"Yes, Alice is married; pretty girls will sometimes," with the humorous sparkle in his eyes that she remembered so well. "She married a clergyman in Lincolnshire, and has two fine boys of whom she is very proud; I have just been staying with them in their pleasant vicarage. By-the-bye, she asked after you." "After me?" with another rush of sensitive color that made her look years younger. "Yes; she asked if I had seen you, but I could not satisfy her on that point. Don't you think it was a shabby trick, Miss Faith, vanishing from Carlisle as you did, and never coming back? I always meant to ask you that question if we ever met again." "I hoped to come back; I never meant to leave like that," she returned in such a low voice that Dr. Stewart had some trouble to hear her. "It was my sister's accident. You remember that I told you when I wished your mother and Alice good-bye." "Yes; but I trusted that it was only a temporary affair, and that you might soon have been set free." "I am not free yet," in a sad voice that went far to explain to Dr. Stewart the meaning of the worn, patient face and set lines. The Faith Palmer of ten years ago had been a fair, pretty girl, with the lightest step and the happiest laugh imaginable, and all manner of bright winning ways. It was a sweet face still, he thought, only so thin and careworn, and all the soft coloring faded. Even her voice was subdued and quieted past recognition; the despondence of the key had touched him painfully from the first. Faith's scrutiny had not been half so severe. Dr. Stewart was older, of coarse, and browner; well, and stouter, and he was becoming very grey; but what did that matter? There were the pleasant outlines, that had lingered for ten years in her memory, the shrewd, twinkling eyes, with their touch of humor, and the clear, genial voice. "What does that mean? we are none of us free, for the matter of that," he asked abruptly, but not unkindly. "Here I am tying myself down for life in this northern village, because an Indian sun chose to play the most confounded tricks with my liver, and to make my existence a burthen to me. Do you mean that your sister is still an invalid?" "Yes; I have been nursing her for ten years. There are the others, but she has got used to me. Poor Cara, she is to lie down all her life, they say." "Humph! that accounts for it," with a dissatisfied glance, and pulling his whiskers rather fiercely. "Well, Miss Faith, I can't say home-nursing has agreed with you."