“Nothing that anybody can help,” said her friend. “Nothing that matters. What does matter, anyway? Fuss and fuss and fuss. Dress and entertain. Travel till you're tired, and rest till you're crazy! Then--when a real thing happens--there's all this!” and she lifted her black draperies disdainfully. “And mourning notepaper and cards and servant's livery--and all the things you mustn't do!” Isabel put an arm around her. “Don't mind, dear--you'll get over this--you are young enough yet--the world is full of things to do!” But Mrs. Weatherstone only smiled her faint smile again. “I loved another man, first,” she said. “A real one. He died. He never cared for me at all. I cared for nothing else--nothing in life. That's why I married Martin Weatherstone--not for his old millions--but he really cared--and I was sorry for him. Now he's dead. And I'm wearing this--and still mourning for the other one.” Isabel held her hand, stroked it softly, laid it against her cheek. “Oh, I'll feel differently in time, perhaps!” said her visitor. “Maybe if you took hold of the house--if you ran things yourself,”--ventured Mrs. Porne. Mrs. Weatherstone laughed. “And turn out the old lady? You don't know her. Why she managed her son till he ran away from her--and after he got so rich and imported her from Philadelphia to rule over Orchardina in general and his household in particular, she managed that poor little first wife of his into her grave, and that wretched boy--he's the only person that manages her! She's utterly spoiled him--that was his father's constant grief. No, no--let her run the house--she thinks she owns it.” “She's fond of you, isn't she?” asked Mrs. Porne. “O I guess so--if I let her have her own way. And she certainly saves me a great deal of trouble. Speaking of trouble, there they are--she said she'd stop for me.” At the gate puffed the big car, a person in livery rang the bell, and Mrs. Weatherstone kissed her friend warmly, and passed like a heavy shadow along the rose-bordered path. In the tonneau sat a massive old lady in sober silks, with a set impassive countenance, severely correct in every feature, and young Mat Weatherstone, sulky because he had to ride with his grandmother now and then. He was not a nice young man. ***** Diantha found it hard to write her home letters, especially to Ross. She could not tell them of all she meant to do; and she must tell them of this part of it, at once, before they heard of it through others. To leave home--to leave school-teaching, to leave love--and “go out to service” did not seem a step up, that was certain. But she set her red lips tighter and wrote the letters; wrote them and mailed them that evening, tired though she was. Three letters came back quickly. Her mother's answer was affectionate, patient, and trustful, though not understanding. Her sister's was as unpleasant as she had expected.