Her vivacity fell visibly from the moment she crossed the threshold of Hildegarde’s familiar little room. But she commented favorably upon the new home-worked counterpane, and then, as though without seeing it, walked past the familiar old altar-table, with its ferny background and the roses ranged below. There was the big silver locket hung above, like some peasant’s votive offering at a foreign shrine, and down there in front of the massed roses was that other picture, that had been new only a year ago, when Bella’s happiness was born. She went straight to the window and stood quite silent, looking down upon Hildegarde’s flower borders. Then without turning round, “Will you do something for me?” “What?” “Take that picture away. The locket, too.” “Oh, Bella! Is it as bad as that?” “You’ll put them out of sight?” “Yes, yes; of course I will.” “_Now!_” She might as well have said: I won’t turn round until they’re gone. Hildegarde opened a drawer. “I’ll put them in here till things come right again.” “Things aren’t ever coming right.” “Bella!” Not till she heard the drawer shut did the girl turn from the window, and Hildegarde could see that the small face was quivering. “Bella, dear!” Her friend swept to her on a sudden wave of pity. “It will all come right.” But the younger girl drew back. Although her tears were brimming she spoke with a certain half-choked hardness: “I’ve hurried mother back as fast as boats and trains could bring us; just to be with you again, but not to hear you say that. I wanted to be with you just because you will know better. Hildegarde—I—I’d like to stay with you awhile. May I?” “I want nothing so much—we all want you.” “Trenn, too?” she actually laughed through her tears. What a queer creature. “Trenn, too. Only”—Hildegarde glanced from the empty place on the altar-table, to the shut drawer—“only you’ll be kind enough not to break Trenn’s heart as well.” “As well as my own?” Hildegarde’s face grew hard with the words, “As well as Jack Galbraith’s.” Bella, too, was grave enough now; “I haven’t broken his heart. But—I’ve got a crack in my own. Only”—she lifted her pretty eyes with an air almost of panic—“only nobody else is to know. You”—she came nearer and laid a nervous hand on Hildegarde’s firm arm—“you must help me to keep everybody from knowing.” “Dear,” was all Hildegarde’s answer, but she leaned her cheek against Bella’s thin face. “And there’s another thing,” the younger girl went on a little feverishly, still clinging to Hildegarde’s arm, “I hate talking about it.” “Of course. Just at first, it must be—”