She was very glad to see him. The cottage, with its humble adornings, did seem lonely, and almost dreary, after the life and bustle of New York, and Maddy had cried more than once to think how hard and wicked she must be growing when her home had ceased to be the dear old place she once loved so well. She had been there five days, and notwithstanding the efforts of her grandparents to entertain her, each day had seemed a week in its duration. Neither the doctor nor Guy had been near her, and Maddy had made herself believe that the former was sadly remiss in his duty, inasmuch as he had not seen her for so long. He had been in the habit of calling every week, her grandmother said, and this did not tend to increase her amiability. Why didn’t he come now when he knew she was at home? Didn’t he wish to see her? If not, she could be indifferent too, and when they did meet, she could show him how little she cared! At Guy she was not particularly piqued. She did not take his attentions as a matter of course, and did not think it very strange that since bringing her there on the night of her return from New York, he had not once called upon her; still, she thought more of him, if possible, than of the doctor, during those five days, and was rather anxious to see him. She had something to show him—a letter from Lucy Atherstone, who had gradually come to be her regular correspondent, and whom Maddy had learned to love with all the intensity of her girlhood. To her ardent imagination Lucy Atherstone was but a little lower than the angels, and the pure, sweet thoughts contained in every letter were doing almost as much toward molding her character as Grandpa Markham’s prayers and constant teachings. Maddy did not know it, but it was these letters from Lucy which kept her from loving Guy Remington. She could not for a moment associate him with herself when she so constantly thought of him as the husband of another, and that other Lucy Atherstone. Not for worlds would Maddy have wronged the gentle creature who wrote to her so confidingly of Guy, envying her in that she could so often see his face and hear his voice, while his betrothed was separated from him by many thousand miles. Little by little Maddy had learned that Lucy’s mother was averse to the match, and had always been; that she had in her mind an English lord, who would make her daughter “My lady;” and this was the secret of her so long deferring her daughter’s marriage. In her last letter to Maddy, however, Lucy had written with more than her usual spirit that she should come into possession of her property on her twenty-fifth birthday and be really her own mistress. She should then feel at liberty to act for herself, and she launched out into joyful anticipations of the time when she should come to Aikenside and meet her dear Maddy Clyde. Feeling that Guy would be glad to see this letter, Maddy had all the morning been wishing he would come; and when she saw