ree to what I propose--which is
simple quiescence for the present--and you shall go back to Moreau's,
and the allowance for the children shall be continued. I have never
before in my life made so many concessions; it is because you have had
at times lately a look that brings back--Alida."

Anne's lips trembled; a sudden weakness came over her at this allusion
to her mother.

"Well?" said Miss Vanhorn, expectantly.

There was a pause. Then a girl's voice answered: "I can not, grandaunt.
I must go."

"You _may_ go, I tell you, back to Moreau's on the 1st of October."

"I mean that I can not marry Mr. Dexter."

"No one asks you to marry him now."

"I can never marry him."

"Why?" said Miss Vanhorn, with rising color. "Be careful what you say.
No lies."

"I--I am engaged to Rast."

"Lie number one. Look at me. If your engagement was ended, _then_ would
you marry Mr. Dexter?"

Anne half rose, as if to escape, but sank back again. "I could not marry
him, because I do not love him," she answered.

"And whom do you love, that you know so much about it, and have your 'do
not' and 'can not' so promptly ready? Never tell me that it is that boy
upon the island who has taught you all these new ways, this faltering
and fear of looking in my face, of which you knew nothing when you came.
Do you wish me to tell you what I think of you?"

"No," cried the girl, rushing forward, and falling on her knees beside
the arm-chair; "tell me nothing. Only let me go away. I can not, can not
stay here; I am too wretched, too weak. You can not have a lower opinion
of me than I have of myself at this moment. If you have any compassion
for me--for the memory of my mother--say no more, and let me go." She
bowed her head upon the arm of the chair and sobbed aloud.

But Miss Vanhorn rose and walked away. "I know what this means," she
said, standing in the centre of the room. "Like mother, like daughter.
Only Alida ran after a man who loved her, although her inferior, while
you have thrown yourself at the feet of a man who is simply laughing at
you. Don't you know, you fool, that Ward Heathcote will marry Helen
Lorrington--the woman you pretend to be grateful to, and call your
dearest friend? Helen Lorrington will be in every way a suitable wife
for him. It has long been generally understood. The idea of _your_
trying to thrust yourself between them is preposterous--I may say a
maniac's folly."

"I am not trying: only let me go," sobbe