Alan made no reply, beyond drawing the girl's limp hand through his arm. Katharine felt the unspoken sympathy of his gesture and pressed closer to him. "Do say you don't believe it, Alan," she urged. "You must know that papa couldn't do such a thing." "Oh, Kit, I wish I knew what to say!" the boy burst out. "I am so awfully sorry for you, dear." But Katharine stopped him with a motion of her hand. "Don't pity me, Alan, or I shall begin to cry; and I mustn't do that here. We must hurry home to tell auntie." And she quickened her pace, almost to a run. Alan kept by her side, watching the white, set face, and marvelling that she did not give way to her sorrow. His own eyes were full of tears, and his throat was aching with a dull, dry pain; but his cousin, after her first exclamations, was perfectly quiet. So they went up the long, sunny street, deaf to the gay bird-songs, blind to the sunlight that slanted down through the arching elms and set the dewdrops to twinkling, only anxious to reach the safe refuge of the old house, and the motherly woman within it. They found her on the piazza watching for them, eager for the news the letter must bring. Even then, Katharine's self-control did not leave her. Pausing before her aunt, she said quietly, as she held out the letter,-- "Do you remember our talk last fall, auntie? My call has come, and I must answer: 'ready.'" "Katharine!" Mrs. Hapgood snatched the note, read it, and turned impulsively to the young girl before her. "You poor child!" she began; but Katharine interrupted her, as she had done Alan. "Don't worry about me, auntie. But can you tell Jessie now, please? I am afraid I can't." And she turned away and went into the house. When Mrs. Hapgood came down-stairs, an hour later, it seemed as if a shadow had always rested on the house, the sorrow it contained had so soon become a part of their lives. Up-stairs, Jessie had cried until she was tired, stopped to listen vaguely to her aunt's comforting words, then cried again, but all without any real understanding of the trouble which had come upon her. Down-stairs, Alan and Molly were walking the room, arm in arm, with a settled look of sadness which was strangely out of place on their young faces. Alan had told his sister the news as gently as he could, and she could only cling to him and cry, as she took in all the meaning of the shame and disgrace, all the consequences of the father's sin upon the coming life of his children. "But where is Katharine?" asked Mrs. Hapgood anxiously. "Isn't she up-stairs?" said Molly. "I haven't seen her," answered her mother. "Why, we supposed she was with you!" And Alan hurried away to look for his cousin.