ke blind people see, and I
can't bring love when there is no love to bring. Of course, it is
different for me."

"How is it different for you?"

"I love Loftus. He gives me pain, but that can be borne, for I love
him."

At this moment Mrs. Bertram's tall figure was seen standing on the steps
of the house. It was getting dark; a heavy dew was falling, and the air
was slightly, pleasantly chill after the intense heat of the day. Mrs.
Bertram had wrapped a white fleecy cloud over her head. She descended
the steps, stood on the broad gravel sweep, and looked around her.

"We are here, mother," said May, jumping up. "Do you want us?"

"I want Catherine. Don't you come, Mabel. I want Catherine alone."

"Keep Loftus's letter," said Catherine, tossing it into her sister's
lap. "I know by mother's tone she is troubled. Don't let us show her the
letter to-night. Put it in your pocket, May."

Aloud she said,--

"Yes, mother, I'm coming. I'll be with you directly." She ran across the
grass, looking slim and pale in her white muslin dress, her face full of
intense feeling, her manner so hurried and eager that her mother felt
irritated by it.

"You need not dash at me as if you meant to knock me down, Kate," she
said.

"You said you wanted me, mother."

"So I did, Catherine. I do want you. Come into the house with me."

Mrs. Bertram turned and walked up the steps. She entered the wide hall
which was lit by a ghostly, and not too carefully-trimmed, paraffin
lamp. Catherine followed her. They went into the drawing-room. Here also
a paraffin lamp gave an uncertain light; very feeble, yellow, and
uncertain it was, but even by it Catherine could catch a glimpse of her
mother's face. It was drawn and white, it was not only changed from the
prosperous, handsome face which the girl had last looked at, but it had
lost its likeness to the haughty, the proud, the satisfied Mrs. Bertram
of Catherine's knowledge. Its expression now betokened a kind of inward
scare or fright.

"Mother, you have something to worry you," said Kate, "I see that by
your face. I am sorry. I am truly sorry. Sit down, mother. What can I do
for you?"

"Nothing, my dear, except to be an attentive daughter--attentive and
affectionate and obedient. Sometimes, Catherine, you are not that."

"Oh, never mind now, when you are in trouble, I'd do anything in the
world for you when you are in trouble. You know that."

Mrs. Bertram had seated herself. Catherine