rve his panic-stricken
sisters, Lucy went to the window. It was even as Ellen had said. There
were the retreating forms of the three female Howes disappearing in at the
side door; and there was Martin, his tall figure looming in sight at the
heels of his bay mare.

"He's a fine looking man, isn't he?" Lucy remarked with thoughtless
impulsiveness.

"What!"

"I say he is fine looking," repeated the girl. "What broad shoulders he
has, and how magnificently he carries his head!"

"You call that fine looking, do you?" sniffed her aunt.

"Yes. Don't you?"

"Martin Howe ain't my style of man."

"But he's so strong and splendid!"

"I never saw a splendid Howe yet," was Ellen's icy retort.

She turned from the window, took up a cloth, and went to scrubbing the
paint viciously.

Lucy, realizing the tactlessness of her observation, tried by light,
good-humored chatter to efface its memory; but all attempts to blot it
from her aunt's mind were useless, and the relations between the two
women remained strained for the rest of the day. So strained and
uncomfortable were they that Lucy, wearied out by her hard work, was only
too glad to bid Ellen good night and seek her own room early.

Through its windows long shafts of moonlight fell across the floor,
flecking it with jagged, grotesque images of the trees outside. Once
alone, she did not immediately start to undress, but lingered thoughtfully
looking out into the night. Every muscle in her body ached, and in her
heart was a sinking loneliness. For the first time since her arrival at
Sefton Falls she surrendered herself to the distaste she felt toward her
aunt and her surroundings. Could she stay, she asked herself. The
narrowness of the environment raised an issue vital enough; nevertheless,
grave as it was, it sank into insignificance when weighed against the
vastly more potent factor of Ellen's personality. The girl had come east
with the intention of nursing and caring for her father's sister. She felt
he would have wished her to come; and casting every other inclination
aside, she had obeyed what seemed to her the voice of duty. But she had
been misled, disappointed. None of her father's kindliness lurked in this
embittered, malicious-matured woman, toward whom, although bound by ties
of blood, she felt neither respect nor affection. Nor did her aunt need
her. After all, was it her duty to remain and waste her youth to no
purpose? Could she face the horror of a str