She said yes, she remembered it quite well. I took her hand and said--I know my voice was trembling--'You have not forgotten him!' 'Oh no,' she answered; 'poor Cuthbert!' 'Sister!'--I had never called her by that name before--'when he went away he left you to me to take care of, and he asked me to talk about him to you, that you never might forget him. We have not spoken of him lately as often as we used, but it has not made any difference. If he were to come back he would find us just the same.' She was silent. 'Eh, Hildred?' 'I shall always remember him,' she said in a low voice. 'And watch for his coming back?' 'Oh Willie, poor Cuthbert is dead.' 'Don't say that, Hildred--don't think it. I know that every one here believes it, but I don't. Some day we shall see him again.' She sat down on the bank, with her hands, which she had clasped together, lying listlessly in her lap. I saw she did not share in my belief, and when I repeated 'He will come back to you,' she only shook her head. 'But at least'--I asked the question almost in a whisper--'at least you love him the same as ever?' 'It all seems so long ago,' she said, simply. I turned away, angry with myself that the words gave me such a thrill of pleasure--almost angry with her for making me unfaithful. We were both false to him, for I had let her forget him. 'Oh Hildred,' I said, not speaking as I felt, 'and he loved you so dearly.' My voice must have been very reproachful, though in truth the reproach was against myself, not against her, poor child. The tears came into her eyes, but she only repeated what she had said before: 'It does seem so very long ago.' I did not know how to go on. For a time neither of us spoke. At last she said, 'Is it very wrong of me?' 'Wrong, Hildred! no,' I answered sadly. 'You were so young when he left you, that I suppose it was too hard for you to remember. Only, how could we meet him if he came back?' She looked frightened. 'You don't really think he will.' 'God only can tell that--we must do everything as if we expected him. I know that if he were here it would be all right; you would only need to see him again. But Hildred'--I had come now to the most difficult thing I had to say,--'Hildred, my father told you, last night, something about me, that I never meant you to hear. It must be, for both of us, as if it had never been told.' 'Is it true?' she asked, without looking up. 'Yes.' After a little while I said, 'Don't let it come between us. Let me be your brother still, and Cuthbert's.' Hildred tried to say, 'Thank you.' Her tears were falling down slowly upon the clasped hands in her lap. 'Don't cry, dear, don't be sorry.' 'You have been so good to me,' she whispered. They were very simple words. I don't quite know how it was, that I knew from them that she had grown to love me. I bent down, pressing my hands tightly together to force back the rising words.