“But, Mr. Remington,” Maddy exclaimed in much surprise, “surely you are not going, too? You must not! It is asking too much. It is more than I expected. Please don’t go!” “Would you rather I should not—that is, aside from any inconvenience it may be to me—would you rather go alone?” Guy asked; and Maddy replied: “Oh, no. I was dreading the long ride, but did not dream of your going. You will shorten it so much.” “Then I shall be paid for going,” was Guy’s response, as he drew still more closely around her the fancy robe. The roads, though badly drifted in some places, were not as bad as Guy had feared, and the strong horses kept steadily on; while Maddy, growing more and more fatigued, at last fell away to sleep, and ceased to answer Guy. For a time he watched her drooping head, and then, carefully drawing it to him, made it rest upon his shoulder, while he wound his arm around her slight figure, and so supported her. He knew she was sleeping quietly, by her gentle breathings; and once or twice he involuntarily passed his hand caressingly over her soft, round cheek, feeling the blood tingle to his finger tips as he thought of his position there, with Maddy Clyde sleeping in his arms. What would Lucy say could she see him? And the doctor, with his strict ideas of right and wrong, would he object? Guy did not know, and, with his usual independence, he did not care. At least he said to himself he did not care; and so, banishing both the doctor and Lucy from his mind, he abandoned himself to the happiness of the moment—a singular kind of happiness, inasmuch as it merely consisted in the fact that Maddy Clyde’s young head was pillowed on his bosom, and that, by bending down, he could feel her sweet breath on his face. Occasionally there flitted across Guy’s mind a vague, uneasy consciousness that though the act was, under the circumstances, well enough, the feelings which prompted it were not such as either the doctor or Lucy would approve. But they were far away; they would never know unless he told them, as he probably should, of this ride on that wintry night; this ride, which seemed to him so short that he scarcely believed his senses when, without once having been overturned or called upon to use the shovels so thoughtfully provided, the carriage suddenly came to a halt, and he knew by the dim light shining through the low window that the red cottage was reached. * * * * * Grandma Markham was dying, but she knew Maddy, and the palsied lips worked painfully as they attempted to utter the loved name; while her wasted face lighted up with eager joy as Maddy’s arms were twined about her neck, and she felt Maddy’s kisses on her cheek and brow. Could she not speak? Would she never speak again, Maddy asked despairingly, and her grandfather replied: