It is easy for the young to be happy before the deep feelings of the heart have been stirred. It is easy to be good when there has been no strong temptation to be evil; easy to be unselfish when nothing is ardently craved; easy to be faithful when faithfulness does not tear the soul out of its abiding-place. Some persons pass through all of life without strong temptations; not having deep feelings, they are likewise exempt from deep sins. These pass for saints. But when one thinks of the cause of their faultlessness, one understands perhaps better the meaning of those words, otherwise mysterious, that "joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance."

Anne went through that night her first real torture; heretofore she had felt only grief—a very different pain.

Being a woman, her first feeling, even before the consciousness of what it meant, was jealousy. What did Helen mean by speaking of him as though he belonged to her? She had never spoken in that way before. Although she—Anne—had mistaken the fictitious titles, still, even under the title, there had been no such open appropriation of the Knight-errant. What did she mean? And then into this burning jealous anger came the low-voiced question, asked somewhere down in the depths of her being, as though a judge was speaking, "What—is—it—to—you?" And again, "What is it to you?" She buried her face tremblingly in her hands, for all at once she realized what it was, what it had been, unconsciously perhaps, but for a long time really, to her.

She made no attempt at self-deception. Her strongest trait from childhood had been her sincerity, and now it would not let her go. She had begun to love Ward Heathcote unconsciously, but now she loved him consciously. That was the bare fact. It confronted her, it loomed above her, a dark menacing shape, from whose presence she could not flee. She shivered, and her breath seemed to stop during the slow moment while the truth made itself known to her. "O God!" she murmured, bursting into tears; and there was no irreverence in the cry. She recognized the faithlessness which had taken possession of her—unawares, it is true, yet loyal hearts are not conquered so. She had been living in a dream, and had suddenly found the dream reality, and the actors flesh and blood—one of them at least, a poor wildly loving girl, with the mark of Judas upon her brow. She tried to pray, but could think of no words. For she was false to Rast, she loved Heathcote, and hated Helen, yet could not bring herself to ask that any of these feelings should be otherwise. This was so new to her that she sank down upon the floor in utter despair and self-abasement. She was bound to Rast; she was bound to Helen. Yet she had, in her heart at least, betrayed them both.

"SHE BURIED HER FACE TREMBLINGLY IN HER HANDS."
"SHE BURIED HER FACE TREMBLINGLY IN HER HANDS."

Still, so complex is human nature that even here in the midst of her abasement the question stole in, whispering its way along as it came, "Does he care for me?" And "he" was not Rast. She forgot all else to weigh every word and look of the weeks and days that had passed. Slowly she lived over in memory all their conversations, not forgetting the most trivial, and even raised her arm to get a pillow in order that she might lie more easily; but the little action brought reality again, and her arm fell, while part of her consciousness drew off, and sat in judgment upon the other part. The sentence was scathing.

Then jealousy seized her again. She had admired Helen so warmly as a woman, that even now she could not escape the feeling. She went over in quick, hot review all that the sweet voice and delicate lips had ever said concerning the person veiled under the name of Knight-errant, and the result was a miserable conviction that she had been mistaken; that there was a tie of some kind—slight, perhaps, yet still a tie. And then, as she crushed her hands together in impotent anger, she again realized what she was thinking, and began to sob in her grief like a child. Poor Anne! she would never be a child again. Never again would be hers that proud dauntless confidence of the untried, which makes all life seem easy and secure. And here suddenly into her grief darted this new and withering thought: Had Heathcote perceived her feeling for him? and had he been playing upon it to amuse himself?

Anne knew vaguely that people treated her as though she was hardly more than a child. She was conscious of it, but did not dispute it, accepting it humbly as something—some fault in herself—which she could not change. But now the sleeping woman was aroused at last, and she blushed deeply in the darkness at the thought that while she had remained unconscious, this man of the world had perhaps detected the truth immediately, and had acted as he had in consequence of it. This was the deepest sting of all, and again hurriedly she went over all their conversations a second time; and imagined that she found indications of what she feared. She rose to her feet with the nervous idea of fleeing somewhere, she did not know where.

