d Anne, still kneeling by the
chair.

"You think I have not seen," continued Miss Vanhorn, her wrath rising
with every bitter word; "but I have. Only I never dreamed that it was as
bad as this. I never dreamed that Alida's daughter could be bold and
immodest--worse than her mother, who was only love-mad."

Anne started to her feet. "Miss Vanhorn," she said, "I will not hear
this, either of myself or my mother. It is not true."

"As to not hearing it, you are right; you will not hear my voice often
in the future. I wash my hands of you. You are an ungrateful girl, and
will come to an evil end. When I think of the enormous selfishness you
now show in thus throwing away, for a mere matter of personal obstinacy,
the bread of your sister and brothers, and leaving them to starve, I
stand appalled. What do you expect?"

"Nothing--save to go."

"And you _shall_ go."

"To-day?"

"This afternoon, at three." As she said this, Miss Vanhorn seated
herself with her back toward Anne, and took up a book, as though there
was no one in the room.

"Do you want me any longer, grandaunt?"

"Never call me by that name again. Go to your room; Bessmer will attend
to you. At two o'clock I will see you for a moment before you go."

Without a reply, Anne obeyed. Her tears were dried as if by fever; words
had been spoken which could not be forgiven. Inaction was impossible;
she began to pack. Then, remembering who had given her all these
clothes, she paused, uncertain what to do. After reflection, she decided
to take with her only those she had brought from the half-house; and in
this she was not actuated by any spirit of retaliation, her idea was
that her grandaunt would demand the gifts in any case. Miss Vanhorn was
not generous. She worked steadily; she did not wish to think; yet still
the crowding feelings pursued her, caught up with her, and then went
along with her, thrusting their faces close to hers, and forcing
recognition. Was she, as Miss Vanhorn had said, enormously selfish in
thus sacrificing the new comfort of the pinched household on the island
to her own obstinacy? But, as she folded the plain garments brought from
that home, she knew that it was not selfishness; as she replaced the
filmy ball dress in its box, she said to herself that she could not
deceive Mr. Dexter by so much even as a silence. Then, as she wrapped
the white parasol in its coverings, the old burning, throbbing misery
rolled over her, followed by the