“You perhaps don't know,” continued Kate, “but you can't help being fascinating to men; you know you are, and Ranald believes you so, and--and you ought to be quite straightforward with him!” Poor Kate could no longer command her voice. “There, now,” said Maimie, caressing her friend, not unpleased with Kate's description of her; “I'm going to be good. I will just be horrid to both of them, and they'll go away! But, oh, dear, things are all wrong! Poor Ranald,” she said to herself, “I wonder if he will come to the picnic on Saturday?” Kate looked at her friend a moment and wiped away her tears. “Indeed I hope he will not,” she said, indignantly, “for I know you mean to just lead him on. I have a mind to tell him.” “Tell him what?” said Maimie, smiling. “Just what you mean to do.” “I wish you would tell me that.” “Now I tell you, Maimie,” said Kate, “if you go on with Ranald so any longer I will just tell him you are playing with him.” “Do,” said Maimie, scornfully, “and be careful to make clear to him at the same time that you are speaking solely in his interest!” Kate's face flushed red at the insinuation, and then grew pale. She stood for some time looking in silence at her friend, and then with a proud flash of her dark eyes, she swept from the room without a word, nor did Maimie see her again that afternoon, though she stood outside her door entreating with tears to be forgiven. Poor Kate! Maimie's shaft had gone too near a vital spot, and the wound amazed and terrified her. Was it for Ranald's sake alone she cared? Yes, surely it was. Then why this sharp new pain under the hand pressing hard upon her heart? Oh, what did that mean? She put her face in her pillow to hide the red that she knew was flaming in her cheeks, and for a few moments gave herself up to the joy that was flooding her whole heart and soul and all her tingling veins. Oh, how happy she was. For long she had heard of the Glengarry lad from Maimie and more from Harry till there had grown up in her heart a warm, admiring interest. And now she had come to know him for herself! How little after all had they told her of him. What a man he was! How strong and how fearless! How true-hearted and how his eyes could fill with love! She started up. Love? Love? Ah, where was her joy! How chill the day had grown and how hateful the sunlight on the river. She drew down the blind and threw herself once more upon the bed, shivering and sick with pain--the bitterest that heart can know. Once more she started up. “She is not worthy of him!” she exclaimed, aloud; “her heart is not deep enough; she does not, cannot love him, and oh, if some one would only let him know!”