After an hour of mute suffering, Anne sought the blessed oblivion of sleep. She had conquered herself; she was exhausted. She would try to gain strength for the effort of the coming day. But nothing avails against that fever, strong as life and sad as death, which we call Love, and which, in spite of the crowd of shallower feelings that masquerade under and mock its name, still remains the master-power of our human existence. Anne had no sooner laid her head upon the pillow than there rose within her, and ten times stronger than before, her love and her jealousy. She would stay and contest the matter with Helen. Had he not said, had he not looked—And then she caught herself back in an agony of self-reproach. For it is always hard for the young to learn the lesson of human weakness. It is strange and humiliating to them to discover that there are powers within them stronger than their own wills. The old know this so well that they excuse each other silently; but, loath to shake the ignorant faith of innocence, they leave the young to find it out for themselves. The whole night with Anne was but a repetition of efforts and lapses, followed toward morning, however, by a struggling return to self-control. For years of faithfulness even as a child are not thrown away, but yield, thank Heaven! a strength at last in times of trial; else might we all go drown ourselves. At dawn, with tear-stained cheeks, she fell asleep, waking with a start when Bessmer knocked and inquired if she was ill. Miss Vanhorn had gone down to breakfast.

"Please send me some coffee," said Anne, without opening the door. "I do not care for anything else. I will be ready soon."

She dressed herself slowly, swallowing the coffee. But youth is strong; the cold bath and the fresh white morning dress made her look as fair as ever. Miss Vanhorn was waiting for her in the little parlor. Bessmer was sent away, and the door closed. The girl remained standing, and took hold of the back of a chair to nerve herself for the first step along the hard, lonely road stretching out before her like a desert.

"Anne," began Miss Vanhorn, in a magisterial voice, "what did Mr. Dexter say to you last evening?"

"He asked me to be his wife."

"I hardly expected it so soon, although I knew it would come in time," said the old woman, with a swallow of satisfaction. "Sit down. And don't be an idiot. You will now listen to me. Mr. Dexter is a rich man; he is what is called a rising man (if any one wants to rise); he is a good enough man also, as men go. He has no claim as regards family; neither have you. He is a thorough and undiluted American; so are you. He will be a kind husband, and one far higher in the world than you had any right to expect. On the other hand, you will do very well as his wife, for you have fair ability and a pretty face (it is of course your pink and white beauty that has won him), and principles enough for both. Like all people who have made money rapidly, he is lavish, and will deny you nothing; he will even allow you, I presume, to help one and all of that colony of children, priests, old maids, and dogs, up on that island. See what power will be put into your hands! You might labor all your life, and not accomplish one-hundredth part of that which, as Gregory Dexter's wife, you could do in one day.

"As to your probable objection—the boy-and-girl engagement in which you were foolish enough to entangle yourself—I will simply say, leave it to time; it will break itself. How do you know that it is not, in fact, broken already? The Pronando blood is faithless in its very essence," added the old woman, bitterly. "Mr. Dexter is a man of the world. I will explain it to him myself; he will understand, and will not urge you at present. He will wait, as I shall, for the natural solution of time. But in the mean while you must not offend him; he is not at all a man whom a woman can offend with impunity. He is vain, and has a singularly mistaken idea of his own importance. Agree to what I propose—which is simple quiescence for the present—and you shall go back to Moreau's, and the allowance for the children shall be continued. I have never before in my life made so many concessions; it is because you have had at times lately a look that brings back—Alida."

Anne's lips trembled; a sudden weakness came over her at this allusion to her mother.

"Well?" said Miss Vanhorn, expectantly.

There was a pause. Then a girl's voice answered: "I can not, grandaunt. I must go."

"You may go, I tell you, back to Moreau's on the 1st of October."

"I mean that I can not marry Mr. Dexter."

"No one asks you to marry him now."

"I can never marry him."

"Why?" said Miss Vanhorn, with rising color. "Be careful what you say. No lies."

"I—I am engaged to Rast."

"Lie number one. Look at me. If your engagement was ended, then would you marry Mr. Dexter?"

Anne half rose, as if to escape, but sank back again. "I could not marry him, because I do not love him," she answered.

"And whom do you love, that you know so much about it, and have your 'do not' and 'can not' so promptly ready? Never tell me that it is that boy upon the island who has taught you all these new ways, this faltering and fear of looking in my face, of which you knew nothing when you came. Do you wish me to tell you what I think of you?"

