been its
simple sense of rightness. She had seen Winn soften and change under it
as the hard earth changes at the touch of spring. She had felt herself
enriched and enlarged, moving more unswervingly than ever toward her
oldest prayer--that she might, on the whole, be good. She hardly prayed
at all about Winn; loving him was her prayer.

If she had meant to take him away from Estelle or to rob him of Peter,
then she knew she would have been wrong. But in this fortnight she was
taking nothing from Estelle that Estelle had ever had, and she was doing
no harm to Peter. It would not be likely to do him any harm to soften
his father's heart.

Claire's morality consisted solely in the consideration of other people;
her instincts revolted against unkindness. It was an early Christian
theory much lost sight of, "Love, and do as you please," the safety of
the concession resting upon the quality of the love.

But to-night another idea had occurred to her, and she was very uneasy.
Was it really possible that any one could blame Winn? Her first instinct
had been sheer anger, and her anger had carried her past fear into the
pride of love. She had felt as if she wanted to confront the world and
defy it. If the world dared judge them, what did it matter? Their hearts
were clean. She was too young to know that under the world's judgments
clean hearts break even more easily than soiled ones.

But her mind had not rested there. She had begun to be afraid for Winn,
and with all her heart she longed to see him justified. What had he ever
done that he could be judged? He had loved her, spared her, guarded her.
He had made, he was making, inconceivable sacrifices for her. He was
killing not only his own joy, but hers rather than do her what he
thought a wrong.

She sat on a footstool in front of Miss Marley's wood fire, frowning at
the flames. Miss Marley watched her cautiously; there was a good deal
she wanted to say, but she hoped that most of it might be said by
Claire. A very careful talker can get a good deal expressed in this way;
impressions, to be permanent, must always come from the person you wish
to impress.

"Miss Marley," Claire began, "do you think it matters what people
_think_?"

Miss Marley, who invariably rolled her own cigarettes, took up a small
silver box, flattened the cigarette-paper out carefully, and prepared to
fill it before answering. Then she said:

"Very few people do think; that is generally what mat