onscious of any transforming power. The little reluctances which
had marked its first appearance had been of small note; her father and
mother had only laughingly reproved them, telling her "not to nourish
prideful notions." She had not even been aware of nourishing anything
wrong. Was it wrong? She lay tossing on her bed in the small warm
room, and argued the question out while fever burned in her veins and
gave to all things abnormal and extravagant aspects.

She was really ill, and she almost wished she could be more ill. No
one quite believed she was suffering much. The headache and languor
incident to her condition did not win much sympathy until their
ravages became apparent. Then Joan honestly believed that a little
exercise in the fresh salt air would have cured, perhaps even
prevented, the illness. So that at this time Denas thought herself
very unkindly used.

This apparent lack of interest in her condition added greatly to that
dissatisfaction with her life which she now constantly dwelt upon. She
felt that she must do something to escape from an existence which
repelled her; and yet what could she do? Somehow she had suddenly lost
faith in Elizabeth. Elizabeth changed before she went away; who could
say how much greater the change would be when she returned after four
months' travel?

Denas at this time pitied herself greatly, and taking women as they
are, and not as they ought to be, she deserved some pity. For though
it may not be a lofty ambition to long after a finely appointed house,
and delicate food delicately served, and elegant clothing and refined
society, and, with all and above all, a lover who fits into such
externals, yet Denas did long for these things; and the circumstances
of her own life were common, and vulgar, and hateful to her.

True, she had her father and mother, and she loved them dearly; but,
then, she could undoubtedly love them quite as well if she were rich,
while they would not love her any the less. As for Tris Penrose and
his tiresome devotion, what was Tris to Roland? Tris did not even know
how to woo her. He never told her how beautiful she was, and how he
adored her, and longed for her, and thought all women wearisome but
her. He never kissed her hands and her hair, her cheeks and her lips,
as Roland did. He never said to her, "You are fit to be a duchess or a
queen; you sing like a nightingale and charm my soul out of me, and
you have hands and feet like a fairy." Poor