turned up, of interest enough in life, to write a letter for?" he said, with a little smile, emboldened, per haps, by the fluctuations of my color. My face must have showed that he had unwittingly said something that gave me a sharp pain, for he added quickly, and in a voice very tender with feeling,

"I am afraid Baby is worse. am afraid you think me very careless, but indeed I hoped that was all over, and she was really well."

66

Baby is well," I replied, recovering self-possession. "I really am quite over my worry about her. I suppose I feel a little nervous and unsettled still, but a night's rest will put that all right, no doubt."

“I must not keep you, then," he said, uncomfortably, looking at his watch. "It is past nine o'clock, and you have been awake two nights."

He pushed away the chair before him, refusing to sit down; a stick rolled forward on the andirons, and he stooped over and put it in its place; he stood for a moment, resting his hand on the mantelpiece.

"I had something to say to you," he said, with his face turned to the fire, speaking with a little constraint. "But perhaps I'd—I'd better put it off till you have more time to listen."

I didn't answer; it seemed to me he must have heard the beating of my heart. But he heard nothing, I suppose, and the silence must have sent a chill through him. He did not even turn and look towards me, or he would have seen an agitation that, perhaps, would have seemed less cold. At last, he said, in a husky sort of voice:

"I was speaking to you the other night about expecting letters. Those I had looked for have arrived to

night. There was one of them I wanted to-to tell you about-and show you. Would you care to see it?"

As he said this he lifted his head suddenly and bent on me a look that seemed to devour me with its intensity. I had a feeling of terror. I looked this way and that. I wanted to escape. I believe I gave a kind of gasp, and then bent down my head over the portfolio which I still held in my hand.

"I will not force it upon you," he said, in an unsteady voice, as he crushed the letter in his hand. “I will not force anything upon you."

And when I raised my head again, and looked up,

he was gone.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE SEA MAKES MOAN.

"Therefore I crave for scenes which might
My fettered thoughts unbind,

And where the elements might be

NAOMI

Like scapegoats to my mind."

Faber.

AOMI stood at the nursery door knocking the next morning.

"May I come in?" she said, as Maidy, stretching up to the latch, opened it a little way.

did

I gave assent with less good-will than I had ever done before to my pretty little neighbor. I was taking care of the children while Sophia ate her breakfast and many things about the house before coming to relieve me. She insisted that Baby must still be kept in her room, though I felt certain that the necessity was past. The weather was quite settled now: the house was intolerable. I was so irritable that I could scarcely speak peaceably to the little emissary from Happy-golucky, and the children's many demands upon me nearly drove me wild. Another night of sleeplessness had put my nerves almost beyond control. I feared Naomi's eyes, and her dear little questioning tongue. If she had only known it, I loved her better than ever then, as a part of my lost and ended summer, but still I was afraid of her. Then passed a few moments of security,

while she kissed and caressed Baby, whom she had not before been permitted to see since her illness. She gave her a doll she had dressed for her, and to Maidy, a little picture she had painted, that no feelings might be hurt. Then she came up beside me, and laid her hand on my chair.

"We've missed you so," she said, stooping down and giving me a kiss. "We've had dismal times since Baby has been sick, and it's worse than ever now, for Mr. Macnally went away this morning, to be gone almost a week, I think. It's nice to have holiday, of course, and Ned's got all sorts of plans for having a good time. But it's not so nice at home without Mr. Macnally. He's always saying something makes you laugh. Don't you think he's very funny! And somehow uncle doesn't seem in a good humor with any one this morning; he's scolded all the men since breakfast, and I think said something cross to Aunt Penelope, though I don't know what. Aunt Penelope often says things to him, and he never seems to mind; but it's something new for him to speak to her in that way— don't you think it is?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Naomi, how should I? And I don't think your aunt would like you to talk about these things to me."

"You're just like one of us," said Naomi, caressingly. "I feel as if you were my cousin, or something. Aren't you coming down to dinner to-day.”

"Oh, dear, no. I mean, that is, I can't leave Baby for a great while yet. Poor little girl, she'll have to be looked after very carefully now, you know.”

"Can't Maidy come? It's awful lonesome; you don't know."

We compromised on Maidy, and I was left alone. No answer came from the house-agent. I would not tell Sophia that I had written till I had certain plans to offer. I packed quietly many of my own things, which would not attract her attention. I spent diligent hours over the children's clothes. I paid little bills about the neighborhood; if I could not have been busy, I should have been very much more unhappy than I was. I had fortunately been out, once or twice, when the colonel and his wife called, and Baby's illness answered for excuse for my not going down to Happy-go-lucky.

It was the fourth night after Naomi had brought her little budget of home news. I longed for the sea; my head ached; and it seemed to me to stand on the sands and feel the wind blow, would cool and cure me. After the children were asleep, therefore, I wrapped myself up and went out. It was twilight; a gray, faint mist hung between heaven and earth, and hid the stars. There was a "moist, whistling wind." When I reached the shore I stood still, feeling it blow upon my face; but it did not seem to cool the fever in my blood. The waves rolled in monotonously at my feet; but the sound did not soothe me. There was no one on the lonely beach; but the solitude did not help me, and, restless and disappointed, I turned back.

I could see the road a good way before me; the vhite dust of the well-worn track, however, was all I could see, at any distance. The gray fences and the little spindling trees, set here and there along the roadside, were all invisible in the twilight. It was a good half mile from the beach to the cottage.

On my right, after I had walked quarter of a mile,