“I was too harsh, too strict with her. Her faults were only those of youth and inexperience, united to high spirits. Her punishments were too severe, and I am rightly punished for my hardness of heart,” wept and sighed the poor mother, in the long winter nights, while she tossed upon her sleepless bed, tormented with remorse and misery over the treatment she had given Aline. A month passed away, and it was time for the return of Dr. Anthony and Effie from their bridal tour. They were to settle down to housekeeping in a pretty house the doctor owned at Maywood. Mrs. Rodney yearned for Effie’s return. She longed to pour into her sympathizing ears all her sorrow and despair at the loss, for the second time, of her beautiful Aline. The cottage was a most dreary place for sunny-tempered Max Rodney, in those days. He missed his beautiful sisters, the gentle, graceful Effie, and the light-hearted, volatile Aline. His mother was always in tears, now, and seldom left her room. Besides, there was a real invalid in the house, and the enforced quiet was most irksome to the high spirited lad whose gay voice, blending with his younger sister’s, had been wont to waken joyous echoes from garret to cellar of the roomy cottage. In despair, Max took to spending the most of his time from home, unreproved by his grief-stricken parents, who had become almost apathetic in their dumb, agonizing sorrow for their lost daughter. And one day, when the sun was shining brightly, and the winter snows that had lain for weeks upon the frozen earth were melting under its genial glow, Max came home from a long excursion with “the boys,” and burst into his mother’s room like a small cyclone or tornado. “Mamma,” he cried, all in a flurry, “may I go into Mr. Delaney’s room? I have something to tell him.” Mrs. Rodney looked curiously at the flushed cheeks and sparkling blue eyes of her handsome boy. “Why, what is it, my dear?” she asked. “You know the doctor wishes to keep Mr. Delaney very quiet. He is very low now, and we must do all that we can to make him well; for if he died, people would look upon your dear papa as a murderer!” She shuddered; but the boy’s eyes flashed, and he cried out, proudly: “No one would call papa a murderer, mamma, even if Mr. Delaney died. He was right to shoot Mr. Delaney if he thought he had my sister shut up in his house. I have heard a lot of people say so. If I had been a man, I should have shot him myself.” “But you are not a man, Max, so you must not talk so boldly. What is this that you have to tell Mr. Delaney?” “A bit of news that will please him, I dare say,” said the boy. “Oh, Max, is it news of Aline?” quivered the poor mother. “No, no, mamma; for of course I would tell you that first,” said the boy. “Then what can it be? You know we must not excite Mr. Delaney, dear. It might be his death. You must tell me what you have heard, and then I can decide better if you may be allowed to tell him.”