"No," cried the girl, rushing forward, and falling on her knees beside the arm-chair; "tell me nothing. Only let me go away. I can not, can not stay here; I am too wretched, too weak. You can not have a lower opinion of me than I have of myself at this moment. If you have any compassion for me—for the memory of my mother—say no more, and let me go." She bowed her head upon the arm of the chair and sobbed aloud.

But Miss Vanhorn rose and walked away. "I know what this means," she said, standing in the centre of the room. "Like mother, like daughter. Only Alida ran after a man who loved her, although her inferior, while you have thrown yourself at the feet of a man who is simply laughing at you. Don't you know, you fool, that Ward Heathcote will marry Helen Lorrington—the woman you pretend to be grateful to, and call your dearest friend? Helen Lorrington will be in every way a suitable wife for him. It has long been generally understood. The idea of your trying to thrust yourself between them is preposterous—I may say a maniac's folly."

"I am not trying: only let me go," sobbed Anne, still kneeling by the chair.

"You think I have not seen," continued Miss Vanhorn, her wrath rising with every bitter word; "but I have. Only I never dreamed that it was as bad as this. I never dreamed that Alida's daughter could be bold and immodest—worse than her mother, who was only love-mad."

Anne started to her feet. "Miss Vanhorn," she said, "I will not hear this, either of myself or my mother. It is not true."

"As to not hearing it, you are right; you will not hear my voice often in the future. I wash my hands of you. You are an ungrateful girl, and will come to an evil end. When I think of the enormous selfishness you now show in thus throwing away, for a mere matter of personal obstinacy, the bread of your sister and brothers, and leaving them to starve, I stand appalled. What do you expect?"

"Nothing—save to go."

"And you shall go."

"To-day?"

"This afternoon, at three." As she said this, Miss Vanhorn seated herself with her back toward Anne, and took up a book, as though there was no one in the room.

"Do you want me any longer, grandaunt?"

"Never call me by that name again. Go to your room; Bessmer will attend to you. At two o'clock I will see you for a moment before you go."

Without a reply, Anne obeyed. Her tears were dried as if by fever; words had been spoken which could not be forgiven. Inaction was impossible; she began to pack. Then, remembering who had given her all these clothes, she paused, uncertain what to do. After reflection, she decided to take with her only those she had brought from the half-house; and in this she was not actuated by any spirit of retaliation, her idea was that her grandaunt would demand the gifts in any case. Miss Vanhorn was not generous. She worked steadily; she did not wish to think; yet still the crowding feelings pursued her, caught up with her, and then went along with her, thrusting their faces close to hers, and forcing recognition. Was she, as Miss Vanhorn had said, enormously selfish in thus sacrificing the new comfort of the pinched household on the island to her own obstinacy? But, as she folded the plain garments brought from that home, she knew that it was not selfishness; as she replaced the filmy ball dress in its box, she said to herself that she could not deceive Mr. Dexter by so much even as a silence. Then, as she wrapped the white parasol in its coverings, the old burning, throbbing misery rolled over her, followed by the hot jealousy which she thought she had conquered; she seized the two dresses given by Helen, and added them to those left behind. But the action brought shame, and she replaced them. And now all the clothes faced her from the open trunks; those from the island, those which Rast had seen, murmured, "Faithless!" Helen's gifts whispered, "Ingratitude!" and those of her grandaunt called more loudly, "Fool!" She closed the lids, and turned toward the window; she tried to busy her mind with the future: surely thought and plans were needed. She was no longer confident, as she had been when she first left her Northern island; she knew now how wide the world was, and how cold. She could not apply at the doors of schools without letters or recommendations; she could not live alone. Her one hope began and ended in Jeanne-Armande. She dressed herself in travelling garb and sat down to wait. It was nearly noon, probably she would not see Helen, as she always slept through the morning after a ball, preserving by this changeless care the smooth fairness of her delicate complexion. She decided to write a note of farewell, and leave it with Bessmer; but again and again she tore up her beginnings, until the floor was strewn with fragments. She had so very much not to say. At last she succeeded in putting together a few sentences, which told nothing, save that she was going away; she bade her good-by, and thanked her for all her kindness, signing, without any preliminary phrases (for was she "affectionately" or "sincerely" Helen's "friend"?), merely her name, Anne Douglas.

At one o'clock Bessmer entered with luncheon. Evidently she had received orders to enter into no conversation with the prisoner; but she took the note, and promised to deliver it with her own hands. At two the door opened, and Miss Vanhorn came in.

The old woman's eye took in at a glance the closed trunks and the travelling dress. She had meant to try her niece, to punish her; but even then she could not believe that the girl would really throw away forever all the advantages she had placed within her grasp. She sat down, and after waiting a moment, closed her eyes. "Anne Douglas," she began, "daughter of my misguided niece Alida Clanssen, I have come for a final decision. Answer my questions. First, have you, or have you not, one hundred dollars in the world?"

