Grace felt herself grievously wounded. For months a barrier had been between her and Archie. He had written seldom; and his letters, when they came, told her nothing. In manner he was kindness itself. That there was no change in his affection was evident; but the key to his confidence was mislaid. He had withdrawn himself into some inner citadel, where he seemed all at once inaccessible, and her sisterly soul was vexed within her. He met her at the door with his usual smile of welcome. "That is right, Grace; you have not kept me long waiting," he said, pleasantly, as she came towards him; and then, as they walked down Lowder Street, he commenced talking at once. He had so much to tell her, he said; and here Grace's pulses began to throb expectantly; but the eager light died out of her face when he went on to detail a long conversation he had had with his mother the previous night. Was that all? she thought. Was the longed-for confidence still to be withheld? Archie did not seem to notice her silence: he rattled on volubly. "I think we were hard on the mother, Gracie, you and I," he said. "After all, I believe she was right in not giving us our own way in the spring." "I am glad you think so," replied Grace, coldly. Archie winced at her tone, but recovered himself, and went on gayly: "It does one good sometimes to have one's wishes crossed; and, after all, it was only fair that poor Mattie, being the eldest, should have her turn. She does her best, poor little soul! and, though I find her terribly trying sometimes, I can hold out pretty patiently until Christmas; and then mother herself suggested that you should take her place at the vicarage." "I! oh, no, Archie!" And here the color flushed over Gracie's face, and her eyes filled with tears. The news was so unexpected,--so overwhelming. Another time the sweetness of it would have filled her with rapture. But now! "Oh, no, no!" she cried, in so vehement a tone that her brother turned in surprise, and something of her meaning came home to him. "Wait a moment," he said, deprecatingly. "I have not finished yet what I want to say. Mother said Mattie was greatly improved by her visit, and that she was infinitely obliged to me for yielding to her wish. She told me plainly that it was impossible to have spared you before,--that you were her right hand with the girls, and that even now your loss would be great." "I do not mean to leave mother," returned Grace, in a choked voice. "Not if I want you and ask you to come?" he replied, with reproachful tenderness, "Why, Grace, what has become of our old compact?" "You do not need me now," she faltered, hardly able to speak without weeping.