"Oh, yes!" said Louis, "the blood has started, and with Aunt Hildy by her bedside she will be, by to-morrow, very comfortable. I think she had not been there long when we found her." "Perhaps she will not thank you for bringing her back to life, however." "Perhaps not," said Louis, "still it seems a sacred duty, and in my opinion, not finished with her mere return to life. She looks very beautiful--looks like little mother," turning in admiration to Clara, whose eyes reflected the love she held in her heart for him. Father and mother were silent, but after supper mother said they would ride over and see if anything was necessary to be done that they could attend to. My mother was too silent and too pale through these days. I looked at the prospect of less work for her with pleasure, and after Mr. Benton left there certainly would be less. Louis would have Hal's room, and Clara then would see to their apartments almost entirely. This would be a relief, and now that my mind was at ease, I knew I could be of more service, while Aunt Hildy would still remain, for she said she would make "Mis' Minot's burden as easy as she could, while the Lord gave her strength to do it." After father and mother were gone, Louis sat with me in our sitting-room, while Clara absented herself on the plea of something very particular to attend to. I mistrusted what it might be, and looked at her smilingly. "My Emily guesses it," she said, "something for the little lamb. Emily will help me too, have I not said it?" and she passed like a sweet breath from the room. "Now Louis," I said, as we sat together on the old sofa,--our old-fashioned people called it "soffy,"--"let us look at that letter." He produced it from the pocket where it had lain in waiting, and we read. Many lines were illegible entirely, but together we deciphered much of it. "The baby is dead--she was beautiful, and if (here were two words we could not make out), it would have been so nice (then two lines blurred and indistinct, and another broken sentence). Where can your letters ---- I am sure you write. If ---- then I shall go to find ----. My father will give us ----" and from all these grief-laden sentences, we gathered a story that struck us both as being almost made to coincide with that of the poor lamb. "Louis," I said, "if this is the very Mary, what shall we do?" "We will do right and let problems be solved as best they can. First let us understand about ourselves, then we can better act for others. How did Mr. Benton annoy you?" Then I told him. "And you did not even think you loved him?" "Louis," I cried, "how could you think so, when my heart has been yours always? How could you think of me in that light?" And those old tears came into my eyes. "I could not convince myself that such was the case, but Wilmur Benton gave me so to understand--said you were a coy damsel but a glorious girl, and would make a splendid wife--'just such as I need,' he said, 'congratulate me.'