The night had passed. The sun had not yet risen, but the eastern sky was waiting for his coming with all its banners aflame. Standing by the window, she watched the first gold rim appear. The small birds were twittering in the near trees, the earth was awaking to another day, and for the first time Anne realized the joy of that part of creation which knows not sorrow or care; for the first time wished herself a flower of the field, or a sweet-voiced bird singing his happy morning anthem on a spray. There were three hours yet before breakfast, two before any one would be stirring. She dressed herself, stole through the hall and down the stairs, unbolted the side door, and went into the garden; she longed for the freshness of the morning air. Her steps led her toward the arbor; she stopped, and turned in another direction—toward the bank of the little river. Here she began to walk to and fro from a pile of drift-wood to a bush covered with dew-drops, from the bush back to the drift-wood again. Her feet were wet, her head ached dully, but she kept her mind down to the purpose before her. The nightmare of the darkness was gone; she now faced her grief, and knew what it was, and had decided upon her course. This course was to leave Caryl's. She hoped to return to Mademoiselle at the half-house, and remain there until the school opened—if her grandaunt was willing. If her grandaunt was willing—there came the difficulty. Yet why should she not be willing? The season was over; the summer flowers were gone; it was but anticipating departure by a week or two. Thus she reasoned with herself, yet felt all the time by intuition that Miss Vanhorn would refuse her consent. And if she should so refuse, what then? It could make no difference in the necessity for going, but it would make the going hard. She was considering this point when she heard a footstep. She looked up, and saw—Ward Heathcote. She had been there some time; it was now seven o'clock. They both heard the old clock in the office strike as they stood there looking at each other. In half an hour the early risers would be coming into the garden.

Anne did not move or speak; the great effort she had made to retain her composure, when she saw him, kept her motionless and dumb. Her first darting thought had been to show him that she was at ease and indifferent. But this required words, and she had not one ready; she was afraid to speak, too, lest her voice should tremble. She saw, standing there before her, the man who had made her forget Rast, who had made her jealous of Helen, who had played with her holiest feelings, who had deceived and laughed at her, the man whom she—hated? No, no—whom she loved, loved, loved: this was the desperate ending. She turned very white, standing motionless beside the dew-spangled bush.

And Heathcote saw, standing there before him, a young girl with her fair face strangely pale and worn, her eyes fixed, her lips compressed; she was trembling slightly and constantly, in spite of the rigidity of her attitude.

He looked at her in silence for a moment; then, knocking down at one blow all the barriers she had erected, he came to her and took her cold hands in his. "What is it she has said to you?" he asked.

She drew herself away without speaking.

"What has Helen said to you? Has she told you that I have deceived you? That I have played a part?"

But Anne did not answer; she turned, as if to pass him.

"You shall not leave me," he said, barring the way. "Stay a moment, Anne; I promise not to keep you long. You will not? But you shall. Am I nothing in all this? My feelings nothing? Let me tell you one thing: whatever Helen may have said, remember that it was all before I knew—you."

Anne's hands shook in his as he said this. "Let me go," she cried, with low, quick utterance; she dared not say more, lest her voice should break into sobs.

"I will not," said Heathcote, "until you hear me while I tell you that I have not played a false part with you, Anne. I did begin it as an experiment, I confess that I did; but I have ended by being in earnest—at least to a certain degree. Helen does not know me entirely; one side of me she has never even suspected."

"Mrs. Lorrington has not spoken on the subject," murmured Anne, feeling compelled to set him right, but not looking up.

"Then what has she said about me, that you should look as you do, my poor child?"

"You take too much upon yourself," replied the girl, with an effort to speak scornfully. "Why should you suppose we have talked of you?"

"I do not suppose it; I know it. I have not the heart to laugh at you, Anne: your white face hurts me like a sharp pain. Will you at least tell me that you do not believe I have been amusing myself at your expense—that you do not believe I have been insincere?"

"I am glad to think that you were not wholly insincere."

"And you will believe also that I like you—like you very, very much, with more than the ordinary liking?"

"That is nothing to me."

"Nothing to you? Look at me, Anne; you shall look once. Ah, my dear child, do you not see that I can not help loving you? And that you—love me also?" As he spoke he drew her close and looked down into her eyes, those startled violet eyes, that met his at last—for one half-moment.

Then she sprang from him, and burst into tears. "Leave me," she said, brokenly. "You are cruel."

"No; only human," answered Heathcote, not quite master of his words now. "I have had your confession in that look, Anne, and you shall never regret it."

"I regret it already," she cried, passionately; "I shall regret it all my life. Do you not comprehend? can you not understand? I am engaged—engaged to be married. I was engaged before we ever met."

