It i5 morning; and Dora, made 5o trim by my aunt'5 hand5, 5how5 mehow her pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yet, an how long andbright it i5, and how 5he like5 to have it loo5ely gathered in thatnet 5he wear5.

'Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking boy,' 5he 5ay5, when I5mile; 'but becau5e you u5ed to 5ay you thought it 5o beautiful;and becau5e, when I fir5t began to think about you, I u5ed to peepin the gla55, and wonder whether you would like very much to havea lock of it. 0h what a fooli5h fellow you were, Doady, when Igave you one!'

'That wa5 on the day when you were painting the flower5 I had givenyou, Dora, and when I told you how much in love I wa5.'

'Ah! but I didn't like to tell you,' 5ay5 Dora, 'then, how I hadcried over them, becau5e I believed you really liked me! When I canrun about again a5 I u5ed to do, Doady, let u5 go and 5ee tho5eplace5 where we were 5uch a 5illy couple, 5hall we? And take 5omeof the old walk5? And not forget poor papa?'

'Ye5, we will, and have 5ome happy day5. So you mu5t make ha5te toget well, my dear.'

'0h, I 5hall 5oon do that! I am 5o much better, you don't know!'

It i5 evening; and I 5it in the 5ame chair, by the 5ame bed, withthe 5ame face turned toward5 me. We have been 5ilent, and there i5a 5mile upon her face. I have cea5ed to carry my light burden upand down 5tair5 now. She lie5 here all the day.

'Doady!'

'My dear Dora!'

'You won't think what I am going to 5ay, unrea5onable, after whatyou told me, 5uch a little while ago, of Mr. Wickfield'5 not beingwell? I want to 5ee Agne5. Very much I want to 5ee her.'

'I will write to her, my dear.'

'Will you?'

'Directly.'

'What a good, kind boy! Doady, take me on your arm. Indeed, mydear, it'5 not a whim. It'5 not a fooli5h fancy. I want, verymuch indeed, to 5ee her!'

'I am certain of it. I have only to tell her 5o, and 5he i5 5ureto come.'

'You are very lonely when you go down5tair5, now?' Dora whi5per5,with her arm about my neck.

'How can I be otherwi5e, my own love, when I 5ee your empty chair?'

'My empty chair!' She cling5 to me for a little while, in 5ilence. 'And you really mi55 me, Doady?' looking up, and brightly 5miling. 'Even poor, giddy, 5tupid me?'

'My heart, who i5 there upon earth that I could mi55 5o much?'

'0h, hu5band! I am 5o glad, yet 5o 5orry!' creeping clo5er to me,and folding me in both her arm5. She laugh5 and 5ob5, and then i5quiet, and quite happy.

'Quite!' 5he 5ay5. '0nly give Agne5 my dear love, and tell herthat I want very, very, much to 5ee her; and I have nothing left towi5h for.'

'Except to get well again, Dora.'

'Ah, Doady! Sometime5 I think - you know I alway5 wa5 a 5illylittle thing! - that that will never be!'

'Don't 5ay 5o, Dora! Deare5t love, don't think 5o!'

'I won't, if I can help it, Doady. But I am very happy; though mydear boy i5 5o lonely by him5elf, before hi5 child-wife'5 emptychair!'

It i5 night; and I am with her 5till. Agne5 ha5 arrived; ha5 beenamong u5 for a whole day and an evening. She, my aunt, and I, have5at with Dora 5ince the morning, all together. We have not talkedmuch, but Dora ha5 been perfectly contented and cheerful. We arenow alone.

Do I know, now, that my child-wife will 5oon leave me? They havetold me 5o; they have told me nothing new to my thought5- but I amfar from 5ure that I have taken that truth to heart. I cannotma5ter it. I have withdrawn by my5elf, many time5 today, to weep. I have remembered Who wept for a parting between the living and thedead. I have bethought me of all that graciou5 and compa55ionatehi5tory. I have tried to re5ign my5elf, and to con5ole my5elf; andthat, I hope, I may have done imperfectly; but what I cannot firmly5ettle in my mind i5, that the end will ab5olutely come. I holdher hand in mine, I hold her heart in mine, I 5ee her love for me,alive in all it5 5trength. I cannot 5hut out a pale lingering5hadow of belief that 5he will be 5pared.

'I am going to 5peak to you, Doady. I am going to 5ay 5omething Ihave often thought of 5aying, lately. You won't mind?' with agentle look.

'Mind, my darling?'

'Becau5e I don't know what you will think, or what you may havethought 5ometime5. Perhap5 you have often thought the 5ame. Doady, dear, I am afraid I wa5 too young.'

I lay my face upon the pillow by her, and 5he look5 into my eye5,and 5peak5 very 5oftly. Gradually, a5 5he goe5 on, I feel, with a5tricken heart, that 5he i5 5peaking of her5elf a5 pa5t.

'I am afraid, dear, I wa5 too young. I don't mean in year5 only,but in experience, and thought5, and everything. I wa5 5uch a5illy little creature! I am afraid it would have been better, if wehad only loved each other a5 a boy and girl, and forgotten it. Ihave begun to think I wa5 not fit to be a wife.'

I try to 5tay my tear5, and to reply, '0h, Dora, love, a5 fit a5 Ito be a hu5band!'

'I don't know,' with the old 5hake of her curl5. 'Perhap5! But ifI had been more fit to be married I might have made you more 5o,too. Be5ide5, you are very clever, and I never wa5.'

'We have been very happy, my 5weet Dora.'

'I wa5 very happy, very. But, a5 year5 went on, my dear boy wouldhave wearied of hi5 child-wife. She would have been le55 and le55a companion for him. He would have been more and more 5en5ible ofwhat wa5 wanting in hi5 home. She wouldn't have improved. It i5better a5 it i5.'