But Katy had no suspicion, and only replied:  “Perhaps he is vexed that I do not write to him oftener, but I can’t.  I think of him a great deal, and sometimes have so wished I could sit in his public library, and forget that there are such things as dinner parties, where you are in constant terror lest you should do something wrong—­evening parties, where your dress and style are criticised—­receptions or calls, and all the things which make me so confused.  Morris could always quiet me.  It rested me just to hear him talk, and I respect him more than any living man, except, of course, Wilford; but when I try to write, something comes in between me and what I wish to say, for I want to convince him that I am not as frivolous as I fear he thinks I am.  I have not forgotten the Sunday school, nor the church service, which I so loved to hear, especially when Morris read it, as he did in Mr. Browning’s absence; but in the city it is so hard to be good, particularly when one is not, you know—­that is, good like you and Helen and Morris—­and the service and music seem all for show, and I feel so hateful when I see Juno and Wilford’s mother making believe, and putting their heads down on velvet cushions, knowing as I do that they both are thinking either of their own bonnets or those just in front.”

“Are you not a little uncharitable?” Marian asked, laughing in spite of herself at the picture Katy drew of fashion trying to imitate religion in its humility.

“Perhaps so,” Katy answered.  “I grow bad from looking behind the scenes, and the worst is that I do not care.  But tell me, do you think Morris likes me less than formerly?”

Marian did not, and assured on that point, Katy went back to the farmhouse, asking numberless questions about its inmates, and at last coming to the business which had brought her to Marian’s room.

There were perceptible spots on Marian’s neck, and her lips were very white, while her hands grasped the bundles tossed into her lap—­the yards and yards of lace and embroidery, linen, and cambric, which she was expected to make for the wife of Wilford Cameron; and her voice was husky as she asked directions or made suggestions of her own.

“It’s because she has no such joy in expectation.  I should feel so, too, if I were thirty and unmarried,” Katy thought, as she noticed Marian’s agitation, and tried to divert her mind by telling her as delicately as possible that she had brought with her sundry stores of which she had such an abundance.

“I knew you were not an object of charity,” she said, as she saw the flush on Marian’s brow, “but when I have so much I like to share it with others, and you seem like our folks.”

“Did Wilf—­did Mr. Cameron know?” Marian asked, and Katy answered “No; but it does not matter.  He lets me do as I like in these matters, and the greatest pleasure I have is giving.  You are not offended?” she continued, as she saw a tear drop from Marian’s eyelids.