her birds could sing with such shrill gayety, put no ribbon in her hair, and said, as she looked at the reflection of her own tired face in the glass,—
"Poor thing! you thought the new leaf would have something pleasant on it. The story has been very sweet and easy to read so far, but the sad and sober part is coming now."
A tap at the door reminded her that, in spite of her afflictions, breakfast must be eaten; and the sudden thought that Charlie might still be in the house made her hurry to the door, to find Dr. Alec waiting for her with his morning smile. She drew him in, and whispered anxiously, as if some one lay dangerously ill near by,—
"Is he better, uncle? Tell me all about it: I can bear it now."
Some men would have smiled at her innocent distress, and told her this was only what was to be expected and endured; but Dr. Alec believed in the pure instincts that make youth beautiful, desired to keep them true, and hoped his girl would never learn to look unmoved by pain and pity upon any human being vanquished by a vice, no matter how trivial it seemed, how venial it was held. So his face grew grave, though his voice was cheerful as he answered,—
"All right, I dare say, by this time; for sleep is the best medicine in such cases. I took him home last night, and no one knows he came but you and I."
"No one ever shall. How did you do it, uncle?"
