“The gain is for you,” said Jean, at last, desperately; “they say she wants to marry you to the minister.” Now she had said it. She stood still, frightened. Judith left her without another word, going straight on to the parsonage. After a moment Jean turned and went home. What would Judith do? She looked angry enough to do anything. But she had shielded her from further talk. Bensalem should have no more to say. Judith went on dazed. Now she understood it all; Martha was coming that she might go; they did not like to tell her to go; they were all too kind. As if Aunt Affy could plot like that. As if Aunt Affy cared for that: Aunt Affy who wanted to keep her always. Had Marion heard the talk? And Roger? Was he glad to send her away with his mother? She would fly to Aunt Affy that very night; the old house would be her refuge. She would go back to Aunt Affy—and her mother’s home. Roger, her saint, her hero, her ideal—he could never think of her—like that. She opened the door and went in. Marion had taken her mother for a drive. The study door was shut, the usual signal when Roger was busy. But she often ventured; the shut door had never barred her out. Nothing had ever kept her away from Roger. She tapped; Roger called: “Come in.” He was writing and did not lift his eyes. She waited; he looked up and smiled. “Can you stop one minute?” she asked, faintly. “One and a half.” “I came to tell you that I have thought it over; I would rather not go home with Mrs. Kenney.” “Stay then, with all my heart.” “But not with all my heart. I am going to Aunt Affy’s instead. She wants me,” she said, quietly, with a quiver of the lip. “I should think she would.” “I did not know how much. She herself would not tell me. Jean Draper told me. Aunt Affy told her mother.” “That will not change our plans of study at all.” “No; it need not.” “It shall not.” “I think I can get on alone awhile. You have taught me how to use books. You have shown me that they are tools. I can write by myself. You have been to me like Maria Edgeworth’s father. Perhaps it is time for Maria to stand alone.” “You are tired of my teaching.” “Oh, no; I am not tired of anything—excepting Bensalem. I _hate_ Bensalem,” she burst out with anger and contrition. “What has Bensalem done now?” “Nothing unusual. Will you tell Marion I am going—home to stay to-night? Martha will come and help her in the housekeeping.” “Judith, has any one hurt you?” “No,” said Judith, smiling with the tears starting; “you are all too kind.” “Is it for Aunt Affy you are going? Judith, you cannot deceive me.” “No; I do not think I can. I am going for Aunt Affy’s sake, Roger.” “Because she misses you?” “Yes, because she misses me, and needs me. People think and say—she is not taking good care of me. I wish to prove to them that she is.” “That is sheer nonsense,” he exclaimed, angrily.