She sat down again, and took up her pen. Was she changing--was she
changed? Why was it that she had felt a little relief when her last
Brandon visit was at an end, a certain freedom in Lenox and a greater
freedom in Newport? The old associations became strong again in her
mind, the life in the little neighborhood, the simplicity of it, the
high ideals of it, the daily love and tenderness. Her aunt was no doubt
wondering now that she did not write, and perhaps grieving that Margaret
no more felt at home in Brandon. It was too much. She loved them, she
loved them all dearly. She would write that, and speak only generally
of her frivolous, happy summer. And she began, but somehow the letter
seemed stiff and to lack the old confiding tone.

But why should they disapprove of her? She thought of her husband.
If circumstances had altered, was she to blame? Could she always be
thinking of what they would think at Brandon? It was an intolerable
bondage. They had no right to set themselves up over her. Suppose her
aunt didn't like Carmen. She was not responsible for Carmen. What would
they have her do? Be unhappy because Henderson was prosperous, and she
could indulge her tastes and not have to drudge in school? Suppose she
did look at some things differently from what she used to. She knew more
of the world. Must you shut yourself up because you found you couldn't
trust everybody? What was Mr. Morgan always hitting at? Had he any
better opinion of men and women than her husband had? Was he any more
charitable than Uncle Jerry? She smiled as she thought of Uncle Jerry
and his remark--"It's a very decent world if you don't huff it." No; she
did like this life, and she was not going to pretend that she didn't. It
would be dreadful to lose the love and esteem of her dear old friends,
and she cried a little as this possibility came over her. And then she
hardened her heart a little at the thought that she could not help it if
they chose to misunderstand her and change.

Carmen was calling from the stairs that it was time to dress for
the drive. She dashed off a note. It contained messages of love for
everybody, but it was the first one in her life written to her aunt not
from her heart.

XVII

Shall we never have done with this carping at people who succeed? Are
those who start and don't arrive any better than those who do arrive?
Did not men always make all the money they had an opportunity to make?
Must we always have th