"I am better now--the pain has almost left me, I am very sorry to
trouble you so much, Dr. Bryant,"

"Trouble!" he murmured, as if communing with his own heart. "I see
you do not know me, nor ever will; for none have truly read my soul or
sympathized." A look of bitterness passed over his face, and a sterner
expression rested there than Mary had ever marked before. She knew not
what to reply, for she could not comprehend the change, and even as
she pondered, he pointed to the western sky, and, much in his usual
tone, asked:

"Don't you think the sunsets here exceed any you ever beheld
elsewhere?"

"In brilliancy they certainly do. Yet I love still better the soft
tints which often linger till the stars come out. I think they blend
and harmonize more beautifully with the deep blue of the zenith than
any I have seen before, and I have watched sunsets from my childhood."

"You are right; I have noticed in more northern latitudes a very
perceptible difference in the appearance of the firmament. The moon,
for instance, on cold, clear nights, presents a silvery, glittering
disk, but the soft mellow light of a southern clime is wanting."

While he spoke, the figure of a woman emerged from a house near by,
and, softly approaching Mary's horse, laid her finger on her lips,
and, pressing a piece of paper into her hand, returned as silently
as she came. Dr. Bryant turned his head toward Mary as he finished
speaking, and, catching a glimpse of the retreating form, looked