'm spoilt for one
thing, I may be made for another. There have got to be all sorts of
people in the world, you know."

She was very handsome, with her white chin up, haughtily; her nose
making its straight, high line, as she turned her face half away;
her eyes so dark with will, and the curve of hurt pride in her lips
that yet might turn easily to a quiver. She spoke low and smooth;
her words dropped cool and clear, without a tone of temper in them;
if there was passionate force, it was from a fire far down.

If she could do so upon a stage; if she could look like that saying
other people's words--words out of a book: if she could feel into
the passions of a world, and interpret them; then, indeed! But
Marion Kent had never entered into heights and depths of thought and
of experience; she knew only Marion Kent's little passions as they
came to her, and spoke themselves in homely, unchoice words. Mrs.
Kemble or Charlotte Cushman might have made a study from that face
that would have served for a Queen Katharine; but Queen Katharine's
grand utterances would never have thrilled Marion Kent to wear the
look as she wore it now, piqued by the plain-speaking--and the _not_
speaking--of the young village carpenter.

"I hope you don't feel hurt with me; I've only been honest, and I
meant to be kind," said Frank Sunderline.

"No, indeed; I dare say you did," returned Marion. "After all,
everybody has got to judge for themselves. I was silly to think
anybody could help me."

"Perhaps you could help yourself better," said the young man, loth
to leave her in this mood, "if you thought how you would judge for
somebody you cared for. If your own little sister"--

Now the quiver came. Now all the hurt, and pique, and shame, and
jealous disappointment rushed together to mingle and disguise
themselves with a swell and pang that always rose in her at the name
of her little dead sister,--dead six years ago, when she was nine
and Marion twelve.

The tears sprang to the darkened eyes, and quenched down their
burning; the color swept into her face, like the color after a
blow; the lips gave way; and with words that came like a cry she
exclaimed passionately,--

"Don't speak of little Sue! I can't bear it! I never could! I don't
know what I say now. Good-night, good-by."

And she left him there with his box upon the wall; turned and
hurried along the path, and in through the little white gate.

CHAPTER IV.

NINETY-NINE FA