She opened the volume, turning the leaves with fingers that trembled.

"Truly enough," she was thinking, "a year from to-day will find a difference."

"Now I am going over for Dine," she said, after Mr. Hammerton had acknowledged himself in the wrong.

"Permit me to accompany you," he said. Even with Tessa Wadsworth, Gus Hammerton was often formal. They found Dinah bidding Norah good-by at Mr. Bird's gate; they were laughing at nothing, as usual.

"Let us walk to the end of the planks," suggested Mr. Hammerton. "On a night like this I could tramp till sunrise." He drew Tessa's arm through his, saying, "Now, Dine, take the other fin."

The end of the planks touched a piece of woods; at the entrance of the wood stood an old building, windowless, doorless, chimneyless; the school children knew that it was haunted.

"We're afraid," laughed Dine; "the old hut looks ghostly."

"It _is_ ghostly, I will relate its history. Once upon a time, upon a dark night, so dark that I could not see the white horse upon which I rode-"

"Oh, that's splendid," cried Dinah, hanging contentedly upon his arm.

"Listen, Tessa."

But Tessa could not listen. She was feeling the peace that rested over the woods, the fields; that was enwrapping Old Place, and further down the dim road the low-eaved homestead that must thenceforth be home to her. There could be no more air-castles; her future was decided. She had turned the leaf and discovered a name that hitherto had meant so little: Felix Harrison. Not Ralph Towne; a year ago to-night it was English violets and Ralph Towne. The peace that brooded over all might be hers, if only she would be content.

At this moment,-while she was trying to be content, trying to believe that she could interpret the peace of the shining stars, and while she was hearing the sound of her companion's words, a solemn, even tone that rolled on in unison with her thoughts,-two people far away were thinking of her; thinking of her, but not wishing and not daring to speak her name.

"I can not understand, Ralph. I was sure that we would bring Naughty Nan away with us."

"Truly, mother, I would have pleased you, if I could."

"You are too serious for her; with all her mischievous advances,-like a white kitten provokingly putting out its paw,-she was more than half afraid of you."

"It does not hurt her to be afraid."

"She is most bewitching."

"Now, mother! But it is too late; she will understand by my parting words that I do not expect to see her soon again. In my mind is a memory that has kept me from loving that delicious Naughty Nan."

"Is the memory a fancy?"

"No; it is too real for my ease of mind. If I were a poet, which I am not, I should think that her spirit haunted me."

"Can you tell me no more of her? That daughter that I might have had!"

"I do not understand her: she is beyond me, she baffles me."

"I read of a man once who loved a woman too well to marry any one else, and yet he did not love her well enough to marry her."

"Was he a fool?"

"Answer the question for yourself. Are _you_ a fool?"

"Yes, I am. I do not know my own mind. I should call another man a fool."

"It may not be too late," she gently urged.

"Too late for what?" he asked irritably.

"To be wise."

In a few moments he spoke in an abrupt, changed tone-

"Mother! I have decided at last. I shall hang out my shingle in Dunellen. It is a picturesque little city, and the climate is as good for you as the south of France."

"I am very glad," she answered cordially. "You are a born physician, you are cool, you are quick, you are gentle; you can keep your feelings under perfect control. You are not quite a Stoic, but you will do very well for one."

"But you will not be happy at Old Place without me."

"Why should I be without you?"

"You have noticed that large, wide brick house on the opposite side of the Park from Miss Jewett's? It has a garden and stable; it is just the house for us; you may have two rooms thrown into one for your sitting-room and any other changes that you please."

"I remember it, I like the situation; there are English sparrows in the trees."

"We will take that for the present. John Gesner owns it; he will make his own price if he sees that I want it, I suppose. I _do_ want it.

There are not many things that I desire more. You and I will have a green old age at Old Place."

"You forget that I am thirty years older than you, my son."

By accident, one day, Mrs. Towne had come across, in one of the drawers of her son's writing-table, a large photograph of Tessa Wadsworth, a vignette, and she had gazed long upon her; the face was not beautiful, one would not even think of it as pretty, but it was fine, intellectual, sensitive, and sweet. In searching for an old letter not long before leaving home, she had discovered this picture, defaced and torn into several pieces.

"Ralph, you will not be angry with your white-headed old mother, but were you ever refused?"

"No," he said, laughing. "A dozen women may have been ready to refuse me, but not one ever did."

"Nor accepted you, either," she continued, shrewdly.

He arose and began to pace the floor; after some turns of excited movement, he came to her and stood behind her chair. "I know that I have been accepted; I know that I asked when I did not intend to ask-that is-I was carried beyond myself; I asked when I did not know that I was asking."

"What shall you do now?"

"I shall ask in reality; I shall confess myself in the wrong."

"And she?"

"And she? She has the tenderest heart in the world. She has forgiven me long ago."

"Do not trust her eyes and forget her lips," warned his mother. "Love is slain sometimes."

He resumed his walk with a less confident air. He _had_ forgotten her lips.

Would Tessa have cared to hear this? Would she have forgotten Felix, his blessing and the quiet of the holy stars?