Maddy was not to be deceived, and thinking it best to be frank with her, Guy told her that the physician, whom he had taken pains to see on his way to the depot, had said there was no hope. Old age and an impaired constitution precluded the possibility of recovery, but he trusted she might live till the young lady came. “She must—she will! Oh, grandma, why did I ever leave her?” and burying her face in her hands Maddy cried passionately, while the last three years of her life passed in rapid review before her mind—years which she had spent in luxurious ease, leaving her grandmother to toil in the humble cottage, and die without one parting word for her. The feeling that perhaps she had been guilty of neglect was the bitterest of all, and Maddy wept on, unmindful of Guy’s attempts to soothe her. At last, as she heard a clock in the adjoining room strike eight, she started up, exclaiming, “I have staid too long. I must go now. Is there any conveyance here?” “But, Maddy,” Guy rejoined, “you cannot go to-night. The roads between here and Honedale are one unbroken snow-bank. It would take hours to break through; besides, you are too tired. You need rest, and must come with me to Aikenside, where you are expected, for when I found how late the train would be, I sent word to have your room and the parlors warmed, and a nice hot supper ready for us. You’ll surely go with me, if I think best.” Guy’s manner was more like a lover than a friend, but Maddy was in no state to remark it. She only felt an intense desire to go home, and turning a deaf ear to all he could urge, replied; “You don’t know how dear grandma is to me, or you would not ask me to stay. She’s all the mother I ever knew, and I must go. Think, would you stay if the one you loved best was dying?” “But the one I love best is not dying, so I can reason clearly, Maddy.” Here Guy checked himself, and listened while Maddy asked again if there was no conveyance there as usual. “None but mine,” said Guy, while Maddy continued faintly: “And you are afraid it will kill your horses?” “No, it would only fatigue them greatly. It’s for you I fear. You’ve borne enough to-day.” “Then Mr. Remington, oh, please send me. I shall die at Aikenside. John will drive me, I know. He used to like me. I’ll ask him,” and Maddy was going in quest of the Aikenside coachman, when Guy held her back, and said: “John will go if I bid him. But you, Maddy, if I thought it was safe.” “It is. Oh, let me go,” and Maddy grasped both his hands beseechingly. If there was a man who could resist the eloquent appeal of Maddy’s eyes at that moment, the man was not Guy Remington, and leaving her alone, he went to John, asking him if it would be possible to get through to Honedale that night. John shook his head decidedly, but when Guy explained Maddy’s distress and anxiety, the negro began to relent, particularly as he saw his young master too was interested.