* * * * * There are times in the lives of all when new departures are imminent, when a change is impending and obligatory, yet is slow to define itself. There is the feeling that other paths must be entered, but to the outer eye they are unblazed. Such a time had come to Cartice Doring. She had long felt its approach, but knew not the end to which it pointed. Something more than impulse stirred within her. The Spirit of Destiny itself spoke the inexorable command to move on. Whither? “Move on.” This was the only answer, for Destiny has a way of making us choose our roads, though for the most part the various whips within and without which play upon us seem to make the matter of choice largely a thing of name only. We do what we can rather than what we wish. This should give us a grain of comfort on dark days by relieving us of regrets, and settling us in the conviction that we are no more and no less than that which we must be. Even though our own nature be the compelling and directing force, we are none the less servants to its dicta. Call that which rules us by whatever name we choose, how supreme is the sway! Looking over the situation Mrs. Doring summed up the reasons for making a change. First, she was not doing her best; she was letting down a little all the time, and that clearly was degeneration. Pleasure in her work had gone and perfunctory performance taken its place. She was weary of the miserable business of writing to please the many-headed multitude, which the late Dr. Charles Mackay was fond of describing as “fool of a public; pig of a public,” while her honest convictions had to be kept locked up in her soul and labeled, “Dangerous,” like a can of dynamite. In Prescott’s day she was free to say what she thought ought to be said. Now, she was frequently brought to book for utterances far too bold, in the opinion of the proprietors of the paper, who insisted on a close connection between the counting room and editorial desk. As a result of constantly trimming to suit the fitful breezes of public taste, the _Register_ was losing ground. Strange law that governs the minds of men! Kowtow to them and they despise and neglect you. Defy them and they respect and court you. No; she must not stay with the _Register_. Internal wranglings were shaking it. An eruption might take place any day, changing the whole face of its affairs. For her salvation, intellectual and physical, she must go. Yet habit, friendship and a horrible dread of facing new difficulties put up a plea for her to stay. No; she must go, no matter what she had to meet, loneliness, humiliation, disappointment, defeat, want, death itself. MUST. Something told her that in a way that brooked no contradiction. But she was so tired--more tired than any one dreamed, in spite of her almost jaunty cheerfulness.