"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."