“Surely an angel’s countenance cannot be fairer, purer than hers,” he thought, listening while she talked of the only thing which had a power to separate her from him, making her seem as a friend, or at most as a beloved sister.

A long time they talked together, and the sun was setting ere Morris rose, suggesting that she go home, as the night dew would soon be falling.

“And you are not as strong as you once were,” he added, pulling her shawl around her shoulders with careful solicitude, and thinking how slender she had become.

From the back parlor Helen saw them coming up the path, detecting the changed expression of Morris’ face, and feeling a pang of fear when as he left them after nine o’clock she heard her mother say that he had not appeared so natural since Katy went away as he had done that night.  Knowing what she did, Helen trembled for Morris, with this terrible temptation before him, and Morris trembled for himself as he went back the lonely path, and stopped again beneath the chestnut tree where he had so lately sat with Katy.  There was a great fear at his heart, and it found utterance in words as kneeling by the rustic bench with only the lonely night around him and the green boughs overhead, he asked that he might be kept from sin, both in thought and deed, and be to Katy Cameron just what she took him for, her friend and elder brother.  And God, who knew the sincerity of the heart thus pleading before him, heard and answered the prayer, so that after that first night of trial Morris could look on Katy without a wish that she were otherwise than Wilford Cameron’s wife and the mother of his child.  He was happier because of her being at the farmhouse, though he did not go there one-half as often as she came to him.  She seemed to prefer Linwood to the farmhouse, staying there hours, both when he was at home and when he was away, strolling through his garden, or sitting quietly in the pleasant summer-house which looked out upon the pond.

Those September days were happy ones to Katy, who, freed from all restraint, became a child again—­a petted, spoiled child, whom every one caressed and suffered to have her way.  To Uncle Ephraim it was as if some bright angel had suddenly dropped into his path, flooding it with sunshine, and making him so glad to have back his “Katy-did,” who went with him to the fields, waiting patiently till his work was done, and telling him of all the wondrous things she saw abroad, but speaking little of her city life.  That was something she did not care to talk about, and but for Wilford’s letters, and the frequent mention of baby, the deacon could easily have imagined that Katy had never left him.  But these were barriers between the old life and the present, these were the insignia of Mrs. Wilford Cameron, who was watched and envied by the curious Silvertonians, and pronounced charming by them all.  Still there was one drawback to Katy’s happiness.  She missed her child, mourning for it so much that her