“You mistake me, Mr. Carleton. If necessary, I could do for William Baker more than I have done for you; but it would only be from a sense of duty,—there would be no pleasure in it; while caring for you was a pleasure, because you are Mrs. Mather’s brother, and because,—because—” She did not know how to finish the sentence, for she could not herself tell why it had of late been so pleasant for her to do for Jimmie Carleton those little acts of kindness which had devolved on her. She was only interested in him as a soldier, she insisted, and she tried to make him understand that her decision was final; that were George dead a dozen years, she should give him the same answer as she did now. She could not be his wife. And Jimmie understood it at last, and by the terrible pangs of disappointment which crept over him, the Pequot girl was fully avenged for the many times she had watched from her window of the hotel, or walked sadly along the road by the bay to see if Dick Lee were coming. But Annie had no wish for revenge. She was only sorry for him, and she tried to comfort him with the assurance of her interest in him, and by telling him that, if ever he was sick in hospital or camp, and unable to come home, she would surely go to him as readily as if he were her brother. Jimmie did not particularly care for such comforting then, and his face, when he reached home, wore so dark and sorry a look that Rose, knew at once that something was wrong; but she refrained from asking any questions then,—feeling intuitively that both Annie and her brother would prefer to have her do so. It was a very grave, silent party which met at the breakfast table next morning, and only Annie was at all inclined to talk. She tried to be cheerful and appear as usual to the silent young man who never looked at her as she sat opposite him, with her smooth bands of hair so becomingly arranged, and her eyes so full of pity for him. She could not revoke her decision, but she was sorry to send him from her with that look upon his face; and when, after breakfast, she met him for a few moments alone in the library, she laid her hand timidly upon his arm, and said, “_Jimmie_, don’t be angry with me. Try to think of me as your sister,—your best friend, if you like. It grieves me that I have made you so unhappy.” She had never called him _Jimmie_ before, in his hearing, and as she did it now, the dark, handsome face into which she was looking, flushed with a sudden joy, as if he thought she were relenting. But she was not; she could only be his friend,—his best friend, she repeated, and her face was very pale, as she told him how she should remember him, and work for him, and pray for him, when he was gone. And then she gave him her hand, saying to him, “It is nearly time for you to go. I would rather say good-bye here.” And Jimmie took her hand, and, pressing it between his own, said to her: