day, having received news of a blown-in window; so Mary and Ma'm Dubois had the patient to themselves. "His heart is as pure as mine," Mary told herself, looking out over the valley. "Very well," said the answering thought; "then you've nothing to fear." Nevertheless Mary's feet moved very slowly as she approached the invalid's room. CHAPTER XI I'LL sit with Mr. Morgan now, Corinne," Mary said in an uncertain tone as she entered the invalid's room. "You can go on with your ironing." Ma'm Dubois arose-not displeased to get away from that morose figure on the bed and Mary slipped into her chair. It was a pleasant wicker chair with tapestry cushions, and when Mary seated herself in it, crisp and cool in her blue taffeta, you would have to go a long way that summer day to have found a prettier picture. "You're very quiet," said Mary, moving her chair a little in order to have an unobstructed view. At this he turned his head and tried to smile. "How pretty she is!" he sadly told himself. "I've got to hold myself in tight-and get away quick! That's what I've got to do!" "Do you want anything?" asked Mary. "No; thank you." "You're sure you wouldn't like a custard? One of Mary Meacham's own make?" "No, thank you," he managed to say. And to himself he added with a sinking heart: "I've got to hold myself in tight -tight-tight!" "All right, then," said Mary. "I'm going to read you some poetry. You like poetry?" "Yes." "Mr. Chatterbox likes poetry. Very well, sir." At this point Mary's own heart began to sink, and, with a troubled glance across the room, she timidly pushed out one of her feet until perhaps half an inch of blue-silk stocking showed underneath the hem of her skirt. "Oh, don't -don't look!" was the thought of her heart. "Oh, please don't look!" (Thus the effect of Age upon Innocence! Thus the workings of Miss Myra's Wisdom!) Across the room the young man became dimly conscious of that narrow band of shimmering blue and fixed his glance on the wall just above Mary's head. "I mustn't-mustn't look!" he told himself. "I mustn't look!” "Now this poem," began Mary in a trembly voice, "is entitled "Footsteps of Angels,' and was written by Henry Longfellow Wadsworth"-from which you can see how nervous Mary was!"I hope you'll like it," she sighed. Slowly, hesitatingly, she raised the book in front of her eyes, and began: When the hours of Day are numbered "Oh, dear!" she thought, taking a full breath, "I hope he isn't looking!" But, not having the courage to glance over the top of her book, she continued: Ere the evening lamps are lighted, And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows. from the fitful firelight Dance upon the parlor wall Unable to bear the suspense any longer, she nervously lowered the book. Mr. Morgan's eyes were stolidly fixed on the wall just above her head! A great wave of relief swept over Mary and left her warm and weak. She raised the book again: Then the forms of the departed The beloved, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more |