Carlia had been absent from the Sunday meetings for a number of weeks, so when she appeared in her place in the choir on a Sunday late in January, Dorian noticed the unusual pallor of her face. He wondered if she had been ill. He resolved to make another effort, for in fact, his heart went out to her. At the close of the meeting he found his way to her side as she was walking home with her father and mother. Dorian never went through the formality of asking Carlia if he might accompany her home. He had always taken it for granted that he was welcome; and, at any rate, a man could always tell by the girl's actions whether or not he was wanted. "I haven't seen you for a long time," began Dorian by way of greeting. The girl did not reply. "Been sick?" he asked. "Yes--no, I'm all right." The parents walked on ahead, leaving the two young people to follow. Evidently, Carlia was very much out of sorts, but the young man tried again. "What's the matter, Carlia?" "Nothing." "Well, I hope I'm not annoying you by my company." No answer. They walked on in silence, Carlia looking straight ahead, not so much at her parents, as at the distant snow-clad mountains. Dorian felt like turning about and going home, but he could not do that very well, so he went on to the gate, where he would have said goodnight had not Mrs. Duke urged him to come in. The father and mother went to bed early, leaving the two young people by the dining-room fire. They managed to talk for some time on "wind and weather". Despite the paleness of cheek, Carlia was looking her best. Dorian was jealous. "Carlia," he said, "why do you keep company with this Mr. Lamont?" She was standing near the book-shelf with its meagre collection. She turned abruptly at his question. "Why shouldn't I go with him?" she asked. "You know why you shouldn't." "I don't. Oh, I know the reasons usually given, but--what am I to do. He's so nice, and a perfect gentleman. What harm is there?" "Why do you say that to me, Carlia?" "Why not to you?" She came and sat opposite him by the table. He was silent, and she repeated her question, slowly, carefully, and with emphasis. "Why not to you? Why should you care?" "But I do care." "I don't believe it. You have never shown that you do." "I am showing it now." "Tomorrow you will forget it--forget me for a month." "Carlia!" "You've done it before--many times--you'll do it again." The girl's eyes flashed. She seemed keyed up to carry through something she had planned to do, something hard. She arose and stood by the table, facing him. "I sometimes have thought that you cared for me--but I'm through with that now. Nobody really cares for me. I'm only a rough farm hand. I know how to milk and scrub and churn and clean the stable--an' that's what I do day in and day out. There's no change, no rest for me, save when he takes me away from it for a little while. He understands, he's the only one who does." "But, Carlia!"