that true?"

"Yes," said Agnes, and she laughed a little. "It isn't my way," she went
on, "to talk like this about myself. Yet I can't help seeing that all
this keeping silence, and disguising facts from one's own reason, is
actually weak. I don't want to be weak. It isn't English. I don't want
to be supine. That isn't English either. I want to be just and square
all round--in my dealings with others and in my dealings with my own
conscience. Papa has always taught us a great deal about individual
liberty, and freedom of will. I am beginning to wonder what liberty
means."

"That's the first step toward a great change."

The young girl set her lips, and looked steadfastly before her, as
though she would pierce the gathering twilight with her bright and
candid eyes.

"I daresay you are right. Anyhow, our talk has been a help. When I may
seem to lack courage, it is because I lack conviction. Once convinced, I
can depend upon myself."

"When did these ideas come to you?" asked Sara.

"They have been coming for some time. I have been abroad a good deal,
and I have been meeting people who make opinions. I never gave in when I
was with them, but I must have been influenced."

The slight emphasis on the words _people_ and _them_ was too studied to
escape Sara's trained hearing. She knew the force of a woman's
rhetorical plural.

"I believe you have your convictions now, at this moment," she said
quietly.

"No--not in the final shape."

"But you can predict the final shape?"

"One more day and then I will decide irrevocably."

"Why do you hesitate?"

"For this reason--I must grieve papa and disappoint my mother."

"Still, both these things have to be done. Some of the best men have
been obliged to displease their parents in choosing a vocation. Women,
in their marriages, are often driven to the same sad straits."

"I know, but the prospect is most painful. I feel I could bear my own
disappointment far better than I could bear theirs. Surely you
understand?"

"Too well."

They had now reached the house, and Agnes's habitual manner at once
re-asserted itself. Her voice, which had many rich notes, fell into the
one unchanging tone she used in ordinary conversation. Her countenance
seemed as placid as a pink geranium under glass.

"Thank you for a very pleasant walk," she said to Sara. "I sha'n't
forget it."

"Nor I. And, please, after this, always call me Sara. And may I call you
Agnes? We have just time