obsequies, seeing only one mourner, and that one Wilford Cameron. Even
he was not there in time to see her in her coffin, but he wept over her
little grave and called her "darling Katy." So vividly had Katy pictured
all this scene, that Morris, when he called, found her flushed and hot,
with traces of tears on her face.

In reply to his inquiries as to what was the matter, she had answered
laughingly: "Oh, nothing much--only I have been burying myself," and so
Morris never dreamed of the real nature of her reveries, or guessed that
Wilford Cameron was mingled with every thought. She had forgotten him,
he believed; and when, as she grew stronger, he saw how her eyes
sparkled at his coming, and how impatient she seemed if he was obliged
to hurry off, hope whispered that she would surely be his, and his
usually grave face wore a look of happiness which even his patients
noticed, feeling themselves better after one of his cheery visits. Poor
Morris! he was little prepared for the terrible blow in store for him,
when one day early in April he started, as usual, to visit Katy, saying
to himself: "If I find her alone, perhaps I'll tell her of my love, and
ask if she will come to Linwood this summer;" and Morris paused a moment
beneath a beechwood tree to still the throbbings of his heart, which
beat so fast as he thought of going home some day from his weary work
and finding Katy there, his little wife--his own--whom he might caress
and love all his affectionate nature would prompt him to. He knew that
in some points she was weak--a silly little thing she called herself
when comparing her mind with Helen's--but there was about her so much
of purity, innocence, and perfect beauty, that few men, however strong
their intellect, could withstand her, and Morris, though knowing her
weakness, felt that in possessing her he should have all he needed to
make this life desirable. She would improve as she grew older, and it
would be a most delightful task to train her into what she was capable