er aunt. "Ruth, go to my chamber, and get me a pin."

"What kind of a pin, ma'am?" asked that meek handmaiden, from the
doorway.

"What a question!" said her indignant mistress. "Any kind. The common
pin of North America. Now, Hope?" as the door closed.

"I think it better, auntie," said Hope, "that Philip should not stay
here longer at present. You can truly say that the house is full, and--"

"I have just had a note from him," said Aunt Jane severely. "He has gone
to lodge at the hotel. What next?"

"Aunt Jane," said Hope, looking her full in the face, "I have not the
slightest idea what to do next."

("The next thing for me," thought her aunt, "is to have a little plain
speech with that misguided child upstairs.")

"I can see no way out," pursued Hope.

"Darling!" said Aunt Jane, with a voice full of womanly sweetness,
"there is always a way out, or else the world would have stopped long
ago. Perhaps it would have been better if it had stopped, but you see it
has not. All we can do is, to live on and try our best."

She bade Hope leave Emilia to her, and furthermore stipulated that Hope
should go to her pupils as usual, that afternoon, as it was their last
lesson. The young girl shrank from the effort, but the elder lady was
inflexible. She had her own purpose in it. Hope once out of the way,
Aunt Jane could deal with Emilia.

No human being, when met face to face with Aunt Jane, had ever failed
to yield up to her the whole truth she sought. Emilia was on that day no
exception. She was prostrate, languid, humble, denied nothing, was ready
to concede every point but one. Never, while she lived, would she dwell
beneath John Lambert's roof again. She had left it impulsively, she
admitted, scarce knowing what she did. But she would never return there
to live. She would go once more and see that all was in order for Mr.
Lambert, both in the house and on board the yacht, where they were to
have taken up their abode for a time. There were new servants in the
house, a new captain on the yacht; she would trust Mr. Lambert's comfort
to none of them; she would do her full duty. Duty! the more utterly she
felt herself to be gliding away from him forever, the more pains she was
ready to lavish in doing these nothings well. About every insignificant
article he owned she seemed to feel the most scrupulous and wife-like
responsibility; while she yet knew that all she had was to him nothing,
compared with the possession of