"You engaged, when I thought you hardly more than a child!" He had been dwelling only upon himself and his own course; possibilities on the other side had not occurred to him. They seldom do to much-admired men.

"I can not help what you thought me," replied Anne. At this moment they heard a step on the piazza; some one had come forth to try the morning air. Where they stood they were concealed, but from the garden walk they would be plainly visible.

"Leave me," she said, hurriedly.

"I will; I will cross the field, and approach the house by the road, so that you will be quite safe. But I shall see you again, Anne." He bent his head, and touched her hand with his lips, then sprang over the stone wall, and was gone, crossing the fields toward the distant turnpike.

Anne returned to the house, exchanging greetings as she passed with the well-preserved jaunty old gentleman who was walking up and down the piazza twenty-five times before breakfast. She sought her own room, dressed herself anew, and then tapped at her grandaunt's door; the routine of the day had her in its iron grasp, and she was obliged to follow its law.

Mrs. Lorrington came in to breakfast like a queen: it was a royal progress. Miss Teller walked behind in amiable majesty, and gathered up the overflow; that is, she shook hands cordially with those who could not reach Helen, and smiled especially upon those whom Helen disliked. Helen was robed in a soft white woollen material that clung closely about her; she had never seemed more slender. Her pale hair, wound round her small head, conveyed the idea that, unbound, it would fall to the hem of her dress. She wore no ornaments, not even a ring on her small fair hands. Her place was at some distance from Miss Vanhorn's table, but as soon as she was seated she bowed to Anne, and smiled with marked friendliness. Anne returned the salutation, and wondered that people did not cry out and ask her if she was dying. But life does not go out so easily as miserable young girls imagine.

"Eggs?" said the waiter.

She took one.

"I thought you did not like eggs," said Miss Vanhorn. She was in an ill-humor that morning because Bessmer had upset the plant-drying apparatus, composed of bricks and boards.

"Yes, thanks," said Anne, vaguely. Mr. Dexter was bowing good-morning to her at that moment, and she returned the salutation. Miss Vanhorn, observing this, withheld her intended rebuke for inattention. Dexter had bowed on his way across to Helen; he had finished his own breakfast, and now took a seat beside Miss Teller and Mrs. Lorrington. At this instant a servant entered bearing a basket of flowers, not the old-fashioned country flowers of Caryl's, but the superb cream-colored roses of the city, each on its long stalk, reposing on a bed of unmixed heliotrope, Helen's favorite flower. All eyes coveted the roses as they passed, and watched to see their destination. They were presented to Mrs. Lorrington.

Every one supposed that Dexter was the giver. The rich gift was like him, and perhaps also the time of its presentation. But the time was a mistake of the servant's; and was not Mrs. Lorrington bowing her thanks?—yes, she was bowing her thanks, with a little air of consciousness, yet with openness also, to Mr. Heathcote, who sat by himself at the end of the long room. He bowed gravely in return, thus acknowledging himself the sender.

"Well," said Miss Vanhorn, crossly, yet with a little shade of relief too in her voice, "of all systematic coquettes, Helen Lorrington is our worst. I suppose that we shall have no peace, now that she has come. However, it will not last long."

"You will go away soon, then, grandaunt?" said Anne, eagerly.

Miss Vanhorn put up her eyeglass; the tone had betrayed something. "No," she said, inspecting her niece coolly; "nothing of the sort. I shall remain through September, perhaps later."

Anne's heart sank. She would be obliged, then, to go through the ordeal. She could eat nothing; a choking sensation had risen in her throat when Heathcote bowed to Helen, acknowledging the flowers. "May I go, grandaunt?" she said. "I do not feel well this morning."

"No; finish your breakfast like a Christian. I hate sensations. However, on second thoughts, you may go," added the old woman, glancing at Dexter and Helen. "You may as well be re-arranging those specimens that Bessmer stupidly knocked down. But do not let me find the Lorrington in my parlor when I come up; do you hear?"

"Yes," said Anne, escaping. She ran up stairs to her own room, locked the door, and then stood pressing her hands upon her heart, crying out in a whisper: "Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do! How can I bear it!" But she could not have even that moment unmolested: the day had begun, and its burdens she must bear. Bessmer knocked, and began at once tremulously about the injured plants through the closed door.

