ht of jealousy, and if it had been
suggested would have denied it vehemently. Neither was she given to
analysis. Her temperament was rather volatile and pleasure loving. The
things that suited her she enjoyed, the others she passed by
indifferently. She did like to be made much of, and she thought she was
worthy of preference. She had beauty, good nature and a heedless sort
of generosity and wealth. In a certain way she saw the benefit of that
quite as much as Alice Nevins though she did not esteem it the chief
good.

Major Crawford came in from his walk just at dusk.

"Letters!" holding it up. "A thick packet--one for each of us, I think."

Zaidee had been waiting for Aunt Kate to come up stairs, as the last
caller had gone. She was lonely after this long communing with herself.

"If there is not one for me I shall go to bed and cry," she declared as
she followed to her mother's room. Aunt Kate had been detailing some of
the pleasant neighborhood news.

Yes--each one was directed. Willard had not omitted one member of the
household. He was in Washington and had come just in time for some of
the grand occasions. Saturday he was to board his vessel and by
Wednesday, at the farthest, they were to start on their three years'
pilgrimage. But to each one some tenderness exclusively for herself. To
Zay he recalled many of their joys during the summer time, little events
they were glad to hold together and the blessed news of their mother.

"There will never be anything quite like that," she thought to herself.
"And there is no one else--Aunt Kate never felt afraid to trust us, and
of course, he will grow older, find a sweetheart perhaps, and I may have
a lover; girls of nineteen do. Up to this time he has cared the most for
me."

Marguerite turned to the window though the gas had been lighted. There
was no past to refer to, only the sweet, tender hopes of the future. It
touched her deeply. No one had ever written her such a letter before.
And that he was her brother and would write again and again. She must
strive to deserve this love and confidence, grow up into the fine
character he had pictured for her. Vincent had sent her fond messages in
his mother's letter but she did not know him and he could not come so
near.

Zay read some of hers aloud, but she wondered a little what he could
find to say so much of to Marguerite. She had not the courage to show it
to her mother, even, it seemed so sacred to her. Oh, could