WHEN Virginia first heard the gossip that linked Anna's name with that of Dr. Stillman's, it won from her a shocked and indignant denial; but a doubt was born in her mind; it troubled her not a little the more she thought of it; and she drove at once into town determined to learn if possible the whole truth.

She found Anna at home. With her was a tall, dark man, a man with a narrow receding forehead, a sallow skin, and lean jaws. With much apparent solicitude she was hovering over this visitor whom she was regaling with afternoon tea. To Virginia she introduced him as Dr. Stillman, and in a single swift glance Virginia took stock of him as she acknowledged the introduction by a curtsey, that was palpably most disquieting to the missionary; indeed, her manner was so cold and distant that the smile which had relaxed his thin lips frittered itself away in the embarrassed silence that fell upon him.

He was aware that he must reckon on the antagonism of this splendid beauty; for he had been quick to recognize that the antagonism was there. It shook his sleek self-approval, and he turned to Anna,—Anna with her soft ways and pretty flatteries which made him feel strong and masterful and thoroughly at ease in her parlour, with a pleasant proprietory interest in her and in all that belonged to her;—but he was at once made to understand that in this small family crisis he was to stand alone.

He had heard the phrase, a great lady, and the younger Mrs. Landray lived up to the title in a most disquieting fashion. There was a subtle claim to superiority on her part that he weakly accepted without a challenge or the wish to assert himself. Anna's quite uncommon prettiness, too, paled beside Virginia's fuller beauty, which had never been complimentary to others of her sex.

Virginia, meanwhile, had been indulging in certain frigid civilities that did not exactly include the doctor, yet did not actually ignore his presence; they were sufficiently restrained, however; and he eagerly availed himself of the first opening to beat a retreat, and backed awkwardly from the room. On the steps with the house door closed at his back, he paused, and an unhealthy glow suffused his cheeks. The memory of her manner toward him rankled and hurt his pride; then he recalled Anna's soft farewells, and clapped his tall beaver on his head with an air that was almost jaunty, while his dark eyes flashed with triumph.

“So that is Dr. Stillman?” said Virginia, when the door had closed on the missionary; and as this did not seem to call for a reply, Anna was silent. “I have been hearing a good deal about him.” She shot Anna a swift searching glance.

“Yes,” said Anna airily, “he is very much before the public.”

“I don't mean in those ways,” said Virginia. “He doesn't seem a very cheerful person,” she added.

“That depends on how you take him, and I must say, Virginia, you were almost rude to the man, I never saw him so ill at ease.”

“Was I? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be.”

“That was the trouble, you didn't mean to be anything to him; he might just as well have been a piece of furniture, for all the notice he got from you.”

“Don't you think it unwise of you to see so much of him?” asked Virginia abruptly.

“Why is it unwise?” demanded Anna, who was instantly on the defencive.

“It will make talk,” urged Virginia gently.

“Anything will make that;” Anna said. “I'm sure I'm careful, I see almost no one, I go nowhere! I don't know what more you can ask of me, Virginia.”

“But the doctor comes here very frequently, does he not?”

“Dear me!” said Anna fretfully. “One can hear most anything if one will only listen.”

“Of course, I know it's the merest gossip—you couldn't—” she broke off abruptly.

Anna elevated her eyebrows. “I don't see why any one should say anything; he calls occasionally, he is interested in—”

“Interested, dear, in you?” questioned Virginia.

“Oh, dear, no! In my spiritual welfare,” she dropped her eyes prettily.

Virginia laughed quite audibly at this.

Anna shivered at the sound. She hated ridicule.

“Since poor Bush's death, I have felt that my life has been so worldly; indeed, I feel that I can never return to my former career of folly,” she sighed.

“Isn't that a rather harsh name for it? But I don't see what Dr. Stillman has to do with that,” said Virginia.

“Amusements have lost their relish. I am feeling the need of a more evangelical faith,” murmured Anna. The younger Mrs. Lan-dray laughed outright at this.

“And I suppose that is the reason you delight in the doctor's evangelical conversation.”

Anna sighed.

“Of course nothing is sacred to ridicule.”

