I am glad to say that my reexamination of the executorial accounts, which had so troubled the poor dying gentleman, proved his fears quite unfounded. There was mere disorder--no grounds for "exception." I told as much to Annie, who alone knew all; and her smile, inexpressibly sweet and filled with thanks, was my sole executorial "commission." VII. I have just been discarded by Annie. Let me endeavor to collect my thoughts and recall what she said to me. My head is troubled to-day--it is strange what a want of self-control I have! I thought I was strong--and I am weaker than a child. I told her that I loved her--had loved her for years--that she was dearer, far, to me than all on earth beside my mother. And she answered me--agitated, but perfectly resolved: "I cannot marry you, Mr. Cleave." A long pause followed, in which she evidently labored with great distress--then she continued: "I will frankly and faithfully say _why_ I cannot. I know all--I know your feelings for me once. You went away because you were poor, and you thought I was rich. Shall I be less strong than yourself? I am poor now; I do not regret it, except--pardon me, sir, I am confused--I meant to say, that _you_ are now the richer. It humbles me to speak of this--why did you not"-- There she stopped, blushing and trembling. "Why did I not? Oh! do not stop there, I pray you." She replied to my words in a broken and agitated voice: "I cannot finish. I was thinking of--of--the day when I mended your coat!" And a smile broke through the tears in her eyes, as she gazed timidly at me. I shall not prolong the account of our interview. She soon left me, resolute to the last; and I came away, perfectly miserable. What shall I do? I cannot live without her. My life would be a miserable mockery. To see her there near me, at the window, in the street; to see her tresses in the sunlight, her little slipper as it flits through the flower-enveloped gate; to feel that she is near me, but lost to me! Never could I endure it! But what can I do? Is there anything that can move her? --Ah! that may! Let me try it. Oh, fortunate accident. To-morrow, or very soon--very soon! VIII. A week after my rejection, I went up to my chamber, and drew from the depths of my wardrobe, the old coat which Annie had mended. I had promised her to preserve it. I had kept my promise. Yes, there it was, just as I had worn it at the hall--my shabby old coat of five years ago! I put it on, smiling, and surveyed myself in a mirror. It was strangely old-fashioned; but I did not think of that. I seemed to have returned, all at once, to the past; its atmosphere embraced me; all its flowers bloomed gaily before my eyes. I looked at the hole in the elbow. There were Annie's stitches--her fingers had clasped the worn, decayed cloth--the old garment had rested on her arm!