In response to Gertrude’s reproach Susan said in a low tone that was almost a whisper, “I congratulate you:  I think you are doing well.”

“Of course I’m doing well,” Gertrude said, lifting her head and speaking with triumphant animation.  “He’s wealthy and handsome, and half the girls in our set are dying for him.  But we’ve been about the same as engaged for months.  But about two weeks ago we had an awful quarrel, all about nothing.  But we were both so spunky I don’t believe we ever would have made up in the wide world if it hadn’t been for Mr. Falconer.  He just went back and forth between us until I agreed to grant Phil an interview.  So Phil came round to-night; and don’t you believe the conceited thing brought the ring along!”

Susan was listening with wide-opened, staring eyes, like one in a trance.  It wasn’t Mr. Falconer, then; and who in the world was Phil?  Was she awake?  Had she heard aright?  Yes, there was the ring and there was Gertrude, and she was still speaking:  “I’ve already picked out my bridesmaids, I’m going to have Nellie Trowbridge—­Phil’s sister, you know—­she’s going to stand with Tom; and you’re going to stand with Mr. Falconer, because he’s the senior partner in Phil’s firm:  and then I’m going to have Delia Spaulding and Minnie Lathrop, because they’ll make a good exhibition, they’re so stylish.”

On and on Gertrude went, talking of white satin and tulle and lace and bridal veils and receptions.  And Susan sat and listened with a happy light in her eyes, and now and then laughed a little glad laugh or spoke some sweet word of sympathy.

At a late hour in the night Susan put her arms around her sister and kissed the happy young face once, twice, three times, and said, in no whisper now, “God bless you, dear!” Then Gertrude went away to happy dreams, and left Susan to happy thoughts—­at last.

No, not at last.  The “at last” did not come till the next evening, when by Mr. Falconer’s side, warm and snug under the great wolf-robe, Susan heard something.  With the something there came at length to the tired, hungry, waiting heart the thrill, the transport, the enchanted music that makes this earth a changed world.

SARAH WINTER KELLOGG.

AFTER A YEAR.

  Dear! since they laid thee underneath the snow
    But one brief year with all its days hath past. 
    Methought its hurrying moments flew too fast: 
  I would have had them lingering, move more slow;
  For of the past one happy thing I know,
    That thou wert of it; but these swift days flee,
    And bear me to a future void of thee. 
  Yet still I feel that ever as I go
  I know thee better, and I love thee more. 
    As one withdraws from a tall mountain’s base
      To see its summit, bright, remote and high,
  So hath my heart through distance learnt its lore,
    The knowledge of thy soul’s most secret grace—­
      Those silent heights that lose themselves in sky.