The details of our stay in Chicago as a whole would be uninteresting, and I would not weary the reader with them. Hal improved so rapidly that on the fourth day after our arrival, he was carried in comparative comfort to Mr. Hanson's residence, and placed for a few days in a pleasant chamber to gather strength for our journey home. One little incident I must tell you, connected with my introduction to Mr. Hanson's family. We were seated at the supper table, talking of Hal, his sickness and the cause of it, when Daisy, a five-year-old daughter, spoke quickly, "Mamma, mamma, she looks just like the 'tree lady,' only she don't have her sewing."

I did not realize it as the child spoke, but when Mrs. Hanson chided the little one, saying, "Daisy must learn not to tell all her little thoughts," it all came so clearly, and I trembled visibly; yes, I guess it was rather more than visible, since an unfortunate tilt in my chair, an involuntary effort of trying to poise brain and body at once, upset cup and saucer and plate, and before I knew it Mrs. Hanson had deluged me with bay rum. They said I nearly fainted, but I realized nothing save the ludicrous figure I presented, and I thought desparingly "Emily did it." After supper I went to the library, and there it was—this piece of work which Hal had done, representing me sitting under that old apple tree, hemming and thinking. It was so perfectly done, even to the plain ring on my middle finger, a wide old-fashioned ring which had been my grandmother Minot's, and bore the initials "E.M." I could not speak when I saw it, and if I could I should not have dared to for fear of some unfortunate expression. I wished in my heart it had been any one else but me.

"If my face had been like Hal's," I thought, and I stood as one covered with a mantle and bound by its heavy folds, until the gentle voice of Mrs. Hanson roused me, saying:

"Take a seat, Miss Minot, you are very tired." Yes, I was tired, though I did not know it, and taking the chair she proffered, I covered my face with both my hands and drew long breaths, as if to deliver myself from the thoughts which overwhelmed me. Mrs. Hanson's womanly nature divined my feelings, and she left me to myself, but after a while Daisy drew an Ottoman near, and seating herself on it put her little hands in mine and whispered:

"I think you're awful pretty. Don't you?"

I drew her into my lap and kissed her, and my dreams that night were hope and peace. Louis was with me there, and although constantly attentive to Hal, he gave no signs of weariness, and Hal would look into his eyes, as he sat beside him, with a look of perfect devotion. I thought so many times, as he lay back among his pillows looking at Louis, he was mentally casting his features, and how nice it would be when his deft hands moulded the clay with face and form like that of our beautiful Louis Desmonde. What a joy to Clara's heart, and my own would beat like a bird in its cage, thrilled with rapture at the prospect of deliverance! Had he not saved the life of my darling brother, and in my heart down deep, so deep I could bring no light of words upon the thought, I felt that I loved them both. The tenth day (since our removal to Mr. Hanson's) arrived, and then came our departure. I cried every minute, and only because I was glad. Mr. and Mrs. Hanson and Louis thought it due to over-exertion, and when I tried to explain I made an unintelligible murmur, and only succeeded in bringing out one thought—my gratitude to them and the hope that I might one day repay it. Oh, how kind they were! Everything to make the transit easy for Hal was cared for, even to the beautiful blanket Mrs. Hanson gave him, which was doubly precious since her grandmother span the wool and colored and wove it with her own hands. It was a happy party which left Chicago on that memorable morning, and our journey was delightful. Father was waiting for us at the old home station, and instead of the old stage we rode home in an easy carry-all behind our own horses. Mother and Clara met us with outstretched hands, and the latter, as she stood in the doorway, looked a perfect picture.

Hal was very tired, and for days after our return was threatened with a relapse, which was averted only by the unvarying care and strength of Louis. When this risk was over and he was fairly started on the road of recovery, came the departure of our friend and his return to his studies. Oh, how we dreaded it! Hal said afterward the thought of his going sent a chill to his head. The evening before his departure we walked over the hill through the pleasant path his mother and myself always chose when we walked and talked together. I said:

"Go with us, Clara," as we sauntered along the yard path toward the gate, but Louis looked at her and she turned gaily from us with the words:

"I will look after the invalid."

It seemed to me I was made of stone that evening, and we walked long before the silence was broken. At last Louis stopped, and taking both my hands looked into my heart (it seemed so to me) and said:

"I leave to-morrow."

My eyes grew moist, but only a sigh escaped my lips. I did not even say I was sorry.

