ford to go to it,' or
something like that; you are no fool, Nan. I think you will see more
and more plainly, as time goes on, that there are some things that we
cannot afford to do. We cannot afford to buy a momentary pleasure at
the price of a lifetime of regret, and we cannot afford to spend even
one day of our life in unscrupulous company. It costs too much. We
think we have a very keen business sense, we men and women, but we
allow ourselves to be cheated every day we live in a way that would
disgust us if we were dealing in dollars and cents. Self-respect is
more valuable than momentary enjoyment, yet those boys and girls sold
one for the other to-night.

"As for you, I think you made a good exchange, Nan, when you gave up
your supper for Mary's sake. Love is a reliable bank, dear, and you
can't make too many deposits in it. It always pays compound interest,
and the best of it is, it never fails."

Nan's lips opened as if she were about to speak, but she closed them
again, and sat looking into the fire very seriously and silently for
some time. Then the lips parted again, and this time the words came,
though even now with an effort:

"I guess you'll think it's no credit to me that I'm sorry I went. But
I am sorry, and I would be if it had been the best time in the world.
I didn't want to go, really, after you said you'd--rather I wouldn't.
I didn't, honestly. It won't do either of us any good for me to say
now that I wish I had done as you wanted me to. But I do wish it.
I've hated myself all along for acting as I did. Now don't let's say
anything more about it--but--but--I wanted you to know how I feel."

There was an ominous catch in her voice that warned Miss Blake not to
pursue the subject. Nan could humble herself to apologize, but to
follow the abasement up by shedding tears on it was too much for her
dignity, and she fought against it stolidly.

But the governess knew her well enough by this time to feel assured
that what she said was true, and she accepted the clumsy, halting
"amende" as gratefully as if it had been the most graceful of
acknowledgments.

"Dear me," she broke in, in quite a matter-of-fact way. "Do you know
that the small hours are getting to be large hours, and we are sitting
here as unconcernedly as if it were just after dinner. Come, let us
both get upstairs and to bed as fast as our feet can carry us," and she
promptly set the example by extinguishing the lamp and he