“You know I wished for so much more.”

“You thought you did at first, Graydon,” she replied, with a quiet smile, “but I imagine that you soon became quite reconciled to my view of the case.  The relation would surely prove embarrassing to you.  Haven’t you since thought that it might?” she asked, with sweet directness.

He colored visibly, and was provoked with himself that he did.  “If you persist in being at swords’ points with Miss Wildmere—­” he began, hesitatingly.

“I persist in being simply myself, and true to my own perceptions.  Wherein have I failed in courtesy toward Miss Wildmere?”

“But you dislike her most cordially.”

“And you like her most cordially and more.  Have I not granted your perfect right to do so?”

“If you were even the friend you claim to be, you would not be so indifferent.”

“I have not said I was indifferent.  Miss Wildmere is far from indifferent to me.  What have I done to gain her ill-will?”

“Much, as human nature goes.  You have made yourself her rival in beauty and attractiveness.”

“Is that human nature?  If that is the cause of her hostility I should say it is Miss Wildmere’s nature.”

“Let us change the subject,” said Graydon, a little irritably.  “We shall not agree on this point, I fear; you share in Henry’s prejudices.”

“I did not introduce the subject, Graydon, and I think for myself.”

“Hang it all, Madge! you are so changed I scarcely know you.  Every time we meet I find you more of a conundrum.  Friend, indeed!  You certainly have been a distant one in every sense.  If I had been the friend you say I was, you would have written me about the marvellous transformation you were accomplishing.”

She sprang up, and her dark eyes flashed indignantly.  “I am beginning to think that you are changed more than I,” she said, impetuously.  “You know, or might, if you took the trouble, that I did not tell Mary, my own sister, of my progress toward health and strength.  My wish to give you all a pleasant surprise may seem a little thing to you, or you may give some sinister, unnatural meaning to the act.  It was not a little thing to go away ‘a ghost, a wraith,’ as you were wont to call me—­it was not a little thing to go away alone, perhaps to die, as I then felt.  Nor was it a little thing to battle for weary months with weakness of mind and body, morbid timidity, indolence, ignorance, and everything that was contrary to my ideal of womanhood.  I can say thus much in self-defence.  Was there harm in my adding some incentive to a hard sense of duty?  I felt that if I could change for the better and keep my secret I could give you all a glad surprise.  I had almost a child’s pleasure in the thought.  Mary and Henry rewarded me, but you are spoiling it all.  You at once make an impossible demand, and discover, within twenty-four hours, how awkward my compliance would have been.