't. At twenty-two the only man who
could stir me was horribly poor; the other stirring ones had been
snapped up. You see, there was no one to help me with my affairs.
Your father never _did_ understand. The only thing he was keen about
was making money enough to marry your mother. Then you were born and
your mother died and--well, there was nothing for me to do but come
here and help him out. One has plain duties. I always had sense
enough"--Anna Morris moved about heavily--"to realize that senses do
not stir when poverty pinches, and this house _was_ comfortable; and
duty _can_ fill in chinks. I always contend"--the dull eyes now
confronted Kathryn--"that there _is_ a dangerous age for men and
women. If they get through that alive and alone--well, there is a
kind of calm that comes."

"I suppose so." Kathryn felt a sinking in the region of the heart.
"Are you ever lonely?" she asked suddenly. "Ever feel that you let
your own life slip when you helped Father and me?"

Anna Morris's lips trembled as they always did when any one was kind
to her; but she got control of herself at once--she could not afford
the comfort of letting herself go!

"Oh, I don't know. Yes; sometimes. But who isn't lonely at times?
Marriage can't prevent that and even your own private life, quite your
own, is bound to have some lonely spells. There are all kinds of
husbands. Some float about, heaven knows where; their wives must be
lonely; and then the settled sort--dear me! I've often seen women
terribly lonely right in the rooms with their husbands. I have come
to the conclusion that once you pass the dangerous age you're as well
placed one way as another. That is, if you are a woman."

Kathryn was looking unusually serious. While she was in this mood she
clutched at seeming trifles and held them curiously.

"What was Brace's father like?" she suddenly asked.

Anna Morris started.

"Why, what ails you, Kathie?" she asked suspiciously. "You've never
taken any interest before. Why should you? A young girl and all
that--why should you?"

"Tell me, Aunt Anna. I've often wondered."

Anna Morris sat down heavily in a chair. The older Northrup had once
had power to stir her; was one of the men too poor for her to
consider.

"Well," she began slowly, tremblingly, "he wasn't companionable at
the last, but I shall always see _his_ side. Helen Northrup is a
fine woman--I can understand how many take her part, but being
married to her kind must