“To be with him always, and give up my life to that, and see that he doesn't do any more harm. That would be the debt I would owe to the rest of the world. You see, I know him so well. I shall know how to manage him better than I used to. I used to irritate him. Do you know, I think he's better off in places where things are rough and simple. He has an odd mind or temperament, not what people call balanced or healthy, but it's hot and sensitive; oh, but loving and hating so suddenly, one never knows! You understand. I don't know how you do, but you do understand, somehow, about Lolly and me. You're wholly healthy, too, but Lolly and I, we're morbid of course. Yes, we're morbid. I don't know that there's any cure for us. We'll smash up altogether by and by.” “When will you go?” she asked only just audibly. “He ought to try it to-night. To-night or to-morrow night. He ought to be away on one of the early freight trains, to St. Louis, and meet me there. We know our bearings there.” Camilla sat very still. “I must be going,” he said. “Don't go! You'll come before--when?” “To-morrow we'll know. To-morrow then.” After he was gone, she lifted the window and peered over the mansards to watch him going down the street. The tree tops were thick with busy sparrows, the railroad yards clamorous, and there was the rattle of the travelling crane, and the clug-chug of steamers on the river. She drew back, and leaned against the old chest, and sobbed with her face against the hard, worn edge of it. “I didn't suppose it would be like this,” she thought. “I thought people were happy.” Meanwhile Miss Eunice sat below in the parlour knitting. Hennion came in later and found her there. She said that Camilla, she thought, was upstairs, and added primly: “I think it will be as well if you talk with me.” He smothered his surprise. “Why, of course, Miss Eunice!” “I think you need advice.” He sat down beside her, and felt humble. “That's just what I need. But, Miss Eunice, do you like me well enough to give it?” “I like you more than some people.” “You might do better than that.” “I like you well enough to give it,” she admitted. Tick, tick, tick, continued the knitting needles. “I'm stumped, you know, about Camilla,” Dick went on bluntly. “I don't get ahead. She has changed lately. Hasn't she changed?” “She has changed.” “Well, then, she has! I thought so.” The knitting needles ticked on, and both Dick and Miss Eunice studied their vibrating points, criss-crossing, clicking dry comments over the mystery of the web. “It is my constant prayer that Camilla may be happy,” said Miss Eunice at last. “I have felt--I have examined the feeling with great care--I have felt, that, if she saw her happiness in your happiness, it would be wise to believe her instinct had guided her well. My brother's thoughts, his hopes, are all in Camilla. He could not live without her. He depends upon her to such an extent,--as you know, of course.”