"You! did you?--have you, really?--and what are they like?" Katy almost screamed, skipping across the floor and seating herself by Marian, who replied: "Much like other ladies of their stamp--proud and fashionable. The father I never saw, but your Mr. Cameron I used to see in the street driving his handsome bays." Anything relating to the pride and fashion of her future relations made Katy uncomfortable, and she remained silent, cutting into bits a piece of silk, until Marian continued: "Sometimes there was a child in the Cameron carriage. Do you know who it was?" Delighted that she too could impart information, Katy hastened to say that it was probably "little Jamie, the orphan grandchild, whose parents died in Italy. Morris told me he met them in Paris, and he said Jamie's father died of consumption, and the mother, too, either then or afterward. At all events Jamie is an orphan and a cripple. He will never walk, Morris says; and he told me so much about him--how patient he was and how good." Katy did not see the tears which threatened to mar the silk on which Marian Hazelton was working, for they were brushed away almost as quickly as they came, while in her usual voice she asked: "What was the cause of his lameness?" "I don't know just how it happened," Katy replied, "but believe it resulted from the carelessness of a servant in leaving him alone, or something." "A servant!" Marian repeated, a flush rising to her cheek and a strange light flashing on her eye. She had heard all she cared to hear of the Camerons that day, and she was glad when Helen returned from the village, as her appearance diverted Katy's mind into another channel, and in examining the dress trimmings which Helen had brought, she forgot to talk of Jamie Cameron. The trimmings, fringe and buttons were for the wedding dress, the one in which Katy was to be married, and which Helen reserved the right to make to herself. Miss Hazelton must fit it, of course, but to her belonged the privilege of making it, every stitch; Katy would think more of it if she did it all, she said; but she did not confess how the bending over that one dress, both early and late, was the escape valve for the feeling which otherwise would have found vent in passionate tears. Helen was very wretched during the pleasant May days she usually enjoyed so much, but over which now a dark pall was spread, shutting out all the brightness and leaving only the terrible certainty that Katy was lost to her forever--bright, frolicsome Katy, who, without a shadow on her heart sported amid the bridal finery, unmindful of the anguish tugging at the hearts of both the patient women, Marian and Helen, who worked on so silently, reserving their tears for the night time, when Katy lay sweetly sleeping and dreaming of Wilford Cameron. Helen had ceased to think that Hiss Hazelton had any designs on Dr. Grant, for her manner toward Uncle Ephraim was just as soft and conciliating, and she