She was gaining the mastery over her own spirit. Mary had treated her not only unkindly, but, what was much worse, treacherously; for she argued with herself that it was impossible for Mary so to misunderstand her as to think that she was really laughing at Miss Meeks. Mary had been at once her idol and her pattern for nearly two years; a pattern unapproachable in its perfection, it was true, but still her model of all that was good and lovely. And now that idol was fallen—a very Dagon—in helpless ruin, and the fair model was chipped and stained—no more to be a model, but only a sad warning. As Calista thought of it, in her girlish exaggeration and passion, she said to herself, more than once, "I wish she had died, like poor little Julia Lawrence, last year." Calista did not know what death meant, any more than any other young creature who has only seen it at a distance. It is curious, but, I believe, quite true, that young people are apt to think of death just in this way, as an easy method of escape. She did not realize what it would be to have no Mary anywhere within reach; no possibility of explanation or "making up;" no possibility of finding Mary any more, though she should go all over the world to look for her. She was but a child, after all, with a child's experiences. Still, as she thought of the dead girl, with whom she had had a merry game only the day before she had seen her laid out on her narrow white bed, her heart grew soft toward her friend, and she said to herself that she would try to forgive Mary. "I am sure she will be sorry when she thinks about it," she said to herself. "I need forgiveness enough myself, for that matter; and Mary has done nothing worse than I was tempted to do. To be sure, I was not overcome by the temptation; but that was no thanks to me." And then Calista went back to her childish days, and began to recall all she could remember about them and Miss Malvina. "I am sure those are mother's trunks. I remember Miss Malvina making me spell out the name on the end—'Calista Folsom'—and telling me that it was my dear mother's name, and that those were her things. Oh, if I could only get possession of them! I mean to ask Mr. Settson if there is anything to be done. There, Aunt Priscilla is waking up." In fact, Miss Priscilla roused herself and Chloe brought in the candles at one and the same moment. "Druey—why, where is Druey?" asked Miss Priscilla, rubbing her eyes. "Chloe, where is Miss Druett?" "She is up in her room, and she ain't a-coming down to-night, either," was Chloe's answer, as she slapped down first the candlesticks and then the snuffer-tray. "I've took her up a candle, half an hour ago." "But she must come down. What does she think I am going to do all the evening? Go up to her, Chloe, and tell her—no, ask her if she isn't coming down to play cribbage." "Oh, well, I can go, of course," said Chloe, "but it won't do any good."