heap, but the sentiment is everlasting. It is like the worm which never dies. It overwhelmed George now. He looked at Grace again, and something in her air—a resigned, gentle melancholy—made him fear she was not happy. He felt sorry for her, and angry with Godfrey. "He doesn't understand her," he thought. "He means well, but he is too much wrapt up in his work. She wants sympathy and tenderness, and he takes her to a concert. What a stick!" The more he pondered it, the sadder he grew. "She is pining away under his neglect," he thought.
"You wish you were stronger!" said Lady Hemingway; "what is the matter with you? I wish I had a quarter of your health. Dr. Ives told me, the other day, he considered you quite the most robust woman he knows."
"Ah, well," said Grace, "I'm only too glad to hear it, I'm sure—only doctors don't know everything." Soon after that she kissed her mother and her aunt, said good-bye, and left. George Golightly took her home; he said he wanted to see Godfrey.
For a short time they walked in silence. It was Grace's suggestion that they should walk; she said she was fond of walking, but could very seldom find any one to walk with: Godfrey was a very early riser, and took his exercise before breakfast. Again she sighed, but added, "Dear Godfrey ! It is such happiness to see him so completely engrossed with his work."
"You're so unselfish," said George, gruffly.
"Oh no," said Grace, "don't say that. When a woman marries a gifted man like Godfrey, one of her
