There was a dreadful scene. They even wept. She was amazed by her own ruthless firmness; she had never imagined she could so trample on these two beloved creatures. She tried, poor girl, to explain something of her own fiery restlessness and vigour, her need for more life. But to no purpose; they saw nothing but her wish and determination to leave them. She ended, as one usually does, by losing her temper, and shut herself in the bedroom, trembling with anger. “Do they expect me to bury myself here?” she thought. “Just to stop here, forever and ever? It’s all very well for Grandma, _she’s_ seventy-five, and it’s all right for Minnie. A little old maid like her! But _me_---- I won’t!” She temporised, fully resolved to hurt them _this once_, and then to load them with benefits, when her wonderful future should begin. Daylight faded; the old room grew quite dark, the pallid yellow in the west turned grey, then inky. Her lamp was downstairs, and not for anything would she have gone after it. She drew a rocking chair up to the window and sat there looking out over the melancholy wide fields stretching to the mountains. One of those immeasurably solemn and majestic moods came over her: the night breeze blew on her face, sighing through the pine trees; her spirit was not on earth. High resolves, divine unselfishness, fired her; she wanted to help everyone, not only Minnie and her grandmother, but every single human soul. She felt urged to a mighty destiny.... Then the mood ebbed, and left her chilled and lonely. She could hear Minnie in the kitchen directly beneath her; her pleasant voice talking to Michael; sometimes a cough from the old lady. Like a knife her love pierced her, love for everything safe, familiar and homely. In another minute she would have rushed down the stairs to fling her arms round her sister, to tell her she would not, could not, ever leave her. But at that moment the door opened and Minnie entered, lamp in hand; her eyes were red, her plain face rather pale. “Frankie,” she said, and setting down the lamp, caught her sister in a tight embrace. “Frankie,” she went on, “I’ve been talking it over with Grandma.... And we’re both willing--for you to go----” She could keep her tears back no longer; they wept together on each other’s shoulders. Minnie was the first to look up and dry her eyes. “Now come downstairs, dear,” she said, “I’ve made delicious cornmeal gems for your supper.” II It was a bitter loss to Minnie. She drove Frankie to the station that last day with her heart like lead. And though she had voluntarily let her go, and said good-by to her steadily and cheerfully, her very real affection for her sister was hurt beyond remedy. She never again felt quite the same toward her, never lost that faint resentment; always remembered that Frances had wanted to go off and leave her, alone and lonely.