“That was the trouble, you didn't mean to be anything to him; he might just as well have been a piece of furniture, for all the notice he got from you.” “Don't you think it unwise of you to see so much of him?” asked Virginia abruptly. “Why is it unwise?” demanded Anna, who was instantly on the defencive. “It will make talk,” urged Virginia gently. “Anything will make that;” Anna said. “I'm sure I'm careful, I see almost no one, I go nowhere! I don't know what more you can ask of me, Virginia.” “But the doctor comes here very frequently, does he not?” “Dear me!” said Anna fretfully. “One can hear most anything if one will only listen.” “Of course, I know it's the merest gossip—you couldn't—” she broke off abruptly. Anna elevated her eyebrows. “I don't see why any one should say anything; he calls occasionally, he is interested in—” “Interested, dear, in you?” questioned Virginia. “Oh, dear, no! In my spiritual welfare,” she dropped her eyes prettily. Virginia laughed quite audibly at this. Anna shivered at the sound. She hated ridicule. “Since poor Bush's death, I have felt that my life has been so worldly; indeed, I feel that I can never return to my former career of folly,” she sighed. “Isn't that a rather harsh name for it? But I don't see what Dr. Stillman has to do with that,” said Virginia. “Amusements have lost their relish. I am feeling the need of a more evangelical faith,” murmured Anna. The younger Mrs. Lan-dray laughed outright at this. “And I suppose that is the reason you delight in the doctor's evangelical conversation.” Anna sighed. “Of course nothing is sacred to ridicule.” “Oh, don't be silly!” said Virginia sharply. “Don't confound the doctor with his teachings!” But Anna repelled the idea by a look. “I do wish I knew what you meant,” said Virginia. “Oh, I am so lonely!” cried Anna, with sudden frankness. “Of course I loved Bush, but I can't live in the memory of that! I am not like you, Virginia; there is this difference, why don't you try and understand it;” and then, by degrees, she told Virginia all; while the latter sat at her side, shocked, silent, and indignant. She had promised to marry the missionary. “I thought life had ended for me with Bush's death, but I find I can still be something to some one,” she added in justification of the step she had taken. “I see,” said Virginia, with unexpected gentleness, and the anger faded from her eyes, and in its place was only sorrow. “I was devoted to him while he lived—you know that, Virginia?” insisted Anna, almost fiercely. “And I adore his memory, and always shall, but it's not enough,” she looked up into her sister's face. “You will never marry again, you are different from me. Oh, I wish I were like you, dear!” “What about little Stephen?” asked Virginia quietly. She accepted the situation, she felt there was nothing more to say. “We shan't take him with us,” said Anna, greatly relieved by the other's altered tone.