Morning after morning, Dr. Eben and Hetty went together out of the
chamber, and stood in the open door-way, watching the crimson dawn on
the eastern hills. At such times, the doctor felt so near Hetty that he
was repeatedly on the point of saying again the words of love he had
spoken six months before. But a great fear deterred him.

"If she refuses me once more, that would settle it for ever," he
said to himself, and forced the words back.

One morning after a night of great anxiety and fear, they left Sally's
room while it was yet dark. It was bitterly cold; the winter stars shone
keen and glittering in the bleak sky. Hetty threw on a heavy cloak, and
opening the hall-door, said:

"Let us go out into the cold air; it will do us good."

Silently they walked up and down the piazza. The great pines were
weighed down to the ground by masses of snow. Now and then, when the
wind stirred the upper branches, avalanches slid noiselessly off, and
built themselves again into banks below. There was no moon, but the
starlight was so brilliant that the snow crystals glistened in it. As
they looked at the sky, a star suddenly fell. It moved very slowly, and
was more than a minute in full sight.

"One light-house less," said Dr. Eben.

"Oh," exclaimed Hetty, "what a lovely idea! who said that? Who called
the stars lighthouses?"

"I forget," said the doctor; "in fact I think I never knew; I think it