Aunt Susan, never a talkative person, sat close, but as dumb as a graven image; no house near, and only the twinkling lights of several the other side of the valley visible. On a knoll just below them she knew were a few score of white headstones, among them her mother's, and when there was a moon she could see them plainly. It is during the lonely hours of our lives that we see ourselves best, and this quiet evening--no more quiet than many others, perhaps, but seemingly so to Alice--she saw herself and her possible future as it seemed to be. Every word of her lover's letter had been an emissary of both joy and sorrow--joy that he was so devoted to her, and sorrow because she felt that an impassable barrier separated them. "He will forget me in a few months," she said to herself, "and by the time he has won his coveted law degree his scheming mother will have some eligible girl all ready for him to fall in love with. As for me, she will never have the chance to frown at me, for even if Blanch begs I would never set foot in her house!" When her feelings had carried her up to this point she arose, and, going into the parlor, began playing. Her piano was the best and about the only companion she had, and quickly responded to her moods. And now what did it tell? She played; but every chord was a minor one, full of the pathos of tears and sorrow. She sang; but every song that came to her lips carried the same refrain, and told only of hungry hearts and unanswered love. And last and worst of all, almost insensibly her fingers strayed to the chords of one well-remembered song. One verse only she sang, and when the last pathetic line was ended she arose and with a "What a fool I am to care, anyway!" muttered to herself, went back to the porch where her aunt was sitting. And then, as the moon came up from behind the mountain, flooding the narrow valley with pale light, in spite of herself her eyes strayed to that little knoll where the white stones showed clear and distinct. It was the last straw, and going to her aunt and kneeling, she bowed her head in that good old soul's lap, and burst into tears. It may be that the hand which stroked her fair head at this outbreak recalled her mother's, for she only sobbed the harder. It did not last long, however, and when the storm was over she arose and said: "There, auntie, I've been spoiling for a good cry all day, and now I've had it and feel better." But did she? Let those who can put themselves in her place, with her proud spirit and loving heart, answer the question.