"I have not."

"Have you, or have you not, three brothers and one sister wholly dependent upon you?"

"I have."

"Is it just or honorable to leave them longer to the charity of a woman who is poor herself, and not even a relative?"

"It is neither."

"Have I, or have I not, assisted you, offered also to continue the pension which makes them comfortable?"

"You have."

"Then," said the old woman, still with her eyes closed, "why persist in this idiotic stubbornness? In offending me, are you not aware that you are offending the only person on earth who can assist you? I make no promises as to the future; but I am an old woman now, one to whom you could at least be dutiful. There—I want no fine words. Show your fineness by obeying my wishes."

"I will stay with you, grandaunt, willingly, gladly, gratefully, if you will take me away from this place."

"No conditions," said Miss Vanhorn. "Come here; kneel down in front of me, so that I can look at you. Will you stay with me here, if I yield everything concerning Mr. Dexter?" She held her firmly, with her small keen eyes searching her face.

Anne was silent. Like the panorama which is said to pass before the eyes of the drowning man, the days and hours at Caryl's as they would be, must be, unrolled themselves before her. But there only followed the same desperate realization of the impossibility of remaining; the misery, the jealousy; worse than all, the self-doubt. The misery, the jealousy, she could perhaps bear, deep as they were. But what appalled her was this new doubt of herself, this new knowledge, that, in spite of all her determination, she might, if tried, yield to this love which had taken possession of her unawares, yield to certain words which he might speak, to certain tones of his voice, and thus become even more faithless to Rast, to Helen, and to herself, than she already was. If he would go away—but she knew that he would not. No, she must go. Consciousness came slowly back to her eyes, which had been meeting Miss Vanhorn's blankly.

"I can not stay," she said.

Miss Vanhorn thrust her away violently. "I am well paid for having had anything to do with Douglas blood," she cried, her voice trembling with anger. "Get back into the wilderness from whence you came! I will never hear your name on earth again." She left the room.

In a few moments Bessmer appeared, her eyes reddened by tears, and announced that the wagon was waiting. It was at a side door. At this hour there was no one on the piazzas, and Anne's trunk was carried down, and she herself followed with Bessmer, without being seen by any one save the servants and old John Caryl.

"I am not to say anything to you, Miss Douglas, if you please, but just the ordinary things, if you please," said Bessmer, as the wagon bore them away. "You are to take the three o'clock train, and go—wherever you please, she said. I was to tell you."

"Yes, Bessmer; do not be troubled. I know what to do. Will you tell grandaunt, when you return, that I beg her to forgive what has seemed obstinacy, but was only sad necessity. Can you remember it?"

"Yes, miss; only sad necessity," repeated Bessmer, with dropping tears. She was a meek woman, with a comfortable convexity of person, which, however, did not seem to give her confidence.

"I was not to know, miss, if you please, where you bought tickets to," she said, as the wagon stopped at the little station. "I was to give you this, and then go right back."

She handed Anne an envelope containing a fifty-dollar note. Anne looked at it a moment. "I will not take this, I think; you can tell grandaunt that I have money enough for the present," she said, returning it. She gave her hand kindly to the weeping maid, who was then driven away in the wagon, her sun-umbrella held askew over her respectable brown bonnet, her broad shoulders shaken with her sincere grief. A turn in the road soon hid even this poor friend of hers from view. Anne was alone.

The station-keeper was not there; his house was near by, but hidden by a grove of maples, and Anne, standing on the platform, seemed all alone, the two shining rails stretching north and south having the peculiarly solitary aspect which a one-track railway always has among green fields, with no sign of life in sight. No train has passed, or ever will pass. It is all a dream. She walked to and fro. She could see into the waiting-room, which was adorned with three framed texts, and another placard not religiously intended, but referring, on the contrary, to steamboats, which might yet be so interpreted, namely, "Take the Providence Line." She noted the drearily ugly round stove, faded below to white, planted in a sand-filled box; she saw the bench, railed off into single seats by iron elbows, and remembered that during her journey eastward, two, if not three, of these places were generally filled with the packages of some solitary female of middle age, clad in half-mourning, who remained stonily unobservant of the longing glances cast upon the space she occupied. These thoughts came to her mechanically. When a decision has finally been made, and for the present nothing more can be done, the mind goes wandering off on trivial errands; the flight of a bird, the passage of the fairy car of thistle-down, are sufficient to set it in motion. It seemed to her that she had been there a long time, when a step came through the grove: Hosea Plympton—or, as he was called in the neighborhood, Hosy Plim—was unlocking the station door. Anne bought her ticket, and had her trunk checked; she hoped to reach the half-house before midnight.