"Yes," said Anne, opening it, "I know about them. I came up to re-arrange them."

"It wouldenter been so bad, miss, if it hadenter been asters. But I never could make out asters; they all seem of a piece to me," said Bessmer, while Anne sorted the specimens, and replaced them within the drying-sheets. "Every fall there's the same time with 'em. I just dread asters, I do; not but what golden-rods is almost worse."

"Anne," said a voice in the hall.

Anne opened the door; it was Helen, with her roses.

"These are the Grand Llama's apartments, I suppose," she said, peeping in. "I will not enter; merely gaze over the sacred threshold. Come to my room, Crystal, for half an hour; I am going to drive at eleven."

"I must finish arranging these plants."

"Then come when you have finished. Do not fail; I shall wait for you." And the white robe floated off down the dark sidling hall, as Miss Vanhorn's heavy foot made itself heard ascending the stairs. When Bessmer had gone to her breakfast, to collect what strength she could for another aster-day, Anne summoned her courage.

"Grandaunt, I would like to speak to you," she said.

"And I do not want to be spoken to; I have neuralgia in my cheek-bones."

"But I would like to tell you—"

"And I do not want to be told. You are always getting up sensations of one kind or another, which amount to nothing in the end. Be ready to drive to Updegraff's glen at eleven; that is all I have to say to you now." She went into the inner room, and closed the door.

"It does not make any difference," thought Anne, drearily; "I shall tell her at eleven."

Then, nerving herself for another kind of ordeal, she went slowly toward Helen's apartments.

But conventionality is a strong power: she passed the first fifteen minutes of conversation without faltering.

Then Helen said: "You look pale, Crystal. What is the matter?"

"I did not sleep well."

"And there is some trouble besides! I see by the note-book that you have been with the Bishop almost constantly; confess that you like him!"

"Yes, I like him."

"Very much?"

"Yes."

"Very much?"

"You know, Helen, that I am engaged."

"That! for your engagement," said Mrs. Lorrington, taking a rose and tossing it toward her. "I know you are engaged. But I thought that if the Bishop would only get into one of his dead-earnest moods—he is capable of it—you would have to yield. For you are capable of it too."

"Capable of what? Breaking a promise?"

"Do not be disagreeable; I am complimenting you. No; I mean capable of loving—really loving."

"All women can love, can they not?"

"Themselves! Yes. But rarely any one else. And now let me tell you something delightful—one of those irrelevant little inconsistencies which make society amusing: I am going to drive with the Bishop this morning, and not you at all."

"I hope you will enjoy the drive."

"You take it well," said Mrs. Lorrington, laughing merrily. "But I will not tease you, Crystal. Only tell me one thing—you are always truthful. Has anything been said to you—anything that really means anything—since you have been here?"

"By whom?" said Anne, almost in a whisper.

"The Bishop, of course. Who else should it be?"

"Oh, no, no," answered the girl, rising hurriedly, as if uncertain what to do. "Why do you speak to me so constantly of Mr. Dexter? I have been with—with others too."

"You have been with him more than with the 'others' you mention," said Helen, mimicking her tone. "The note-book tells that. However, I will say no more; merely observe. You are looking at my driving costume; jealous already? But I tell you frankly, Crystal, that regarding dress you must yield to me. With millions you could not rival me; on that ground I am alone. Rachel looked positively black with envy when she saw me this morning; she is ugly in a second, you know, if she loses that soft Oriental expression which makes you think of the Nile. Imagine Rachel in a Greek robe like this, loosely made, with a girdle! I shall certainly look well this morning; but never fear, it shall be for your sake. I shall talk of you, and make you doubly interesting by what I do and do not say; I shall give thrilling glimpses only."

The maid entered, and Anne sat through the change of dress and the rebraiding of the pale soft hair.

"I do not forbid your peeping through the hall window to see us start," said Mrs. Lorrington, gayly, as she drew on her gloves. "Good-by."

Anne went to her own room. "Are they all mad?" she thought. "Or am I? Why do they all speak of Mr. Dexter so constantly, and not of—"

"You are late," said Miss Vanhorn's voice. "I told you not to keep me waiting. Get your hat and gloves, and come immediately; the carriage is there."

