in which she was to put the articles borrowed of Morris.

He was sitting out on his piazza enjoying the fine prospect he had of
the sun shining across the pond, on the Silverton hill, and just gilding
the top of the little church nestled in the valley. At sight of Katy he
arose and greeted her with the kind, brotherly manner now habitual with
him, for since we last looked upon Morris Grant he had fought a fierce
battle with his selfishness, coming off conqueror, and learning to
listen quite calmly while Katy talked to him, as she often did, of
Wilford Cameron, never trying to conceal from him how anxious she was
for some word of remembrance, and often asking if he thought Mr. Cameron
would ever write to her. It was hard at first for Morris to listen, and
harder still to hold back the passionate words of love trembling on his
lips, to keep himself from telling her how improbable it was that one
like Mr. Cameron should cherish thoughts of her after mingling again
with the high-born city belles, and to beg of her to take him in
Cameron's stead--him who had loved her so long, ever since he first knew
what it was to love, and who would cherish her so tenderly, loving her
the more because of the childishness which some men might despise. But
Morris had kept silence, and, as weeks went by, there came insensibly
into his heart a hope, or rather conviction, that Cameron had forgotten
the little girl who might in time turn to him, gladdening his home just
as she did every spot where her fairy footsteps trod. Morris did not
fully know that he was hugging this fond dream, until he felt the keen
pang which cut like a dissector's knife as Katy, turning her bright,
eager face up to him, whispered softly: "He's coming to-morrow--he
surely is; I have his letter to tell me so."

Morris did not see the sunshine then upon the distant hills, although it
lay there just as purple as before Katy came, bringing blackness and