"Then sigh," said the figure in the chair. [Illustration: "ANNE DREW A CHAIR TO THE BEDSIDE AND SAT DOWN, WITH HER BACK TO THE MOONLIGHT."] "No; that is not my talent: I must continue to be myself. But _I_ saw her on the piazza with Ward to-night; and I detest her." "With--Mr. Heathcote?" "Yes. Of course nothing would be so much to her disadvantage as to marry Ward, and she knows it; he has no fortune, and she has none. But she loves to make me wretched. I made the greatest mistake of my life when I let her see once, more than a year ago, how things were." "How things were?" repeated Anne--that commonplace phrase which carries deep meanings safely because unexpressed. "Of course there is no necessity to tell _you_, Crystal, what you must already know--that Ward and I are in a certain way betrothed. It is an old affair: we have known each other always." "Yes," said the other voice, affirmatively and steadily. "Some day we shall be married, I suppose: we like each other. But there is no haste at present: I think we both like to be free. Heigh-ho! Do you admire this dress, Crystal?" "It is very beautiful." "And yet he only came in and danced with me once!" "Perhaps he does not care for dancing," said Anne. She was accomplishing each one of her sentences slowly and carefully, like answers in a lesson. "Yes, he does. Do not be deceived by his indolent manner, Crystal; he is full of all sorts of unexpected strong likings and feelings, in spite of his lazy look. Do you think I should be likely to fall in love with a stick?" Anne made no reply. "_Do_ you?" said Helen, insistently, stretching out her arms, and adjusting the chains of topaz stars that decked their slenderness. Anne leaned forward and drew down her friend's hands, holding them closely in her own. "Helen," she said, "tell me: do you love Mr. Heathcote?" "What is love?" said Mrs. Lorrington, lightly. "Tell me, Helen." "Why do you wish to know?" "I _do_ wish to know." "Ward Heathcote is not worth my love." "Is he worth Rachel Bannert's, then?" said Anne, touching the spring by which she had seen the other stirred. "Rachel Bannert!" repeated Helen, with a tone of bitter scorn. Then she paused. "Anne, you are a true-hearted child, and I _will_ tell you. I love Ward Heathcote with my whole heart and soul." She spoke in clear tones, and did not turn away or hide her face; she lay looking up at the moonlight on the rough white wall. It was Anne who turned, shivering, and shading her eyes with her hand. "I love him so much," Helen continued, "that if he should leave me, I believe I should die. Not suddenly, or with any sensation, of course. I only mean that I should not be able to live." Again there was silence. Then the clear soft voice went on.