ust pity her until I
die. Poor Margaret!"

"Poor Annie," said Alice. "You worked so hard over that book, dear,
and you were so pleased. Annie, what shall you do about it?"

Annie raised her head from Alice's bosom and sat up straight, with a
look of terror.

"Alice," she cried, "I must go to-morrow and see my publishers. I
must go down on my knees to them if necessary."

"Do you mean," asked Alice slowly, "never to tell?"

"Oh, never, never, never!" cried Annie.

"I doubt," said Alice, "if you can keep such a matter secret. I doubt
if your publishers will consent."

"They must. I will never have it known! Poor Margaret!"

"I don't pity her at all," said Alice. "I do pity her husband who
worships her, and there is talk of his running for State Senator and
this would ruin him. And I am sorry for the children."

"Nobody shall ever know," said Annie.

"But how can you manage with the publishers?"

"I don't know. I will."

"And you will have written that really wonderful book and never have
the credit for it. You will live here and see Margaret Edes praised
for what you have done."

"Poor Margaret," said Annie. "I must go now. I know I can trust you
never to speak."

"Of course, but I do not think it right."

"I don't care whether it is right or not," said Annie. "It must never
be known."

"You are better than I am," said Alice as she rang the bell, which
was presently answered. "Peter has gone home for the night, Marie
said," Alice told Annie, "but Marie and I will walk home with you."

"Alice, it is only a step."

"I know, but it is late."

"It is not much after ten, and--I would rather go alone, if you don't
mind, Alice. I want to get settled a little before Aunt Harriet sees
me. I can do it better alone."

Alice laughed. "Well," she said, "Marie and I will stand on the front
porch until you are out of sight from there and then we will go to
the front gate. We can see nearly to your house and we can hear if
you call."

It was a beautiful night. The moon was high in a sky which was
perceptibly blue. In the west was still a faint glow, which was like
a memory of a cowslip sunset. The street and the white house-front
were plumy with soft tree shadows wavering in a gentle wind. Annie
was glad when she was alone in the night. She needed a moment for
solitariness and readjustment since one of the strongest
readjustments on earth faced her--the realisation that what she had
loved was not. She did no