For a moment Anne remained somewhat passively in her mother’s embrace; then she freed herself and went back to lean against the mantel. “That’s just it, dear; I think we must,” she said. “With such years and years before you--and all that lovely hair!” Her eyes still lingered smilingly on her mother. Kate sat upright again, and brushed back the lovely hair from her bewildered temples. What did Anne mean? What was it she was trying to say? The mother began to tremble with an undefined apprehension; then the truth flashed over her. “Dearest--you mean you may be married?” The girl nodded, with the quick drop of the lids that called up such memories to her mother. “I couldn’t write it; I’m so bad at writing. I want you to be happy with me, darling. I’m going to marry Major Fenno.” XIII. Baltimore--the conductor called it out as the train ground its way into the station. Kate Clephane, on her feet in the long swaying Pullman, looked about her at the faces of all the people in the other seats--the people _who didn’t know_. The whole world was divided, now, between people such as those, and the only two who did know: herself and one other. All lesser differences seemed to have been swallowed up in that.... She pushed her way between the seats, in the wake of the other travellers who were getting out--she wondered why!--at Baltimore. No one noticed her; she had no luggage; in a moment or two she was out of the station. She stood there, staring in a dazed way at the meaningless traffic of the streets. Where were all these people going, what could they possibly want, or hope for, or strive for, in a world such as she now knew it to be? There was a spring mildness in the air, and presently, walking on through the hurrying crowd, she found herself in a quiet park-like square, with budding trees, and bulbs pushing up in the mounded flower-beds. She sat down on a bench. Strength had been given her to get through that first hour with Anne ... she didn’t know how, but somehow, all at once, the shabby years of dissimulation, of manœuvring, of concealing, had leapt to her defence like a mercenary army roused in a righteous cause. She had to deceive Anne, to lull Anne’s suspicions, though she were to die in the attempt. And she had not died-- That was the worst of it. She had never been more quiveringly, comprehensively alive than as she sat there, in that alien place, staring out alone into an alien future. She felt strong and light enough to jump up and walk for miles and miles--if only she had known where to go! They said grief was ageing--well, this agony seemed to have plunged her into a very Fountain of Youth.