name, and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood
ended now for all. Jo glanced into them, and when she came
to her own, leaned her chin on the edge, and stared absently at
the chaotic collection, till a bundle of old exercise-books caught
her eye. She drew them out, turned them over, and re-lived
that pleasant winter at kind Mrs. Kirke's. She had smiled at
first, then she looked thoughtful, next sad, and when she came
to a little message written in the Professor's hand, her lips
began to tremble, the books slid out of her lap, and she sat
looking at the friendly words, as if they took a new meaning,
and touched a tender spot in her heart.

"Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall
surely come."

"Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with
me always, my dear old Fritz, I didn't value him half enough
when I had him, but now how I should love to see him, for every
one seems going away from me, and I'm all alone." quo;

And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise
yet to be fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag-
bag, and cried, as if in opposition to the rain pattering on the
roof.

Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? or was it the
waking up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently
as its inspirer? Who shall say?

Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at
the fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the
hour of dusk; no one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on
Beth's little red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or
thinking tender thoughts of the sister who never seemed far
away. Her face looked tired, grave, and rather sad; for to-

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