This was the fourth great change in Jean’s life.  Gavin’s going away had opened the doors of her destiny; her father’s death had sent her to the school of self-reliant poverty; her mother’s death given her a home of love and luxury, and now her uncle put her in a position of vast, untrammeled responsibility.  But if love is the joy of life, this was not the end; the crowning change was yet to come; and now, with both her hands full, her heart involuntarily turned to her first lover.

About this time, also, Gavin was led to remember Jean.  His sister Mary was going to marry, and the circumstance annoyed him.  “I’ll have to store my furniture and pay for the care of it; or I’ll have to sell it at a loss; or I’ll have to hire a servant lass, and be robbed on the right hand and the left,” he said fretfully.  “It was not in the bargain that you should marry, and it is very bad behavior in you, Mary.”

“Well, Gavin, get married yourself, and the furnishing will not be wasted,” answered Mary.  “There is Annie Riley, just dying for the love of you, and no brighter, smarter girl in New York city.”

“She isn’t in love with me; she is tired of the Remington all day; and if I wanted a wife, there is some one better than Annie Riley.”

“Jean Anderson?”

“Ay.”

“Send for her picture, and you will see what a plain, dowdy old maid she is.  She is not for the like of you, Gavin—­a bit country dressmaker, poor, and past liking.”

Gavin said no more, but that night he wrote Jean Anderson the following letter:  “Dear Jean.  I wish you would send me a picture of yourself.  If you will not write me a word, you might let me have your face to look at.  Mary is getting herself married, and I will be alone in a few days.”  That is enough, he thought; “she will understand that there is a chance for her yet, if she is as bonnie as in the old days.  Mary is not to be trusted.  She never liked Jean.  I’ll see for myself.”

Jean got this letter one warm day in spring, and she “understood” it as clearly as Gavin intended her to.  For a long time she sat thinking it over, then she went to a drawer for a photo, taken just before her mother’s death.  It showed her face without any favor, without even justice, and the plain merino gown, which was then her best.  And with this picture she wrote—­“Dear Gavin.  The enclosed was taken five years since, and there has been changes since.”

She did not say what the changes were, but Gavin was sure they were unfavorable.  He gazed at the sad, thoughtful face, the poor plain dress, and he was disappointed.  A girl like that would do his house no honor; he would not care to introduce her to his fellow clerks; they would not envy him a bit.  Annie Riley was far better looking, and far more stylish.  He decided in favor of Annie Riley.

Jean was not astonished when no answer came.  She had anticipated her failure to please her old lover; but she smiled a little sadly at his failure.  Then there came into her mind a suspicion of Mary, an uncertainty, a lingering hope that some circumstance, not to be guessed at from a distance, was to blame for Gavin’s silence and utter want of response.  It was midsummer, she wanted a breath of the ocean; why should she not go to New York and quietly see how things were for herself?  The idea took possession of her, and she carried it out.