“Well, dear, happiness is a term of comparison, but it usually takes years to teach us this,” said Miss Braithwaite. “If your little bride-friend is good, with the sort of goodness you convey an impression of, she is likely to be happy. Enkindled people rise to rapture, but they sink into wretchedness; it’s safer to shine by refraction than to be enkindled, my dear.” “How do you know the things you understand, Miss Braithwaite?” cried Cis. “I have hardly talked of Nan to you, yet you have her measure! I must write her, tell her. It will make her most unhappy! I don’t know how I can tell her I’m not to be married, after all. Nan will feel like a thief to be happy when I’m not. And she has taken the same day, so that we could be happy together, though apart. I won’t tell her anything except that my plan is all off, done with forever. I bought some lovely, perfectly beautiful damask, Miss Braithwaite; three table-cloths, napkins for each, and I’ve been doing hemstitched hems. They were for me, you know, for--Luckily they’re not marked yet. I’m not much good at embroidery, though I drew the threads and hemstitched quite decently. I was going to have them marked, embroidered letters, you know--‘_C. A._’ I’d better have them marked A. M. D.--Anne Margaret Dowling--and send them to Nan, hadn’t I? Would that be nice? I almost feel as though anything of mine might bring her bad luck!” “There’s no such thing as bad luck, Cis child!” cried Miss Braithwaite, trying not to let Cis see how much her quiet renunciation of her sweet hopes, stitched into her linen, moved her. “I am sure that your damask would bring Nan blessing; it is a cloth from an altar of sacrifice! It would be a beautiful gift, child, and Nan need not know, not now, at least, that it was at first intended for another home.” “I’ll go around to Miss Wallace’s to-day and get it then,” said Cis with a grateful look for her hostess. “And, Miss Braithwaite, I’ve got to plan. I’ve a good position here, I like Beaconhite, and I’ve got to live somewhere, but--I’ll always be afraid to walk out; I can’t meet Rod. Don’t you think, perhaps, I’d better go away? Not home; somewhere? And, oh, do you think Rod will try to see me? Miss Braithwaite, I can’t see him! What shall I do?”