She thought of her work among her flowers, and the paradise of beauty it had produced. She thought of the poorer village people whose lives she knew, whose children she loved, to whom for years she had been a friend. She remembered her little plans for their welfare, all the pleasant trifles which made up the sum of her daily existence. And as she mused, came a wondering recognition of the healing of time, the passing of all violent emotion, whether of joy or of despair. From some recess of her memory there sprang the words of an Eastern sage, who as a motto true alike in times of sorrow and times of delight, told his disciple to grave upon his signet ring, one sentence--_This too will pass_. XXI Anne started for London next morning, intending to spend the night in town, and devote the next day to her brother, and to Sylvia Carfax, to whom she had not found time to write. Early on Thursday morning she drove to Carlisle House. The page boy who took her up in the lift, indicated a door at the end of the corridor, and left her. Anne knocked, and in response to a voice within, entered Sylvia’s bedroom. It was littered with cardboard boxes, open trunks, dresses, hats, raiment of all sorts, and stumbling over the obstacles in her way, Sylvia rushed towards her with a cry of joy. Even before she kissed her, Anne had time to notice the worried look on the girl’s face, which robbed it of its youthful prettiness. “Oh!” she gasped. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come in time, and I didn’t know _what_ to do, or how to get out of it. Oh! I’m so thankful to see you, Miss Page. Sit down. Do sit down--if you can find a place,” she added, trying to laugh. Anne chose the bed as the only available spot. “My dear child, what’s the matter?” she exclaimed. “You’re packing, I suppose. Where are you going?” “To--America,” returned Sylvia, with a gulp. Anne looked at her, and drew her down beside her on the bed. “Tell me all about it from the very beginning,” she said, with quiet insistence. “_Don’t_ be angry with me,” implored Sylvia, her lips trembling. “I thought I’d been so clever to arrange it all myself, without saying a word about it. But--but now I’m frightened. And my contract’s signed, and I daren’t----” “But what’s it all about? Tell me clearly, Sylvia.” Sylvia made an effort to obey, and though lucidity was not the strong part of her story, by the end of half an hour’s questioning and explanation, Anne gathered that the girl had fallen into the hands of the manager of a third-rate theatrical company. The man had tempted her with the offer of a “star” part in a musical comedy, and she had signed a contract with him for America.