Before very long, Mr. Rutledge turned to my aunt, and apologized for intruding so long on a family reunion, and promising himself the pleasure of waiting on her very soon again, said a cordial good night. There had been some commenting on a new picture, and we were all standing in a group before it, at the other end of the dining-room, when Mr. Rutledge took his leave. There were many jesting and pleasant words exchanged with the others as he withdrew, having shaken hands with them. I had shrunk into the background, and waited, my heart in my throat, to know whether I was forgotten, when he suddenly turned back, before he reached the door, and said: "_Pardon!_ Have I said good night to my young travelling companion? Ah! there you are. I am afraid you are very tired; I am not sure that we have not travelled too fast for such an inexperienced tourist." "She couldn't have done Switzerland at our pace, last summer, I am afraid, could she?" said Josephine, complacently. Mr. Rutledge made some rejoinder complimentary to Miss Josephine's powers of endurance, then concluded his brief adieux to me, and with "more last words" to the others, withdrew. Josephine leaned rather listlessly against the mantelpiece, said, "Mamma, how very well Mr. Rutledge is looking!" then going to the piano, asked me if I played, and sitting down, ran her fingers lightly over the keys, while I approached, and standing by her, listened admiringly to her delicate and masterly touch. I felt stranger and forlorner than ever, though, as she played on, talking to me idly as she played, till her mother called to her, rather sharply: "Josephine, you are very thoughtless; don't you know she is tired? Come, my dear, you had better go upstairs immediately." Josephine leaned over her shoulder, touched my cheek, lightly with her lips, and said, "Good night; you'll feel brighter by to-morrow."