She walked swiftly to the spot in the woods which she had in mind in setting forth and dropped on the mossy sod to think. She was not a vain girl, not prone to believe herself admired, not consciously seeking admiration. She was singularly direct in mind and simple in motives. She accepted herself, the fact that she was pretty, that she had several accomplishments and was generally liked, as a pleasant thing, but not to be emphasized more than any other pleasant fact like sunshine, or good green grass. In her silent way Anne held strongly to strong purposes in life; young as she was she “had found herself,” as it is expressively put nowadays. And the person who is thus balanced, who actually has “found herself,” is not likely to waste time looking for other things or people. In her close intimacy with Richard Latham for almost a year, she had been flooded with a pity for him that was always at high tide within her. She admired him for his beauty of character as much as for his gifts of mind. His gentle courtesy, his sweetness, the modesty that persevered in spite of the plaudits that he received, had inspired in her a passion of affectionate pity for him that rather excluded than led to love for him. Of herself in connection with him--beyond her ability to be useful to him, to serve him in his work, to brighten his days--she had never thought. That his reliance on her, his appreciation of her personally, as well as of what she did, might mean love for her, had never till that day crossed her mind. He was to her a man removed from this possibility no less by his misfortune than by his genius. Anne laid her head down on the moss and cried miserably. It was unbearable to think that she had brought pain into this afflicted life. True, it would be easy to assuage it. Yet not so easy. She did not love Richard. She held him as one of the dearest of her earthly ties, but she did not love him. She felt sure that if she were to try to make him happy, if she devoted her life to him, that he was far too sensitive not to feel the lack of the right sort of love in his wife; far too high-minded to be less than wretched at being the object of her immolation. A strong word, an absurd one to use in connection with marriage to Richard Latham, Anne knew that most people would say, yet to a girl like her any marriage without the love that marriage implies and demands would be immolation. She cried with all her might into the soft moss. Presently Anne heard a footstep and raised her head to see Miss Carrington near her, standing looking down on her with sincere amazement, but also with carefully arranged sympathy in her face. “I suppose there is no use in denying it, but don’t mind me, Miss Carrington. It’s only a bother that will probably prove more bearable than it looks in perspective; most things are less unendurable than you expect them to be when they come to close range,” Anne said, checking her tears.