"Nan is nearly seventeen." "She isn't grown-up yet." "And she says she must go out somewhere. We couldn't do without our Prue." "No—I know—" "You would never have cared to undergo hospital training, like Bertha." "Perhaps not." Prue had had her longings, which she had smothered down for Bertha's sake. She might have to crush them again, for Nan's sake. Not that she had not the first right of choice, but that she could not trust Nan to do her work at home. It was always an understood thing in the household that "Prue couldn't be spared." Other people might please themselves; but not Prue. Usually she acquiesced in this view of affairs, accepting the manner of life appointed to her. Now and then a restless wave would arise, and sometimes the top curled over,—not often in Mrs. Valentine's presence. "Why, Prue!—I always thought—you don't want to ran away from home too!" "If I did—" and a pause. The wave had spent itself. "People can't always do exactly what they wish. Bertha was wild for years to be a nurse. It is her vocation. I'm never wild after anything, you know; and I should not be happy away from home—unless I could be sure of your comfort. Nan is no good." "Prue—!" called Mr. Valentine. Prue glided away; and Mrs. Valentine sat meditating, mother fashion, over her children. Prue seemed usually so calm and content. Had she too caught the prevalent spirit of the age? "When I was a girl I never felt like that," thought the old lady. A cab at the door; not heard in its approach through the snow. Bertha, of course! They crowded into the hall to welcome her; father and mother, eldest daughter and eager servants. Wallace came rushing through a back-door, just in time, a big loose-limbed youth of nineteen or twenty: and close behind was a girl, almost equally big, light-haired and uncouth. Bertha hurried into the midst of them, her dark eyes shining, her pretty cheeks brilliant, her long cloak tossed by the wind. "No, don't shut the door. Not yet. Mother, I mustn't lose a moment. I've brought some one home to be nursed. It couldn't be helped—there was nothing else to be done. Will you forgive me? She's alone with her little girl—such a dear child—her little sister, I mean. Miss Anderson has been ill, and the long journey is too much for her. It would half kill her to go on to Bristol to-day. My room is ready, of course, and she can sleep there. Never mind about me. Any corner will do—besides, I shall sit up with her to-night. Say I was right! I did think of going on with them, and telegraphing to you from Bristol, but she isn't fit, and I knew you would all be disappointed. Was I wrong? I left word with Mr. Jasper to call. He is on his rounds now. Have I done rightly, father?" "Shouldn't—wonder!" Mr. Valentine said slowly. "Seems to me you hadn't much choice. Eh?" and he looked in appeal to his wife, conscious that his approval without hers would not settle the matter. "Bertha couldn't well do anything else," said Mrs. Valentine.