Carice was strolling languidly along the bank of the creek, the heaviness of her heart easily discoverable in her absent face and languid step. Her eyes rested on the same stream, her ears were filled with the murmur of the same leaves, which had witnessed her parting with Bergan, nearly two months before, yet neither made any distinct impression on her mind; she saw and heard but the flow and murmur of her own troubled thoughts. She had noticed a singular change of tone in Doctor Remy, of late, with respect to Bergan. He no longer made the young man the subject of free and frank conversation; if obliged to mention him at all, he did it with a certain reserve and caution, an air of picking and choosing his phrases, which at first puzzled, and was now beginning to alarm, the poor girl, already worn and nervous with the long sickness of hope deferred.

Her fears, however, took a different direction from what Doctor Remy had anticipated. He had intended his alteration of manner to suggest the grave, stern reserve of a man, who, though he had himself lost confidence in his friend, is still honorably reluctant to injure him in the estimation of another. But from any such suggestion, Carice\'s mind was shielded by her loyal faith in her lover, as by an armor of proof. Dr. Remy\'s change of manner only served to strengthen her growing conviction that Bergan\'s failure either to write, or to appear in person, could be caused by nothing short of some great and unexpected calamity. As her eyes followed a swift cloud-shadow from object to object of the summer landscape, so her mind followed the dark shade of her fears from point to point of possible ill. Perhaps the fever, quitting his mother, had fastened upon Bergan himself; perhaps he was ill, suffering, unconscious, dying, even, or—the thought shook her like a sudden blow—dead! Gasping for breath, she leaned against a friendly tree, and closed her eyes, as if to shut out the agonizing vision, which, nevertheless, rose but the more vividly before her. Quickly opening them again, she saw Doctor Remy coming toward her from the direction of the cottage. He had espied her from the piazza, as he was taking his leave, after having spent a half-hour with her mother.

She was glad to see him. He could set her free from the intolerable chafing of suspense, though it were but to hand her over to the chill bondage of despair. He would doubtless have done so, ere this, but for some request or warning of her parents to the contrary. How far this might have let him into the secret of her relations with Bergan, she know not,—neither did she care much, just now; how far it might avail to close his lips was a much more important consideration,—still she believed that she could gather something from the expression of his face, even though he should think it right to evade her questions.

She seized upon the first opportunity, therefore, to look him, steadily in the face, though her own flushed a little, as she did so; and to ask, quietly,—"Have you heard anything from my cousin Bergan lately?"

Doctor Remy\'s face underwent a quick change of expression, none the less effective that it was obedient to his will. "Yes," replied he, sombrely, "I had a letter from him two or three days ago."

Carice could scarcely restrain a cry of joy; it was such a relief to know that Bergan was alive, and able to write. But her immediate perception that something was kept back, saved her self-possession.

"And my aunt," she went on, as soon as she could, command her voice, "is she quite recovered?"

"Yes,—that is, I inferred so."

Carice looked a little surprised. It would seem that Bergan\'s letter had made no mention of his mother. "Has the fever attacked any of the others?" she continued.

"None."

"And Bergan is quite well himself?"

"He says nothing to the contrary."

Satisfactory as were these replies, in substance, there was a degree of dryness and brevity about them which was far otherwise. Unwilling to quit the subject thus, Carice ventured another query:—"Then, I suppose he may be expected back very soon?"

Doctor Remy looked grave even to sternness. "No, I think not."

Carice\'s heart sank. "Did he not say when he should come?" asked she, anxiously.

Doctor Remy seemed to become suddenly aware that she really had something more than a conventional interest in the subject, and to be willing to gratify it, to the best of his ability.

"I forget exactly what he said about it," replied he, "but I think I have his letter in my pocket-book." He drew forth a closely written sheet, and glanced rapidly over it, but seemed not to find what he sought. Applying again to the envelope, he produced a separate bit of paper. "Ah, yes, here we have it, in this slip of a postscript," he went on,—"\'In order to\'—um—um—\'I think I shall postpone my return until after Christmas.\' That is all."

Carice stood as in a dream. Bergan well! Bergan silent only to her! Bergan not coming back for three months yet!—her mind utterly refused to receive three such incongruous ideas. There must be some miserable mistake,—but where? She put her hand to her brow with a piteous gesture of perplexity and bewilderment.

Doctor Remy, meanwhile, failed not to observe the effect of his words, though apparently thinking only of refolding and rearranging his papers. It was precisely what he had expected; and, feeling quite secure, for the moment, from Carice\'s observation, he took occasion, as he returned Bergan\'s letter to his pocket-book, to let the postscript drop to the ground, taking care to conceal it with his foot during the remainder of his stay, which he wisely made short.

"Can I do anything more for you?" he asked, graciously, as he put up his pocket-book.

Carice gave a slight start, and turned toward him, with an inquiring look. She had heard, but she had not understood. He repeated his question.

"No, thank you," replied Carice, letting her eyes go back to the far, dark line of the pine forest.

"Then I must leave you. I only stopped to say good morning and good-bye. I had already spent my few moments of leisure with Mrs. Bergan."

He raised his hat courteously, and was gone.

Carice remained, trying her best to reduce the confusion of her mind to order, and, especially, to discover some clue to the mystery of Bergan\'s doings and intentions. She gave up the difficult task, at last, with a weary little shake of the head, and a smile of pity at her own helplessness.

"It is too deep for me," she said to herself, "but Bergan will be sure to explain it all. I must just go on trusting till he comes, or writes. He shall never be able to say that my faith in him was conquered by the first difficulty!"

There was something quieting and strengthening in the mere resolve. Trust has its own special delight,—a far subtler and sweeter thing than any satisfaction of the understanding. Carice\'s face was almost bright, as she turned to go home.

A folded paper lay directly in her path. Mech............