"Yes. Why not? My aunt is a very good dressmaker in Paris, and she would help me--at least, she would if it was worth her while. And there is no one here to do anything, and all that exquisite work the peasant women make is wasted on coarse or inferior material. I should get them to do it for me on soft fine nainsook, and make a speciality of summer morning gowns and children's frocks. Every one who comes here would buy a gown of Teneriffe-work from me, and I can fit people quite well. I have a natural turn for it. Look how I can fit myself. You said yesterday that this white gown I have on was perfect." Mrs. Stoddart could only gaze at her in amazement. "My dear Annette," she said at last, "you cannot seriously think I would allow you to leave me to become a dressmaker! What have I done that you should treat me like that?" "You have done everything," said Annette,--"more than anyone in the world since I was born,--and I have accepted everything--haven't I?--as it was given--freely. But I felt the time was coming when I must find a little hole of my own to creep into, and I thought this dressmaking might do. I would rather not try to live by my voice. It would throw me into the kind of society I knew _before_. I would rather make a fresh start on different lines. At least, I thought all these things as I came up the path ten minutes ago. But these two letters have shown me that I have a place of my own in the world after all." She put two black-edged letters into Mrs. Stoddart's hand. "Aunt Catherine is dead," she said. "You know she has been failing. That was why they went to live in the country." Mrs. Stoddart took up the letters and gave them her whole attention. Each of the bereaved aunts had written.