And then, there had been that awful day when her father’s wealth had vanished into air like a burst bubble, and he had come home with a white drawn face and gone to bed, never again to rise from it.

Anna did not mind the privations that followed on her own account, but they were pitifully hard on her invalid mother, who had been used to every comfort all her life.

After they had left New York, they had taken a little cottage in Waltham, Mass., and it was here that Mrs. Standish Tremont had come to call on her relatives in their grief and do what she could toward lightening their burdens.  Anna was worn out with the constant care of her mother, and would only consent to go away for a rest, because the doctor told her that her health was surely breaking under the strain, and that if she did not go, there would be two invalids instead of one.

It was at Mrs. Tremont’s that she had met Lennox Sanderson, and from the first, both seemed to be under the influence of some subtle spell that drew them together blindly, and without the consent of their wills.  Mrs. Tremont, who viewed the growing attraction of these two young people with well-concealed alarm, watched every opportunity to prevent their enjoying each other’s society.  It irritated her that one of the wealthiest and most influential men in Harvard should take such a fancy to her penniless young relative, instead of to Grace Tremont, whom she had selected for his wife.

There were few things that Mrs. Tremont enjoyed so much as arranging romances in everyday life.

“Pardon me, Miss Moore,” said the butler, standing at her elbow, “but there has been a telephone message from Mrs. Tremont, saying that she and Mrs. Endicott have been detained, and will you be kind enough to explain this to Mr. Sanderson.”  Anna never knew what the message cost Mrs. Tremont.

A moment later, Sanderson’s card was sent up; Anna rose to meet him with swiftly beating heart.

“What perfect luck,” he said.  “How do I happen to find you alone?  Usually you have a regiment of people about you.”

“Cousin Frances has just telephoned that she has been detained, and I suppose I am to entertain you till her return.”

“I shall be sufficiently entertained if I may have the pleasure of looking at you.”

“Till dinner time?  You could never stand it.”  She laughed.

“It would be a pleasure till eternity.”

“At any rate,” said Anna, “I am not going to put you to the test.  If you will be good enough to ring for tea, I will give you a cup.”

The butler brought in the tea.  Anna lighted the spirit lamp with pretty deftness, and proceeded to make tea.

“I could not have taken this, even from your hands last week, Anna—­pardon me, Miss Moore.”

“And why not?  Had you been taking pledges not to drink tea?”

“It seems to me as if I’ve been living on rare beef and whole wheat bread ever since I can remember——­”