'Oh yes,' with an involuntary sigh, 'of you and your brother. He was always so fond of you both. He used to say very often that he wished that I knew you; that you were so good, so unlike other people; that you bore your trouble so beautifully.' 'I bore my trouble well! Oh, Miss Hamilton, it is impossible that he could have said that, when he knew how rebellious I was.' But here I could say no more. 'Don't cry, Ursula,' she said, very sweetly; 'you are not rebellious now. Oh, I used to be so sorry for you; you little thought at that dreadful time, when you were so lonely and desolate, that a girl whom you had never seen, and perhaps of whom you had never heard, was praying for you with all her heart. That is what I mean by saying that I have known you for a long time.' By mutual impulse we bent forward and kissed each other,--a quiet lingering kiss that spoke of full understanding and sympathy. I had promised Uncle Max to be good to this girl, to do all I could to help her, but I did not know as I gave that promise how my heart would cleave to her, and that in time I should grow to love her with that rare friendship that is described in Holy Writ as 'passing the love of women.' We were silent for a little while, and then by some sudden impulse I began to speak of Max; I told her that I felt a little anxious about him, that he did not seem quite well or quite happy. 'I have thought so myself,' she returned, very quietly. 'Max is so good that I cannot bear to see him unhappy,--he is so unselfish, so full of thought for other people, so earnest in his work, so conscientious and self-denying.' 'True,' she replied, taking up a little toy screen that lay in her lap and shielding her face from the flame: 'he is all that. If any one deserves to be happy, it is your uncle.' I was glad to hear her say this, but her voice was a little constrained. 'He seems very far from happy just now,' was my answer: 'he looks worn and thin, as though he were overworking himself. I asked him the other night what ailed him. Are you cold, Miss Hamilton? I thought you shivered just now.' 'No, no,' she returned, a little impatiently: 'you were speaking of your uncle.' 'Yes. I could not get him to tell me what was the matter; he began to joke: you know his way; men are so tiresome sometimes.' 'It is not always easy to understand them,' she said, turning away her face: 'perhaps they do not wish to be understood. It must be a great comfort to Mr. Cunliffe to have you so near him. I have thought lately that he has seemed a little lonely.' 'But he comes here very often,' I said, rather quickly; 'he need not be dull, with so many friends.' To my surprise, Miss Hamilton's fair face flushed almost painfully. 'He does not come so often as he used; perhaps he finds us a little too quiet. I am sorry for Giles's sake--oh yes, I do not mean that,' as I looked at her rather reproachfully. 'Of course we all like Mr. Cunliffe.'