father, urging him to take a house in York for the winter. "Not that it is so particularly lively," she wrote, "but it is not quite so deathly as at Pine Towers. Edward will be willing to come, I know, desperate lover of nature that he is, for there is nothing in the woods now but eternal requiem over lost and buried beauty, of which, in the natural vanity of youth, he may be tempted to consider himself a part. As for the children they will build snow-houses, and sit down in them, thus ensuring permanent bad colds, and the other member of your family, if she returns home, will 'look before and after, and sigh for what is not.' Is not that a sufficiently depressing picture? Dear papa, you know that, like the bad little boys in a certain class of Sunday School literature, I can't be ruled except by kindness. Now see what an immense opportunity I have given you to govern me according to approved Sunday School ethics!" She paused a moment, considering not what could be said, but what could be omitted from a missive which was to be convincing as well as caressing in its nature, when Helene entered the room. "Love letter, Rose?" she inquired carelessly. "Certainly," responded her friend, "all my letters are love letters. Would you have me write to a person I didn't love?" "Why, I couldn't help it, that is supposing the letter you are writing is addressed to Allan Dunlop. Of course he is a person you don't love." "There is no reason why I should." "No reason? O ingratitude! After he dived under the heels of a fiery horse, carried you nearly lifeless into the house, and took off his boots every time he entered it for six weeks thereafter. How much further could a man's devotion go?" "I am beginning to find out," said Rose, with a slight return of an invalid's irritation, "how far a _woman's_ devotion can go." Helene arched her delicate brows. "Are you offended?" she asked, anxiously. "Ah, don't be! I'll take back every word. He _didn't_ take off his boots, nor carry you in, nor pick you up, and, let me see--what other assertion did I make? Oh, yes. Of course he is a person you _do_ love. But oh, Rose, Rose, what are you blushing about? This isn't the time of year for roses to blush." "Upon my word, Helene, you are enough to make a stone wall blush." "Ah, you are thinking of the stone walls of a certain farm cottage. I can imagine you sitting propped up in bed, with a volume of hymns marking the line, 'Stone walls do not a prison make,' with a big exclamation-point, and a 'So true!'"