ad as to commit
to paper. She refused altogether to write to Mrs. Waters.

She also relieved herself by contradicting everything Carrie said, thus
giving her a good excuse for those long talks to a third party, which
frequently take place when friends have been abroad together, beginning,
"I really had no idea she _could_."

After she had written the letter, as usual she was very much ashamed.
She wrote again unsaying all she had said, but her father had been too
much wounded to reply.

She came back just a little before the wedding to see him in quite a new
light--a lover, for he at sixty-five and Mrs. Waters at forty-seven had
fallen in love.

When Henrietta saw more of her stepmother to be, she had in honesty to
own that she liked her. She was not only very attractive, but she was so
thoroughly nice and kind, so intent on making people happy, so entirely
without airs of patronage, and Henrietta could see how everybody warmed
under her smile.

Henrietta had settled that she would not live at home after the
marriage. Neither she nor her father could forget the letter, it was
better that they should part. She had again asked his forgiveness, but
neither felt at ease with the other.

She stayed for a few weeks after Mr. and Mrs. Symons came back from the
honeymoon, and saw almost with consternation, how the spirit of the
house changed. It became peaceful, cordial, harmonious; it would not
have been known for the same house. The whole household liked Mrs.
Symons; even her own dog deserted Henrietta. It was not that she was
ousted from her place, it was that Mrs. Symons created a place, which
never had been hers. She had had no idea in all these twelve years how
little she had made herself liked. She had had her chance, her one great
chance, in life, and she had missed it.

When she went away, there were kind good wishes for her prosperity,
interest in her plans, many hopes that she would visit them, but no
regret; with a clearness and honesty of sight she unfortunately
possessed she realized that--no regret.

What was the use of twelve years in which she had sincerely tried to do
her best, if she had not built up some little memorial of affection? It
was the old complaint of all her life, "I am not wanted." The anguish
she had shared with Evelyn and her husband had been much sharper, but in
the midst of it there had been consolation in the exquisite union they
had felt with the children and with one another. Her