For years Miss Anna had sacrificially demeaned herself in the service of Harriet, who would now have felt herself a recreant friend unless she had promptly detailed every annoyance of her life.  She would go home, having left behind her the infinite little swarm of stinging things—­having transferred them to the head of Miss Anna, around which they buzzed until they died.

There was this further peculiarity in Harriet’s visits:  that the most important moments were the last; Just as a doctor, after he has listened to the old story of his patient’s symptoms, and has prescribed and bandaged and patted and soothed, and has reached the door, turns, and noting a light in the patient’s eye hears him make a remark which shows that all the time he has really been thinking about something else.

Harriet now showed what was at the bottom of her own mind this morning: 

“What I came to tell you about, Anna, is that for a week life at home has been unendurable.  There is some trouble, some terrible trouble; and no matter what goes wrong, my mother always holds me responsible.  Positively there are times when I wonder whether I, without my knowing it, may not be the Origin of Evil.”

Miss Anna made no comment, having closed the personal subject, and Harriet continued: 

“It has scarcely been possible for me to stay in the house.  Fortunately mother has been there very little herself.  She goes and goes and drives and drives.  Strange things have been happening.  You know that Judge Morris has not missed coming on Sunday evening for years.  Last night mother sat on the veranda waiting for him and he did not come.  I know, for I watched.  What have I to do but watch other people’s affairs?—­I have none of my own.  I believe the trouble is all between Isabel and Rowan.”

Miss Anna dropped her work and looked at Harriet with sudden gravity.

“I can give you no idea of the real situation because it is very dramatic; and you know, Anna, I am not dramatic:  I am merely historical:  I tell my little tales.  But at any rate Rowan has not been at the house for a week.  He called last Sunday afternoon and Isabel refused to see him.  I know; because what have I to do but to interest myself in people who have affairs of interest?  Then Isabel had his picture in her room:  it has been taken down.  She had some of his books:  they are gone.  The house has virtually been closed to company.  Isabel has excused herself to callers.  Mother was to give a tea; the invitations were cancelled.  At table Isabel and mother barely speak; but when I am not near, they talk a great deal to each other.  And Isabel walks and walks and walks—­in the garden, in her rooms.  I have waked up two or three times at night and have seen her sitting at her window.  She has always been very kind to me, Anna,” Harriet’s voice faltered, “she and you:  and I cannot bear to see her so unhappy.  You would never believe