on their vacations, Hepsey had left her place for one in another
city, and Aunt Betsey seldom wrote.

But one day a letter came, telling her that the dear old lady would
never write again, and Christie felt as if her nearest and dearest
friend was lost. She had gone away to a quiet spot among the rocks
to get over her first grief alone, but found it very hard to check
her tears, as memory brought back the past, tenderly recalling every
kind act, every loving word, and familiar scene. She seldom wept,
but when any thing did unseal the fountains that lay so deep, she
cried with all her heart, and felt the better for it.

With the letter crumpled in her hand, her head on her knees, and her
hat at her feet, she was sobbing like a child, when steps startled
her, and, looking up, she saw Mr. Fletcher regarding her with an
astonished countenance from under his big sun umbrella.

Something in the flushed, wet face, with its tremulous lips and
great tears rolling down, seemed to touch even lazy Mr. Fletcher,
for he furled his umbrella with unusual rapidity, and came up,
saying, anxiously:

"My dear Miss Devon, what's the matter? Are you hurt? Has Mrs. S.
been scolding? Or have the children been too much for you?"

"No; oh, no! it's bad news from home," and Christie's head went down
again, for a kind word was more than she could bear just then.

"Some one ill, I fancy? I'm sorry to hear it, but you must hope for
the best, you know," replied Mr. Fletcher, really quite exerting