ugh the thought occurred to me that
the farm might not be so pleasant a home if John had to go away and be
prime minister. All I could say I said to combat her rebellious
despondency as to her own future.

"If you knew the emptiness and foolishness of the gay world," I said in
a sage manner, "you would be thankful for our quiet life at Hillsbro'."

"It is not the gay world I think of," she said. "It is the world of
thought, of genius."

"Well, Jane," said I, cheerfully, "you may pierce your way to that yet."

"No!" she said. "If I had a clean name I would try to do it. As it is, I
will not hold up my head only to be pointed at. But I will not spend my
life at Hillsbro', moping. I will go away and work, teach, or write, if
I can."

I saw her eyes beginning to flash, and I did not like these fierce moods
for Jane. I was turning over a book at the time, and, to divert her
attention, I read aloud the name written on the title-page.

"Mary Hollingford," I said. "Was not she your elder sister?"

Jane started. "Yes," she said. "Who mentioned her to you?"

"Your mother," I said, "used to tell me of her little Mary, who was at
school in France. I cannot recollect who told me of her death. Do you
remember her?"

"Oh yes," said Jane, "perfectly. We did not lose her till after--my
father went away."

"I suppose she took the trouble to heart," I said, reflectively; and
then was sorry I had said it. But Jane answered,

"Yes," readily; then dropped her face between her hands, and remained
plunged in one of her motionless fits of abstraction for half an hour.

I never alluded to this subject again to Jane, but one evening when
Mopsie and I were alone together, the child spoke of it herself.

"Margery," she said, "you are holding me now just as sister Mary used to
hold me with both her arms round my waist, when I was a tiny little
thing, and she used to play with me in our nursery in London."

"You remember her, then?" I said.

"Yes," said Mopsie. "I remember her like a dream. She used to come home
for the holidays, and a handsome French lady with her, who used to throw
up her hands if we had not ribbons in our sleeves and smart rosettes on
our shoes. I remember sister Mary in a pretty white frock trimmed with
lace, and her hair curled down to her waist. I used to think her like
one of the angels. But we never speak of her now, nor of papa, because
it pains mother and John. I used to speak of her to Jane sometimes in
t