Hilarie sat alone in the deep recesses of the western porch of the old church. Although it was November, this sheltered porch was still warm; the swallows that make the summer, and their friends the swifts, were gone; the leaves which still clung to the trees were red and brown and yellow; the grass which clothed the graves no longer waved under the breeze with light and shade and sunshine; none of the old bedesmen were walking the churchyard; even the children in the school were silent over their work, as if singing only belonged to summer; and the wind whistled mournfully in the branches of the yew. Her face, always so calm and restful to others, was troubled and disturbed as she sat by herself.

She held two letters in her hand. One of them was open. She had already read it twice; now she read it a third time. It was from Molly, and it ran as follows:—

"Dearest President of the only college where they teach sweet thoughts and gracious manners and nothing else—where they have only one professor, who is the president and the chaplain and all the lecturers—I have not seen you for so long a time that I am ashamed. Now I am going to tell you why. I must make confession, and then I must ask your advice. I can do this much better by writing than by talking, so that I will write first and we will talk afterwards. I have to tell you most unexpected things, and most wonderful events. They are full of temptations and quandaries.

"First, for my confession. Your ambition for me has been that I should be ambitious for myself. I have done my best to meet your wish; I have tried to be ambitious in the best way—your way. You thought that I might make a serious attempt at serious acting—that I might become a queen of tragedy. Alas! I have felt for some time that I must abandon the attempt. I cannot portray the emotions, I cannot feel the emotions, of tragedy; my nature is too shallow; I cannot realize a great passion. I only know that it must produce in voice, and face, and speech, and gesture, changes and indications that cannot be taught. As for me, when I try, I become either stilted or wooden. The passion does not seize me and possess me. Ambition, of a kind, is not wanting. I like to imagine myself a great actress, sweeping across the stage with a velvet train; I like to think of the people rising and applauding; but, as for the part, I am not moved at all. I think about nothing but myself. If I look in the glass, I am told that I have not the face for tragedy. If I begin to declaim, I cannot feel the words. I am just like the young man who kept on dreaming that he was a great poet, until he made the disagreeable discovery that in order to be a great poet it is absolutely necessary to write great poems. My dear Hilarie, I must put a stop to this attempt at once. I have been a burden to you for five long years. Let me not load you with more than is necessary. I don't say anything about thanks, because you know—you know.

"Dick—you remember Dick, my father's old young friend—the Dick that turned up on tramp that day you three cousins met—tells me that in comedy I should do well. You shall hear, directly, that it is quite possible that I may change the buskin for the sock—which he says is the classical way of putting it. He tells me that an expressive face—mine can screw up or be pulled out like an indiarubber face—a tall figure, and a fairly good voice, are wanted first of all; and that I have all three. But you will see directly that poor Dick is not quite a disinterested person. Still, he may be right, and I must say that if I am to go on the stage, I would rather make them laugh than cry. It must be much more pleasant to broaden their faces with smiles than to stiffen them with terror at the sight of the blood-stained dagger.

"The stage seems the only profession open to a girl like me, if I am to have a profession at all—which you will understand directly is no longer absolutely necessary. I was born behind the footlights, Dick was born in the sawdust; so there seems a natural fitness. However, until I knew you all, my acquaintances were these folk; I have never learned to think of myself as belonging to the world at all. To my young imagination the world consisted of a great many people, whose only occupation was to scrape money together in order to buy seats at a theatre. Some made things, some painted things, some built things, some contrived things, some wrote things; they were extremely industrious, because their industry brought them tickets. The shops, I imagined, were only established and furnished for the purpose of providing things wanted by the show folk. I have never, in fact, got rid of that feeling. The show was everything; all the world existed only to be dramatized. Even the Church, you see, could be put upon the stage. So, as I said, the stage is the only profession for me, if I am to choose a profession.

"There is another thing. I suppose I got this idea, too, from my up-bringing. It is that to be an actress is the one honourable career for a woman. Not to be a great actress—but just an actress, that's all. I believe that the people who really belong to this profession from one generation to another, don't really care very much about being great actors; they are just content to belong to the profession, just as most doctors have no ambition to become great doctors, but are just content with being in the profession. In acting it is the new-comer who wants to be great. There is something comfortable and satisfying in a position of humble utility. I may possibly become the housemaid of farce, with a black daub upon my face.

"The next thing is about my newly discovered cousin, Alice Haveril. She is the kindest of women—next to one. She heaps kindnesses upon me. She loads me with dresses, gold chains, bonnets, gloves, and would load me with money if I could take it. But I will not have that form of gift.

"I am very much with her, because she has no friends here, and her husband is much engaged with his affairs. She is in most delicate health, with a weak heart. She has a terrible trouble, the nature of which I have recently learned; and she wants some one with her constantly. I spend most of the day with her; I drive with her, go shopping with her, read to her, and talk to her.

"Now, dear Hilarie, here is my temptation. My cousin Alice wants me to go back to America with her and her husband. He would like it, too. They are enormously rich; they could make me an heiress. The husband, John Haveril, is as honest and kindly a man as you could wish to find. He is a man who has made his own way; he has not the manners of society; but he is not vulgar; he is well bred by instinct.

"This is, I confess, a great temptation. It is more than a temptation, it seems almost a duty. I have found this poor, fragile creature; I know why she suffers. I think I ought not to leave her.

"If I accept their offer, I shall become one of the rich heiresses of America. It will mean millions. But then I really do not want millions. I shall have to give up all my friends if I go away to America. This would be very hard. I should also lose the happiness of desiring things I cannot now obtain. I believe that longing after things unattainable is the chief happiness of the impecunious. Only think of forming a wish and having it instantly realized! How selfish, how thoughtless of other people, how fat and coarse and lazy, one would become! Dick has often spoken of the terrible effect produced upon the mind by the possession of wealth. Perhaps he has prejudiced me.

"The next temptation comes from a certain young man. He besieges me—he swears he cannot live without me. He wants me to be engaged secretly—he says that I have promised. But I have not. As for keeping any secrets from you, and especially a matter of this importance, it is ridiculous. The young man is, in fact, one of the cousins—Sir Humphrey."