Then we sat down on the mossy trunk of our favorite tree, and he said:

"Are you sorry, Emily? Will you miss me, and will you write to me, and will your dark eyes read the words I send to you?"

Dumb, more dumb than before, I sighed and bowed my head, and again he spoke, this time with that strange, terribly earnest look in his eyes I had seen before.

"Oh, Emily! my dear Emily! I am only a boy in years, but I love you with the strength of a man. I have saved the life of your brother because I loved his sister; and," he added in a low tone, "I love him too, but not as I do the dark eyes of his sister. Oh! Emily, do you love me? Can you and will you love me, and me only?"

And he drew me to him almost fiercely, while I quivered in every nerve, and answered:

"Louis, do you know me well? Can you not understand my heart? How can I help loving you?"

He loosened his grasp about me, and as his arm fell from my waist, tears fell at his feet. Oh, what a nature was his! Then turning again to me—"Will you wear this?" and a ring of turquoise and pearls was slipped on my finger, while in his hand he held a richly-carved shell comb.

"This is for your midnight hair Emily, wear it always," and he placed it among the coils of my hair.

Silence followed for a little time, and then Louis with his soulful eyes fixed on something afar off, spoke with great fervor of the life he longed for.

"Emily, you do not know me yet," he said.

"I know you better than you know yourself, but I am to you a puzzle, and oh, if I could skip the years that lie between to-day and the day when you and I shall really understand each other! Perfect in peace that day I know will come, but there are clouds between. My father willed that I should have this education I am getting. I need it, I suppose, but I have greater needs, and cannot tell you about them till I am free."

"Two years—twenty-four months;" and his eyes fell, as he added despairingly, "What a long time to wait." Then turning to me, "But you will love me, you have said so?"

I looked my thoughts, and he answered them.

"Do not ever think so of me, I am only too sane, I have found my life before the time."

"Oh! Louis," I cried, and then he answered with the words,

"My little mother knows it—she knows I love you. She knows my inmost soul, and answers me with her pure eyes. But ah! her eyes have not the light of yours; I want you to myself, to help me, and I will love you all my life."

I was amazed, and wondered why it was—this strange boy had been much in society, and why should I, an unsophisticated, homely girl, bring such a shower of feeling on myself.

"Could it be real and would it last?"

He comprehended my thought again and replied:

"You are not homely; I see your soul in your eyes; you are younger than I am; I have never seen your equal, and I know years will tell you I am only true to my heart, and we will work together—ah! we will work for something good, we will not be all for ourselves, ma belle," and on my forehead he left a kiss that burned with the great thoughts of his heart.

I could only feel that I was in the presence of a wonderful power, and at that moment he seemed a divinity. The moon came over the hill, and with his arm in mine we turned our steps homeward, and Clara met us half-way, and putting her hand fondly in Louis' said:

"My boy is out under the moon. I feared he was lost."

"My little mother!" and he gathered her under his wing, as it seemed, and we were soon at the gate of home. Louis and his mother passed in at the side door. As they did so, I fell back a step or two, turned my steps toward the old apple tree, and there, sitting against its old trunk, I talked aloud and cried and said:

"Have I done wrong, or is it right?"

Oh! what strange thoughts came over me as I sat growing more and more convinced that Louis' talk to me was a boyish rhapsody, and yet I knew then, as I had before known, that my own heart was touched by his presence. If he had been older, I should have felt that heaven had opened; as it was, I longed to be full of hope and to dream of days to be, and still I feared and I said aloud, "I am afraid, oh, I am afraid!" and at that moment Louis stood before me, and in quiet tones spoke as one having authority:

"Emily, you will get cold, you should not sit here."

And as I rose the moonbeams fell on my tear-stained face, and he said as if I were the merest child:

"Why do you fear I shall ever be different toward you; but you need not feel bound even though you have said you will love me."

"Louis," I cried, "you are cruel; you trouble me; I can't tell how I feel at all," and then realizing his last sentence I took off the ring, but ere I could speak he put it back, saying:

"No, no, Emily. I will wait one year, and then if you are afraid I will go away; but keep the ring, for that is yours, and yours alone."

I went up to my little room without bidding any one "good-night," and thought those old three words right over, "Emily did it." I had covered myself up because I dared not be known, and if, after all, it was right, how good it would be to be loved by one capable of such wondrous love as he possessed.

