you've given me good for evil, miss, - bless you for it."

"Let bygones be bygones, Ryan," replied Ada, smiling, as she rose to depart.

His words had called up the memory of her first meeting with George Clariston. She remembered how gladly she had hailed the advent of the handsome stranger who had so gallantly fronted the belligerent Tom. She left the Ryans' kitchen with a light heart, fully satisfied with herself and the results of her teaching; and, having said a kindly good-bye to Tom, she went her way along the street.

Every sordid wayside object seemed to be glorified by the late burst of afternoon sunshine. The wind had sunk to rest, and the calm air and golden light tempted mothers to stand at their doors, with babies in their arms. And there, at the streetcorner, stood George Clariston, handsome and bright as when Ada had first beheld him. Her flush of pleasure said plainly that his presence was welcome.

"You were a long time in the Ryans' house,” he said, as he met her. "You must have been a sunbeam to them."

66

Oh, there is enough sunshine this afternoon without any brightness of mine."

"Not for me, Ada; I am afraid I have been envying those poor people for the last twenty minutes."

She blushed deeper. Passers-by, in their Sunday clothes, looked smilingly at the handsome young couple. The sunshine had brought artisans and their wives and sweethearts out walking; and the women, in their cheap holiday attire, glanced admiringly and half-enviously at Ada's velvet and sable. She had never been prettier than she was on that day; her face glowed with happiness; her blue eyes had a tender light in them. She was so well pleased with everything-so contented with her lot-that sorrow seemed an impossible thing.

She had talked wisely and well to little Martha Ryan; but had she herself ever known what it was to hunger and thirst after righteousness? No one had ever dared to put that plain question to her. But this was no time for plain questions: it was a time for enjoyment of a quiet kind.

Old brick houses began to glow in the red sun

set; a few ivy-clusters stood out, green and polished; a flight of pigeons came whirring overhead. Working men and women said to each other that it must be very sweet now in the country places far away. And Dr. Fenway, lying in his bed, was thinking of the old rural home where he was born.

His sister had placed a flower-glass on a little table near his pillow. It was filled with violets, purple and white; their fragrant breath wandered across his face, and the sight of them gladdened his weary eyes. He never told anyone how tired he had grown of that sick chamber; he never said that he had almost learned to hate the pattern of the chintz draperies and the squares on the carpet. As to the paper on the walls, how often he had wished that it had been any other colour rather than pale sea-green! This invalid - misery of studying every nook and corner of the room was borne patiently; yet sometimes the doctor felt it to be well-nigh intolerable.

The sunset touched the pale wall with a warmer tint, and the violets drew his thoughts away to old scenes. He pictured the farmhouse, with its many

tiles and gables; the room where his mother had loved to sit in the sunshine; the warm bank on which the primrose - stars always opened first. He was smiling unconsciously, and dreaming, with eyes half-closed, when a quick step suddenly startled him out of his reverie.

CHAPTER XIX.

ADA'S CONFESSION.

ADA, thoroughly preoccupied and excited, had

forgotten that her father's nerves were still exceedingly weak. He was now well enough to bear a daily visit from his children; but these visits were always brief, and Dr. Deane desired. that there might be very little talking.

His daughter had acted on impulse when she entered his room with that hasty step. Downstairs, the others were still lingering over the tea-table, at which Mrs. Hurst presided as usual. The nurse, in compliance with an earnest request from her charge, was taking a stroll in the garden. Therefore there was no one to whisper a word of warning when Ada entered; and she scarcely noticed the startled look on the invalid's face.

"Oh papa," she began, in a soft, hurried tone,