were not in love with any of the others. It is all because you
are a woman, and the natural longings of a woman are upon you. The
time has come for you to listen and understand. It is right that you
should have what you want, but if the will of God is otherwise you
must make the best of it. There are other things in life, or it would
be monstrous. It will be no worse for you than for thousands of other
women who go through life unmarried. You have no excuse to--commit
crime or to become a wreck. I tell you there are other things besides
that which has taken hold of you, soul and body. There are spiritual
things. There is the will of God, which is above the will of the
flesh and the will of the fleshly heart. It is for you to behave
yourself and take what comes. You are still young, and if you were
not there is always room in life for a gift of God. You may yet have
what you are crying out for. In the mean time--"

Lucy interrupted with a wild cry. "Oh, mother, you will take care of
me, you will watch me!"

"You need not be afraid, Lucy," said Mrs. Ayres, grimly and tenderly.
"I will watch you, and--" She hesitated a moment, then she continued,
"If I ever catch you buying that again--"

But Lucy interrupted.

"Oh, mother," she said, "this last time it was not--it really was
not--_that!_ It was only something that would have made her sick a
little. It would not have--It was not _that!_"

"If I ever do catch you buying that again," said Mrs. Ayres, "you
will know what a whipping is." Her tone was almost whimsical, but it
had a terrible emphasis.

Lucy shrank. "I didn't put enough of _that_ in to--to do much harm,"
she murmured, "but I never will again."

"No, you had better not," assented Mrs. Ayres. "Now slip on your
wrapper and come down-stairs with me. I am going to warm up some of
that chicken on toast the way you like it, for supper, and then I am
coming back up-stairs with you, and you are going to lie down, and
I'll read that interesting book we got out of the library."

Lucy obeyed like a child. Her mother helped her slip the wrapper over
her head, and the two went down-stairs.

After supper that night Sidney Meeks called at the Whitmans'. He did
not stay long. He had brought a bottle of elder-flower wine for
Sylvia. As he left he looked at Henry, who followed him out of the
house into the street. They paused just outside the gate.

"Well?" said Henry, interrogatively.

"All right," responded Meeks.