“Poor child, she is very tired,” Wilford said, apologetically, gently waking Katy, who begged them to excuse her, and followed her husband to her room, where she was free to ask him what she must ask before she could ever be quite as happy as she had been before. Going up to the chair where Wilford was sitting before the fire, and standing partly behind him, she said timidly, “Will you answer me one thing truly?” Alone with Katy, Wilford felt all his old tenderness returning, and drawing her into his lap he asked her what it was she wished to know. “_Did_ you love anybody three or four years ago, or ever—that is, love them well enough to wish to make them your wife?” Katy could feel how Wilford started, as he said, “What put that idea into your head? Who has been talking to you?” “Juno,” Katy answered. “She told me she believed that it was some other love which kept you a bachelor so long. Was it, Wilford?” and Katy’s lips quivered in a grieved kind of way as she put the question. “Juno be——” Wilford did not say what, for he seldom swore, and never in a lady’s presence. So he said instead, “It was very unkind in Juno to distress you with matters about which she knew nothing.” “But did you?” Katy asked again. “Was there not a Sybil Grey, or some one of that name?” At the mention of Sybil Grey, Wilford looked relieved, and answered her at once. “Yes, there was a Sybil Grey, Mrs. Judge Grandon now, and a dashing widow. Don’t sigh so wearily,” he continued, as Katy drew a gasping breath. “Knowing she was a widow I chose you, thus showing which I preferred. Few men live to be thirty without more or less fancies, which under some circumstances might ripen into something stronger, and I am not an exception. I never loved Sybil Grey, nor wished to make her my wife. I admired her very much. I admire her yet, and among all my acquaintances there is not one upon whom I would care to have you make so good an impression as upon her, nor one whose manner you could better imitate.” “Oh, will she call? Shall I see her?” Katy asked, beginning to feel alarmed at the very thought of Sybil Grey, with all her polish and manner. “She is spending the winter in New Orleans with her late husband’s relatives. She will not return till spring,” Wilford replied. “But do not look so distressed, for I tell you solemnly that I never loved another as I love you. Do you believe me?” “Yes,” and Katy’s head drooped upon his shoulder. She was satisfied with regard to Sybil Grandon, only hoping she would not have to meet her when she came home. But the picture. Whose was that? Not Sybil’s certainly, else Juno would have known. The picture troubled her, but she dared not speak of it, Wilford had seemed so angry at Juno. Still she would probe him a little further, and so she continued,