Hosy having attended to his official business with dignity, now came out to converse unofficially with his one passenger. "From Caryl's, ain't you?"

"Yes," replied Anne.

"Goin' to New York?"

"Yes."

"I haven't yet ben to that me-tropo-lis," said Hosy. "On some accounts I should admire to go, on others not. Ben long at Caryl's?"

"Yes, some time."

"My wife's cousin helps over there; Mirandy's her name. And she tells me, Mirandy does, that the heap of washing over to that house is a sight to see. She tells me, Mirandy does, that they don't especial dress up for the Sabbath over there, not so much even as on other days."

"That is true, I believe."

"Sing'lar," said the little man, "what folks 'll do as has the money! They don't seem to be capable of enj'ying themselves exactly; and p'r'aps that's what Providence intends. We haven't had city folks at Caryl's until lately, miss, you see; and I confess they've ben a continooal study to me ever since. 'Tis amazin' the ways the Lord'll take to make us contented with our lot. Till I see 'em, I thought 'em most downright and all everlastin' to be envied. But now I feel the ba'm of comfort and innard strengthenin' when I see how little they know how to enj'y themselves, after all. Here's the train, miss."

In another moment Anne felt herself borne away—away from the solitary station, with its shining lines of rails; from the green hills which encircled Caryl's; from the mountain-peaks beyond. She had started on her journey into the wide world.

In darkness, but in safety, she arrived at the half-house, in the station-keeper's wagon, a few minutes before midnight. A light was still burning, and in response to her knock Jeanne-Armande herself opened the door, clad in a wrapper, with a wonderful flannel cap on her head. She was much astonished to see her pupil, but received her cordially, ordered the trunk brought in, and herself attended to the beating down of the station-keeper's boy to a proper price for his services. She remarked upon his audacity and plainly criminal tendencies; she thoroughly sifted the physical qualities of the horse; she objected to the shape of the wagon; and finally, she had noted his manner of bringing in the trunk, and shaving its edges as well as her doorway, and she felt that she must go over to the station herself early in the morning, and lodge a complaint against him. What did he mean by— But here the boy succumbed, and departed with half-price, and Jeanne-Armande took breath, and closed the door in triumph.

"You see that I have come back to you, mademoiselle," said Anne, with a faint smile. "Shall I tell you why?"

"Yes; but no, not now. You are very weary, my child; you look pale and worn. Would you like some coffee?"

"Yes," said Anne, who felt a faint exhaustion stealing over her. "But the fast-day coffee will do." For there was one package of coffee in the store-room which went by that name, and which old Nora was instructed to use on Fridays. Not that Jeanne-Armande followed strict rules and discipline; but she had bought that coffee at an auction sale in the city for a very low price, and it proved indeed so low in quality that they could not drink it more than once a week. Certainly, therefore, Friday was the appropriate day.

"No," said the hostess, "you shall have a little of the other, child. Come to the kitchen. Nora has gone to bed, but I will arrange a little supper for you with my own hands."

They went to the bare little room, where a mouse would have starved. But mademoiselle was not without resources, and keys. Soon she "arranged" a brisk little fire and a cheery little stew, while the pint coffee-pot sent forth a delicious fragrance. Sitting there in a wooden chair beside the little stove, Anne felt more of home comfort than she had ever known at Caryl's, and the thin miserly teacher was kinder than her grandaunt had ever been. She ate and drank, and was warmed; then, sitting by the dying coals, she told her story, or rather as much of it as it was necessary mademoiselle should know.

"It is a pity," said Jeanne-Armande, "and especially since she has no relative, this grandaunt, nearer than yourself. Could nothing be done in the way of renewal, as to heart-strings?"

"Not at present. I must rely upon you, mademoiselle; in this, even Tante can not help me."

"That is true; she can not. She even disapproved of my own going forth into the provinces," said Jeanne-Armande, with the air of an explorer. "We have different views of life, Hortense Moreau and I; but there!—we respect each other. Of how much money can you dispose at present, my child?"

Anne told the sum.

"If it is so little as that," said Jeanne-Armande, "it will be better for you to go westward with me immediately. I start earlier than usual this year; you can take the journey with me, and share expenses; in this way we shall both be able to save. Now as to chances: there is sometimes a subordinate employed under me, when there is a press of new scholars. This is the autumn term: there may be a press. I must prepare you, however, for the lowest of low salaries," said the teacher, her voice changing suddenly to a dry sharpness. "I shall present you as a novice, to whom the privilege of entering the institution is an equivalent of money."

