"No," her aunt replied. "He thought more of her for it, I suppose. Anyway, I never knew another man to be as fond of his wife as he was." Annie Benton and the Ancient Maiden pursued their work in silence for a while, when the girl said,-- "I want to make a confession to you, too, Aunt Jane. I am in love with Allan Dorris." "Don't hope to surprise me by telling me that," her aunt returned quickly, and looking at the girl as if in vexation. "I have known it for six months. But it won't do you any good, for he is going away on the early train to-morrow morning. Your father told me so this morning, and he seemed glad of it. You haven't kept your secret from him, either." To avoid showing her chagrin at this reply, the girl walked over to the window, and looked out. Allan Dorris was passing in the road, and she felt sure that he was walking that way hoping to catch a glimpse of her; perhaps he was only taking a farewell look at the house in which she lived. But she did not show herself, although he watched the house closely until he passed out of sight. "I supposed everyone knew it," the girl said, returning to her chair again. "I have always thought that any girl who is desperately in love cannot hide it; but I wanted to talk to you about it, and I am glad you told me what you did, for I can talk more freely after having heard it. I have no one else to make a confidant of, and I am very much concerned about it. The matter is so serious with me that I am scared." "Don't be scared, for pity's sake," the Ancient Maiden replied, with a show of her old spirit. "They all feel that way, but they soon get over it. When I was in love I wondered that the sun came up in the morning, but everything went on just as usual. I thought the people were watching me in alarm, fearing I would do something desperate, but those who knew about it paid little attention, and I _had_ to get over it, whether I wanted to or not. You will feel differently after he has been gone a week." "The certainty that I will not is the reason I have spoken to you," Annie continued gravely. "Allan Dorris loves me as the writer of the letters you have shown me loved you before the other girl came in his way; and I love him as you have loved the writer of the letters all these years. You have never forgotten your lover; then why should you say that I will forget mine within a week? What would you advise me to do?" "Ask me anything but that," the aunt replied, folding up her work with an unsteady hand. "No matter how I should advise you, I should finally come to believe that I had advised you wrong, love is so uncertain. It is usually a matter of impulse, and some of the most unpromising lovers turn out the best. I cannot advise you, Annie; I do not know." Jane Benton imagined that Dorris was going away because Annie would not marry him; but the reverse was really the case,--he was going away for fear she would become his wife.