dent, and when it was over and
this other girl, who had grown to a woman, was lying in a dark room
that somehow seemed to be full of a dull pain, she heard her Brother
and a doctor talking outside. She heard every word. Then she knew
what was coming to her. She could tell what to expect.

"Well, she put the Ambition back, away back in her heart, and it has
been there ever since. She lets it come to the front sometimes--but
only once in a very great while."

The quiet voice ceased speaking, and Glory, with a little stifled
sob, hid her face in the pillows. She understood.

"Oh, I forgot something in the story," Aunt Hope went on presently,
her cheek against Glory's hair. "I forgot the best part! The Brother
took care of the girl after that. He was the mother then. Even after
he had a home of his own and a little baby, it was just the same. But
he had to go away for years at a time, and the baby's mother was
dead, so it came about that the girl--or rather woman; she is a woman
now--had the little baby almost always to herself. It was beautiful,
beautiful, until the little mischief took it into her head to grow
up. Even then it wasn't so very bad! For, don't you see, she would
fall heir to the Ambition by and by? So the woman was always hoping.
And she hasn't quite given up hoping yet."

There was silence in the big, dark room. Glory got to her feet. Her
voice trembled as she began to speak, and she hurried over the words
as if she were afraid she might cry.

"I'm going down to Judy's to--to get her books. Then I'm coming home
and--and study, auntie. Good-by," she stumbled.

"Good-by, dear," said Aunt Hope, softly.

"It was hard to tell her the story like that," she thought, half
repenting. "Glory understands things instantly, and they hurt. But
she is so precious--I had to tell it!"

That night Glory's light burned a good deal later than it ever had
before, and Glory's bright head bent doggedly over Judy's books.
Glory and Aunt Hope's beloved Ambition were so close that night that
they almost touched each other. Not quite.

It was dull and bleak next day, and Glory was tired. The fierce
little spark of energy seemed to have flickered out altogether.

"Don't say 'good-by, dear,'--say, 'Good-by, Disappointment,'" she
said at Aunt Hope's couch the last moment.

"Good-by, _dear_," said Aunt Hope.

The early morning train was in the little station when Glory got
there. She had just time to whisk up the steps on