connie went back to giles, sat down by him, and he resumed his reading. he was going through the pilgrim's progress to her, reading short sentences at a time, for his voice was too low and weak to enable him to exert himself for long at a time.

"connie, wot were that as i read last?"

connie colored.

"you weren't listening," said giles reproachfully. "it wor a most beautiful bit. but you didn't hear me, connie."

"i wor thinking o' something else jest then," owned connie. "i'll listen now wid hall my might, dear giles."

"ah! but i'm tired now," said giles; "and besides, i want to talk 'bout something else, connie."

"well."

"sue have been a whole month in the country to-day—rayther more than a month. i don't understand it at all. i never thought as she could stay so long away from me. i suppose 'tis hall right, and cottages such as we want do take a powerful long time to find. it has been a long time—wery, wery long—but have i been patient 'bout sue all this long time, connie?"

"yes, indeed, dear giles."

"oh! i'm glad, fur i've tried to be. then, connie, wot i'm thinking is that ef sue don't soon come back—ef she don't soon find that 'ere cottage—why, i won't want it, connie. sue 'ull come back and find me—gone."

"gone!" echoed connie. "do you mean dead? oh giles! you're not ill enough to die."

"yes, connie, i think i am. i'm so real desperate weak sometimes that i don't like even to move a finger. i used to be hungry, too, but now i never cares to eat. besides, connie dear——"

"yes, giles," answered connie.

"those wings that i told you of—why, i often seem to feel them flutter inside of me. i told you before, connie, that when they was full grown, why, i'd fly away. i think they are growing wery fast. i'll want no cottage in the country now. i'm going away to a much better place, ain't i, connie?"

"oh! but, giles, i don't want to think that—i don't want to," answered connie, the tears raining down her cheeks.

"'tis real good fur me, though, connie. i used to pine sore fur the country; but it have come hover me lately that in winter it 'ud be dull—scarcely any flowers, and no birds singing, nor nothink. now, in heaven there's no winter. 'a land o' pure delight,' the hymn calls it, 'and never-withering flowers.' so you see, connie, heaven must be a sight better than the country, and of course i'd rayther go there; only i'm thinking as 'tis sech a pity 'bout sue."

"yes, i wish as sue was home," said connie.

"connie dear, couldn't we send her a message to come straight home to me now? i'm so feared as she'll fret real hard ef she comes wid news of that cottage and finds me gone."

"i'll look fur her; i will find her," said connie with sudden energy. then she rose and drew down the blinds.

"i'll find sue ef i can, giles; and now you will go to sleep."

"will you sing to me? when you sing, and i drop off to sleep listening, i allers dream arterwards of heaven."

"what shall i sing?"

"'there is a land of pure delight.'"