"I expect but little," said Anne. "A beginner must take the lowest place."

On the second day they started. Jeanne-Armande was journeying to Weston this time by a roundabout way. By means of excursion tickets to Valley City, offered for low rates for three days, she had found that she could (in time) reach Weston vi the former city, and effect a saving of one dollar and ten cents. With the aid of her basket, no additional meals would be required, and the money saved, therefore, would be pure gain. There was only one point undecided, namely, should she go through to Valley City, or change at a junction twenty miles this side for the northern road? What would be the saving, if any, by going on? What by changing? No one could tell her; the complication of excursion rates to Valley City for the person who was not going there, and the method of night travel for a person who would neither take a sleeping-car, nor travel in a day car, combined themselves to render more impassive still the ticket-sellers, safely protected in their official round towers from the rabble of buyers outside. Regarding the main lines between New York and Weston, and all their connections, it would be safe to say that mademoiselle knew more than the officials themselves. The remainder of the continent was an unknown wilderness in her mind, but these lines of rails, over which she was obliged to purchase her way year after year, she understood thoroughly. She had tried all the routes, and once she had gone through Canada; she had looked at canal-boats meditatively. She was haunted by a vision that some day she might find a clean captain and captain's wife who would receive her as passenger, and allow her to cook her own little meals along shore. Once, she explained to Anne, a Sunday-school camp-meeting had reduced the rates, she being apparently on her way thither. She had always regretted that the season of State fairs was a month later: she felt herself capable of being on her way to all of them.

"But now, whether to go on to Valley City, or to leave the train at Stringhampton Junction, is the question I can not decide," she said, with irritation, having returned discomfited from another encounter with a ticket-seller.

"We reach Weston by both routes, do we not?" said Anne.

"Of course; that follows without saying. Evidently you do not comprehend the considerations which are weighing upon me. However, I will get it out of the ticket agent at New Macedonia," said mademoiselle, rising. "Come, the train is ready."

They were going only as far as New Macedonia that night; mademoiselle had slept there twice, and intended to sleep there again. Once, in her decorous maiden life, she had passed a night in a sleeping-car, and never again would her foot "cross the threshold of one of those outrageous inventions." She remembered even now with a shudder the processions of persons in muffled drapery going to the wash-rooms in the early morning. New Macedonia existed only to give suppers and breakfasts; it had but two narrow sleeping apartments over its abnormal development of dining-room below. But the military genius of Jeanne-Armande selected it on this very account; for sleeping-rooms where no one ever slept, half-price could in conscience alone be charged. All night Anne was wakened at intervals by the rushing sound of passing trains. Once she stole softly to the uncurtained window and looked out; clouds covered the sky, no star was visible, but down the valley shone a spark which grew and grew, and then turned white and intense, as, with a glare and a thundering sound, a locomotive rushed by, with its long line of dimly lighted sleeping-cars swiftly and softly following with their unconscious human freight, the line ending in two red eyes looking back as the train vanished round a curve.

"Ten hours' sleep," said mademoiselle, awaking with satisfaction in the morning. "I now think we can sit up to-night in the Valley City waiting-room, and save the price of lodgings. Until twelve they would think we were waiting for the midnight train; after that, the night porter, who comes on duty then, would suppose it was the early morning express."

"Then you have decided to go through to Valley City?" asked Anne.

"Yes, since by this arrangement we can do it without expense."

Two trains stopped at New Macedonia for breakfast, one eastward bound from over the Alleghanies, the other westward bound from New York. Jeanne-Armande's strategy was to enter the latter while its passengers were at breakfast, and take bodily possession of a good seat, removing, if necessary, a masculine bag or two left there as tokens of ownership; for the American man never makes war where the gentler sex is concerned, but retreats to another seat, or even to the smoking-car, with silent generosity.

Breakfast was now over; the train-boy was exchanging a few witticisms with the pea-nut vender of the station, a brakeman sparred playfully with the baggage porter, and a pallid telegraph operator looked on from his window with interest. Meanwhile the conductor, in his stiff official cap, pared a small apple with the same air of fixed melancholy and inward sarcasm which he gave to all his duties, large and small; when it was eaten, he threw the core with careful precision at a passing pig, looked at his watch, and called out, suddenly and sternly, "All aboard!" The train moved on.

It was nine o'clock. At ten there came into the car a figure Anne knew—Ward Heathcote.