the chair itself seemed as though she had just left it and
was likely to return to it at any moment.

When the doctor came again, in the afternoon, Matilda went up-stairs
with him, while Rosemary waited anxiously in the dining-room. It seemed
a long time until they came back and held a brief whispered conference
at the front door. When he finally went out, Matilda came into the
dining-room, literally tense with excitement.

[Sidenote: The Doctor's Word]

"He says," she began, sinking into a chair, "that he don't know. I like
it in him myself, for a doctor that'll admit he don't know, when he
don't, instead of leavin' you to find out by painful experience, is not
only scarce, but he's to be trusted when you come across him.

"He says she may get better and she may not--that in a little while she
may be up and movin' around and talkin' again about the same as she
always did, and again, she may stay just like she is, or get worse. He
said he'd do what he could, but he couldn't promise anything--that only
time would tell.

"If she stays like this, she's got to be took care of just the same as
if she was a baby--fed and turned over and bathed,--and if she gets
better she can help herself some. Seems funny, don't it? Yesterday she
was rampagin' around and layin' down the law to you, and to-day she
can't say yes or no."

"She said yesterday," Rosemary returned, "that she'd never speak to me
again as long as she lived. I wonder if it's true!"

"I wonder!" echoed Matilda. "I'd forgotten that."

[Sidenote: The Way of Sacrifice]

"I hadn't," said the girl, with a grim smile.

"Seems almost as if it might be a judgment on her," Matilda observed,
after a pause. "She said she'd never speak to you again and she may
never speak to anybody any more. And I've got to take care of her.
That's the trouble with judgments--they never hit just the person they
were meant to hit. We're all so mixed up that somebody else has to be
dragged into it."

Plainly before Rosemary there opened the way of sacrifice and denial.
For a moment she hesitated, then offered up her joy on the altar of
duty.

"I won't be married, Aunt Matilda," she said, bravely, though her mouth
quivered. "I'll stay and help you."

"What?"

"I said I wouldn't be married. I'll--I'll tell Alden I can't. I'll stay
and help you."

"You won't. I won't have you speak of such a thing, let alone doing it."

"You can't help it, if I make up my mind."

"Yes, I can. I