“Oh, don't be silly!” said Virginia sharply. “Don't confound the doctor with his teachings!”

But Anna repelled the idea by a look.

“I do wish I knew what you meant,” said Virginia.

“Oh, I am so lonely!” cried Anna, with sudden frankness. “Of course I loved Bush, but I can't live in the memory of that! I am not like you, Virginia; there is this difference, why don't you try and understand it;” and then, by degrees, she told Virginia all; while the latter sat at her side, shocked, silent, and indignant. She had promised to marry the missionary. “I thought life had ended for me with Bush's death, but I find I can still be something to some one,” she added in justification of the step she had taken.

“I see,” said Virginia, with unexpected gentleness, and the anger faded from her eyes, and in its place was only sorrow.

“I was devoted to him while he lived—you know that, Virginia?” insisted Anna, almost fiercely. “And I adore his memory, and always shall, but it's not enough,” she looked up into her sister's face. “You will never marry again, you are different from me. Oh, I wish I were like you, dear!”

“What about little Stephen?” asked Virginia quietly. She accepted the situation, she felt there was nothing more to say.

“We shan't take him with us,” said Anna, greatly relieved by the other's altered tone.

“Take him with you where?” demanded Virginia.

“To India,” answered Anna.

“To India!” cried Virginia.

“Yes, to India;” but there was no little trepidation in her manner.

“You surely don't mean to tell me that man proposes to marry you and take you to India?”

“Why, of course, dear,” meekly, and as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

Virginia looked at her in wonder. With Bush, she had always had her own way, he had denied her nothing. Virginia remembered her insistence; that she had never abandoned a purpose or desire until he yielded; and she mentally contrasted the handsome, easygoing fellow with this narrow-browed stranger from over the seas, and was moved to something very like pity for Anna.

“Why don't you leave little Stephen with me?” she at length asked.

“I thought you might like to have him; of course not for always,” she hastened to explain. “But the doctor says India is no place for children.”

“He is going to return there? You have not sought to dissuade him, to use your influence?”

“I haven't tried. It would be useless. He has started such a great work there among those dreadful pagans; he thinks I can be of such help to him in his labours.”

And Virginia saw that vanity, and probably a very real sense of loss, had worked this change in Anna; she also realized from the ready acceptance of the life the doctor had mapped out for her, something of the man's determination of character, a force that was all the stronger because of the narrow channels into which it had been directed by the chance that had determined his career.

“So I am to have little Stephen—poor little fellow!”

They were silent for a time and then Anna said, still in justification of her course.

“It's my chance for happiness, Virginia. I'm too young to bury myself alive, I know Bush wouldn't expect it, I know he would approve; and you can't think what a comfort that conviction is!”

“And you really expect to marry Dr. Stillman?” Virginia set her lips. “Then I have nothing more to say, Anna, absolutely nothing; you must judge for yourself. I don't propose to criticize you, or your future husband; no good can come of that, and we won't be friends long if I do. Of course I'll take little Stephen, you know that all along I have wanted you and him at the farm; I'd rather have you both, but I see that will never be,” she quitted her chair as she spoke.

“Oh, please don't go just yet, dear,” entreated Anna. Now that Virginia knew, and seemed so reasonable in her opinions she would have liked to keep her and make her her confidant; there was much to tell, so much in the way of profitable discussion of her plans. But Virginia had heard enough.

“I must go, Anna, I really must go; Sam West is tired of waiting for me, and I wish to go home,” she sighed gently. “I shall be sorry to lose you, dear,” she said graciously, “and perhaps when I am a little more familiar with the idea I shall see it differently; more as you see it.”

But on the drive home, the cheerfulness she had assumed in Anna's presence left her; she realized that it was but a few months since they had really known of their loss, and already Anna had formed new ties and interests, and these far removed from anything that had fallen within their past experiences. India—it vaguely suggested the ends of the earth, but beyond this it was only a sound, it carried no meaning.

It was found that Anna's affairs and their adjustment, presented certain difficulties which necessitated the calling in of the patient Benson. By the terms of her husband's will, she was, in the event of her second marriage, to take one third of his estate and the house in town, the remainder going to little Stephen.

