that she had very little to write, at
least that she wanted to write, to her aunt. She began, however,
resolutely with a little account of her life. But it seemed another thing
on paper, addressed to the loving eyes at Brandon. There were too much
luxury and idleness and triviality in it, too much Carmen and Count
Crispo and flirtation and dissipation in it.

She tore it up, and went to the window and looked out upon the sea. She
was indignant with the Brandon people that they should care so little
about this charming life. She was indignant at herself that she had torn
up the letter. What had she done that anybody should criticise her? Why
shouldn't she live her life, and not be hampered everlastingly by
comparisons?

She sat down again, and took up her pen. Was she changing--was she
changed? Why was it that she had felt a little relief when her last
Brandon visit was at an end, a certain freedom in Lenox and a greater
freedom in Newport? The old associations became strong again in her mind,
the life in the little neighborhood, the simplicity of it, the high
ideals of it, the daily love and tenderness. Her aunt was no doubt
wondering now that she did not write, and perhaps grieving that Margaret
no more felt at home in Brandon. It was too much. She loved them, she
loved them all dearly. She would write that, and speak only generally of
her frivolous, happy summer. And she began, but somehow the letter seemed
stiff and to lack the old confiding tone.

But why should they disapprove of her? She thought of her husband. If
circumstances had altered, was she to blame? Could she always be thinking
of what they would think at Brandon? It was an intolerable bondage. They
had no right to set themselves up over her. Suppose her aunt didn't like
Carmen. She was not responsible for Carmen. What would they have her do?
Be unhappy because Henderson was prosperous, and she could indulge her
tastes and not have to drudge in school? Suppose she did look at some
things differently from what she used to. She knew more of the world.
Must you shut yourself up because you found you couldn't trust everybody?
What was Mr. Morgan always hitting at? Had he any better opinion of men
and women than her husband had? Was he any more charitable than Uncle
Jerry? She smiled as she thought of Uncle Jerry and his remark--"It's a
very decent world if you don't huff it." No; she did like this life, and
she was not going to pretend that she didn't. It