“Oh! mother, has not she a husband, as well as Hagar a lover? Come, Sophie, you spent the first years of your youth in nursing a sick brain—spend the rest in nursing a sick heart—love me, Sophie. Oh, if you knew how I suffered, you would love me,” and Gusty fairly dropped his head down upon Sophie’s shoulder and _almost_ wept. She let it lie there—nay she caressed that young grief-bowed head, as she said, “I always have loved you, Gusty, and always shall, and will do anything in the world I can to make you happy.” “Thank you, dear Sophie. I thought you were too good to be proud because you happened to be the eldest; now, Sophie, how long will it be first, for I want to live with you, and lay my head upon your little shoulder, just so, while I talk to you of my troubles and you soothe me—when shall it be, Sophie?” “What be, Gusty?” “Our wedding!” “Nonsense, dear Gusty, _never_. You are mad to think of such a thing, Gusty!” “Then you won’t.” “Certainly not—-you were never surely serious in such a strange proposition! no, of course you were not! I was silly to give you a serious reply!” “As the Lord in Heaven hears me, I am serious—I must be loved—love me, Sophie.” “I _do_ love you, and _will_ love you, how can I help it? but as to marrying you, Gusty! nonsense! Why, see here, when I was a little girl of eight years old, you were a babe of a few weeks, and I used to carry you in my arms all over the house, and have helped to nurse and educate you from infancy up, at least you knew I did until of late years,” said Sophie, correcting herself; “now do you feel as if you still would like to marry your nurse, your little mother?” Gusty was silent. “No, Gusty, you will get over this in a few days, you will see some one else. I know by your professions to me that it is not _love_, but the _want_ of love, that makes you miserable—your journey will help your cheerfulness, too. You must set out to-morrow.” He took his hat and riding-whip to go. “Sophie, won’t you come over to mother’s and spend the evening this evening?—do, Sophie, it is lonesome over there, and mother and yourself can talk over the hundred thousand subjects of interest you have in hand.” “Yes, I will come, Gusty.” “Don’t bring Hagar!” “No.” “And, Sophie, mind, don’t let mother know what a fool I have been making myself.” “Oh, no!” smiled Sophie, and the interview closed. Gusty had to call at Churchill’s Point, it was mail-day; and Gusty, though his correspondence was far from extensive, always made a point of being present at the opening of the mail. “Here is a letter for your ma, Mr. May,” said the little old widow, who was post-mistress for Churchill Point. “From my Uncle Augustus,” exclaimed Gusty, as he received it, “postmarked Boston—ha! his ship is in port—wonder when he is coming down.” So musing, Gusty quickened his horse’s pace, and rode on towards the cottage.