“Where did _you_ meet Wilford Cameron?” Morris asked, in some surprise, and then the story which Katy had not told, even to her sister, came out in full, and Morris tried to listen patiently while Katy explained how, on the very first day of the examination, Mrs. Woodhull had come in, and with her the grandest, proudest-looking man, who the girls said was Mr. Wilford Cameron, from New York, a fastidious bachelor, whose family were noted for their wealth and exclusiveness, keeping six servants, and living in the finest style; that Mrs. Woodhull, who all through the year had been very kind to Katy, came to her after school and invited her home to tea; that she had gone and met Mr. Cameron; that she was very much afraid of him at first, and was not sure that she was quite over it now, although he was so polite to her all through the journey, taking so much pains to have her see the finest sights, and laughing at her enthusiasm. “Wilford Cameron with you in your trip?” Morris asked, a new idea dawning on his mind. “Yes, let me tell you,” and Katy spoke rapidly. “I saw him that night, and then Mrs. Woodhull took me to ride with him in the carriage, and then—well, I rode alone with him once down by the lake, and he talked to me just as if he was not a grand man and I a little school-girl. And when the term closed I stayed at Mrs. Woodhull’s and he was there. He liked my playing and liked my singing, and I guess he liked me—that is, you know—yes, he liked me _some_” and Katy twisted the fringe of her shawl, while Morris, in spite of the pain tugging at his heart strings, laughed aloud as he rejoined, “I have no doubt he did; but go on—what next?” “He said more about my joining that party than anybody, and I am very sure _he_ paid the _bills_.” “Oh, Katy,” and Morris started as if he had been stung. “I would rather have given Linwood than have you thus indebted to Wilford Cameron, or any other man.” “I could not well help it. I did not mean any harm,” Katy said timidly, explaining how she had shrunk from the proposition which Mrs. Woodhull thought was right, urging it until she had consented, and telling how kind Mr. Cameron was, and how careful not to remind her of her indebtedness to him, attending to and anticipating every want as if she had been his sister. “You would like Mr. Cameron, Cousin Morris. He made me think of you a little, only he is prouder,” and Katy’s hand moved up Morris’s coat sleeve till it rested on his shoulder. “Perhaps so,” Morris answered, feeling a growing resentment towards one who it seemed to him had done him some great wrong. But Wilford was not to blame, he reflected. He could not help admiring the bright little Katy—and so conquering all ungenerous feelings, he turned to her at last, and said, “Did my little Cousin Kitty like Wilford Cameron?”