not, I cannot tell. And whether I ever shall reach her, I cannot tell. But this I know, Phineas, I will do as she bade me; I will arise and walk."

And so he did. He slept quietly as an infant all that night. Next morning I found him up and dressed. Looking like a spectre, indeed; but with health, courage, and hope in his eyes. Even my father noticed it, when at dinner-time, with Jael's help-poor old Jael! how proud she was-John crawled down-stairs.

"Why, thee art picking up, lad! Thee'lt be a man again in no time."

"I hope so. before."

And a better man than ever I was

"Thee might be better, and thee might be worse. Anyhow, we couldn't do without thee, John.-Hey, Phineas! who's been meddling with my spectacles ?"

The old man turned his back upon us, and busily read his newspaper, upside down.

We never had a happier meal in our house than that dinner.

In the afternoon, my father stayed at home-a rare thing for him to do; nay, more; he went and smoked his peaceful pipe in the garden. John lay on an extempore sofa, made of three of our high-backed chairs and the windowsill. I read to him-trying to keep his attention, and mine too, solely to the Great Plague of London and Daniel Defoe. When, just as I was stealthily glancing at his face, fancying it looked whiter and more sunken, that his smile was fading, and his thoughts were wandering-Jael burst in, "John Halifax, there be a woman asking for thee?"

No, John-no need for that start-that rush of impetuous blood to thy poor thin cheek, as if there were but one woman in all the world. No, it was only Mrs. Jessop.

At sight of him, standing up, tall, and gaunt, and pale, the good lady's eyes brimmed over.

"You have been very ill, my poor boy! Forgive mebut I am an old woman, you know. Lie down again.” With gentle force she compelled him and sat down by his side.

“I had no idea—why did you not let us know—the doctor and me? How long have you been ill ?"

"I am quite well now-I am indeed. I shall be about

again to-morrow, shall I not, Phineas ?" and he looked eagerly to me for confirmation.

I gave it, firmly and proudly. I was glad she should know it-glad she should see that the priceless jewel of his heart would not lie tossing in the mire, because a haughty girl scorned to wear it. Glad, that she might one day find out there lived not the woman of whom John Halifax was not worthy.

"But you must be very careful-very careful of yourself, indeed."

"He will, Mrs. Jessop. Or, if not, he has many to take care of him. Many to whom his life is most precious and most dear."

I spoke-perhaps more abruptly than I ought to have spoken to that good old lady-but her gentle answer seemed at once to understand and forgive me.

And I think Mr.

"I well believe that, Mr. Fletcher. Halifax hardly knows how much we—we all-esteem him." And with a kind motherly gesture she took John's hand. "You must make haste and get well now. My husband will come and see you to-morrow. For Ursula—" here she carefully busied herself in the depths of her pocket-" my dear child sends you this."

It was a little note-unsealed. The superscription was simply his name, in her clear, round, fair hand-writing"John Halifax."

His fingers closed over it convulsively. "I-she is very kind." The words died away-the hand which grasped, ay, far more than a minute, the unopened letter, trembled like an aspen leaf.

"Yes, hers is a grateful nature," observed Mrs. Jessop, sedulously looking at and speaking to me. "I would not wish it otherwise-I would not wish her to forget those whose worth she proved in her season of trouble."

I was silent. The old lady's tongue likewise failed her. She took off her glove-wiped a finger across each eye-lash --and sat still.

"Have you read your little note, Mr. Halifax ?"

.No answer.

"I will take your message back. She told me what she had said to you."

Ay, all the world might have read those simple lines:

"MY DEAR FRIEND,

"I did not know till yesterday that you had been ill. I have not forgotten how kind you were to my poor father. I should like to come and see you, if you would allow me.

"Yours sincerely,

"URSULA MARCH."

This was all the note. I saw it, more than thirty years afterwards, yellow and faded, in the corner of his pocketbook.

"Well, what shall I say to my child ?"

"Say "-he half rose, struggling to speak-"ask her to

come."

He turned his head towards the window, and the sunshine glittered on two great drops, large as a child's tear.

Mrs. Jessop went away. And now for a long hour we waited-scarcely moving. John lay, his eyes sometimes closed, sometimes fixed dreamily on the bit of blue sky that shone out above the iron railings, between the Abbey trees. More than once, they wandered to the little letter which lay buried in his hands. He felt it there-that was enough.

My father came in from the garden, and settled to his afternoon doze; but I think John hardly noticed him-nor I. My poor old father! Yet we were all young once-let youth enjoy its day!

At length Ursula came. She stood at the parlor-door, rosy with walking-a vision of youth and candid innocence, which blushed not, nor had need to blush, at any intent or act that was sanctified by the law of God, and by her own heart. John rose to meet her. They did not speak, but only clasped hands.

He was not strong enough for disguises now-in his first look she might have seen, have felt, that I had told her the truth. For hers-but it dropped down, down, as Ursula March's clear glance had never dropped before. Then, I knew how all would end.

Jael's voice broke in sharply. "Abel Fletcher, the doctor's wife is wanting thee down in the kitchen-garden, and she says, her green gooseberries bean't half as big as our'n.”

My father awoke-rubbed his eyes-became aware of a lady's presence-rubbed them again, and sat staring.

John led Ursula to the old man's chair.

"Mr. Fletcher, this is Miss March, a friend of mine, who, hearing I was ill, out of her great kindness

His voice faltered. Miss March added, in a low tone, with downcast eyelids

"I am an orphan, and he was kind to my dear father." Abel Fletcher nodded-adjusted his spectacles-eyed her all over--and nodded again; slowly, gravely, with a satis fied inspection. His hard gaze lingered, and softened while it lingered, on that young face, whereon was written simplicity, dignity, truth.

"If thee be a friend of John's, welcome to my house. Wilt thee sit down ?"

Offering his hand, with a mixture of kindness and ceremonious grace that I had never before seen in my Quaker father, he placed her in his own arm-chair. How well I remember her sitting there, in her black silk pelisse, trimmed with the white fur she was so fond of wearing, and her riding-hat, the soft feathers of which drooped on her shoulder, trembling as she trembled. For she did tremble every much. Gradually, the old man's perception opened to the facts before him. He ceased his sharp scrutiny, and half smiled. "Wilt thee stay and have a dish of tea with us?"

So it came to pass, I hardly remember how, that in an hour's space our parlor beheld the strangest sight it had beheld since Ah, no wonder that when she took her place at the table's foot, and gave him his dish of tea with her own hand-her pretty ringed lady's hand-my old father started, as if it had been another than Miss March who was sitting there. No wonder that, more than once, catching the sound of her low, quiet, gentlewoman-like speech, different from any female voices here, he turned round suddenly with a glance, half-scared,, half-eager, as if she had been a ghost from the grave.

But Mrs. Jessop engaged him in talk, and, woman-hater as he was, he could not resist the pleasantness of the doctor's little wife. The doctor, too, came in after tea, and the old folk all settled themselves for a cosy chat, taking very little notice of us three.

Miss March sat at a little table near the window, admiring some hyacinths that Mrs. Jessop had brought us. A wise present; for all Norton Bury knew that if Abel Fletcher