The quiet everyday tragedy of that distasteful life--the slow withering away of youth and hope and ambition into a gray waste of ineffectual submissive labor--not only of her life, but of thousands upon thousands like her--it all rose up like a flood in the girl's hot young heart. Ross had turned to her--was holding out his arms to her. “You won't go, my darling!” he said. “I am going Wednesday on the 7.10,” said Diantha. CHAPTER IV. A CRYING NEED “Lovest thou me?” said the Fair Ladye; And the Lover he said, “Yea!” “Then climb this tree--for my sake,” said she, “And climb it every day!” So from dawn till dark he abrazed the bark And wore his clothes away; Till, “What has this tree to do with thee?” The Lover at last did say. It was a poor dinner. Cold in the first place, because Isabel would wait to thoroughly wash her long artistic hands; and put on another dress. She hated the smell of cooking in her garments; hated it worse on her white fingers; and now to look at the graceful erect figure, the round throat with the silver necklace about it, the soft smooth hair, silver-filletted, the negative beauty of the dove-colored gown, specially designed for home evenings, one would never dream she had set the table so well--and cooked the steak so abominably. Isabel was never a cook. In the many servantless gaps of domestic life in Orchardina, there was always a strained atmosphere in the Porne household. “Dear,” said Mr. Porne, “might I petition to have the steak less cooked? I know you don't like to do it, so why not shorten the process?” “I'm sorry,” she answered, “I always forget about the steak from one time to the next.” “Yet we've had it three times this week, my dear.” “I thought you liked it better than anything,” she with marked gentleness. “I'll get you other things--oftener.” “It's a shame you should have this to do, Isabel. I never meant you should cook for me. Indeed I didn't dream you cared so little about it.” “And I never dreamed you cared so much about it,” she replied, still with repression. “I'm not complaining, am I? I'm only sorry you should be disappointed in me.” “It's not _you,_ dear girl! You're all right! It's just this everlasting bother. Can't you get _anybody_ that will stay?” “I can't seem to get anybody on any terms, so far. I'm going again, to-morrow. Cheer up, dear--the baby keeps well--that's the main thing.” He sat on the rose-bowered porch and smoked while she cleared the table. At first he had tried to help her on these occasions, but their methods were dissimilar and she frankly told him she preferred to do it alone. So she slipped off the silk and put on the gingham again, washed the dishes with the labored accuracy of a trained mind doing unfamiliar work, made the bread, redressed at last, and joined him about nine o'clock. “It's too late to go anywhere, I suppose?” he ventured. “Yes--and I'm too tired. Besides--we can't leave Eddie alone.”