never could have liked her as I do,—brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora. “And she has gone to Morrisville, where Anna lived. Is this Mrs. Randall very grand, I wonder, and will Dora hear of Anna? Of course she will. I knew that when I asked her to be the bearer of that package which I might have sent by express. Perhaps she will take it herself, seeing little Robin and so hearing of Anna. O Dora, you would pity me if you knew how much I have suffered. Only God could give the strength to endure, and He has done so until I carry my burden uncomplainingly. “Will she see Lieutenant Reed, Mrs. Randall’s brother? What a blow that story gave me, and yet I doubted its truth, though the possibility nearly drives me wild, and shows me the real nature of my feelings for Dora Freeman. Let me record the event as it occurred. This morning Dora went away to Morrisville, my old home, though she does not know that, because, for certain reasons, I have not chosen to talk much of my affairs in Beechwood. She went early, before many people were astir, but I saw her, and heard, as I believe, the roar of the train until it was miles away, and then I awoke to the knowledge that the world had changed with her going, that _now_ there was nothing before me but the same monotonous round of professional calls, the tiresome chatter of my landlady, Mrs. Minerva Markham, and the tedious sitting here alone. “Heretofore there has been a pleasant excitement in watching the house across the street for a glimpse of Dora, in waiting for her to come out upon the lawn where she frolicked and played with all those little Russells, in seeing her sometimes steal away as if to be alone, and in pitying her because I knew the half dozen were on her track and would soon discover her hiding-place, in wishing that I could spirit her away from the cares which should fall upon another, in seeing her after the gas was lighted going in to dinner in her white muslin dress with the scarlet geraniums in her hair, in watching her window until the shadow flitting before it disappeared with the light, and I was left to wonder if the little maiden were kneeling in adoration to Him who gave her life and being. All this, or something like it, has formed a part of my existence, but with Dora’s going everything changed. Clouds came over the sun; the breeze from the lake blew cold and chilly; Mrs. Markham’s talk was more insipid than ever, while the addition to my patrons of two of the wealthiest families in town failed to give me pleasure. Dora was gone, and in a listless mood I made my round of visits, riding over the Berkley hills and across the Cheshire flats, wondering if I did well to send that package by Dora, knowing as I did that it must lead to her hearing of Anna.