That evening there was to be a reception for the teachers, and the graduating-class, at Mr. Lee’s house.  Evelyn and Maria had planned to go to one of the other teacher’s, who lived in Westbridge, have supper, and go from there to the reception.  But when the exercises were over, and they had reached the teacher’s home, Evelyn’s strength gave way.  She had a slight fainting fit.  The teacher, an elderly woman who lived alone, gave her home-made wine and made her take off her dress, put on one of her own wrappers, and lie down and rest until the last minute, in the hope that she would be able to go to the reception.  But it became evident that the girl was too exhausted.  When Maria and the teacher were fastening her dress again, she fainted the second time.  The teacher, who was a decisive woman, spoke.

“There is no sense whatever in this child’s leaving this house to-night,” said she.  “Maria, you go to the reception, and I will stay and take care of her.”

“No,” said Maria.  “If Evelyn is not able to go, I think we had better take the trolley at once for home.”  Maria was as decided as the other teacher.  When the white-clad graduates and the teachers were gathering at Wollaston Lee’s, she and Evelyn boarded the trolley for Amity.  Evelyn still held fast to her bouquet of red roses, and Maria was laden with baskets and bouquets which had been strewn at her shrine.  Evelyn leaned back in her seat, with her head resting against the window, and did not speak.  All her animation of the morning had vanished.  She looked ghastly.  Maria kept glancing furtively at her.  She herself looked nearly as pale as Evelyn.  She realized that she was face to face with a great wall of problem.  She was as unhappy as Evelyn, but she was stronger to bear unhappiness.  She had philosophy, and logic, and her young sister was a creature of pure emotion, and at the same time she was so innocent and ignorant that she was completely helpless before it.  Evelyn closed her eyes as she leaned against the window-frame, and a chill crept over her sister as she thought that she could not look much different if she were dead.  Then came to Maria the conviction that this sister’s life meant more than anything else in the world to her.  That she could bear the loss of everything rather than that, and when she too would not be able to avoid the sense of responsibility for it.  If she had not been so headlong and absurdly impetuous years ago, Evelyn might easily have been happy and lived.

When they reached home, Aunt Maria, who had come on an earlier car, was already in her bedroom and the front-door was fastened and the sitting-room windows were dark.  Maria knocked on the door, and presently she heard footsteps, then Aunt Maria’s voice, asking, with an assumption of masculine harshness, who were there.

“It is only I and Evelyn,” replied Maria.

Then the door was opened, and Aunt Maria, in her ruffled night-gown and cap, holding a streaming lamp, stood back hastily lest somebody see her.  “Come in and shut the door quick, for goodness sake!” said she.  “I am all undressed.”