"Far too much!" he answered; "tut, tut! not a bit of it. I am a lonely man, madam. My one interest in life is you and your family."

Here he glanced at Leslie, but the next moment looked away. There was disapproval in his face.

Leslie started up impulsively. All the provisions were packed.

"Yes, mother," she cried, "do let Mr. Parker drive you; it will do you no end of good."

"All right, darling. I have not the least objection if you will come with us. I need not ask you, Mr. Parker, if you will object to Leslie being one of the party in the carriage?"

"Dan shall sit on my knee," said Mr. Parker, "and two of the children can be crowded in. Just as Miss Leslie likes, of course."

But Leslie had left the room. She called Llewellyn to follow her.

He hurried out.

"What is the matter with you. Leslie?" he said.

"My head is very bad. I cannot go to the picnic."

"Leslie! you will upset us all, and as to mother--"

"Listen, Lew, I cannot give you any reason; but neither can I go, and I want you to help me."

"But I fail to understand. You were full of going a moment ago."

"I know, but with a headache like mine there is nothing for it but rest and quiet. Do help me, please. I am most anxious that mother should have this one delightful, happy day. Let Kitty and Mabel go in the carriage, and Dan too, if there is room, and will you take Hester by train? Let mother think that I am coming with you. Then, when you meet by the river, you must just tell her that I had a bad headache, and was obliged to stay at home. I cannot go, Lew; there is no use in coaxing me; and I do not wish mother to know until she gets to Richmond."

"Well, of course, I'll manage it if it must be managed," said Llewellyn; "but I cannot imagine what is up. I am certain it is more than a mere headache; but of course, Leslie, I have no intention of forcing your confidence."

"Don't, like a darling," said Leslie. She touched him on the arm, and looked into his face.

"Then, you are in trouble, dear old girl?"

Tears rose to her eyes.

"Yes; but you cannot help me to bear it. It is something which I must not tell to anyone. I must just bear my burden alone. Do not ask me any more."

"I won't, and I'll manage things for you. Run upstairs now, and keep quiet. I'll tell mother when we get to Richmond that you were a bit seedy; but that a few hours of rest will put you right."

He hurried off, and a few moments later Leslie from her window saw the carriage party get under way. Soon afterwards, Llewellyn and Hester started off for the railway station. Leslie found herself alone. She sat down by her window, and tried to face the position. It had not been the first time she had made a gallant effort to do so.

"What am I to do?" she said now to herself. But the answer came quickly.

"Live it down," was the reply of her heart. "Be true to your sense of honor. Save your friend if you can. Bear the terrible and cruel position in which you are placed. Trust to G.o.d putting things right."

"But the dreadful part of it is," thought poor Leslie, "that He is making me so hard. I almost hate Annie Colchester. I did not know it was in me to feel so bad about anything. There is one thing certain: I shall never be able to endure Mr. Parker's eyes. I shall have to leave the room or the house when he comes to see us. There, I must not sit still any longer. Poor darling Lew; he little knows what I am really suffering."

Early in the afternoon there came a ring at the front door, and who should be seen standing on the threshold but the well-known figure of Belle Acheson!

Leslie ran to let her in.

"How lucky that I was in," she said. "Please come into the dining room, Belle."

"So this is your domicile," said Belle. She raised her eyes, and looked up at the windows; then glancing round the walls, finally settled them on the much-worn carpet at her feet.

"Neat, but not gaudy," she said; "not much to complain of when all is said and done. How do you do?"

She held out her hand to her friend. Leslie grasped it.

"I am delighted to see you," said Leslie. "I am all alone, for mother and all the children are on the river."

"And you, you dear, faithful soul, have stayed at home to go on with your literary studies?" exclaimed Belle, her eyes gleaming.

"Not a bit of it, Belle; you must not think me better than I deserve. I stayed at home to mope."

"To mope? Surely you are not regretting? Having put your hand to the plow, you are not looking back? Leslie, I could never have thought it of you!"

"I am not looking back, Belle. I am still as fond as ever of my studies; but at the present moment I am not thinking of literature nor of college life at all. Sit down; how hot you look! The day is such a sultry one."

"Hot," said Belle, "is it? Perhaps I am hot; I don't know. Does heat matter? that is the question."

She flung off her hat, and let it tumble on the floor. Her brow was wet with perspiration.

"No physical discomforts seem to matter as far as you are concerned,"

said Leslie with a smile.

"I do not feel physical suffering," said Belle: "that is the truth. My mind is wrapped in meditation and thoughts of the future. I long for this tiresome holiday to be at an end. I have one comfort, however; my money is continuing to heap up. When I finish my collegiate career, I shall have quite enough to open my hostel. I shall call it a hostel for the lovers of pure literature. I am sure it will do well; it will supply a long-felt need."

But Leslie was not in the humor to talk about the hostel just then.

"I have a great deal to worry me just now," continued Belle. "Mother has so little sympathy; I have no consolation but one or two books-the best of friends. By the way, Leslie, you don't look too bright yourself; your brow has quite a haggard look. I am certain, although you will not acknowledge it, that you are missing St. Wode's."

"In many ways I am, dear."

"Oh, this is delicious," said Belle. She hopped up from her seat, and drew a chair close to Leslie.

"Does your mother object to your studies?" she said. "Does she--"

"No, Belle; you don't understand my mother. I only wish you could meet her. My trouble has nothing to do with my studies. I have a care that I cannot confide to anyone."

"Pray, don't; at least never confide in me. It is the last thing I wish to be-the recipient of another person's secrets. I either forget what I am told, or I blurt it out to the next person I come across. You had better let your worry go; that's my advice."

"Let it go? I wish I could."

"You can if you will do what I ask. Absorb yourself in work; cease to fret about mere externals. What do they matter? Heat, cold, worry, pain even, nothing matters if one can but grasp the riches of the past."

"But what about the riches of the future, Belle? You are so fond of looking back: do you never look forward?"