I dreamed all night that I was alone and ill, and in the morning I dreaded to meet Louis, but he gave no sign of any troubled thought, and when the stage came was ready with his bright "good-bye." He folded his little mother to his heart and held her there for a few seconds. When he came to me his hand's grasp was firm and strong. His kiss and whisper came together, "I will write." A moment later and he had gone. Clara went to her own room, to cry a little softly as she afterward said, and so the time wore on till the evening found us again all around the table, and old grey Timothy, our cat, had the boldness to sit in Louis' chair, which made Clara laugh through her tears. Joy and sorrow go hand in hand, and while we felt his loss so keenly, his letters were a great pleasure.

Hal had his share as well as Clara and I, and mother used to read every one of Hal's. It seemed strange to me to have anything to keep from mother, and had she opened the door I would have told her all, but she never asked me about Louis' letters, and until I overheard a conversation between my father and her I was held in silence; then the ice was broken, for father said:

"I do not know what to do. It is possible that this bright young fellow will play the part that so many do, and our innocent Emily be made the sufferer. When he comes again we will try and manage to have her away. She is a good girl and capable beside. Her life must not be blighted, but we must also be careful not to hurt Clara's feelings. Clara is a good little woman, and how we should miss her if she left us!"

"Well," said my mother, "I do not feel alarmed about our Emily, but, of course, it is better to take too much precaution than not enough," and their conversation ended.

When an opportunity presented I talked with mother, told her what I had heard, and all that Louis had said to me, almost word for word, and the result was her confidence. When our talk closed, she said in her own impressive way:

"I will trust you, my daughter, and only one thing more I have to say: Let me urge upon you the importance of testing your own deepest, best feelings in regard to this and every other important step—yes, and unimportant ones as well. There is a monitor within that will prove an unerring guide to us at all times. If we do not permit ourselves to be hurried and driven into other than our own life channels we shall gather from the current an impetus, which comes from the full tide of our innate thought. Such thought develops an inner sense of truth and fitness, which is a shield ever covering us, under any and all circumstances. It holds us firmly poised, no matter which way the wind may be, or from what quarter it strikes us."

This thought I could not then appreciate fully, but I did what I could toward it, and it was, in after years, even then, an anchor. My mother's eyes were beautiful; they looked like wells, and when thoughts like these rose to mingle with their light, they seemed twice as large and full and deep as on ordinary occasions. I never wanted to disobey her, and in those days we read through together the chapters in life's book that opened every sunrise with something new. Our souls were blent as one in a delightful unity, that savored more of Paradise than earth, and now with Hal's returning strength, there was a triple pulsation of mingled thought. Oh, Halbert, my blessed brother, no wonder my eyes are brimming with tears of love at these dear recollections! Louis had sent him a large box of material for doing his work, and Clara had insisted on his having one of her new rooms for a studio, and everything was as perfect as tasteful appointments could make it, even to the dressing-gown she had made for him.

She made this last with her own hands, of dark blue cashmere, corded with a thread of gold. He had to wear it, too, for she said nothing could be too nice to use.

"Why, my dear Halbert," she added, "the grass is much nicer and you walk on that."

The rich rosy flush came slowly enough into his pale cheeks, but it found them at last, and I do believe when we saw the work grow so fast under his hands, we were insane with joy. To think our farmer boy who followed the cows so meekly every night had grown to be a man and a sculptor, throwing such soul into his work as to model almost breathing figures! His first work was a duplicate of the piece at Mr. Hanson's, and was made at Louis' especial request. His next work was a study in itself. It was an original subject worthy of Hal's greatest efforts, a representation of our good old friend Hildah Patten, known to all our village as "Aunt Hildy." We called her our dependence, for she was an ever-present help in time of need; handy at everything and wasteful of nothing. Her old green camlet cloak (which was cut from her grandfather's, I guess) with the ample hood that covered her face and shoulders, was a welcome sight to me, whenever at our call for aid she came across lots. She lived alone and in her secluded woodland home led a quiet and happy life; she was never idle, but always doing for others. Few really understood her, but she was not only a marvel of truth but possessed original thought, in days when so little time was given in our country to anything save the struggle for a living. It is only a few years since Aunt Hildy was laid away from our sight. I often think of her now, and I have in my possession the statuette Hal made, which shows camlet cloak, herb-bags and all. I desire you to know her somewhat, since her visits were frequent and our plans were all known to her.