That night Mr. Lancaster came to Nan’s door a little before the appointed hour. “I seem to be arranging things to suit myself to-day,” he announced to Cis when she appeared. “I called up Miss Lucas and said that I had to see you to-night on behalf of Miss Braithwaite, and that we would not spend the evening there. Instead, I have found a car like my own at the garage and have taken it for the evening. It is a beautiful night, soft little breeze, pleasant-tempered little moon! I’m going to drive you about and talk to you. Do you mind?” “Not a bit!” Cis hoped that she did not betray how little she minded. “I must get a heavier wrap, though. Just a minute, and I’ll be ready.” “Whither away?” asked Mr. Lancaster, when Cis was disposed on the seat beside him, a light-weight rug over her knees. “Anywhere! I don’t care where; I don’t know many roads beyond here, though I was born and brought up here. I don’t think it matters much which direction you take.” “We’ll recklessly drive and turn corners, and after a while have to ask the way back! That sounds alluring. I always wanted to be lost!” cried Anselm Lancaster. “Oh, did you? So did I!” cried Cis. “I used to try to lose myself when I was a little girl, but I have an Indian’s sense of direction, and I always went right!” “Great thing to have a true sense of direction, and go right when roads are obscure,” said Anselm. Cis did not answer; she heard a sub-meaning in his voice, and wondered if he were thinking of her bewilderment nearly two years ago. “Now, about Miss Braithwaite,” said Anselm, getting away from her silence and her thoughts, which he divined, and from his own meaning which he knew that she had caught. “Miss Miriam’s friend has died, after agony that must have directly opened heaven to her. Miss Miriam stayed by her to the end; it was not easy to see. But there’s no use dwelling on that, beyond resolving to make her return home as cheerful as possible. You know what Miss Braithwaite is; she does not repine, and she has met this torture in the spirit that is hers. It’s almost harder to see agony that can’t be relieved, except by anaesthetics daily losing their efficacy, than it is to bear it. Miss Miriam is sixty-five years old, dear Miss Cis. That isn’t old; we know how unfailing her strength is, her strength of character, of mind, of efficiency, but old age may be seen coming along at sixty-five, much as if she were standing on the corner waiting for a trolley transfer, and the other trolley which she was to take were bounding down its track toward her.” “I don’t want Miss Braithwaite to be old! I can’t bear to think of it. She’s one of those persons who should never be old; so clever, so brilliant, so highly good!” protested Cis.