If Irene was nervous Rena was more so, wishing Tom were there and wondering what she could say to Rex which would excuse the deception in his estimation if Irene called upon her to explain. She hoped that he cared for Irene for her own sake and not for anything relating to the will, as this would make matters easier. There was comfort in this thought, and still she had a dread of what to-morrow might bring, if, as Irene believed, Rex had made up his mind to speak. Irene, too, was anxious, but very happy, and had arranged in her own mind, as she had many times before, exactly what she would say to him by way of explanation, and how much she would blame herself and how much Rena. On the whole she could not see how she was in fault. She had nothing to do with the will, nor was it her place to speak of it. She had received Mr. Travers’ attentions, such as they were, as she would have received the attentions of any man. She had not encouraged him and she was not supposed to know that he believed her to be the girl intended for him by Sandy McPherson. He had never asked any questions. No one had;—they had made a mistake with regard to her identity, and it was not her place to set them right, and if any one was to blame it was Rena. Satisfied with this reasoning, she slept soundly, and came to breakfast brighter and handsomer than I had ever seen her. There was a softness in the expression of her face and a gentleness in her manner which made me think I had been mistaken in her character, and I looked after her admiringly as she left the table and went out upon the piazza to the chair she usually occupied, the most comfortable one there. Coming through the gate was a messenger-boy with one of those yellow missives, the sight of which always makes one’s heart beat expectantly with hope or fear. Rena saw him first and with a thought of Tom went forward to meet him. “Is it for me?” she asked, holding out her hand. “It’s for Miss Irene Burdick,” was the reply, as the boy gave her the envelope. Her letters from her aunt had always been addressed to Miss Rena Burdick. Tom’s letter would be directed that way and the telegram must be for Irene, to whom she gave it. “Who could have sent it?” Irene asked, knowing that her family was not given to the extravagance of telegrams, and with no thought of what this contained. If there was any living thing in the world beside herself which Irene loved it was her little three-year-old brother Johnnie, the darling of the household, on whom she lavished all the unselfishness and affection of which she was capable. It was Johnnie whom she cared to see when away from home, Johnnie, who, in her mother’s letters to her, sent pencil scrawls as his contributions, with love and kisses for his “booful Reene,” as he called her. And now he was ill—dying, perhaps, and she must go to him. Every other consideration was forgotten. She must go to him. “What is it, Irene?” Rena asked, as she saw how white her cousin grew.