and are mortally afraid Nat will see your lip tremble. Of course you
promise to write, and squeeze her hand with an honesty you do not think
of doubting--for weeks.

It is a dull, cold ride, that day, for you. The winds sweep over the
withered cornfields with a harsh, chilly whistle, and the surfaces of
the little pools by the roadside are tossed up into cold blue wrinkles
of water. Here and there a flock of quail, with their feathers ruffled
in the autumn gusts, tread through the hard, dry stubble of an oatfield;
or, startled by the snap of the driver's whip, they stare a moment at
the coach, then whir away down the cold current of the wind. The blue
jays scream from the roadside oaks, and the last of the blue and purple
asters shiver along the wall. And as the sun sinks, reddening all the
western clouds to the color of the frosted maples, light lines of the
Aurora gush up from the northern hills, and trail their splintered
fingers far over the autumn sky.

It is quite dark when you reach home, but you see the bright reflection
of a fire within, and presently at the open door Nelly clapping her
hands for welcome. But there are sad faces when you enter. Your mother
folds you to her heart; but at your first noisy outburst of joy puts her
finger on her lip, and whispers poor Charlie's name. The Doctor you see
too, slipping softly out of the bedroom-door, with glasses in his hand;
and--you hardly know how--your spirits grow sad, and your heart
gravitates to the heavy air of all about you.

You cannot see Charlie, Nelly says;--and you cannot in the quiet parlor
tell Nelly a single one of the many things, which you had hoped to tell
her. She says,--"Charlie has grown so thin and so pale, you would never
know him." You listen to her, but you cannot talk: she asks you what you