re was something fitful and impetuous in her little outbursts of
satisfaction; they noticed it in her; the elder ones among them
noticed it with a touch of anxiety for her.

Miss Craydocke, especially, read the signs, matching them with
something that she remembered far back in the life that had closed
so peacefully, with white hairs and years of a serene content and
patience, over all unrest and disappointment, for herself. She was
sorry for this young girl, for whom she thought she saw an
unfulfilled dream of living that should go by her like some bright
cloud, just near enough to turn into a baptism of tears.

She asked Desire, one day, if she would not like to go with her,
this summer, to the mountains.

Desire put by the suggestion hastily.

"O, no, thank you, Miss Craydocke, I must stay with mamma and
Helena. And besides," she added, with the strict, full truth she
always demanded of herself, "I _want_ to go to Z----."

"Yes," said Miss Craydocke.

There was something tender, like a shade of pity, in her tone.

"But you would enjoy the mountains. They are full of strength and
rest. One hardly understands the good the hills do one. David did,
looking out into them from Jerusalem. 'I will look to the hills,
from whence cometh my strength.'"

"Some time," said Desire. "Some time I shall need the hills, and--be
ready for them. But this summer--I want a good, gay, young time. I
don't know why, except that I shall be just eighteen this year, and
it seems as if, after that, I was going to be old. And I want to be
with people I know. I _can_ be gay in the country; there is
something to be gay about. But I can't dress and dance in the city.
That is all gas-light and get-up."

"I suppose," said Miss Craydocke, slowly, "that our faces are all
set in the way we are to go. Even if it is--" She stopped. She was
thinking of one whose face had been set to go to Jerusalem. Her own
words had led her to something she had not foreseen when she began.

Nothing of such suggestion came to Desire. She was in one of her
rare moods of good cheer.

"I suppose so," she said, heedlessly. And then, taking up a thought
of her own suddenly,--"Miss Craydocke! Don't you think people almost
always live out their names? There's Sin Scherman; there'll always
be a little bit of mischief and original naughtiness in her,--with
the harm taken out of it; and there's Rosamond Holabird,--they
couldn't have called her anything better, if they'd