“I will never meet Mr. Wickersham again.”

“You appear to have met him once too often already.  I think you do not know what you are saying or whom you are speaking to.”

“I do perfectly,” said Lois, looking her full in the eyes.

“I think you had better go to your room,” said Mrs. Wentworth, angrily.

The color rose to Lois’s face, and her eyes were sparkling.  Then the color ebbed back again as she restrained herself.

“You mean you wish me to go?” Her voice was calm.

“I do.  You have evidently forgotten your place.”

“I will go home,” she said.  She walked slowly to the door.  As she reached it she turned and faced Mrs. Wentworth.  “I wish to thank you for all your kindness to me; for you have been very kind to me at times, and I wish—­” Her voice broke a little, but she recovered herself, and walking back to Mrs. Wentworth, held out her hand.  “Good-by.”

Mrs. Wentworth, without rising, shook hands with her coldly.  “Good-by.”

Lois turned and walked slowly from the room.

As soon as she had closed the door she rushed up-stairs, and, locking herself in, threw herself on the bed and burst out crying.  The strain had been too great, and the bent bow at last snapped.

An hour or two later there was a knock on her door.  Lois opened it, and Mrs. Wentworth entered.  She appeared rather surprised to find Lois packing her trunk.

“Are you really going away?” she asked.

“Yes, Cousin Louise.”

“I think I spoke hastily to you.  I said one or two things that I regret.  I had no right to speak to you as I did,” said Mrs. Wentworth.

“No, I do not think you had,” said Lois, gravely; “but I will try and never think of it again, but only of your kindness to me.”

Suddenly, to her astonishment, Mrs. Wentworth burst out weeping.  “You are all against me,” she exclaimed—­“all!  You are all so hard on me!”

Lois sprang toward her, her face full of sudden pity.  “Why, Cousin Louise!”

“You are all deserting me.  What shall I do!  I am so wretched!  I am so lonely—­so lonely!  Oh, I wish I were dead!” sobbed the unhappy woman.  “Then, maybe, some one might be sorry for me even if they did not love me.”

Lois slipped her arm around her and drew her to her, as if their ages had been reversed.  “Don’t cry, Cousin Louise.  Calm yourself.”

Lois drew her down to a sofa, and kneeling beside her, tried to comfort her with tender words and assurances of her affection.  “There, Cousin Louise, I do love you—­we all love you.  Cousin Norman loves you.”

Mrs. Wentworth only sobbed her dissent.

“I will stay.  I will not go,” said Lois.  “If you want me.”

The unhappy woman caught her in her arms and thanked her with a humility which was new to the girl.  And out of the reconciliation came a view of her which Lois had never seen, and which hardly any one had seen often.