our own."

"I have not had a life of my own since I was twenty," she returned.
It was at twenty she had married.

"Then think of Julian," I said, annoyed not only at my own clumsiness
but at the absence of anything of Anne's old heroic spirit.
"For his sake, at least, you must keep your head. Why, my dear woman,
one look at your face, grown as desperate as it sometimes appears now,
would ruin Julian with the whole world. Even I, knowing the whole
story, would find it hard to forgive him if you should fail to
continue to be the splendid triumphant creature whom we know you
were designed to be."

She gave me a long queer look, which meant something tremendous.
Evidently my words had made an impression.

They had, but not just the one I intended.

III

One of the first people I always saw on returning was Julian. How
often he thought of Anne I do not know, but he spoke of her with the
greatest effort. He invariably took care to assure himself that she
was physically well, but beyond this it would have been a brave
person who dared to go. He did not want to hear the details of her
life and appearance.

It was with some trepidation, therefore, that a few months after
this I came to tell him that Anne was about to return to America.
Why she was coming, or for how long, her letter did not say. I only
knew that the second Saturday in December would see her among us
again. It seemed fair to assume that her stay would not be long.
Julian evidently thought so for he arranged to be in the West for
three or four weeks.

I went to meet her. The day was cold and rainy, and as soon as I saw
her I made up my mind that the crossing had been a bad one, and I
was glad no one else had come to the wharf with me. She was standing
by the rail, wrapped in a voluminous fur coat--the fashions were
slim in the extreme--and her hat was tied on by a blue veil.

I may as well admit that from the moment I heard of her projected
return I feared that her real motive for coming, conscious or
unconscious, was to see Julian again. So when I told her of his
absence I was immensely relieved that she took it as a matter of
course.

"I suppose we might have met," she observed. "As it is, I can go
about without any fear of an awkward encounter." I say I was relieved,
but I was also excessively puzzled. Why had Anne come home?

It was a question I was to hear answered in a variety of ways during
the next few months, by many of Anne's friends