There was no tremor in her voice, no flush in her cheek, no drooping of the long lashes to cover her confusion; and yet deluded Hugh believed she knew his secret, and alas! believed his love reciprocated; else why should she thus encourage him to go on! It was the happiest moment Hugh had ever known, and for a time he could not speak, as he thought how strange it was that a joy so perfect as this should come to be his lot. Poor, poor Hugh! He began at last by telling Alice of his early boyhood, uncheered by a single word of sympathy save as it came from dear Aunt Eunice, who alone understood the wayward boy whom people thought so bad. “Then mother and Ad came to Spring Bank, and that opened to me a new era. In my odd way, I loved my mother so much—but _Ad_—say, Alice, is it wicked in me if I can’t love Ad?” “She is your sister,” was Alice’s reply; and Hugh rejoined: “Yes—my sister. I’m sorry for it, even if it’s wicked to be sorry. I tried to do my best with her—tried to be as gentle as I could; but she did not understand me. She gave me back only scorn and bitter words, until my heart closed up against her, and I harshly judged all others by her—all but one”; and Hugh’s voice grew very low and tender in its tone, while Alice felt that now he was nearing the Golden Hair. “Away off in New England there was a pure white blossom growing, a blossom so pure, so fair, that very few were worthy even so much as to look upon it, as day by day it unfolded some new beauty. There was nothing to support this flower but a single parent stalk, which snapped asunder one day, and Blossom was left alone. It was a strange idea, transplanting it to another soil; for the atmosphere of Spring Bank was not suited to such as she. But she came, and, as by magic, the whole atmosphere was changed—changed at least to one—the bad, wayward Hugh, who dared to love this fair young girl with a love stronger than his life. For her he would do anything, and beneath her influence he did improve rapidly. He was conscious of it himself—conscious of a greater degree of self-respect—a desire to be what she would like to have him. “She was very, very beautiful; more so than anything Hugh had ever looked upon. Her face was like an angel’s face, and her hair—much like yours, Alice;” and he laid his hand on the bright head, now bent down, so that he could not see that face so like an angel’s. The little hand, too, had slidden from his knee, and, fast-locked within the other, was buried in Alice’s lap, as she listened with throbbing heart to the story Hugh was telling.