help questioning,' said Gerda, 'whether you had a _right_ to
sacrifice yourself.'

Alma smiled thoughtfully.

'You can't quite see it as I do. When one has children----'

'It must make a great difference'--'Oh, a great difference!'--responded
the sisters. And again they exclaimed at the spectacle of such noble
devotedness.

By natural transition the talk turned to Mrs. Carnaby. The girls spoke
of her compassionately, but Alma soon perceived that they did not utter
all their thoughts.

'I'm afraid,' she said, 'that some people take another view. I have
heard--but one doesn't care to repeat such things.'

Dora and Gerda betrayed a lively interest. Yes, they too had heard
disagreeable gossip; what a shame it was!

'Of course, you see her?' said Dora.

Alma shook her head, and seemed a trifle embarrassed.

'I don't even know whether she still lives there.'

'Oh yes, she does,' replied Miss Leach eagerly. 'But I've been told
that very few people go. I wondered--we rather wished to know whether
_you_ did.'

Again Alma gently shook her head.

'I haven't even heard from her. I suppose she has her reasons. To tell
you the truth, I'm not quite sure that my husband would like me to
call. It isn't a pleasant subject, is it? Let us talk of something
else.'

So, when Dora and Gerda went away, they carried with them the
conviction that Mrs. Carnaby was an 'impossible' person and of course
lost no opportunity of imparting it to their friends.

About a week before Christmas, when the new servants seemed to have
settled to their work, and the house routine needed less supervision,
Alma and her husband dined at the Langlands', to meet a few quiet
people. Among the guests was Mrs. Langland's brother, of whom Alma had
already heard, and whom, before the end of the evening, she came to
regard with singular interest. Mr. Thistlewood had no advantages of
physique, and little charm of manner; his long, meagre body never
seemed able to put itself at ease; sitting or standing, he displayed
the awkwardness of a naturally shy man who has not studied the habits
of society. But his features, in spite of irregularity, and a
complexion resembling the tone of 'foxed' paper, attracted observation,
and rewarded it; his eye had a pleasant twinkle, oddly in contrast with
the lines of painful thought upon his forehead, and the severity of
strained muscles in the lower part of his face. He was head-master of a
small school of art in a nort