For I knew it meant giving up Walter Russell. I knew father wouldn't allow anything between him and me, after the way he had acted. I knew I oughtn't so much as to wish for it—and yet I did wish. Now and again the wish rolled up in a great wave, that seemed like to swamp everything else; and then Mr. Armstrong's words would come,— "Not worth while! not worth while! So much to gain, so little to lose!" And I did pray to be kept straight, and not allowed to go back. It must have been a good two hours I was upstairs alone, mother never coming to interrupt me. Perhaps it's well she didn't. I was learning something, alone there with my own thoughts and with God—something maybe that had to be learnt to prepare me for the sorrow that lay ahead. When at last I went down, it was with red eyes and changed feelings. Mother looked up at me from her work, and I saw a difference in the look, more like I was used to. I wanted to tell her too that I was sorry, and meant to do rightly; but when I reached her side, I couldn't speak, I could only cry. "Yes, I understand," says she, in her quiet fashion; "I understand, Kitty." But she didn't take me straight into her arms and to her heart, like father. Mother was so unlike to father. I knew it would be a good while before she'd feel for me as she was used to feel, or give me the old trust. And I knew that would be my punishment. "It's not good for you to cry so much," says she. "Come a turn in the garden with me. That'll make you feel better." Mother took up her red shawl, and we went out together. The fresh air always did me good, and I knew mother was showing forgiveness too in her own way. We didn't say anything, but went along the path on the embankment to the end. "This is where you were when you saw the truck that day," said she. It wasn't the spot where I stood when I saw the truck first, but I didn't see any need to contradict. "I'm always thankful you had the sense to do your duty," says she. "But I'm none too sure it was good for you—all the fuss that was made about it." "No, mother," I said. "I don't hold with that sort of fuss," says she. Then, after standing a minute, and looking at nothing particular, mother said— "It isn't my way to make a lot of talk about what's done, and can't be undone. But I've one thing to say." "Yes, mother," says I, meek enough; and I knew what was coming. "About that young Russell," says she. "Yes, mother." "Mind, Kitty—it's all over between you and him. If there ever has been anything, which I've my doubts upon," says she, "it's over now." I didn't speak a word, for I was that choked, I couldn't. "He's shown himself a liar and a cheat. I'd sooner see you in your grave, Kitty, than give you over to him. Mind, I say it, and I mean it," says she. And then she touched my hand in a kind-like way, and said— "It won't be long. You'll soon leave caring. There can't be love without there's respect."