“I have sometimes thought, Uncle John, that all you said to me, the last night I spent here, had some meaning deeper than met the ear.  Had you second sight?  Did you foresee the future?  Or was there that in the present which foreshadowed it to you?”

“I am no prophet, Alice.  I spoke only from what I knew of life, and from my knowledge of your character and Herbert’s.  But I am yet to know how my words have been fulfilled.”

“It makes no difference now,” said she, slowly, and with a touching weariness.  “And yet,” she added, rousing herself, “it would make all the difference in the world to me, if I could see clearly where it was that I was to blame.  Certainly I must have done wrong; such wretchedness could not have come otherwise.”

Uncle John drew her hand within his, while he answered calmly,—­“It is very probable you have done wrong, my darling; who of us are wise and prudent, loving and forbearing, as we should be?”

“You think so?  How glad I am to hear you say so!  Yes, I can see it now; I can see how I did that very thing against which you warned me.  First came the time when Herbert forgot to admire everything which I did and said, and I—­I tried little pouting ways, that I did not feel.  Then they were so successful, that I carried them too far, and Herbert did not pet me out of them.  Then I grew anxious and began to guess at that truth which was only too clear to me at last, that he did not love me as I loved him.  Next,—­oh, Uncle John, how much I was to blame!—­I watched every word and look, gave meanings to things that had none, asked explanations where Herbert had none to give, and fairly put him under such restraint that he could neither look nor act himself.  He fretted under it,—­who would not?—­and then began the thousand excuses for being away from home, business engagements, club-meetings, some country-customers of the firm, who must be taken to the theatre, and, at last, no excuse at all but want of time.  I knew then that his love for me had never been more than a passing fancy, and, woman-like, I grew proud, shut my heart up from him, buried myself in my books.  I never studied before as I did then, Uncle John, for I studied to get away from myself, and, looking back, I wonder even now at what I accomplished.  Yes, you were right, books are fast friends,—­and mine would have brought me their own exceeding great reward, had not my spirit been so bitter.

“It was then that mamma was so sick and I came home.  Did you think me wonderfully calm, Kate?  I think somebody said I showed astonishing self-control; but, in truth, I was frightened at myself,—­I had no feeling about anything, Mamma’s sickness seemed something entirely removed from me, something which concerned me not in the least.  I was calm because I felt nothing.  I wondered then and wonder now that you did not find me out, for I knew how unlike I was to my former self.  Then mamma got well, and I was not glad; I went back to New York, and felt no sorrow at parting with you all.