thrown them aside and commenced the letter which to-night, after Jimmie was gone, he was intending to finish for the morrow’s mail. He changed his mind, however, as the night wore on, for in reply to his question as to what was the matter, Jimmie had burst out impetuously with, “It is all over with me and the widow. I went in strong for her, Tom. I told her all my badness, confessed everything I could, and then she said it could not be. I tell you, Tom, I did not know a man could be so sore about a woman!” And with a great choking sob Jimmie Carleton laid his head upon Tom’s lap, and moaned like some wounded animal. Tom, who had been as a father to this younger brother, was touched to his heart’s core, and felt as if by having that unfinished letter in his possession he was in some way guilty, and as a pitying woman would have done, he smoothed the dark curly hair, and tried to speak words of comfort. “What had Annie said? Perhaps she might relent. Would Jimmie tell him about it?” Then Jimmie lifted up his head, and looking straight in Tom’s eyes, said, “Forgive me, old Tom. I was inclined to be jealous of you. Rose said you were more suitable, and I know you are; but, Tom, I did love Annie so much, after I had swallowed the first husband, which cost me a great effort, for a widow is not the beau ideal I used to cherish of my future wife. Tom, you don’t care for Annie, do you?” he continued, in a startled tone, as something in Tom’s face affrighted him. Tom would not deceive him then, and he replied, “I have,—that is,—yes, I do care for her, and I had commenced a letter, but——” “Don’t finish it, Tom. Do this for me,—don’t finish it!” Jimmie exclaimed, eagerly, knowing now how the hope that Annie might relent had buoyed him up, and kept him from utter despondency. “Don’t send it, Tom; leave her to me, if I can win her yet. She may feel differently by and by: her husband is only one year dead. Let me have Annie, Tom,” and Jimmie grew more vehement as he saw plainly the struggle in Tom’s mind. “You’ve had your day with Mary. Think of your years of married life, when you were so happy, and leave Annie to me. At least don’t try to get her from me,—not yet,—wait a year. Will you, Tom?” Few could resist Jimmie Carleton’s pleadings when they were so earnest as now; and generous Tom yielded to the boy, whom he had scolded, and whipped, and disciplined, and loved, and grieved over, ever since the day their father died and left him the head of the family. “I will wait a year and see what that brings to us; and you, Jimmie, must do the same, then Annie shall decide,” he said at last, and his voice was so steady in its tone, and his manner so kind, that Jimmie never guessed how much it cost the man who “had had his day,” to unlock the little desk and take from it the letter intended for Annie Graham and commit it to the flames.