But it was not as strange in reality as it seemed to Anne that Helen, Miss Vanhorn, and others spoke of Mr. Dexter in connection with herself. Absorbed in a deeper current, she had forgotten that others judge by the surface, and that Mr. Dexter had been with her openly, and even conspicuously, during a portion of every day for several weeks. To her the two hours or three with him had been but so many portions of time before she could see, or after she had seen, Heathcote. But time is not divided as young people suppose; she forgot that ordinary eyes can not see the invisible weights which make ten minutes—nay, five—with one person outbalance a whole day with another. In the brief diary which she had kept for Helen, Dexter's name occurred far more frequently than Heathcote's, and Helen had judged from that. Others did the same, with their eyes. If old Katharine had so far honored her niece as to question her, she might have learned something more; but she did not question, she relied upon her own sagacity. It is a dispensation of Providence that the old, no matter how crowded their own youth may have been, always forget. What old Katharine now forgot was this: if a man like Gregory Dexter is conspicuously devoted to one woman, but always in the presence of others, making no attempt to secure her attention for a few moments alone here and there, it is probable that there is another woman for whom he keeps those moments, and a hidden feeling stronger than the one openly displayed. Rachel never allowed observable devotion. This, however, did not forbid the unobserved.

"Grandaunt," began Anne, as the carriage rolled along the country road. Her voice faltered a little, and she paused to steady it.

"Wait a day," said Miss Vanhorn, with grim sarcasm; "then there will be nothing to tell. It is always so with girls."

It was her nearest approach to good-humor: Anne took courage. "The summer is nearly over, grandaunt—"

"I have an almanac."

"—and, as school will soon begin—"

"In about three weeks."

"—I should like to go back to Mademoiselle until then, if you do not object."

Miss Vanhorn put up her eyeglass, and looked at her niece; then she laughed, sought for a caraway-seed, and by good luck found one, and deposited it safely in the tight grasp of her glittering teeth. She thought Anne was jealous of Mr. Dexter's attentions to Helen.

"You need not be afraid, child," she said, still laughing. "If you have a rival, it is the Egyptian, and not that long white creature you call your friend."

"I am unhappy here, grandaunt. Please let me go."

"Girls are always unhappy, or thinking themselves so. It is one of their habits. Of course you can not go; it would be too ridiculous giving way to any such childish feeling. You will stay as long as I stay."

"But I can not. I must go."

"And who holds the authority, pray?"

"Dear grandaunt, do not compel me," said Anne, seizing the old woman's hands in hers. But Miss Vanhorn drew them away angrily.

"What nonsense!" she said. "Do not let me hear another word. You will stay according to my pleasure (which should be yours also), or you forfeit your second winter at Moreau's and the children's allowance." She tapped on the glass, and signaled to the coachman to drive homeward. "You have spoiled the drive with your obstinacy; I do not care to go now. Spend the day in your own room. At five o'clock come to me."

And at five Anne came.

"Have you found your senses?" asked the elder woman, and more gently.

"I have not changed my mind."

Miss Vanhorn rose and locked the door. "You will now give me your reasons," she said.

"I can not."

"You mean that you will not."

Anne was silent, and Miss Vanhorn surveyed her for a moment before letting loose the dogs of war. In her trouble the girl looked much older; it was a grave, sad, but determined woman who was standing there to receive her sentence, and suddenly the inquisitor changed her course.

"There, there," she said; "never mind about it now. Go back to your room; Bessmer shall bring you some tea, and then you will let her dress you precisely as I shall order. You will not, I trust, disobey me in so small a matter as that?"

"And may I go to-morrow?"

"We will see. You can not go to-night, at any rate; so do as I bid you."

Anne obeyed; but she was disappointed that all was not ended and the contest over. For the young, to wait seems harder than to suffer.

Miss Vanhorn thought that her niece was jealous of Helen in regard to Dexter, and that this jealousy had opened her eyes for the first time to her own faithlessness; being conscientious, of course she was, between the two feelings, made very wretched. And the old woman's solution of the difficulty was to give Dexter one more and perfect opportunity, if she, Katharine Vanhorn, could arrange it. And there was, in truth, very little that old Katharine could not arrange if she chose, since she was a woman not afraid to use on occasion that which in society is the equivalent of force, namely, directness. She was capable of saying, openly, "Mr. Dexter, will you take Anne out on the piazza for a while? The air is close here," and then of smiling back upon Rachel, Isabel, or whoever was left behind, with the malice of a Mazarin. Chance favored old Katharine that night once and again.