you think about
love, Betty?"

"I don't know anything about it yet, except from books," said I.
"Mother doesn't like my reading modern novels much, and we haven't many
in the library, for Vic reads French ones and hides them. But there are
other books besides novels that tell about love--some heavenly ones."

"I should think there were," said Sally. "But I didn't ask you what you
knew; I asked what you _thought_. Have you ever thought about what it
would be like to be in love?"

"Yes," I had to admit, shamefacedly, for as she is not a man, luckily
it wasn't necessary to tell a fib. "Have you?"

"I _know_, once for all," said Sally, in a changed voice. "That is why
I wanted to talk about it to you, before you really begin life over
here. Perhaps--it depends on your opinions of love--I'll tell you my
little story. I don't tell it to people. But maybe I will to you, this
morning. We shall see."

"Is it a sad story, dear?" I asked.

"Yes. It's sad."

"Perhaps it may end well yet, though," I tried to comfort her.

Sally shook her head. "It can't, in this world. And the saddest part of
all is that it was my own fault. But I didn't understand the relative
value of things when I lost the _one_ thing in the world that can make
real happiness for a woman. I should like _you_ to understand them
while you still have time."

"And I should love to hear your story, if it won't make you too sad
thinking of it," I said.

"Oh, I am always thinking of it. It's never really out of my mind for a
minute. It's there, you know, like an undertone; just as when you live
near the sea, there's always the sound of the waves underlying every
other sound, though you mayn't be listening for it."

"Then tell me," I said.

"Not yet. I haven't asked you the questions yet, which will show me
when you answer them, whether you need to hear the story or not. Could
you imagine yourself marrying without first being in love?"

"No-o," I said thoughtfully. "Not when it really _came_ to it. But Vic
says that's all nonsense; that no woman, no matter how much she thinks
herself in love, ever stops in love with her husband. The thing is to
marry a man who will let you do as you like; and of course he must be
rich."

Sally sighed. "Well, dear, she's your sister, and I'm just nothing to
you at all, but I'd like to tell you to forget about her advice, and
not care whether a man is rich or poor, or even well born, if only he's
_made_ himself a gentle