Grandma had an object in telling this to Maddy, for she was not blind to the nature of the doctor’s interest in her child, and though it gratified her pride, she felt that it must not be, both for his sake and Maddy’s, so she told the sad story of uncle Joseph as a warning to Maddy, who could scarcely be said to need it. Still it made an impression on her, and all that afternoon she was thinking of the unfortunate man, whom she had seen but once, and that in his prison home, where she had been with her grandfather the only time she had ever ridden in the cars. He had taken her in his arms then, she remembered, and called her his little _Sarah_. Perhaps that was the name of his treacherous betrothed. And she asked her grandmother if it were not so. “Yes, Sarah Morris was her name, and her face was handsome as a doll,” grandma replied; and, wondering if she was as beautiful as Jessie, or Jessie’s mother, Maddy went back to her reveries of the poor maniac in the asylum, whom Sarah Morris had wronged so cruelly. CHAPTER VIII. SHADOWINGS OF WHAT WAS TO BE. It was very pleasant at Aikenside that afternoon, and the cool breeze blowing from the miniature fish-pond in one corner of the grounds, came stealing into the handsome parlors, where Agnes Remington, in becoming toilet, reclined languidly upon the sofa, bending her graceful head to suit the height of Jessie, who was twining some flowers among her curls, and occasionally appealing to Guy to know “if it was not pretty.”