She kissed her aunt affectionately, poured herself out a cup of coffee, and, sitting down to the table, made a pretense of eating. “I am better,” she said again, as she found her aunt staring at her. “Of course you are better, child; but you are not well enough to be up. Why didn’t you lie still, and let me bring you a cup of coffee?” The girl’s lips trembled a little, perhaps at her aunt’s kindly words. She looked up thankfully, but only repeated that she felt better. Mrs. Allan bustled about with her morning’s work. She was a notable housekeeper, and took pride in her work. But she glanced at her niece several times with a troubled look. There was something wrong. She could not tell what. At last she asked suddenly: “You did not quarrel last night?” Lettie looked up quickly. “Quarrel?” she repeated, with a soft little laugh. “Do you suppose I could quarrel--with him?” “What is it, then?” “Nothing--only I am unhappy,” with a little touch of proud scorn in her tones. “Pshaw! You must not mind that,” replied her aunt kindly. “Lands sake, child! When you get to be as old as I am, you will know what trouble means;” and her ample bosom heaved with a retrospective sigh. Lettie echoed the sigh in a softer way, and going over to the window, she stood with her forehead pressed against the cold glass, and stared moodily into the street. She was young yet, but she was a woman, with more than her share of womanly passion. And this was the turning point of her life. She knew what it was to be unhappy. She thought wearily, and wondered sadly, if her misery was to increase with her age. She had been petted and spoiled, perhaps, by this kindly old woman, who loved her so dearly, and her imperiously passionate nature could not brook restraint. And she loved, and knew that she could not be loved in return. And at eighteen, that to a woman of her nature was everything. She stood by the window, silent and sullen, for a long time. There was only one person in her narrow world that she cared for outside of her one great love, and that was her aunt. And now she was going to do what she knew would give her aunt pain. That which would bring pain and sorrow to herself as well; she knew that, but she did not care for it. She wanted to save this good woman all she could; beyond that, she was reckless of consequences. Only she must go away. She would not stay and see the love she longed for given to another. And she stood there and chafed and fretted, staring into the village street with her great dusky eyes glowing sullenly, but seeing nothing of what passed. “Auntie,” she called at last, “I want to tell you something.” Mrs. Allan dropped the work she had in hand, and joined her niece at the window. “What is it, dear?” she asked kindly.