hedge and approached the chair wherein Jane Merrick reclined.

"Oh, my dear, dear aunt!" cried Louise. "How glad I am to see you at
last, and how good of you to let me come here!" and she bent over and
kissed the stern, unresponsive face with an enthusiasm delightful to
behold.

"This is Louise, I suppose," said Aunt Jane, stiffly. "You are welcome
to Elmhurst."

"Tell me how you are," continued the girl, kneeling beside the chair
and taking the withered hands gently in her own. "Do you suffer any?
And are you getting better, dear aunt, in this beautiful garden with
the birds and the sunshine?"

"Get up," said the elder woman, roughly. "You're spoiling your gown."

Louise laughed gaily.

"Never mind the gown," she answered. "Tell me about yourself. I've
been so anxious since your last letter."

Aunt Jane's countenance relaxed a trifle. To speak of her broken
health always gave her a sort of grim satisfaction.

"I'm dying, as you can plainly see," she announced. "My days are
numbered, Louise. If you stay long enough you can gather wild flowers
for my coffin."

Louise flushed a trifle. A bunch of butter-cups and forget-me-nots was