When John had gone that evening, and Alice was making ready for bed, her door opened unceremoniously and Harriet came in. She was so pale that Alice cried out to know what was the matter. “Nothing; I’m tired, that’s all. It’s been a hard day for Melville, and that always leaves me a wreck. No, I’ve been waiting for John to go because I want to have a talk with you. I feel like it to-night, and I may not again.” She walked across the room and fumbled nervously the scattered articles on the dressing table. Her words, and the action which followed them, were so unlike Harriet that Alice stared at her wonderingly. At last Harriet turned and faced her, leaning back against the table, her hands clutching the ledge of it tightly. “I’m going to give you some advice,” she said; “I don’t suppose you’ll like it, either. You didn’t like my interrupting John to-night when he was going to explain about banking. But, Alice, dear,” the voice softened as she spoke, and her attitude relaxed a little, “you don’t want to know about such things; truly, you don’t! If you’re going to be happy with John, you mustn’t know anything about his business--about what he does in the daytime.” “What a way to talk--for you, too, of all people! You’re happy, aren’t you?” “Perhaps I’m different,” said Harriet, slowly; “but I know what I’m talking about. I shouldn’t be saying these things to you, if I didn’t. How will you like having John come home and tell you all about some tight place he’s in that he doesn’t know how he’s going to get out of, and then waiting all the next day and wondering how it’s coming out, and not being able to do anything but worry?” “But I thought the banking business was perfectly safe,” said Alice, vaguely alarmed, but still more puzzled. “Safe!” echoed Harriet; “any business is safe if a man is willing to wall himself up in a corner and just stay, and not want to do anything or get anywhere. But if a man is ambitious, like John or Melville, and means to get up to the top, why it’s just one long fight for him whatever business he goes into.” She was not looking at Alice, nor, indeed, speaking to her, but seemed rather to be thinking aloud. “That is the one great purpose in John’s life,” she said. “His father’s bank is the only thing that really counts. Everything else is only incidental to that.” She turned about again, and her hands resumed their purposeless play over the table. “He’ll succeed, too. He isn’t afraid of anything; and he won’t lose his nerve; he can stand the strain. But you can’t, and if you try, your face will get wrinkled,” she was staring into the mirror that hung above the table, “and your nerves will fly to pieces, and you’ll just worry your heart out.” She was interrupted by a movement behind her. Alice had thrown herself upon the bed, sobbing like a frightened child.