"Hush, hush Isabel, this is wicked rebellion--one insult should not cancel a life of benefits," said Mary, very gently. Isabel laughed wildly. "Benefits! What have they made me? a beggar and an outcast. Where can I find support out of all the frothy accomplishments she has given me? Not one useful thing has she ever taught me. You, Mary, are independent, for you work for your daily bread--no one can call you a pauper." "And you have really left Mrs. Farnham?" said Mary, smoothing down Isabel's disturbed tresses with her two palms, "and you would like to live here at the Old Homestead, I hope, oh, how much I hope that it can be so." "I have been wandering in the woods for hours, trying to think what was best. I have no friend but you, Mary. Among all my fine acquaintances, no one would stand by me. Let me stay, Mary, and make me good like the rest of you--I wish we had never parted!" "Lie still and rest, darling--I know aunt Hannah will let you stay--don't mind the expense or trouble, for I'll tell you a secret; Isabel, Joseph has been teaching me to paint, and in a little while he says I can make the most beautiful pictures, and sell them for money--besides, don't say that you can do nothing; out of all these pretty accomplishments it will be strange if you can't make a living without hard work too." "Dear, dear Mary, how you comfort me!" was the grateful answer, given in the quick, rapid enunciation of coming fever. "You will ask aunt Hannah for me, but Mary, she must not let Frederick Farnham come here!" "Why not? how can you ask it, he who paid their debts and saved them from so much sorrow?" Isabel drew Mary close to her and whispered in a wild hoarse way, "We love each other; he wants me to become his wife, but I have taken an oath, a great black oath against it." "An oath!" said Mary, half doubting if this were not all feverish raving. "Yes, yes, an oath. You would not let me marry among my father's murderers--oh, I was dreadfully tempted, but the oath saved me, and I am here!" Mary became terrified, there was too much earnestness among the fire of poor Isabel's eyes. Had she in reality taken an oath of this kind, and was it working out its own curse? "Ask her, ask aunt Hannah if I can stay," pleaded Isabel; "these clothes are so heavy I want to get into bed where no one can find me--my head aches--my heart aches, oh, I am very miserable!" "I will call aunt Hannah," said Mary; "we will ask her together." Isabel burst into a passion of tears. "Yes, go now, while my head is clear, put some more cold water on it, that is so cool, go Mary." Mary went softly down stairs. Aunt Hannah had looked keenly after the girls as they disappeared. She dropped the knitting-work into her lap, and sat gazing hard at the door long after it was closed. She was still motionless, gazing on the distance in this hard fashion, when the door was pushed open and Mary Fuller looked out.