“If you were quite free to go on with your beautiful work,” said Mr. Eltwood slowly, “if you were offered heartiest appreciation, profound respect, as well as love, of course; would you object to marrying, Miss Bell?” asked in an even voice, as if it were a matter of metaphysical inquiry. Mrs. Porne had told him of her theory as to a lover in the home town, wishing to save him a long heart ache, but he was not sure of it, and he wanted to be. Diantha glanced quickly at him, and felt the emotion under his quiet words. She withdrew her eyes, looking quite the other way. “You are enough of a friend to know, Mr. Eltwood,” she said, “I rather thought you did know. I am engaged.” “Thank you for telling me; some one is greatly to be congratulated,” he spoke sincerely, and talked quietly on about less personal matters, holding his tea untasted till it was cold. “Do let me give you some that is hot,” she said at last, “and let me thank you from my heart for the help and strength and comfort you have been to me, Mr. Eltwood.” “I'm very glad,” he said; and again, “I am very glad.” “You may count upon anything I can do for you, always,” he continued. “I am proud to be your friend.” He held her hand once more for a moment, and went away with his head up and a firm step. To one who watched him go, he had almost a triumphant air, but it was not triumph, only the brave beginning of a hard fight and a long one. Then came Mrs. Bell, returned from a shopping trip, and sank down in a wicker rocker, glad of the shade and a cup of tea. No, she didn't want it iced. “Hot tea makes you cooler,” was her theory. “You don't look very tired,” said the girl. “Seems to me you get stronger all the time.” “I do,” said her mother. “You don't realize, you can't realize, Diantha, what this means to me. Of course to you I am an old woman, a back number--one has to feel so about one's mother. I did when I married, and my mother then was five years younger than I am now.” “I don't think you old, mother, not a bit of it. You ought to have twenty or thirty years of life before you, real life.” “That's just what I'm feeling,” said Mrs. Bell, “as if I'd just begun to live! This is so _different!_ There is a big, moving thing to work for. There is--why Diantha, you wouldn't believe what a comfort it is to me to feel that my work here is--really--adding to the profits!” Diantha laughed aloud. “You dear old darling,” she said, “I should think it was! It is _making_ the profits.” “And it grows so,” her mother went on. “Here's this part so well assured that you're setting up the new Union House! Are you _sure_ about Mrs. Jessup, dear?” “As sure as I can be of any one till I've tried a long time. She has done all I've asked her to here, and done it well. Besides, I mean to keep a hand on it for a year or two yet--I can't afford to have that fail.” Mrs. Jessup was an imported aunt, belonging to one of the cleverest girls, and Diantha had had her in training for some weeks.