ed this. She
shared the opinion of some of the ladies of the Sewing Society, that
Mrs. Masters was quite proud and needed to be "taken down" a bit; and
if she got a good chance, she had it in her mind to do a little of the
"taking down" herself.

It was one evening late in September. Frosts had hardly set in yet, and
every change in the light and colour carried Diana's mind back to Evan
and two years ago, and mornings and evenings of that time which were so
filled with nameless joys and hopes. Diana did not give herself to
these thoughts nor encourage them; they came with the suddenness and
the start of lightning. Merely the colour of a hill at sunset was
enough to flash back her thoughts to an hour when she was looking for
Evan; or a certain sort of starlight night would recall a particular
walk along the meadow fence; or a gust and whiff of the wind would
bring with it the thrill that belonged to one certain stormy September
night that never faded in her remembrance. Or the smell of coffee
sometimes, when it was just at a certain stage of preparation, would
turn her heart-sick. These associations and remembrances were countless
and incessant always under the reminders of the September light and
atmosphere; and Diana could not escape from them, though as soon as
they came she put them resolutely away.

This evening Mr. Masters was out. Diana knew he had gone a long ride
and would be tired,--that is, if he ever could be tired,--and would be
certainly ready for his supper when he came in. So she went out to make
ready a certain dish of eggs which she knew he liked. Such service as
this she could do, and she did. There was no thoughtful care, no
smallest observance, which could have been rendered by the most devoted
affection, which Diana did not give to her husband. Except,--she never
offered a kiss, or laid her hand in his or upon his shoulder. Happily
for her, Basil was not a particularly demonstrative man; for every
caress from him was "as vinegar upon nitre;" she did not show
repulsion, that was all.

"I guess I kin do that, Mis' Masters," said her handmaid, who always
preferred to keep the kitchen for her own domain. Diana made no answer.
She was slowly and delicately peeling her eggs, and probably did not
notice the remark. Miss Collins, however, resented the neglect.

"Mr. Masters is gone a great deal. It's sort o' lonesome up here on the
hill. Dreadfully quiet, don't you think it is?"

"I like quiet," Diana