What a ride home that was! What a half-day of doubting, hoping, despairing! I had not before realized how sure I had been of her accepting me; and now that I felt how much I loved her, and thought of the many causes which might separate us, I could not but say over in my heart the sorrowful words of poor Sam,--"I shall never _be_ anybody, if she won't have me." Still, though not accepted, I could not feel refused; for what was it I read in her face? why so agitated? That she struggled with some strong feeling was evident. The remembrance, perhaps, of a former love. In this tumult, this miserable condition, I reached home, where, spreading my old calmness over my new agitation, I received, as best I might, the joyful greeting of Fanny, the heartfelt welcome of Aunt Huldah. I tried hard to be my own old self, and could not but hope that even my sharp-eyed sister was blinded. But no sooner had I entered my room for the night, no sooner had I thrown myself into my deep-cushioned arm-chair, than this lively sprite entered, on her way to bed. She seated herself on the trunk close by me, laid her hand upon my arm, and said,-- "What is it, Charley?" "What, Fanny?" I asked. "Now, Charley," said she, "you might as well speak out at once. Why was I left, when all the rest were taken, but that you might have at least _one_ that you loved to tell your troubles to? Come, now! Take off that manner of yours; you might as well, for I can see right through it. You will feel better to let everything out,--and then, who knows but I might help you?" Sure enough. It was strange, considering what Fanny had always been to me, that this had not occurred to my own mind. How natural it seemed now to tell her all about it! What a relief it would be! But how should I begin? I shrank from it. I began to come round to my first position. It seemed as if the corner of my heart which held Rachel was a holy of holies, too sacred to be entered even by my dear, good sister. While I was thinking, she watched my face. "Ah!" said she, "I see you don't know how to begin, and that I must both listen and talk. Give me your hand. Haven't I got gypsy eyes? I will tell your fortune." Dear little bright-faced Fanny! I smiled a real smile when she took my hand. "It is about a girl?" she said, half inquiringly. I colored, though it was only Fanny, and nodded,-- "Yes." "You love the girl?" she continued, after a pause. "I _do_ love the girl!" I said, earnestly,--for, now that the curtain was lifted, she might see all she chose. "And she loves you?" "No,--I think so,--I don't know," was my satisfactory reply. "But why don't you ask her?" "I _have_ asked her." "And what did she say? I wish, Charley, you would begin at the beginning and tell me all about it. How can I help you, if I don't know?"