Maizie smiled faintly. "It isn't hard. Not so very hard, that is," she amended hastily. "It wouldn't hurt her to stay there a little while longer. You see," picking her words very carefully, "Shirley isn't--she's such a dear we've all petted her a good deal--and maybe spoiled her a little. She hasn't had to give up much that she wanted. People like to do things for her and give her things and save her from things. I think she doesn't quite realize how much has been done for her." "Do you think that is quite just?" David was very grave. "She is very appreciative of what you've done for her." Maizie flushed under the reproof. "Oh, yes," she went bravely on, "she's a dear about that. That's one reason why every one likes to do things for her. What I meant was, I don't think she quite realizes how important it has been to her. You see, she has never had to face any real trials. If any came, they would be _very_ real trials to her. And I'm not sure just what she--just how she--" Poor Maizie, torn between loyalty to and fear for her Shirley, floundered miserably and fell into an ashamed silence. "You don't know how brave Shirley is. Sisters are apt to be that way, I suppose." Poor Maizie! She flushed again and hung her head in shame because she had dared to suggest, however gently, a latent flaw in Shirley. "What you forget is, we have something that makes other things of no account. And besides, trials are just what you make them. If you look at them just as an adventure, part of a big splendid fight you're making, they become very simple--you can even get fun out of them. And that's what we're going to do." Maizie, with a sigh, yielded the point. But, "David," she said earnestly, "promise me one thing, won't you?" "Of course, Maizie. Anything but the one." "Then, if anything happens and if you should happen to mislay those spectacles and--by mistake, of course--put on another pair, you won't judge her too harshly, will you? Just say, 'It's all the fault of that homely old Maizie, who didn't teach Shirley to take life so seriously as she ought to have done.' You'll say that--and think it--won't you?" David laughed at the absurd notion. "That's easy to promise." They were married in May, on a night when the wind howled and the rain drove fiercely. The rich aunt gave Shirley the wedding, in the big house on the hill, and intimated that therewith the term of her largess had expired. All of Shirley's home friends were there, exuberantly gay and festive, making merry because two lives were to be mated, as though that were a light matter. The Jim Blaisdells and Dick Holden, who was to be best man, were there thinking of David. In the room reserved for the groom Dick turned from the mirror where he had been complacently regarding his gardenia, and caught a glimpse of David's face. "I say, old man, what's wrong? Funk? Cheer up. It'll soon be over." "It isn't that."