"If nothing more happens, I shall be with you the first of September. Bertram will be with me, and I shall also bring a very charming young lady whom I have invited to spend the winter months with me in New York. She is the daughter of our host, and has been Bert's unwearied attendant throughout his illness. Between you and me, dear friend, she is so desperately in love with my brother, that she has neither eyes nor ears for anyone else. She has a younger sister whom I have not invited. I do not like her. She is the most abominable flirt I ever saw, and has done nothing but make eyes at Mr. Desmond since we came to Glenalvan Hall." "Glenalvan Hall," mused Mrs. Markham, holding the letter in her hand, and drawing her eyebrows thoughtfully together. "How familiar the word sounds! Where have I heard it?" She puzzled over it awhile, then gave it up. In the gay whirl of fashionable society, she had forgotten the pretty name of the poor girl she had befriended. But she carried her letter into Ruby's room and read it aloud to her, and Golden's cheeks that had grown very pale and delicate of late, grew paler still. "Elinor is coming," she said to herself, in dismay. "What shall I do?" She thought at first that she would go away quietly before they came. She could not stay and face her proud cousin, Elinor, and the man who had loved her, and then despised her for the stain upon her. But the thought came into her mind, where would she go? She had never received any of her wages from Mrs. Desmond yet. If she went away she would be utterly friendless and penniless. She clung to little Ruby because the child loved her very dearly, and without her love she was utterly alone. And underlying all was a fierce, passionate longing she could not still, to see Bertram Chesleigh's face once more, to hear again that musical, luring voice, whose accents she had hung upon so fondly. A few days before the first of September, she turned timidly to Mrs. Markham, who was amusing herself with little Ruby down on the sands. "Mrs. Markham," she said, "will you tell me this, please? Are not green glasses good for weak eyes?" "I have heard so," replied the lady. "Are your eyes weak, Mary?" She looked into the girl's face as she spoke, and saw that the sweet, blue eyes were dull and heavy. How was she to guess that sleepless nights and bitter tears had dimmed their sapphire sparkle. "Are your eyes weak, Mary?" she repeated, seeing that the girl hesitated. A blush tinged the pearly cheek, and Golden glanced out at the foam-crested waves rolling in toward the shore. "I think that the glare of the sun on the sands, and on the water, is very weakening to the sight," she replied, evasively. "So it is. I have heard others complain of the same thing. If the light affects your eyes I would advise you, by all means, to wear the glasses." "Thank you. I believe I will try a pair," returned Golden.