“Kiss me for yourself, Heather,” Bessie answered, colouring up to her very temples, “but not for him.” “And why not for him?” asked Heather. “I will tell you to-morrow, not to-day,” was the reply. “To-morrow, perhaps.” And then, irresistibly, there came back to Heather’s mind that passage in “Elizabeth, or the Exiles of Siberia,” where Elizabeth, repeating the word “to-morrow,” sighs. “You look pale, Bessie,” Heather remarked, when they had almost reached the foot of Berrie Down Lane. “Are you getting tired, dear?” “I do not feel very well,” Bessie answered; “I think I will go back again, if you have no objection.” Immediately, every one offered to return with her, even Harry Marsden, who, being debarred from throwing stones at the birds, was beginning to feel weary of the walk. “I do not mind going to church.” “Let me walk back with you.” “No, I will go.” “No, you have not been out for ever so long.” “Let me”—“me”—“me.” All of which polite offers Bessie declined, saying, “if any one insisted on returning with her, she should walk on to church.” “I am not ill,” she finished, “I am only tired; when I get home, I shall lie down and be as bright by the time you come back as any of you. Good-bye,—_au revoir_!”—and with that she kissed her hand, and commenced slowly retracing her steps—Heather turning every now and then to watch her progress. The farther the distance between them became, the silenter grew Heather. She felt a nameless anxiety about Bessie,—an anxiety which she could neither conquer nor analyze, but which, nevertheless, increased until when, almost within sight of Fifield church, she remarked to her husband that she really thought she must return home also. “I am uneasy about Bessie,” she said; “the girl certainly did not look well.” “Pooh!” exclaimed Arthur, “she is only a little tired. It would vex her if you went home now; I should not think of doing such a thing, I really should not, Heather.” And so Heather was persuaded not to follow after Bessie, but go on to church. “You will find her well enough on our return,” remarked Arthur; and his prophecy proved correct, for Bessie met them at the gate looking bright and happy, and with as rich a colour as she had ever boasted mantling in her cheeks. “Hollo! you’ve been painting,” cried out Master Marsden. “Hasn’t she, Alick? nobody’s face was ever like that, without paint.” “Harry, I really shall have to write to your mamma if you make such rude remarks,” said Heather, rebukingly. “And so,” she added, addressing Bessie, “you do feel quite well again? I felt so uneasy after you left us that I should have turned, had it not been for Arthur’s remonstrance.” “I am glad he did remonstrate,” answered Bessie, “it would have been a real grief to me if you had come home on my account. I felt a little tired, that was all, and I am quite rested now.”