ote from the popular minister to
the rich Miss Starkweather, who had an entire square white frame house
and garden, which were her own property.

The girl felt a little sullen and a little frightened. She did not know
what would happen to her; she did not know how she would be expected to
carry herself in a house so representative of wealth and accustomedness
to the good things of life. Perhaps if she had not been desperate, and
also, if she had not known that Miss Starkweather had been fond of
Margery, she would have evaded going to her.

"I wonder what she'll say to me," she thought. "They say she's queer."

She still felt uncertain and resentful when she stood upon the threshold
and rang the bell. She presented a stolid countenance to the maid servant
who opened the door and received her message. When she was at last taken
to Miss Amory, she went with an unresponding bearing, and, being led into
a cheerful room where the old woman sat, stood before her waiting, as if
she had really nothing to do with the situation.

Miss Amory looked rather like some alert old hawk, less predatory by
instinct than those of his species usually are.

"You are Susan Chapman, and come from Mr. Baird," she said.

Susan nodded.

"He says he met you at Mr. Latimer's."

"Yes. I went there to ask something. I couldn't bear not to know--no more
than I did."

"About----?" asked Miss Amory.

"About Margery," her voice lowering unconsciously.

"How much did you know?" Miss Amory asked again.

"Nothin'," rather sullenly, "but that she was ill--an' went away an'
died."

"In Italy, they say," put in Miss Amory--"lying on a sofa before an open
window--on a lovely day, when the sun was setting."

Susan Chapman started a little, and her face changed. The unresponsiveness
melted away. There was something like a glow of relief in her look. She
became human and lost sight of Miss Amory's supposed grandeur.

"Was it like that?" she exclaimed. "Was it? I'm thankful to you for
telling me. Somehow I couldn't ask properly when I was face to face with
her brother. You can't talk to him. I never knew where--or how--it was. I
wanted to find out if--if it was all right with her. I wanted to know she
hadn't suffered."

"So did I," Miss Amory answered. "And that was what they told me."

She passed her withered hand across her face.

"I was fond of her," she said.

"I'd _reason_ to be," returned Susan. "She was only a delicate little
young thi