That morning's light could have fallen on no happier house, the world over, than "Gunn's." A little child brought back to life, out of the gates of death; two hearts entering anew on life, through the gates of love; half a score of hearts, each glad in the gladness of each other, and in the gladness of all,--what a morning it was! Doctor Eben and Hetty met at the head of the stairs. "Oh, Hetty!" exclaimed the doctor. "Well?" said Hetty, in a half-defiant tone, without looking up. He came nearer, and was about to kiss her. She darted back, and lifting her eyes gave him a glance of such mingled love and reproof that he was bewildered. "Why, Hetty, surely I may kiss you?" he exclaimed. "I was asleep last night," she answered gravely, "and you did very wrong," and without another word or look she passed on. Doctor Eben was thoroughly angry. "What does she mean?" he said to himself. "She needn't think I am to be played with like a boy;" and the doctor took his seat at the breakfast table, with a sterner countenance than Hetty had ever seen him wear. In a few moments she began to cast timid and deprecating looks at him. His displeasure hurt her indescribably. She had not intended to offend or repel him. She did not know precisely what she had intended: in fact she had not intended any thing. If the doctor had understood more about love, he would have known that all manifestations in Hetty at this time were simply like the unconscious flutterings of a bird in the hand in which it is just about to nestle and rest. But he did not understand, and when Hetty, following him into the hall, stood shyly by his side, and looking up into his face said inquiringly, "Doctor?" he answered her as she had answered him, a short time before, with the curt monosyllable, "Well?" His tone was curter than his words. Hetty colored, and saying gently, "No matter; nothing now," turned away. Her whole movement was so significant of wounded feeling that it smote Doctor Eben's heart. He sprang after her and laid his hand on her arm. "Hetty," he said, "do tell me what it was you were going to say; I did not mean to hurt your feelings: but I don't know what to make of you." "Not--know--what--to--make--of--me!" repeated Hetty, very slowly, in a tone of the intensest astonishment. "You wouldn't say you loved me," replied the doctor, beginning to feel a little ashamed of himself. Hetty's eyes were fixed on his now, with no wavering in their gaze. She looked at him, as if her life lay in the balance of what she might read in his face. "Did you not know that I loved you before you asked me to say so?" she said with emphasis. It was the doctor's turn now to color. He answered evasively: "A man has no right to know that, Hetty, until a woman tells him so." "Did you not think that I loved you," repeated Hetty, with the same emphasis, and a graver expression on her face.