“Babbie,” she said with an air of having summoned up her courage,—“Babbie, I hope you won’t think me officious, but I feel that I must tell you some things. Even if I am not a college girl, I have learned a good deal about common things in these four quiet years at home. You are having a hard time, my dear, as everybody knows. Of course every one talks about it. But I don’t know _what_ people will say when they find out why Mrs. Harris left,—for of course they will find out.” Susan stopped her incoherent outburst, and eyed Barbara doubtfully. Then she went on. “It was dreadful of you to let Mrs. Harris go, when she had been so kind. What if she _did_ go contrary to your ideas! Some of them are queer, you know, and why did you care, anyway, so long as your poor family were taken care of comfortably? You can’t get along without a maid, Barbara,—it’s all too much for you. But I’m afraid you’ll find it hard to get any one to come, now.” Susan stopped uncertainly. “Do finish,” said a cold voice from the hammock. Susan looked at the motionless figure lying in an attitude of superior attentiveness, and her color rose. “Barbara, I can’t let it go on,” she broke out. “If no one suffered but yourself, it would be different But the children are affected, too. David never looked so really ill as he does now; and if you are not careful, you will find him sick on your hands. Your father is worn and worried all the time, and you yourself are as thin as a rail. It’s because you don’t accommodate yourself to circumstances. You insist upon carrying out some absurd theoretical ideas in the face of practical difficulties. And I hate to have people talk about you as they do.” As these last words fell upon her ears, Barbara sprang up from the hammock. Her eyes were flashing, and her dignity had utterly disappeared. “Don’t ever say that to me again!” she cried excitedly. “I don’t care a continental what people say about me! Just because I have been away all these years and have had superior advantages, all the people of Auburn discuss me and criticise me, and are—well, jealous!” “Do you mean that I am jealous?” asked Susan, an unusual light in her soft blue eyes. “That makes no difference,” retorted Barbara. “The truth of the matter is, that you have stayed here, and have had some experience in housekeeping, and you have grown to think that it is so important that nothing else is of value to you—none of the higher things. If that is what you and Auburn mean,—that I care more for,—yes, Browning, and literature, and the real issues of life, than for housekeeping,—then you are quite right I do. And I always shall. And I must say that I resent any interference whatever.” There was a long silence. Then Susan rose, biting her lips, to hide their trembling. “I must go,” she said. “Can’t you stay longer?” asked Barbara, politely. “No, I’m afraid not,” replied Susan.