Her dress of dark brown stuff, with the little white throat-ruffle, and the black silk apron, is not very becoming to her. But she thinks too little of her personal appearance, to care for any quality in her clothing beyond neatness and comfort. She is knitting very leisurely, stopping occasionally to measure the stocking she is engaged upon with the finished one which lies upon her lap. Kate is silent and thoughtful. All her life, up to this date, has been passed in the ministry to sorrow—yes, to all sorts of sorrow—to the suffering arising from vice—to the despair caused by evil passions—to common illness—to pestilence forsaken of all but her—to death! Yes! But little turned of sixteen years of age, and to all these forms of human misery had she been—not a ministering angel, but a ministering child and woman—that ministry of sorrow had filled up all her years, from early childhood, to this hour. Now her days were passed in soothing and cheering the solitude and depression of her invalid companion. And Kate was grave and thoughtful, because she was tempted to think that life was made up of nothing else but trouble. Her hope in happiness beyond her experience was faint. Her faith was dim. And no wonder. It seemed time she saw some one else’s happiness, if not her own. It was hard to pour the words of faith, hope and cheerfulness into the ear of another, when the fountain in her own heart was failing. It was only a temporary darkening and failing of the spirit. A silent, earnest prayer, and all was clear and strong again. The room was provocative of thought, if not of pensiveness. It was so still and warm and mellow, between the fire and the golden sunshine coming softened through the curtains. And both girls were silent, while Kate leisurely plied her knitting-needles, and Carolyn contemplated the miniature. At last Miss Clifton spoke— “Catherine, look upon that face. Study it. Should you believe, now, that the owner of that beautiful face could be unrelenting, unforgiving?” And she passed the miniature to her companion. Kate received it—glanced at it. It was a faithful likeness of Archer Clifton. And those features, so long unseen, and now suddenly revealed, thrilled with such electric power to the heart of the girl, that after the first recognizing glance, she instantly returned it. And though her heart had paused in its pulsations, and now throbbed thick and fast, she answered, calmly— “He is not unrelenting or unforgiving, Miss Clifton.” “Oh! he is! he is! It has been fifteen months since we parted in anger, and no word or sign from him yet. Oh! Kate, what do you think of it?” “I think he truly loves you, Miss Carolyn.” “Oh! he _did_—he _did_, but I scorned and insulted him, and it is past, past!” “There is no past tense to real love, lady.” “Ah, Catherine, you speak of what you have had no experience in. My scorn killed his love.” “Real love is immortal, lady, it cannot be killed.” “Ah, child, you speak without knowledge.”