“Take him with you where?” demanded Virginia. “To India,” answered Anna. “To India!” cried Virginia. “Yes, to India;” but there was no little trepidation in her manner. “You surely don't mean to tell me that man proposes to marry you and take you to India?” “Why, of course, dear,” meekly, and as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Virginia looked at her in wonder. With Bush, she had always had her own way, he had denied her nothing. Virginia remembered her insistence; that she had never abandoned a purpose or desire until he yielded; and she mentally contrasted the handsome, easygoing fellow with this narrow-browed stranger from over the seas, and was moved to something very like pity for Anna. “Why don't you leave little Stephen with me?” she at length asked. “I thought you might like to have him; of course not for always,” she hastened to explain. “But the doctor says India is no place for children.” “He is going to return there? You have not sought to dissuade him, to use your influence?” “I haven't tried. It would be useless. He has started such a great work there among those dreadful pagans; he thinks I can be of such help to him in his labours.” And Virginia saw that vanity, and probably a very real sense of loss, had worked this change in Anna; she also realized from the ready acceptance of the life the doctor had mapped out for her, something of the man's determination of character, a force that was all the stronger because of the narrow channels into which it had been directed by the chance that had determined his career. “So I am to have little Stephen—poor little fellow!” They were silent for a time and then Anna said, still in justification of her course. “It's my chance for happiness, Virginia. I'm too young to bury myself alive, I know Bush wouldn't expect it, I know he would approve; and you can't think what a comfort that conviction is!” “And you really expect to marry Dr. Stillman?” Virginia set her lips. “Then I have nothing more to say, Anna, absolutely nothing; you must judge for yourself. I don't propose to criticize you, or your future husband; no good can come of that, and we won't be friends long if I do. Of course I'll take little Stephen, you know that all along I have wanted you and him at the farm; I'd rather have you both, but I see that will never be,” she quitted her chair as she spoke. “Oh, please don't go just yet, dear,” entreated Anna. Now that Virginia knew, and seemed so reasonable in her opinions she would have liked to keep her and make her her confidant; there was much to tell, so much in the way of profitable discussion of her plans. But Virginia had heard enough. “I must go, Anna, I really must go; Sam West is tired of waiting for me, and I wish to go home,” she sighed gently. “I shall be sorry to lose you, dear,” she said graciously, “and perhaps when I am a little more familiar with the idea I shall see it differently; more as you see it.”