The winter sun was setting, and its fading light fell upon the golden hair and white, beautiful face of Nellie, who lay upon the lounge in the room where Walter’s mother died, and which Jessie now called hers. She was weaker than usual, and the hectic spot upon her cheek was larger and brighter, while her eyes shone like diamonds as she looked wistfully in the direction of the village, where the smoke of the New York train was slowly dying away. "Mother," she said at last, "isn’t the omnibus coming over the hill?" "Yes," Mrs. Howland answered. "Possibly it is Walter, though I did not tell him in my last how weak you are, as you know you bade me not, lest he should be unnecessarily alarmed." Ellen knew it was not Walter, and the spot on her cheek was almost a blood-red hue when she heard the dear familiar voice, and knew that William had come. "Mother," she said faintly, "it’s Mr. Bellenger, and you must let me see him alone,—all the evening alone;—will you? It’s right," she continued, as she met her mother’s look of inquiry. "I’ll explain it, perhaps, when he’s gone." In an instant the truth flashed upon Mrs. Howland, bringing with it a feeling of gratified pride that the elegant William Bellenger had condescended to think of her child. She did not know the whole. She could not guess how thoroughly selfish was the man who was deliberately breaking her daughter’s heart, or she would not have left them to themselves that long winter evening, saying to her father and Aunt Debby, when they questioned the propriety of the proceeding: "He wants to tell her of Walter and Jessie, I suppose, and the fine times they have in the city." This satisfied Aunt Debby, but the deacon was not quite at ease, and more than once after finishing his fourth pipe, he started to join them, but was as often kept back by some well-timed remark addressed to him by Mrs. Howland; and so William was left undisturbed while he poured again into Ellen’s ear the story of his love, telling her how inexpressibly dear she was to him, and that but for circumstances which he could not control, he would prove his assertion true by making her at once his wife. Then the long eyelashes drooped beneath their weight of tears, for there flitted across Ellen’s mind a vague consciousness that if these circumstances existed when he first talked to her of love, he had done very wrong. Still she could not accuse him even in thought, and she hastened to say: "I don’t know as I really ever supposed that you wished me to be your wife; and if I did it don’t matter now, for I am going to die; death has a prior claim, and I never can be yours." He held her hot hand in his,—felt the rapid pulse,—saw the deep color on her cheek,—the unnatural luster of her eye,—and felt that she told him truly. And thinking that anything which he could say to comfort and please her would be right, he whispered: