and sees nothing. Mother is absent.

"Papa," cries Dora, whose delicate nerves are all unstrung, "will you send Billy out of the room, or else induce him to stop his present employment?"

"William," says papa, severely, "cease that noise directly." And William, casting a vindictive glance at Dora, lays down the dessert-fork and succumbs.There is a slight chill in the air, in spite of the pleasant sun; and I half make up my mind to go for a brisk walk, instead of sauntering idly, as I am at present doing, when somebody calls to me from the adjoining field. It is Mr. Carrington. He climbs the wall that separates us, and drops into my territory, a little scrambling Irish terrier at his heels.

"Is this a favorite retreat of yours?" he asks, as our hands meet.

"Sometimes. Oh, Mr. Carrington, I am so glad to see you today."

"Are you, really? That is better news than I hoped to hear when I left home this morning."

"Because I want to return you your handkerchief. I have had it so long, and am so anxious to get rid of it. It—it would probably look nicer," I say, with hesitation, slowly withdrawing the article in question from my pocket, "if anybody else had washed it; but I did not want anyone to find out about—_that day_: so I had to do it myself."

Lingering, cautiously, I bring it to light and hold it out to him. Oh, how dreadfully pink and uncleanly it appears in the broad light of the open air! To _me_ it seems doubly hideous—the very last thing a fastidious gentleman would dream of putting to his nose.

Mr. Carrington accepts it almost tenderly. There is not the shadow of a smile upon his face. It would be impossible for me to say _how_ grateful I feel to him for this.

"Is it possible you took all that trouble," he says, a certain gentle light, with which I am growing familiar, coming into his eyes as they rest upon my anxious face. "My dear child, why? Did you not understand I was only jesting when I expressed a desire to have it again? Why did you not put it in the fire, or rid yourself of it in some other fashion long ago? So"—after a pause—"you _really_ washed it with your own hands for me?"

"One might guess that by looking at it," I answer, with a rather awkward laugh: "still, I think it would not look _quite_ so badly, but that I kept it in my pocket ever since, and that gives it its crumpled 

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