It was in vain for me to argue that he was doing Ada a great wrong, for he insisted upon saying that he was not. “She hadn’t soul enough,” he said, “to really care for any one, and even if she had, he would far rather commit suicide at once, than be yoked to her for life; she was so silly, so fawning, so flat!” It was nearly dark when we reached home, and as the lamps were not yet lighted in the parlor, I went immediately to my room, where I found Anna lying upon the sofa, with her face buried in the cushions. I knew she was not asleep, though she would not answer me, until I had thrice repeated her name. Then lifting up her head, she turned towards me a face as white as ashes, while she said, motioning to a little stool near her, “Sit down by me, Rosa, I must talk to some one, or my heart will break.” Taking the seat, I listened while she told me how much she had loved Herbert Langley—how she had struggled to overcome that love when she thought he had slighted her, and how when she saw him daily in his own home, it had returned upon her with all its former strength, until there came to her the startling news that he was engaged to another. “I cannot stay here,” said she. “I am going home. I have written to mother—see,” and she pointed to a letter which lay upon the table, and which she bade me read. It was a strange, rambling thing, saying that “she should die if she staid longer in Boston, and that she was coming back to Meadow Brook.” “You can’t send this, Anna,” said I, at the same time tossing it into the grate, where a bright coal fire was burning. At this bold act of mine she expressed no emotion whatever, but simply remarked, “I can write another or go without writing.” “And you indeed love Herbert so much?” I said. “Better than my life—and why shouldn’t I?” she replied. “He is all that is noble and good.” “Suppose he proves to be a drunkard?” I queried, looking her steadily in the face, while she answered simply, “And what then? Would that be harder to endure than a life without him?” I know not whether the spirit of prophecy was upon me, or whether I felt a dim foreshadowing of my sister’s wretched future, but from some cause or other, I proceeded to picture to her the sorrows of a drunkard’s home and the utter degradation of a drunkard’s wife, while she listened shudderingly, saying when I had finished, “God save me from such a fate!” There was the sound of footsteps in the hall, and Herbert’s voice was heard at the door, asking for admittance. He had often visited us in our room, and now, without consulting Anna’s wishes, I bade him enter, going out myself and leaving them alone. What passed between them I never knew, but the supper table waited long for Herbert, and was finally removed, my aunt thinking he had gone out, “to see Ada, perhaps,” she said, and then she asked me how I liked her, telling me she was to be Herbert’s wife, and that she hoped they would be married early in the spring.