is parting with my darling little Paul," Mrs. Voorhees
said, with a sigh.

"That is the way I feel with regard to Evelyn," said Ida.

Maria, who was sewing, took another stitch. She did not seem to hear.

The next day but one Maria and Evelyn started for Amity. Ida did not
go to the station with them. She was not up when they started. The
curtains in her room were down, and she lay in bed, drawing down the
corners of her mouth with resolution when Maria and Evelyn entered to
bid her good-bye. Maria said good-bye first, and bent her cheek to
Ida's lips; then it was Evelyn's turn. The little girl looked at her
mother with fixed, solemn eyes, but there were no tears in them.

"Mamma is so sorry she cannot even go to the station with her darling
little girl," said Ida, "but she is completely exhausted, and has not
slept all night."

Evelyn continued to look at her, and there came into her face an
innocent, uncomplaining accusation.

"Mamma cannot tell you how much she feels leaving her precious little
daughter," whispered Ida, drawing the little figure, which resisted
rigidly, towards her. "She would not do it if she were not afraid of
losing her health completely." Evelyn remained in her attitude of
constrained affection, bending over her mother. "Mamma will write you
very often," continued Ida. "Think how nice it will be for you to get
letters! And she will bring you some beautiful things when she comes
back." Then Ida's voice broke, and she found her handkerchief under
her pillow and put it to her eyes.

Evelyn, released from her mother's arm, regarded her with that
curiosity and unconscious accusation which was more pitiful than
grief. The child was getting her first sense, not of loss, for one
cannot lose that which one has never had, but of non-possession of
something which was her birthright.

When at last they were on the train, Evelyn surprised her sister by
weeping violently. Maria tried to hush her, but she could not. Evelyn
wept convulsively at intervals all the way to New York. When they
were in the cab, crossing the city, Maria put her arm around her
sister and tried to comfort her.

"What is it, precious?" she whispered. "Do you feel so badly about
leaving your mother?"

"No," sobbed the little girl. "I feel so badly because I don't feel
badly."

Maria understood. She began talking to her of her future home in
Amity, and the people whom she would see. All at once Maria reflected
how Lily would