Queenie was sitting alone one evening, late in November, thinking over these things. It struck her with a little surprise that she had not seen her friends at Church-Stile House for two days; such a thing had never happened before. She and Emmie had spent the previous evening at Juniper Lodge; Cathy had been expected and had not made her appearance, and she had also omitted her usual afternoon visit at the cottage. A fleeting glimpse of Garth as he drove by in his dog-cart was all that was vouchsafed her. Even Langley had been invisible. "If it were not so late I would run up the lane and see what has become of them," thought Queenie, with a slight feeling of uneasiness. It was followed by a sensation of relief as the little gate unlatched and footsteps came up the gravel walk; but it was only Miss Cosie, with her grey shawl pinned over her curls, and a voluminous mass of soft knitting in her hand. "Dear Miss Cosie, to think of your coming out such a bitter night! and I thought it was Cathy," exclaimed Queenie, pouncing on the little woman with vehement hospitality, and depositing her, smiling and breathless, on an easy-chair. "There now, my dear, it was all Christopher's thought, at least he put it into my head," began Miss Cosie, in her purring voice. "There I was going on, purl two, knit two together, knit plain, and so on, and nothing but the wrong stitches coming uppermost; and Christopher, poor fellow, couldn't stand it any longer. 'What's to do with you to-night, Charlotte,' he says. 'I think the work has got into your head; hadn't you better leave it for Miss Marriott to put right?' for I just fussed him, you see, counting out loud and never getting any farther." "Do you mean that you could not get on with the new pattern I was teaching you the other night?" "Well, my memory's treacherous, that's what it is," returned Miss Cosie, placidly regarding the pink and white tangle that Queenie was rectifying. "'Charlotte, my love, your head is just a sieve, and your fingers are all thumbs,' as my poor dear mother used to say when I took my work to her. Dear, dear, I can hear her say it now; but wasn't it clever of Christopher to pop the idea into my mind. 'I will just run across to her, Kit my dear,' I replied, as pleased as possible, and he gave quite a comfortable sigh of relief." "Poor Mr. Logan!" laughed Queenie. "You must learn to count to yourself, Miss Cosie; knit one and purl two is not a very pleasant running accompaniment to the leading article." "Bless you, dearie, Christopher was not reading!" responded the little woman with a sigh, "he was just staring at the fire and groaning to himself in a quiet way. Though he has said very little about it he feels it terribly; he was as pale as a man could look when he came home and told me last night. 'I feel it as much as though it had happened to myself, Charlotte,' he said; and I believe, poor fellow, he meant it."