Flurries of snow began sometimes to hide the ocean from the girl, who sat often at her chamber window. Then came three or four perfect days in November, the Indian summer. It was on one of these days that Mrs. Ffolliott entered the room where her daughter sat by the hearth. Carolyn was reading, or seemed to be reading. She held a book in her hand nearly always when she was not at work. Mrs. Ffolliott had a copy of a Boston daily paper, and the paper fluttered and rustled in her hand as she came forward nervously. "Carolyn," she said, in a high voice, "you just read that; you might as well read it first at last. The strange part of it is that we haven't seen it before. Of course other folks have seen it. And they wouldn't tell us. I call that unkind. I happened upon this paper in a waste-basket. It had never been unfolded. I don't know what we've done to have such a thing happen to us. I'm glad you held out about not putting on black. How ridiculous we should have looked, going around in black!" While she talked Mrs. Ffolliott held the paper beyond her daughter's reach, though the latter extended her hand for it. "Let me see it," said Carolyn, authoritatively. The mother hesitated an instant, then she put the paper on the girl's lap and pointed to the list of passengers on the _Scythia_. "Mr. and Mrs. Rodney Lawrence," Carolyn read, then she read again. She heard her mother saying: "It's the same steamer and the same date that you were going with him." Mrs. Ffolliott was not thinking of grammar as she spoke. Carolyn looked up, a hard light in her eyes. "Only he married Prudence instead of me," she said. "It was a fine plan, wasn't it? No one could have made a better. Of course people hated to tell us. Oh!" She dropped the paper and clasped her hands. In a moment the hard look had left her face. Her lips quivered as she said, "He always loved her; he never loved me. No, he never loved me. Do you suppose he'll be happy with her?" "I'm sure I hope not," was the angry reply, "and I don't see how it's possible, either. The scoundrel! The ungrateful wretch!" "Oh, mamma!" "You don't mean to say you're going to defend him, Carolyn Ffolliott!" "No, no," she said, in a low voice that trembled piteously; "but I can't stop loving him because he doesn't love me. You see, mamma, I've got to love him. Oh, I wish I hadn't! I wish I could thrust him out of my mind!" "Got to love him!" cried Mrs. Ffolliott. "Carolyn, I'm ashamed of you. I thought you had more spirit. Are you going to whine in this way? Why, I'll--I'll have you shut up! Do you think I'd have gone on like this if your father had served me so?" The girl did not answer. She was sitting motionless, with her hands lying inertly in her lap. Mrs. Ffolliott, in the suddenness of this discovery, hardly knew what she did. She grasped her daughter's shoulder and shook it. "Have some pride!" she exclaimed.