She gently replied, "I have, father." "But I have more reason to thank Him than either of you," said Harcourt, brokenly, "for had you perished I should have been lost, body and soul." "Then serve Him faithfully, my son,--serve Him as my old friend your father did." "With His help I will." CHAPTER XXIX. HEMSTEAD'S ADVICE, AND LOTTIE'S COLORS. Soon after the departure of Mr. Martell and his daughter, Hemstead pleaded headache, and retired to his room. Lottie, to escape De Forrest, had also gone to hers, but soon after, at her brother's solicitation, had accompanied him to a neighboring pond to make sure that the ice was safe for him. But, though she yielded to Dan's teasing, her compliance was so ungracious, and her manner so short and unamiable, that with a boy's frankness he had said: "What is the matter with you, Lottie? You are not a bit like Auntie Jane to-day. I wish you could stay one thing two days together." As may be imagined, these remarks did not conduce to Lottie's serenity. She did not understand herself; nor why she felt so miserable and out of sorts. She had fallen into the "Slough of Despond," and was experiencing that depression which usually follows overwrought emotional states, and--her knight had disappointed her. Having learned that the ice was firm, and assisted her little brother in putting on his skates, instead of returning at once to the house, she sat down in a little screening clump of hemlocks, and gave way to her feelings in a manner not uncommon with girls of her mercurial temperament. Now it so happened that Hemstead, gazing listlessly from his window, saw their departure, and soon afterward it occurred to him that the fresh air would do his headache more good than moping in his room. By a not unnatural coincidence, his steps tended in the same direction as theirs, and soon he found Dan sprawling about the pond in great glee over his partial success in skating; but Lottie was nowhere to be seen. A sound from the clump of evergreens soon gained his attention, and a moment later he stood at the entrance of her wintry bower, the very embodiment of sympathy, and wondering greatly at her distress. A stick snapped under his tread, and Lottie looked up hastily, dashing the tears right and left. "What did you come for?" she asked brusquely. "Well, I suppose I must say in truth--I wanted to. I hope you won't send me away." "You ought to have given me a little warning, and not caught me crying like a great baby as I am." "I wish I were your friend," he said humbly. "Why so?" "Because you would then tell me your trouble, and let me try to comfort you." "I haven't any trouble worth naming. I've just been crying like a foolish child because I was out of sorts. There, don't look at me so with your great, kind eyes, or I shall cry again, and I am ashamed of myself now." "Something is troubling you, Miss Marsden, and I shall be very unhappy if you send me away without letting me help you."