“A desolate hearth.  No, Tita, you were not born for the old maid’s joys.”

“Well, I was not born to be tyrannized over, any way,” says Tita, raising her arms above her head, her fingers interlaced, and yawning lightly.  “And old maid has liberty, at all events.”

“I don’t see that mine does me much good,” says Margaret ruefully.

“That’s why you are going to give it up.  Though anyone who could call you an old maid would be a fool.  I sometimes”—­wistfully—­ “wish you were going to be one, Meg, because then I could live with you for ever.”

“Well, you shall.”

“No; not I. Three is trumpery.”

“There won’t be three.”

“I wish I had a big bet on that.  I wish someone would bet me my old dear home, my Oakdean, upon that.  I should be a happy girl again.”

A great sadness grows within her eyes.

“Tita, you could be happy if you chose.”

“You are always saying that,” says Lady Rylton, looking full at her.  “But how—­how can I be happy!”

"See Maurice!  Make it up with him.  Put an end to this foolish quarrel.”

“What should I gain by agreeing to live again with a man who cares nothing for me?  I tell you, Margaret, that I desire no great things.  I did not expect to wring from life extraordinary joys.  I have never been exorbitant in my demands.  I did not even ask that Maurice should love me.  I asked only that he should like me—­be—­be fond of me.  I”—­her voice beginning to tremble—­“have had so few people to be fond of me; and to live with anyone, Margaret, to see him all day long, and know he cared nothing for me, that he thought me in his way, that he so hated me that he couldn’t speak to me without scolding me, or saying hurtful words!  Oh, no!  I could not do that again.”

“Maurice has been most unfortunate,” says Margaret, very sadly.  “Do you really believe all this of him, Tita?”

“I believe he loved Mrs. Bethune all the time,” returns she simply.  “And even if it be true what you say, that he does not love her now—­still he does not love me either.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I—­I am like the ‘miller of the Dee.’” She had been on the verge of tears, but now she laughs.

    “’I care for nobody, no, not I,
    And nobody cares for me.’

I told you that before.  Why do you persist in thinking I am in love?  Such a silly phrase!  At all events”—­disdainfully—­“I’m not in love with Maurice.”

“I am afraid not, indeed,” says Margaret, in a low voice.  “And yet you seem to have such a capacity for loving.  Me I know you love—­and that old home.”

“Ah yes—­that!  But that is gone.  And soon you will be gone, too.”

“Never! never!” says Margaret earnestly.  “And all this is so morbid, Tita.  You must rouse yourself; you know some of our old friends are coming to see me on Sunday next.  You will meet them?”