Virginia consented to the expedient of mortgaging the mill. It was in vain that Benson expostulated; pointing out the manifest unfairness of such a course; but a very satisfactory condition resulted from the buying out of Anna's interest; he was relieved of her, and now he could administer Virginia's means to the best possible advantage.

He would like to have known just what Virginia thought about Anna's marriage, but he never ventured to ask; and he fancied he detected in her manner a certain reserve whenever it was under discussion.

Benson also found a purchaser for Anna's house in town, and she overcame her dislike for the country sufficiently to go out to the farm with little Stephen, where she remained until her marriage, which occurred late in the summer following Benson's return from the west. To the very last she was sustained by her love of excitement; but when Benson, and Dr. Stillman, and Dr. Stillman's brother, who had performed the ceremony, had withdrawn to the library where they spent a gloomy half hour in waiting for Sam West to drive up to the door; and she and Virginia with Jane had gone up-stairs to finish packing her trunks; her gaiety quite left her; she appreciated for the first time the radical nature of the change that was before her; and she clung to Virginia with many endearments, weeping softly.

“I may never come back, Virginia; and if I don't, you will be a mother to my boy?”

“He is more to me than any one else in the world, now that you are going away, dear,” said Virginia gently. She had forgotten all of Anna's selfishness, her general unfairness, and the fact that she had not disdained to drive an exceedingly close bargain in the division of the estate; the latter, a point that the exasperated Benson could not get over and which he had kept before her with some insistence. These were the contradictory elements in human nature she felt; and her only emotion now was one of generous pity.

“Where is Stephen, Virginia?”

“He is with Martha; shall Jane go for him?”

“No, not yet. Let him stay with Martha till the last minute; until just before I go. You will do more for him than I could, Virginia; it is only believing this that makes it possible for me to leave him. You are lots wiser than I am, so perhaps it is providential that he should be left with you. When I come back in three or four years I expect he will be quite a big fellow, but don't let him forget his mother. Perhaps I haven't been just the best mother in the world, but in my own way I love him; you will not let him forget me—promise! Oh, it is so dreadful to be torn by these different loves and duties, I wish I was sure that I was doing right! The doctor doesn't seem to have any doubts, he is quite sure that I am.”

But Virginia had nothing to say to this. She disliked Dr. Stillman, for with true feminine constancy she had refused to modify her first unfavourable opinion of him. Anna she could forgive for her weakness and selfishness, and for what she considered her lack of any deep feeling, for Anna belonged to the family and bore the name of Lan-dray; but the doctor was to be judged by quite different standards; the charity she chose to exercise in the one case did not apply to the other.

And Anna having done exactly what she wished, having had her own way in every particular, and having sacrificed nothing of her feelings, her convenience, or her worldly fortunes, was now bent on being handsomely contrite.

“I have been frivolous and extravagant, and I expect a great care to you, Virginia, since poor Bush went away. I hope you will forgive me.”

“You have nothing to reproach yourself with, dear,” Virginia assured her.

“Oh, yes, I have! I fear even in settling up the estate I was selfish I should not have asked you to buy out my interest. Mr. Benson said I was involving you and the property. I don't see why he should have added that to my burdens at this time. I don't think he likes me any more; but it doesn't matter about him, Virginia; I don't care what he thinks, but it means everything to me what you think! And you won't be influenced by what he says about the property; that I should pay back the extra money I had before we knew? That was pure spite, Virginia!”

“I am sure he didn't mean it as you think, dear.”

“Then I wish he hadn't said it; for I shall always be troubled by it, especially as I think it is quite true; no, I can't cheat myself I am going away with a guilty conscience in the matter; my only consolation is that I shall probably have to make great sacrifices for those awful pagans! The doctor has assured me that my life will be one of the greatest self-denial; you can think of me out there as being all I was not here, but should have been!”

“I wish you were not going!” said Virginia.

“I feel that I am passing out of your life, and out of Stephen's; perhaps I shall never come back—I begin to be afraid!”

“Oh, no, that is nonsense!”

“Do you really think so, Virginia? You are such a comfort! You will have Stephen write me, I shall get so much happiness from his dear little scrawls!”

