“Not just yet,” returned Mildred, “for, see, Lilian and I are an inch deep with dust;” and gathering up their shawls and hats, the two girls sought their chamber, from which they emerged as fresh and blooming as the roses which one had twined among her flowing curls, and the other had placed in the heavy braids of her rich brown hair. “Why is not Oliver here?” Mildred asked, as they were about to leave the supper-table, “or does he think, because he is raised to the dignity of a Junior, that young ladies are of no importance?” “I invited him to tea,” said the Judge, “but he is suffering from one of his racking headaches. I think he studies too hard, for his face is white as paper, and the veins on his forehead are large as my finger; so I told him you should go down there when I was sick of you.” “Which I shall make believe is now,” said Mildred, laughingly, and taking from the hall-stand her big straw hat, she excused herself to Lilian, and hurrying down the Cold Spring path, soon stood before the gable-roof door where old Hepsy sat knitting and talking to herself, a habit which had come upon her with increasing years. At the sight of Mildred she arose, and dropping a low curtsey, began in her fretful, querulous way: “I wonder now if you can stoop to come down here; but I s’pose it’s Oliver that’s brought you. It beats all how folks that gets a little riz will forget them that had all the trouble of bringin’ ’em up. Oliver is up charmber with the headache, and I don’t b’lieve he wants to be disturbed.” “Yes, he does,” said Mildred, and lifting the old-fashioned wooden latch, she was soon climbing the crazy stairs which creaked to her bounding tread. Of his own accord, and because he knew it would please Mildred, the Judge had caused what was once her chamber at the gable-roof to be finished off and fitted into a cozy library for Oliver, who when at home spent many a happy hour there, bending sometimes over his books, and thinking again of the years gone by, and of the little girl who had often cried herself to sleep within those very walls. It was well with her now, he knew and he blessed God that it was so, even though his poor feet might never tread the flowery path in which it was given her to walk. He had not seen her for nearly two years, but she had written to him regularly, and from her letters he knew she was the same warm-hearted, impulsive Milly who had once made all the sunshine of his life. She had grown up very beautiful, too, for among his classmates were several whose homes were in Charlestown, and who, as a matter of course, felt a deep interest in the Seminary girls, particularly in Miss Howell, who was often quoted in his presence, his companions never dreaming that she was aught to the “club-footed Lexicon,” as they called the studious Oliver. Lawrence Thornton, too, when he came to the college commencement, had said to him playfully: