Joy and sorrow, laughter and tears come and go and mingle as one in memory of the past. Between now and then, time weaves a veil, misty with tears of our sorrow, and diamond dusted with the bright laughter of our joy, and as we look through it, on the path that weaves our footsteps, the sunshine and shadows, that have fallen thereon, mingle and soften each other, so that neither the brilliant light of one nor the saddening shade of the other can pain our eyes, that look back, in wistful, happy memory.

In the fresh, pure air, that follows rain on a summer day, Kat was leaning from the window, and watching the sun go slowly down behind the hills; while slender spires of light shot up into the hazy atmosphere, and pierced the flitting clouds. She was gazing idly, with eyes in which many thoughts lay dreamily, and the slight smile that touched her lips came, perhaps, from something in the letter that lay open in her lap, or maybe from the distant view of a basket buggy, drawn by a white pony, coming slowly down the road, as though the riders were in no haste.

At any rate, she smiled; and it crept from the corners of her roguish mouth up to her eyes, and made her face very attractive, especially as she leaned it against the vines that crept in at the window, and looked thoughtfully down at the open letter. It was one such as she received very often now-a-days, as a very large pack, all of that year's date, much worn, and tied with a blue ribbon, would testify. Most of them were dashed boldly off on large office paper, with "Kathie dear," flourished into one corner, and news of all kinds, inquiries and odds and ends, filling several sheets, and "Yours, Ralph," in business scrawls at the bottom. But this was different. It was on small note paper to begin with, much more carefully written than usual, and contained no address whatever, simply starting off with what the writer had to say, and only filling three pages.

There was one particular place where Kat's eyes lingered, and where she smiled, very slowly, as though it was something not to be enjoyed fully, all at once; and we will look right over her shoulder and read it as she does again and again:—

Should he meet her on the road? I've no way of telling you, I'm sure, for her answer is written and gone, and I, like you, will have to wait and see.

The white pony and basket buggy draws nearer, it comes through the gate and up the drive, and as Kat watches it, some one comes to her side and looks out also.

"They've been a dreadful long ride," says the new-comer, with an impatient relief, as she leans against the window.

"Yes," answered Kat, with a little start, just realizing the fact.

"I think it's very funny," Pansy continued, with a truly puzzled air. "When we was here before, papa always said to me, 'come, Pansy, let's go take Miss Kittie to ride,' and now he never does; he goes off all alone by hisself, and takes her."

"Is it possible!" said Kat with an air of interest.

"Yes, 'tis; an' he does a lot of funny things. Once when we was to New York, I wanted a penny, and he said to get it in his pocket, an' there wasn't one penny there, but all the pretty letters Miss Kittie had writed to me for my own. I thought 'twas so funny, but he said they were safer there, than in my box, an' I better leave 'm, so I did."

"Very strange," said Kat, with a solemn shake of her head.

"I'll guess I'll go down and ask him what for he didn't take me," said Pansy, going away, and leaving Kat to put her letter up and try to look quite composed before Kittie came.

You must know that this was two years later, and that the twins were spending a few weeks with the Raymond's, where there were several other young people. Olive was working hard and rising steadily, and had never once been heard or suspected of wishing that Roger Congreve would come home from the continent, where he still roamed and threatened to settle. She was completely devoted to her art, and was now paying her way by teaching, while she was being taught. Mrs. Dering and Jean were in Virginia, and when Olive or the twins came home, it was to Bea's home, where everything was cosy and happy, with the rising young physician and his pretty little wife.

Two years had made some changes in the twins, more perceptibly so in Kat than Kittie; for time and love work wonders, and while she would never quite reach the perfection of lady-like grace and dignity, that made Kittie so charmingly attractive, she certainly had quieted much, was more careful of her language and dress, and bade fair to be a most delightful little woman after all, and one that Ralph might well love and be proud of having won.

When Kittie came up stairs, she was very quiet, and in answer to inquiries, said that her head ached. Kat was relieved to think she would not have to be on close guard, for she did not feel like telling her secret just then, and had rather dreaded Kittie's eyes. But Kittie was wholly absorbed in something else; she put away her things, and sat down by the window without saying much.

"It's pretty near tea-time," remarked Kat presently. "Are you all ready?"

"I—don't believe I'll go down," said Kittie. "I'm not hungry."

"Humph!" thought Kat, with a sudden and intense curiosity. "I guess I'm not the only one that has a secret."

"Did you have a pleasant ride?" she asked, after some silence.

"Yes—very;" answered Kittie absently.

"You were gone long enough."

No answer.

"I had a letter from Ralph;" guardedly.

"Did you?"

"Yes; I expect he'll come before long."

"I'd like to see him;" with more interest. "Wouldn't you?"

"Yes—rather," answered Kat, with a smile at herself in the glass, where she was comparing the effect of pink, or blue bow in her hair. "I'm going down now; what shall I say for you?"

"That I've a headache, and not hungry," said Kittie, and Kat whisked gayly off, laughing to herself, to think how she had intended to be the mystifier, and instead, was the mystified.

When Kittie was alone, she went to the glass, and leaning her chin in her hands, looked herself steadily in the face, as though absorbed in a new and astounding discovery. It was hard to tell just exactly how it affected her, for she looked a good deal astonished, rather sober, but very much pleased and a little bit shy. "I'm sure," she said, nodding to herself with all earnestness, "I never dreamed of such a thing before, but—but—I do believe it's so;" and then she colored up all of a sudden, and the reflection disappeared from view.

Kat came upstairs very soon after supper, and found her sitting in just the same place by the window, and just as little inclined to talk as before, which made matters seem uncomfortable.

"I declare!" muttered Kat, slamming about in the clothes-press, with no particular object in view, except to make a little noise. "This is abominable! I think she might tell me, but I'm not going to ask. I'm sure, I'd tell her quick enough, but she don't care, and I sha'n't 'till she asks me;" and then becoming aware of the inconsistency of her reflections Kat shut the door with some force, and sat down in silence.

There was no telling how long this pleasing quietude might have lasted, if it had not been for an immense bug that sailed in at the window, close to Kittie's nose, and began to bump gayly around the room, while both girls flew up, in feminine nervousness, and opened fire upon him, with any objects they might lay hands on.

"Good gracious!" cried Kat, after a breathless battle, during which three chairs had been laid low, various objects upset, and the lamp blown out. "Let the old thing go; it won't stay in the dark. What geese we are anyhow, afraid of a bug."

"I wasn't afraid," said Kittie, dropping into her chair with an exhausted sigh. "But they always make me fidgetty; and, beside, it came in right across my nose. Well, anyhow, it's cooler in the dark."

"What in the world are you so quiet for!" exclaimed Kat, in despair, after a few moments, during which silence settled again.

"I? Nothing," said Kittie, with a little start.

"Nonsense!"

"Well, it's the truth; I didn't know that I was so quiet," said Kittie, who in truth had nothing to tell. "I'll talk gay enough if you'll start me on something."

"You never had to be started before," grumbled Kat, who would have teased and tormented unmercifully, had it not been for the weight of her own secret, which was wonderfully subduing.

"We had a delightful ride," continued Kittie, but with very apparent exertion. "Mr. Murray drove out by Hanging Rock, and that's five miles, you know, and then we came home by Craig's creek, and—it was very long. What did Ralph say? Where's the letter?"

"Oh!" said Kat, with a little gasp—for Kittie had covered the whole ground so quickly that it quite took her breath—"you can't read it in the dark, and if we light the lamp that bug will come back. It was only a small one. He has been admitted to the firm, and is coming pretty soon to see us."

Something in the voice, for Kat couldn't hide anything successfully, drew Kittie's thoughts from herself, and made her turn to look closely at the face just visible in the dark. It had been a settled fact in the family, for the past year, that Ralph was growing very fond of "Kathy dear," and that very likely she had been the great object in his thoughts when he went away, and promised to come back, and then—

"Kat," said Kittie, with great solemnity, when her thoughts reached that point, and she was conscious of feeling hurt. "I never thought you'd keep such a thing from me, and wait for me to ask."

"Neither did I think you would, but you are."

"Me? Why I've nothing to tell."

"Honestly?"

"Not a thing. And have you, really?"

"Nothing, except that he asked me if he should come, and I sent a letter right off, and told him yes," confessed Kat, relieved to share her secret, and feeling very glad and happy as she laid her head in Kittie's lap, as though to hide her face from the darkness. Kittie entirely forgot herself in that moment. There came a little choking feeling in her throat, to think that she now came second in this dearest sister's heart, and she put her arms around her, with a little resentful, defiant clasp, and said nothing.

"Haven't you anything to confess?" asked Kat, in a moment.

"Come, dear; be honest."

"Not much," said Kittie, slowly. "You know, I always thought Mr. Murray was ever so much older than he is, and I never dreamed of his liking me, or any such thing, and it all seems so odd. But since he came this time, and we have been together so often, why—it all seemed different, you know, though I can't tell just how. To-day, while we were riding, I dropped some flowers out of my hair, and he picked them up, and asked if he might keep them, and—and—that's all," finished Kittie, quite shamefacedly.

"How romantic!" sighed Kat. "He'll say something pretty soon, and I'm very glad. It would be dreadful for one of us to go, and not the other. But it all seems odd, doesn't it, dear?"

So they sat together for a long time, dreaming the dream that comes rosily and sweet to all, and the silent clasp of their arms, and the pressure of their cheeks, laid together in the twilight, expressed the warm love that mutual joy brightened; and into this new experience, as in all that had come to them, they went hand in hand.

After awhile, Kat went down to the parlors, where the young people were, and a very funny thing happened. It was too warm to dance, play games, or, in fact, remain in the house; so they strolled out in the yard, and over the veranda, and once, as Kat sat alone in a big rustic chair, she saw Mr. Murray coming towards her. The light fell through the window, and out on to her face and head, showing a silver butterfly that Pansy had given to Kittie, fastened in her hair; and guided by this, Mr. Murray drew near, and paused at her side, never doubting that she was the one he had been in search of. A few words were sufficient to reveal his mistake to Kat, but some mischievous impulse kept her quiet as to her identity, so they talked on and on, and presently he began to tell of the home he had prepared in the city, and Kat's heart sank with a sudden thump, but what could she say? He went on without giving her chance to utter a word, and just as she was growing cold with apprehension, and hardly hearing what he was telling, he laid his hand on hers that were clasped in her lap, and said very tenderly:

"Will you share it with me, darling? I have hoped and dreamed that you would, and have made it beautiful for your sake. It has been many, many months since the sweet possibility"—but there Kat jumped up, scarlet and ashamed.

"Oh, Mr. Murray! I'm not Kittie; I'm so sorry; but I thought—I meant—I don't know just what. I'll tell her to come down and I think she will," Kat cried incoherently, and vanished with a complicated and wonderful gesture of her hands, that might have passed for a supplication for forgiveness, a benediction, or total despair, or most anything.

"Go down stairs," were her first words, as she rushed into the room where Kittie sat, and cast herself on to the bed with a hysterical laugh. "I've been, and gone, and done, and had a proposal from Mr. Murray, and you better go down quick. Oh, it's too funny, and he's dreadfully in earnest; there's something about a sweet possibility, and you'd better go down and listen to it."

"What do you mean?" cried Kittie, starting up, and dropping her book, with a vague idea that Kat had lost her senses.

"He thought I was you. Oh, it's too funny! and he is out there by the geranium-bed waiting for you," cried Kat, convulsed with laughter; and Kittie dropped into her chair, all trembling.

"Oh, Kat! how could you?"

"Bless you, I didn't do anything except promise to send you down, and you better go. There, you look like a peach. Put this little posy in your hair and go on."

"Oh, I can't," cried Kittie, all blushes and shyness.

"Yes, you can, you must; it will never do in the world!" exclaimed Kat with decision; so with many pauses, much hesitation and trembling, Kittie went, and appeared shyly before her lover with down-cast eyes, and all the sweet color fled from cheek and lips.

Of course, no one said anything, but somehow the secret crept into the gay company, and Kittie found her ordeal so trying that she threatened to go home.

