Aunt Kate smiled sweetly down at the girl whose serious eyes reflecting the color of the morning sky, gazed at her from a mass of wavy black hair. "How is the headache?" she asked. "It left last night, Aunt Kate, and hasn't come back." "That's good." Aunt Kate's voice was very gentle and sympathetic. She sat upon the edge of the bed and, leaning forward, patted the soft cheek of her niece. Again, in the lined face of her aunt, Virginia recognized that resemblance to her father, so wonderfully softened by kindness and sweetness. The thought came to the girl that her mother would have had such a tenderness of look had she lived. A flood of memories swept down upon her and tears welled up in her eyes. Her aunt gathered her into those mothering arms again, and almost before the girl appreciated what she was doing she had opened her heart and told her woes in the gloomiest way possible. After she had soothed her niece, until she could give a teary little smile, Aunt Kate arose and, moving to the window, viewed the familiar landscape with a stern eye, sniffing portentously. In a moment she began to speak. "We Dales are a selfish and obstinate family. We were always so." There was a note of pride in her voice. "The men are worse than the women--much worse--more obstinate and selfish, dear," she repeated. "I know my brother Obadiah--better than he knows himself. I am very glad, child, that you told me about the whole thing." Suddenly her voice became sharp and emphatic and she fastened a severe look upon Virginia. "Don't you for a minute get it into your head that you have run away from home. If you had, I should take you back myself. You should have visited your cousin Helen and me a dozen times before, and now we will make up for your neglect and give brother Obadiah a chance to calm himself after the disturbances you have created." She paused for a moment and then went on, smiling sweetly, "I want you to be your own sweet self here and have a jolly time with Helen." Her tones became gentle. "Follow the way of your mother until the end of your life. Sometimes it will lead through gloomy valleys but it is the road which leads to the sunshine of the heights. Hum," she cried sharply, "read 'Pilgrim's Progress,' child. It says the same thing, but better." A much cheered Virginia came down to breakfast, and, like the very healthy young person she was, in obedience to her aunt's command and the natural law of youth, forgot the unhappiness of yesterday in the joys of the present.