“Mrs. Hester Floyd. Care of Roger Irving, Esq., Schodick, N. H.,” was the direction of the letter which Magdalen gave to Mr. Grey, who was going to the post-office and offered to take it for her. Very narrowly she watched him as he glanced at the superscription, and she half pitied him when she saw his lips quiver and turn pale for a moment as he read the name of a place which he remembered so well. Once in his life _he_ had sent letters to that very town, and the Schodick post-mark was not an unfamiliar one to him. Now she to whom he had written was dead, and he held a letter directed to the care of her son. How he longed to ask something concerning him, and finally he did so, saying in a half indifferent tone, “Schodick?—I once spent a summer there, and I have heard of Mr. Irving. Does he live in the village?” “No, sir, he lives at his mother’s old home. They call it the Morton farm. Did you know his mother, Jessie Morton?” Magdalen put the question purposely, but regretted it when she saw the look of intense pain which flitted across Mr. Grey’s face. “I knew her, yes. She was the most beautiful woman I ever saw,” he replied, and then he turned away and walked slowly from the room with his head bent down, as if his thoughts were busy with the past. The days succeeding that first one at Beechwood went rapidly by, and each one found Magdalen happier and more contented with her situation as companion of Alice, who strove in so many ways to make her feel that she was in all respects her equal, instead of a person hired to minister to her. Indeed, the hired part seemed only nominal, for nothing was ever required of Magdalen which would not have been required of her had she been a daughter of the house and Alice her invalid sister. They rode together, and walked together, and read together, and slept together at last, for Alice would have it so, and every morning of her life Magdalen was awakened by the soft touch of Alice’s hand upon her cheek, and the kiss upon her brow.