie. I don't doubt it. I might write her a note." "I wish you would. Mr. Armstrong says he'll drive over. And I'd like to have you do it right off. Now, don't ask me another word about it, till she's been here." Faith wrote the note, and Mr. Armstrong went away. Miss Henderson seemed to grow tired, to-day, after her dinner, and at four o'clock she said to Glory, abruptly: "I'll go to bed. Help me into the other room." Faith offered to go too, and assist her. But her aunt said, no, she should do quite well with Glory. "And if the Sampson woman comes, send her in to me." Faith was astonished, and a little frightened. What could it be that Miss Henderson wanted with the nurse? Was it professionally that she wished to see her? She knew the peculiar whim, or principle, Miss Sampson always acted on, of never taking cases of common illness. She could not have sent for her in the hope of keeping her merely to wait upon her wants as an invalid, and relieve Glory? Was her aunt aware of symptoms in herself, foretokening other or more serious illness? Faith could only wonder, and wait. Glory came back, presently, into the southeast room, to say to Faith that her aunt was comfortable, and thought she should get a nap. But that whenever the nurse came, she was to be shown in to her. The next half hour, that happened which drove even this thought utterly from Faith's mind. Paul Rushleigh came. Faith lay, a little wearily, upon the couch her aunt had quitted; and was thinking, at the very moment--with that sudden, breathless anticipation that sweeps over one, now and then, of a thing awaited apprehensively--of whether this Saturday night would not probably bring him home--when she caught the sound of a horse's feet that stopped before the house, and then a man's step upon the stoop. It was his. The moment had come. She sprang to her feet. For an instant she would have fled--anywhither. Then she grew strangely calm and strong. She must meet him quietly. She must tell him plainly. Tell him, if need be, all she knew herself. He had a right to all. Paul came in, looking grave; and greeted her with a gentle reserve. A moment, they stood there as they had met, she with face pale, sad, that dared not lift itself; he, not trusting himself to the utterance of a word. But he had come there, not to reproach, or to bewail; not even to plead. To hear--to bear with firmness--what she had to tell him. And there was, in truth, a new strength and nobleness in look and tone, when, presently, he spoke.