Mrs. Gaylord rolled up the sewing in her work-basket, and packed it away against the side, bracing it with several pairs of newly darned socks and stockings neatly folded one into the other. She took her time for this, and when she rose at last to go out, with her basket in her hand, the door opened in her face, and Marcia entered. Mrs. Gaylord shrank back, and then slipped round behind her daughter and vanished. The girl took no notice of her mother, but went and sat down on her father's knee, throwing her arms round his neck, and dropping her haggard face on his shoulder. She had arrived at home a few hours earlier, having driven over from a station ten miles distant, on a road that did not pass near Equity. After giving as much of a shock to her mother's mild nature as it was capable of receiving by her unexpected return, she had gone to her own room, and remained ever since without seeing her father. He put up his thin old hand and passed it over her hair, but it was long before either of them spoke. At last Marcia lifted her head, and looked her father in the face with a smile so pitiful that he could not bear to meet it. “Well, father?” she said. “Well, Marsh,” he answered huskily. “What do you think of me now?” “I'm glad to have you back again,” he replied. “You know why I came?” “Yes, I guess I know.” She put down her head again, and moaned and cried, “Father! Father!” with dry sobs. When she looked up, confronting him with her tearless eyes, “What shall I do? What shall I do?” she demanded desolately. He tried to clear his throat to speak, but it required more than one effort to bring the words. “I guess you better go along with me up to Boston. I'm going up the first of the week.” “No,” she said quietly. “The change would do you good. It's a long while since you've been away from home,” her father urged. She looked at him in sad reproach of his uncandor. “You know there's nothing the matter with me, father. You know what the trouble is.” He was silent. He could not face the trouble. “I've heard people talk of a heartache,” she went on. “I never believed there was really such a thing. But I know there is, now. There's a pain here.” She pressed her hand against her breast. “It's sore with aching. What shall I do? I shall have to live through it somehow.” “If you don't feel exactly well,” said her father “I guess you better see the doctor.” “What shall I tell him is the matter with me? That I want Bartley Hubbard?” He winced at the words, but she did not. “He knows that already. Everybody in town does. It's never been any secret. I couldn't hide it, from the first day I saw him. I'd just as lief as not they should say I was dying for him. I shall not care what they say when I'm dead.” “You'd oughtn't,--you'd oughtn't to talk that way, Marcia,” said her father, gently.