something more than a problem and a burden?
Could she not go to the Lippheims in Germany and teach English and
French and Italian there--she knew them all--and make a little money,
and, when Tante wanted her again to come to Les Solitudes, come as an
independent person?

It was a curious thought. It contradicted the assumptions upon which her
life was founded; for was she not Tante's child and Tante's home her
home? So curious it was that she contemplated it like an intricate
weapon laid in her hand, its oddity concealing its significance.

She turned the weapon over. She might be Tante's child and Tante's home
might be hers; yet a child could gain its own bread, could it not? What
was there to pierce and shatter in the thought that it would be well for
her to gain her bread? "Tante has worked for me too long," she said to
herself. She was not pierced or shattered. Something very strange was in
her hand, but she was only reasonable.

She had stood still, in the midst of her swift climbing towards the
house, to think it all out clearly, and it was as she stood there that
she saw the light of a cigarette approaching her. It was Mr. Drew and he
had seen her. Karen was aware of a deep stirring of displeasure and
weariness. "But, please," he said, as, slightly bowing her head, and
murmuring, "Good-night," she passed him; "I want--I very particularly
want--to see you." He turned to walk beside her, tossing away his
cigarette. "There is something I particularly want to say."

His tone was grave and kind and urgent. It reproached her impatient
impulse. He might have come with a message from Tante.

"Where is my guardian?" she asked.

"She has gone to bed. She has a horrible headache, poor thing," said Mr.
Drew, who was leading her through the little copse of trees and along
the upper paths. "Here, shall we sit down here? You are not cold?"

They were in the flagged garden. Karen, vaguely expectant, sat down on
the rustic bench and Mr. Drew sat beside her. The moonlight shone
through the trees and fell fantastically on the young man's face and
figure and on Karen, sitting upright, her little shawl of white knitted
wool drawn closely about her shoulders and enfolding her arms. "Not for
long, please," she said. "It is growing late and although I am not cold
I am tired. What have you to say, Mr. Drew?"

He had so much to say and it was, so obviously, his opportunity, his
complete opportunity at last, that, before the exqui