answered her, "if,
after what you've heard, you can marry a man of such incomprehensible
confusion, such deplorable--"

"Don't, William," Katharine interposed; "Cassandra has heard us; she can
judge what we are; she knows better than we could tell her."

But, still holding William's hand, questions and desires welled up in
Cassandra's heart. Had she done wrong in listening? Why did Aunt Celia
blame her? Did Katharine think her right? Above all, did William really
love her, for ever and ever, better than any one?

"I must be first with him, Katharine!" she exclaimed. "I can't share him
even with you."

"I shall never ask that," said Katharine. She moved a little away from
where they sat and began half-consciously sorting her flowers.

"But you've shared with me," Cassandra said. "Why can't I share with
you? Why am I so mean? I know why it is," she added. "We understand each
other, William and I. You've never understood each other. You're too
different."

"I've never admired anybody more," William interposed.

"It's not that"--Cassandra tried to enlighten him--"it's understanding."

"Have I never understood you, Katharine? Have I been very selfish?"

"Yes," Cassandra interposed. "You've asked her for sympathy, and she's
not sympathetic; you've wanted her to be practical, and she's not
practical. You've been selfish; you've been exacting--and so has
Katharine--but it wasn't anybody's fault."

Katharine had listened to this attempt at analysis with keen attention.
Cassandra's words seemed to rub the old blurred image of life and
freshen it so marvelously that it looked new again. She turned to
William.

"It's quite true," she said. "It was nobody's fault."

"There are many things that he'll always come to you for," Cassandra
continued, still reading from her invisible book. "I accept that,
Katharine. I shall never dispute it. I want to be generous as you've
been generous. But being in love makes it more difficult for me."

They were silent. At length William broke the silence.

"One thing I beg of you both," he said, and the old nervousness of
manner returned as he glanced at Katharine. "We will never discuss these
matters again. It's not that I'm timid and conventional, as you think,
Katharine. It's that it spoils things to discuss them; it unsettles
people's minds; and now we're all so happy--"

Cassandra ratified this conclusion so far as she was concerned, and
William, after receiving the exquisite ple