he is the soul of generosity. I am afraid he must have made some unfortunate speculation."

"Poor fellow, I am sorry!" said mother. "He is so good to others, that it seems very hard he should suffer in such a way."

This news about our kind friend quite weighed upon my spirits. As mother said, it did seem hard; but somehow he always gave one the feeling that he had no private burdens of his own. Perhaps it was because he was always helping other people carry theirs.

THE next time he came, I looked at the Professor more anxiously than I had ever done before. What Tom said was true enough: he was terribly shabby, and the face was so thin too. It was always a grave face-one of those grave faces that a smile lightens up so wonderfully, and with such kind thoughtful eyes; but I could not help fancying I saw lines of care as well as lines of thought.

I had always been fond of studying faces, and puzzling them into a sort of map of their owner's mind. I felt very sorry for our good Professor, and wished I could be like the little mouse in the fable, and help the lion out of the net; but that, of course, was impossible. One thing did trouble me: he had utterly refused to take any remuneration for teaching the German children-refused it in such a way that we

could not mention the subject again. He assured us that he had arranged all that with his friend, the children's mother; but from what they told me of their home, it was very evident that they were far from rich; indeed, till they came to me, they had been educated entirely by their mother, and had been obliged to help her a good deal in the house-work. It sometimes puzzled me how she managed to pay such handsome terms for them. Now I came to the conclusion that some friend must do it. But still, I did not like the idea of our good Professor being so hard up, and getting nothing for his services when he came He was the kind of man to whom no one could speak of his own affairs-he always maintained the strictest reserve about them; but I knew he had other pupils, and that his terms were high, and I strongly suspected that he got nothing at all for teaching Gretchen and Adela. I tried to console myself with the thought that the little change to the country every week must do him good; and any one could see that he enjoyed it, and looked upon it as a sort of holiday. After all my cogitations, I came to the conclusion that the only thing I could do was to give him a warmer welcome than ever to the cottage, and do all I could to make him look upon it as a sort of home.

to us.

Whether he noticed any change in our manner, I cannot tell; but he certainly did seem particularly pleased and happy for the next few weeks when he came to see us. Mother always urged him to stay till Sunday evening, and if I put in a little word too, he was sure to yield; and then, when he had made up his mind to stay, he would put on a satisfied air, and set to work to do a little gardening or carpentering.

Mother, too, always looked so contented and pleased when he was there; her old bright smile would often flit across her face at his grave jokes. Then he used to lead her so carefully to church on Sunday morning; and if the afternoon was warm enough, wheel the most comfortable chair into the garden for her, and wrap her up in her shawls, and then sit down beside her with his pipe, and an expression of utter content upon his kind face.

The Professor did look shabby and thin, but he certainly had not the air of one in trouble-quite the reverse.

I remember now how mother used to watch him; and, after he was gone, how she used to look at me with wistful, inquiring eyes. Her manner to me was more tender than ever. She often seemed on the point of saying something important to me; but I generally

checked her, fearing what might come. My little secret was too young and tender to be spoken of, or even looked at, yet; in fact, it hardly existed.

One Sunday evening the children and I had walked a good way along the road with the Professor. I was feeling particularly bright and happy—everything looked so beautiful. The very last autumn tints were lit up by a glorious setting sun; and as we walked home by the river-side, I remember saying to the children I thought the reflection of the sunset in the water must be something like "the sea of glass, mingled with fire," in the Revelations. It was what Mr. Thornton had said to me the night before he went away, when we were making our last sketches together.

I had a little note from him in my pocket that Sunday night: only a few remarks on some sketches I had sent to him for criticism; for he had begged to be allowed to go on with his lessons by correspondence. I don't know why I carried the letter in my pocket, but there it was.

I suppose I looked unusually bright when I came in from the walk. Mother kept her eyes fixed on me with a curious, pleased expression. As soon as Gretchen and Adela were gone to bed, she came and sat down on the sofa, and drew me to her side. She sat, holding my hands in hers, for some time, and then said—