"Poor dear lady! I don’t wonder you are often sad with that memory haunting you." "I should not be sad," he returned, "if I could bring the world to my opinion; but nearly all except Aunt Debby believe him guilty." "Does my father?" asked Jessie, and as Walter replied, "Yes," she rejoined: "Then I’m afraid I think so too, for father knows; but," she hastily added, as she felt the gesture of impatience Walter made, "I like you just the same,—yes, a great deal better than before I heard the story. It isn’t as bad as I supposed, and I am so glad you told it. Will Bellenger won’t make me distrust you again." By this time they had reached the house, where the deacon sat smoking his accustomed pipe, and saying to Walter as he entered: "Where are the cows you went after more than three hours ago?" Walter colored, and so did Jessie, while the matter-of-fact Aunt Debby rejoined: "Why, Amos, the cows is milked and the cream is nigh about riz." That night, after all had retired except the deacon and Walter, the former said to his grandson: "What kept you and Jessie so late?" "I was telling her of my father, and why he went away," returned Walter. The deacon groaned as he always did when that subject was mentioned,—then after a moment he added: "I am glad it was no worse,—that is, I’m glad you are not betraying Mr. Graham’s trust by making love to his daughter." Walter was very pale, but he did not speak, and his grandfather continued: "I am old, Walter, but I have not forgotten the days when I was young; and remembering my disposition then, I can see why you should love Jessie Graham. God bless her! She’s worthy of any man’s best love, and she’s wound herself round my old heart till the sound of her voice is sweet to me almost as Ellen’s; but she isn’t for you, Walter. I know Mr. Graham better than you do. He’s noble and good, but very proud, and the daughter of a millionaire must never marry the son of a poor——" "Don’t!" cried Walter, catching his grandfather’s arm. "I understand it all,—I know that I am poor, know what the world says of my father, and I will suffer through all time sooner than ask the bright-faced Jessie to share one iota of our shame. But were my father innocent, I would never rest until I made myself a name which even Jessie Graham would not despise, for I love her, grandpa,—love her better than my life," and as after this confession he could not look his grandfather in the face, he stared hard at the candle dying in its socket, as if he would fain read there some token that what he so much desired would one day come to pass. And he did read it too, for with a last great effort the expiring flame sent up a flash of light, which shone on Walter’s face and that of the gray-haired man regarding him with a look of tender pity. Then it passed away, and the darkness fell between them just as the old man said, mournfully: "There is no hope, my boy,—no hope for you." CHAPTER VI.—OLD MRS. BARTOW.