But nothing was said between us until one night early in September. It was a rainy evening, but so warm that both doors and windows stood wide open, and we heard the faint pattering music of the swift succeeding showers mingled with the monotonous chant of the katydids. My mother sat at the table with a pretence of work in her hands, but I saw that she trembled so much that she could not draw the thread. I had brought her in a letter at seven o'clock directed in Mr. Floyd's fine cramped handwriting, and I too had a note from him. My mother had taken hers from me with a devouring blush, and as if to hide it had thrust it beneath a pile of cambric ruffles on the table. Her look and manner had made me turn almost sick with pain, for it seemed to me she no longer loved or trusted me. I had lost everything, I told myself with profound dreariness. I laid my own letter from Mr. Floyd open in her lap without a word. It ran thus: "MY DEAR BOY: I have had a trying week: Helen has been at the point of death, and that she is now convalescent fills me with gratitude to God too great for words. I think she would have died if I had not been here. As soon as she is well I want you to spend a few weeks at The Headlands: you need the change, and my little girl needs a friend. Love to your dear mother and for yourself. "JAMES FLOYD." But although my mother took up the letter, something seemed to blind her: she could not read it, and put it by and resumed her work. We spent an hour in complete silence. "We are very dull," she said at last, looking over at me with a little trembling smile. "Have you nothing to tell me, Floyd?" "Why do you not read your letter, mother?" "Oh, Floyd!" she cried, "it seems to me you are a little hard and cruel to me of late." "Read your letter, mother, and mine too. If it is impossible for you to open a letter from Cousin James before me, I will leave the room." She obeyed me, calmly taking her missive out from its hiding-place, opening it and reading it through: then she handed it to me with her old habit of command: "I wish you to read it, my boy." I did so: it was just as I had thought. Mr. Floyd loved her: he had spoken of his feelings many times, and was waiting for her answer. "Poor little Helen!" said my mother tenderly. "I am so thankful she is better! You will like to go to The Headlands, Floyd? 'Tis a beautiful place: your father and I attended Cousin James's wedding there. I remember still how superb and stately the place was." "I do not feel as if I ever wanted to do anything any more, mother." She gave me a piteous glance, and her hands locked and unlocked as they lay together in her lap. "I used to think you loved me, mother," I blurted out. In another moment she had me in her arms. There was no more doubt between us: she had given him up, and our old sweet, strong comradeship returned. ELLEN W. OLNEY. [TO BE CONTINUED.] THE WASHER AT THE WELL: A BRETON LEGEND.