Gradually, during the long weary weeks of her illness she had learned to place much confidence in Miss MacDowlas. Her affectionate nature had clung to her. In telling anecdotes of life in Vagabondia, she had talked of Grif,--Vagabondia would not have been Vagabondia without Grif,--and there was always a thrill of faithful love in her simplest mention of him. Truly, Miss MacDowlas beheld her reprobate nephew in a new light, surrounded by a halo of innocent romance and unselfish tenderness. This poor little soul, who was breaking her heart for his sake, showed him sinned against but never sinning, unfortunate but never to blame, showed him honest, sweet of nature, true, and faultless. Where were his faults in the eyes of his first and last love? The simple, whimsical stories of their loves and lovers' quarrels, of their small economies and perfect faith in the future,--a faith so sadly wrecked, as it seemed, by cruel Fate,--brought tears into Miss MacDowlas's eyes. Eloquent, affectionate Dolly won her over before she knew what she was thinking about. He could not have been such a reprobate, after all,--this Griffith Donne, who had so often roused her indignation. Perhaps he could not help being literary and wearing a shabby coat and a questionable hat. And Dolly had in the end begun to see how her long-fixed opinion had softened and changed. So she had courage to plead for Grif this afternoon. She wanted to be sure that if he should ever come back, there would be a hand outstretched to help him. “He only wanted help,” she said; “and no one has ever helped him, though he tried so hard and worked so. Aimée knows how hard he worked, don't you, Aimée?” “Yes,” answered Aimée, turning her working face away. “I should like you to promise,” said Dolly, wistfully, to Miss MacDowlas. “It would make me so much happier. You have been so kind to me,--I am sure you will be kind to him,--poor Grif,--poor fellow!” Miss MacDowlas bent over her, touched to the heart. “My dear,” she said, “he shall never want help again. He must have been worthy of so much love, or he would never have won it. I owe him some recompense, too. If I had not been so stupidly blind I might have saved you both all this pain. I have grown very fond of you, Dolly,” she ended; and then, being quite overcome, she kissed the pretty hair suddenly, gave the thin hand an almost motherly squeeze, and made the best of her way out of the room. “Aimée,” said Dolly, “do you remember how often I have made fun of her, when we were all so happy together? We made a good many mistakes, even in Vagabondia, did n't we?” And then she closed her eyes and lay silent, with wet lashes resting on her cheek.