Mrs. Carnegie could scarcely be considered the most cheerful companion in the world. There was a general sense of rejoicing when Frances took up her abode at Arden, but the victim who was to spend the greater part of her life in Mrs. Carnegie's heated chambers could scarcely be expected to participate in it. This good lady having turned her thoughts inward for so long, could only see the world from this extremely narrow standpoint. She was hypochondriacal, she was fretful, and although Frances managed her, and, in consequence, the rest of the household experienced a good deal of ease, Frances herself, whose heart just now was not of the lightest, could not help suffering. Her cheeks grew paler, her figure slighter and thinner. She could only cry at night, but then she certainly cried a good deal. On a certain sunny afternoon, Mrs. Carnegie, who thought it her bounden duty on all occasions to look out for grievances, suddenly took it upon herself to complain of Frances's looks. "It is not that you are dull, my dear," she remarked. "You are fairly cheerful, and your laugh is absolutely soothing; but you are pale, dreadfully pale, and pallor jars on my nerves, dear. Yes, I assure you, in the sensitive state of my poor nerves a pale face like yours is absolutely excruciating to them, darling." "I am very sorry," replied Frances. She had been a month with Mrs. Carnegie now, and the changed life had certainly not improved her. "I am very sorry." Then she thought a moment. "Would you like to know why I am pale?" "How interesting you are, my love--so different from every other individual that comes to see me. It is good for my poor nerves to have my attention distracted to any other trivial matter? Tell me, dearest, why you are so pallid. I do trust the story is exciting--I need excitement, my darling. Is it an affair of the heart, precious?" Frances's face grew very red. Even Mrs. Carnegie ought to have been satisfied for one brief moment with her bloom. "I fear I can only give you a very prosaic reason," she said, in her gentle, sad voice. "I have little or no color because I am always shut up in hot rooms, and because I miss the open-air life to which I was accustomed." Mrs. Carnegie tried to smile, but a frown came between her brows. "That means," she said, "that you would like to go out. You would leave your poor friend in solitude." "I would take my friend with me," responded Frances. "And she should have the pleasure of seeing the color coming back into my cheeks." "And a most interesting sight it would be, darling. But oh, my poor, poor nerves! The neuralgia in my back is positively excruciating at this moment, dearest. I am positively on the rack; even a zephyr would slay me."