"No, mother; you are right. I am not--not quite myself nor quite happy; but I mean to be both presently." And then he looked up in her face pleadingly, with an expression of entreaty that went to her heart, and continued: "But my own mother will not pain me by unnecessary questions that I could not answer." And then she knew that his will was that she should be silent. "Very well," she returned, with a sigh. "But you will tell me one thing, will you not, my dear! Is it--is it quite hopeless?" her mother's instinct, like that of the Eastern Caliph, immediately suggesting a woman in the case. "Quite--quite hopeless!--as dead as this!" bringing down his hand on a large defunct moth. "Talking will not bring to life, or help a man, to carry a real burden." Then, as she kissed him, she knew that his pain had been very great, but that he meant to bear it with all the strength he could bring. Grace went up to prepare for her walk that evening with no very pleasurable anticipations. Her mother had given her Archie's message in due form, as she sat somewhat sadly by the school-room window, mending a frock Dottie had just torn. "Archie wants you to go out with him, Grace," Mrs. Drummond said, as she came in, in her usual active bustling way. "The grass never grew under her feet," as she was often pleased to observe. "Loitering and lagging make young bones grow prematurely old," she would say, coining a new proverb for the benefit of lazy Susie. "Never measure your footsteps when you are about other people's business," she would say to Laura, who hated to be hunted up from her employment for any errand. "He thinks of going over to Blackthorn Farm, as it is so fine; and the walk will do you good," continued Mrs. Drummond, with a keen look at her daughter's pale face. "Give me Dottie's frock: that little monkey is always getting into mischief." But Grace yielded her task reluctantly. "Are you sure he wishes me to go, mother?" "Quite sure," was the brief answer; but she added no more. Silence was ever golden to this busy, hard-working mother. She was generally sparing of words. Grace, who saw that her mother was bent on her going, made no further demur; but, as she put on her walking-things, she told herself that Archie was only making a virtue of necessity. He was so little eager for her society that he had not sought her himself, but had sent her a message. Ever since his return, no light-springing footsteps had been heard on the uncarpeted stairs leading to the school-room. He had forsaken their old haunt, where they had once talked so happily, sitting hand in hand on the old window-seat.