“If Cousin Immie had her way all love stories would have a happy ending,” April had said and turned away, half bitterly. Miss Imogene watched her go, then addressing Dorothea with a sigh, “It is so easy to miss the best things in life,” she told her. “When we are young how little we know where our real happiness lies. And, oh, how foolish are those who will not listen to what their hearts tell them.” Dorothea knew well enough that Miss Imogene was thinking of April. The elder lady did not conceal the fact that she had little patience with her beautiful cousin’s attitude toward Lee Hendon, though she was wise enough not to force her opinions upon the girl herself. “When one has missed the greatest happiness because of a coquettish whim—ah, then, my dear, a lifetime of regret is hard to bear,” she went on. “I know what I am talking about, Dorothea, my child. You remember Larry Stanchfield?” “Yes, indeed,” Dorothea answered. “I’ve never ceased to wonder what has happened to him.” “And perhaps you noticed, honey, that when I discovered who he was I was quite ready to set him safely on his way?” Miss Imogene asked with a gentle smile. “You said it was because of an old friendship,” Dorothea replied, wondering what was coming. “It was more than a friendship,” Miss Imogene admitted, looking off into the distance as if she pictured again the well-remembered scene from out of the past. “To think that he might have been my son, if—if I had not been so foolish a maid. I would not listen to my heart. Shall I tell you about it, dear?” “Please do,” Dorothea murmured. “It may serve as a warning to you, child,” Miss Imogene continued in her sweet gentle voice. “That boy’s father and I—well, he was madly in love with me and I with him. His name was Laurence, too; ‘Larry,’ I called him, and he came from up North, from Albany in New York State. I met him while he was visiting in Charleston, and, my dear, I say it without vanity, I was something of a toast in those days. Yes, I had many lovers and all would bend to my slightest whims. All but Larry—who was a man. He would not bend, and so—so I sent him off, but I never forgot him nor did any other come to take his place in my heart. Perhaps it was because he would not bend. It isn’t the man you can twist around your finger, honey, that you remember the longest.” “What did you want of him that he wouldn’t do?” Dorothea asked after a pause. “Nothing very much, it seemed to me at the time,” Miss Imogene replied, “but now I know that I asked him to sacrifice a principle, and that he would not do, even for me whom he loved. I know he did love me then—you remember that I said he was from the North.” “But there wasn’t any war then,” Dorothea interrupted.