By this time she was dressed for her journey; and Virginia and Jane were busy with her trunks. Anna sat and watched them, slowly drawing on her gloves, and occasionally favouring them with suggestions and advice. She had already recovered much of her cheerfulness; and it was plain that the proper packing of those trunks was now the matter that rested heaviest on her mind.

Down stairs in the library, Benson and Dr. Stillman, and Dr. Stillman's brother sat stiffly in their chairs and watched the gilt hands of the big marble clock on the mantle-piece. Benson, erect and uncomfortable, and monosyllabic as to speech, was finding Mr. Stillman fussy and objectionable; and he had all along considered the doctor generally offencive; furthermore he thought the whole affair scandalous and wholly without justification. But he resented it most on Virginia's account; she would have to take up the burden of Anna's neglected duties in the case of little Stephen; and she already had Jane and Jane's baby on her hands; cares of his providing, that were now a misery to him to think of.

Presently Sam West drove up from the barn and hitched his team. The three men heard him open the front door and mount the stairs. He had gone for Anna's trunks.

Benson heaved a sigh of relief and quitted his chair with alacrity: the doctor and his brother rose, too.

“Can I offer you a seat with us into town?” asked the former, civilly turning to Benson.

“No, I thank you, I have my own horse and cart here.”

The doctor extended his hand.

“Good-bye, sir,” he said coldly, and Benson touched the tips of the three nerveless fingers he had given him.

“Good-bye,” said the lawyer.

“You will drive in with us, Andrew?” and the doctor turned to his brother.

“Yes, indeed, my dear John; I must see the last of you and Anna,” and he patted the missionary affectionately on the arm, who now turned from him abruptly and moved toward the door opening into the hall.

On the stairs above, Anna, and Virginia, and Jane appeared. Anna was smiling radiantly, though there were still traces of tears on her cheeks, for she had just parted from little Stephen. Virginia, who was watching her, knew that no deep nor stable emotion could long possess her light nature; and she felt her own heart fill with tenderness for the child.

Benson, roused out of the apathy, in which he had passed the last hour, to something like brightness, said:

“I wonder when we shall see you again, Mrs. Stillman? Those heathen over in India are to be congratulated.”

“Confess you are not sorry to see the last of me!” said Anna, giving him her hand.

“I shall confess nothing of the kind,” he assured her.

“Those are your civilities, sir—I know what they are worth, and I am not misled. I expect I have been a great care to you;” she smiled up brightly into his face. “But now that I am going away you must forgive me, you really must; for I want to feel that I am leaving only friends behind.”

Imperceptibly the doctor had edged her toward the door while she spoke, and through the door, and out on to the porch; and now she was standing at the head of the steps leading down to the path where Sam West waited at the horses' heads. She turned with a little smothered cry of dismay to throw her arms about Virginia for the last time.

“Be good to him!” she whispered. “Oh, I know you will!” she added in the same breath, and then the doctor urged her gently down the steps. From the door of the carriage she turned again, quite tremulous in her grief; but Virginia had disappeared, and there was only Jane and Benson.

“Good-bye!” cried Anna, “good-bye, and God bless you all!”

“Good-bye!” they called back, and then the doctor pushing his brother before him, mounted stiffly to his seat and closed the door; Sam touched his horses lightly with his whip, and the carriage rolled down the lane, and was soon out of sight on its road to Benson.

“They are gone!” said the lawyer at last, withdrawing his eyes from the spot where the carriage had last been visible through the trees that overhung the road. “We Americans are becoming a dreadfully diffuse people.”

Jane looked at him inquiringly.

“He must be a very good man to do all he does do for people who don't appreciate it,” she suggested.

“He is!” said the lawyer. “No one but a very good man would risk being so excessively unpleasant.”

“You don't like him,” said Jane; “but you think he will be good to her; do say that.”

“Oh, he's probably a man of high domestic virtues. Yes, he'll be good to her, in his way.” They were silent for a moment, and then Benson asked: “How about little Stephen; how did he take his mother's going?”

“Poor little fellow!” said Jane. “He doesn't understand yet.”

“He never will!” said Benson. “Mrs. Landray won't let him.”