"Of course we'll go as soon as Ralph comes," said Kat, who had her own reasons for wanting to get away then; so Kittie promised to wait those few days. It was very evident that Kat was going to meet him on the road, for one lovely afternoon, a few days later, she was seen to stroll away, dressed with particular care in a pale blue lawn, with bunches of forget-me-nots in her hair and belt, and a very big hat that conveniently and becomingly shaded her eyes, and flapped in the breeze as she walked.

The train was in; it had whizzed around the corner of Raymond's farm over an hour ago, and Ralph had had time to nearly make the distance between the depÔt and a certain tall sycamore tree, where she had decided to stop and wait; so she strolled slowly, with her eyes down, and thought of him. He would look just as he used to, she thought, not realizing the time that had elapsed, nor how much she had changed herself. There would be the merry dark eyes, and faint mustache, the eager, almost boyish face and figure, and he would kiss her, as he used to, and how funny it would seem, to think they were nearly engaged.

She smiled to herself, unconscious that he was drawing near, and eagerly watching the pretty, slight, blue-robed figure, strolling in the sunshine; but she looked up in a moment and saw him.

Was that Ralph? She felt her heart jump clear into her throat; as she paused, and stared at the tall gentleman rapidly approaching, and she had no strength to take another step. She had arranged a little speech to deliver at the proper moment, but,

then all the sweet speech she had fashioned took flight. He came nearer with eager brightness in his handsome eyes; he took her two resistless hands and looked under her hat-brim.

"Kathleen, is it you?"

At the sound of the voice, which was still the same, Kat was covered with a swift, shy confusion. She had expected a boy; there had come to her a man, who had come at her bidding, and who loved her. She longed to run away or hide her head, or something, but how could she when he held her hands, and persisted in looking under her hat.

"I expected to find you racing along the road or sitting on a fence, and waiting for me," he said, with a laugh. "I looked for my dear romp, and instead of that, I meet a graceful lovely young woman with the sweetest face in the world, and I don't believe she's glad to see me."

"What made you go and change so?" stammered Kat, still unable to reconcile the vision before her with the boyish Ralph Tremayne. "I'd never known you, anywhere."

"Nor I, you, hardly. What made you go and change so?" retorted he.

"I haven't."

"Neither have I."

Whereupon they felt better acquainted, and laughed socially; then he kissed her, and slipped her hand through his arm.

"You're not sorry you told me to come, are you?"

"Not a bit. Are you sorry you came?"

"Not a bit. You're altogether lovely and charming, my dear, and may I tell you how much I love you?" "I guess you'd better not. I'll have to get a little better acquainted with you first, you've gone and grown so big and handsome, and all that," answered Kat, feeling more comfortable, and looking up at him with some of the old saucy twinkle in her eyes.

"Bless those eyes," he exclaimed, with every symptom of telling the forbidden fact. "I must tell you, dear, that you have grown lovely."

"You told me that once."

"Don't you like to hear it?"

"I shouldn't wonder if I did. But I must tell you something important before we go any farther," said Kat solemnly.

"Do so at once; I'm listening."

"Well, Ralph, I've—I've had another proposal since I wrote to you," confessed the wretched little hypocrite, with lowered hat-brim.

"You have? By jingo! Who from?" Ralph dropped her hand, and the ruddy color went from his face suddenly.

"From a New York gentleman at Mrs. Raymond's, and—and—"

"Go on," said Ralph shortly, his voice cold and hard.

"He said he had built—no, bought—no, had a beautiful home, and asked me to share it, and I didn't know what on earth to say, so—I told him—that I wasn't Kittie, and then he changed his mind."

"Kathy!" What a blessing it was that no one was anywhere near, for right there in the sunshine, Ralph threw his arm around her and drew her close, to kiss the saucy lips and eyes. "How could you? I'm stunned out of a year's growth! Was it Murray?"

"Well, I don't think you'll miss it," laughed Kat. "Yes, it was Mr. Murray, and Kittie's going to share that home."

"You don't say so. We'll go off doubly and very soon, too, for of course the little mother will be willing."

"Yes, of course," said Kat.

So they strolled on in the sunshine, and the sweetest story in the world, gray with age, yet fresh as spring-time in their hearts, made the sunshine brighter than ever before to their happy eyes.

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