others! The ’handle’—you remember what Epictetus says about the ’two handles’—why, the handle to bear our sort of trouble with stands out all round, and is so big one can’t help laying hold of it.”

Perhaps it was the light-heartedness with which she spoke, more than the slight reproof which the words contained, that made Esther’s head drop in her mother’s lap. “I wish I were half as good as you are, mother,” she whispered.

The voices of Kate and Virgie from the direction of the kitchen made her spring to her feet a minute later. “I don’t want to be here when they come,” she said, dashing her handkerchief across her eyes. “I’m tired and disagreeable. Good night.”

She was off before the others had reached the porch, and a half hour later, when Kate followed her to her room, she was in bed, more than willing that her sister should think her closed eyelids drowsy with sleep, an impression which did not, however, prevent the other from indulging in some lively monologue as she undressed. Her father had come home, she said, and was delighted with the report of the day, but there was a lot left to tell him in the morning. “Besides,” she added, “I could see there was something on mother’s mind that she wanted to talk over with him alone, so I came away.”

She was silent for fully two minutes, then burst out, “I say, wasn’t it great, what Mort Elwell said about Stella Saxon’s picture?” She chuckled at the remembrance, then added: “By the way, did it occur to you that he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic over the idea of our going to grandfather’s? My, but I wish we could go.”

“I don’t know what difference our plans make to him,” said Esther, in a tone which indicated that her sleepiness had not reached an acute stage.

“Oh, they make plenty of difference to him; at least yours do,” said Kate, sagely.

“Well, he might spare himself the trouble,” said Esther. “I must say I think Morton Elwell takes too much for granted, lately.”

Kate stopped braiding her hair and stared at her sister. “I don’t know what he takes for granted, except that old friends don’t change,” she said. She continued to stare for a minute, then remarked slowly: “I know what ails you, Esther. You want to have a lot of romance and all that sort of thing. For my part I never could see that romance amounted to anything but getting all mixed up and having a lot of trouble.” And having delivered herself of this she apparently resigned herself to her own reflections.

On the porch, still sitting in the evening darkness, Mrs. Northmore was saying to her husband at that moment: “Philip, what do you say to letting the girls go to New England? We’ve talked about it a good deal; why not settle on it? Now that the wheat has turned out so well, couldn’t we afford it?”

“Why, I think ’twould be an excellent plan, Lucia,” said the doctor, cordially. “I’ve thought so all along, but I was under the impression that you wanted the wheat money to go another way.”

She gave a little sigh. “Yes,” she said, “I did want to reduce that mortgage, but some things can wait better than others. It would do the girls good to go, and I believe Esther really needs a change.”

“You think the child is not well?” queried the doctor, with a note of surprise in his voice.

“Oh, not ill,” said Mrs. Northmore, quickly, “but”—she hesitated a moment, “she is rather restless and inclined to be a little morbid and moody. It might be worth a good deal to her to have a change of scene, and get some new ideas.”

“By all means pack her off,” said the doctor. “It’s a prescription I always like to give my patients; and if that is yours for her I’ll fill it with all confidence.” He rose and stretched his long arms with a tired gesture. “I believe it’s bedtime for me,” he said, “and I rather think it ought to be for you too.”