“Yes, there is no doubt that you are simply a nervous wreck, and you would break down entirely without the sea-voyage and the change of scene,” said Mrs. Voorhees, in her smooth, emotionless voice and with a covert glance at Maria.  Ida had confided to her the attitude which she knew Maria took with reference to her going away.

“All I regret—­all that mars my perfect delight in the prospect of the trip—­is parting with my darling little Paul,” Mrs. Voorhees said, with a sigh.

“That is the way I feel with regard to Evelyn,” said Ida.

Maria, who was sewing, took another stitch.  She did not seem to hear.

The next day but one Maria and Evelyn started for Amity.  Ida did not go to the station with them.  She was not up when they started.  The curtains in her room were down, and she lay in bed, drawing down the corners of her mouth with resolution when Maria and Evelyn entered to bid her good-bye.  Maria said good-bye first, and bent her cheek to Ida’s lips; then it was Evelyn’s turn.  The little girl looked at her mother with fixed, solemn eyes, but there were no tears in them.

“Mamma is so sorry she cannot even go to the station with her darling little girl,” said Ida, “but she is completely exhausted, and has not slept all night.”

Evelyn continued to look at her, and there came into her face an innocent, uncomplaining accusation.

“Mamma cannot tell you how much she feels leaving her precious little daughter,” whispered Ida, drawing the little figure, which resisted rigidly, towards her.  “She would not do it if she were not afraid of losing her health completely.”  Evelyn remained in her attitude of constrained affection, bending over her mother.  “Mamma will write you very often,” continued Ida.  “Think how nice it will be for you to get letters!  And she will bring you some beautiful things when she comes back.”  Then Ida’s voice broke, and she found her handkerchief under her pillow and put it to her eyes.

Evelyn, released from her mother’s arm, regarded her with that curiosity and unconscious accusation which was more pitiful than grief.  The child was getting her first sense, not of loss, for one cannot lose that which one has never had, but of non-possession of something which was her birthright.

When at last they were on the train, Evelyn surprised her sister by weeping violently.  Maria tried to hush her, but she could not.  Evelyn wept convulsively at intervals all the way to New York.  When they were in the cab, crossing the city, Maria put her arm around her sister and tried to comfort her.

“What is it, precious?” she whispered.  “Do you feel so badly about leaving your mother?”

“No,” sobbed the little girl.  “I feel so badly because I don’t feel badly.”