Silently Linda went to the wood box, brought a log, stirred the fire and started a cheerful blaze, then sat down in a dim corner, resting elbows on knees, chin in hands. "Where were you walking?" asked Grace presently, stretching herself like some sleek animal in the warmth of the fire. "I went to the graveyard," replied Linda slowly. Grace shivered slightly. "What strong nerves you have. I simply cannot bear to do such things; I am so sensitive. I cannot endure those reminders of my loss. You are so different, but, of course, all natures are not the same. I saw you talking to Phillips. I am glad to know that you can still take an interest in the place, but as for me it is too sad to talk over those things which were always a concern of my dear husband's. I cannot face details yet. My sorrow consumes all my thoughts and outside matters have no place in them. I suppose," she added in a weary voice, "everything is going on all right or you would tell me." "Everything is right so far as I can judge," returned Linda; "but I would advise you to rouse yourself to take an interest soon, Grace, for I shall not be here." "Are you really going soon?" asked Grace, opening her eyes. It was Linda's impulse to say, "I hope so," but she refrained. "I think so," she answered. "I will tell you just when after I have definite information." "Please don't be so secretive," said Grace a little sharply. "You must consider that I have my own arrangements to make and that it is due me to know your plans as soon as they are made." "I will tell you as soon as they are settled," returned Linda stoutly. Here Phebe came in to announce supper and the conversation ended. CHAPTER II THE CLINGING VINE When, two years earlier, Martin Talbot brought his wife to the old family homestead of Talbot's Angles, Linda determined to make the best of the situation. If it was for Martin's happiness to marry the pretty, rather underbred, wholly self-centered Grace Johnson, his sister would not be the one to offer disillusionment. Grace was from the city, dressed well, had dependent little ways which appealed to just such a manly person as Martin. She made much of him, demanded his presence continually, cooed to him persuasively when he would be gone, pouted if he stayed too long, wept if he chided her for being a baby, but under her apparent softness there was obstinacy, and the set purpose of a jealous nature.