vague or petty fears haunted her. The future, unfolding in dim distance before her, was so wide and grand that it hushed her with its solemn awe. Living on here was mere negation. Surely she might find some better way in which to walk.

Then she felt how she was hampered by sex. If she went out to the contest, could she keep herself unstained, free even from the smell of fire, with fierce flames on every side? Why not? Was not truth always the same ? Would not loftiness of soul, and high, pure purpose be recognized as well in a woman as in a man? O, the world could not be so bitterly unjust!

After greatness was achieved, what then?

Ah, what then? If the May drops out of life, if the time of blossoming never comes, of what account are dreams of fruit? There was a subtile want to her being that no gold and no fame could satisfy. Was this hunger the birthmark of a woman? One might be garlanded with the world's rarest crown, yet starved in heart. And love, the beneficent, might sit a guest at the meanest hearthstone.

In all her twenty-one years she had known no lack. There had been a continual abundance in her heart, not because the supply was so large, but the demand hitherto had been so small. She lay there, shadowed by a nameless something that was hardly fear, yet lacked all the radiance of hope, till the morning dawned, till a new day began, a new day indeed for

her.

Does not every human soul accumulate by some gradual process through a series of years, the wants, thoughts, and capabilities for a new sphere? Imperceptibly; for even the volcano goes on hundreds of years under ground. And then we marvel at our fitness when the time comes, as if it were the experience of some preëxistent world. It is a knowledge that cannot be defined or analyzed; a peculiar manifestation that springs to light at a chance word, or the sight of a face that stirs us like martial music, and dares us to the strife. We

seem to understand then why we have been quietly arming that the struggle is upon us, and we must fight unflinchingly, for if we are conquered we go down to the depths of sullen despair. God help those who have not the strength to buffet through!

Outwardly, there was no difference in the new day. Claudia performed her few household duties with her usual serene gravity. Rose never troubled herself about anything. Some natures make a golden time of every season, take the cleft pomegranate of enjoyment, unmindful that the rind of care must fall to others. Selfish, of course. Yet the selfishness of Rose was neither obtrusive nor unpleasant. It demanded favors, but accepted them as the most ordinary events of life. She was grateful when Barbara mended her torn dresses, and in return half smothered her with kisses; but if neither Barbara nor Claudia had attended to them, they would have hung in the wardrobe. So with nearly everything else. She called on the neighbors, gossiped harmlessly, rambled through the woods, scarcely ever questioned or commented upon. Barbara had wisely given up trying to make her resemble Claudia. She could not understand the peculiar old-world temperament that revelled in a kind of sensuous indolence, and loved to bask in sunshine and ease; but she loved the child too well to annoy her.

There was between the sisters just the sort of sympathy and relationship one might have expected. They were opposites in nearly every respect; as strangers, they would never have been drawn together in the slightest degree. It is a mistake to believe a little kindred blood can work wonders. There is always the poet's "necessity of loving," when we look forward to years or a lifetime spent with a certain set of people. The heart must have something to turn to, or it will burn itself to ashes. Human nature has little clinging tendrils that continually reach out hither and thither in search of support. But we do not give our deepest and most fervent loves in obedience to

the call of duty. We cannot measure our affections, and apportion them in given quantities, just as some law or theory seems to demand. If the souls of those we live with are unable to wake in us a strong sentiment, we give a weaker one, and seek in by-paths for what we miss there. A certain kind of strength and weakness often assimilate, but the weakness must not be inferiority, the strength must not be glacial coldness.

Claudia kindled a fire in the parlor, and drawing an easel from the corner, arranged her pallette, and sat down to work. Very slowly, though. The little landscape growing beneath her hand seemed trifling enough a certain arrangement of trees, rock, and a little meandering stream, tinted with a sunset glow. She knew how it should be, but on this day her right hand appeared to have lost its cunning. She retouched a leaf here, a shade there, making no absolute progress, but affording herself a peculiar satisfaction in a nearer approach to nature. Yet she was glad when the two hours were ended, and took up her sewing with a long breath of relief. Now she could dream of the great world she meant to try some day. Instead, she lived over the evening with John Brevoort, hardly conscious that her thoughts wandered so far.

After dinner, Rose drew the old settle up to the fire and fell asleep. She made such a lonely picture lying there, her hair floating about her like waves of liquid gold! The crimson light of the blaze played about her face, making the curve of the red lips redder, giving a tint of bronze to the eyelashes, and lingering tenderly over the soft, peachy cheek.

Claudia took her sketch-book and started out. Another peculiarity of these two girls was that they rarely cared to go anywhere together. They talked more before Barbara than when alone by themselves. They appeared to have an intuitive understanding of each other's wishes.

She went to her old haunt in the woods, perched herself on a corner of the rock, and leaning her head on her hand, fell into a reverie. Yesterday, this time, her life had been suffi

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cient for her. To-day, it was meagre, restricted, a desert waste. It might be something, if Yes, Rose was right; they must leave Crofton; seek some wider sphere. What could she do how take the first step? Had she all the requisites necesfor such an attempt, sary ambition, courage, perseverance, hardness? John Brevoort was right: womanly delicacy and sensitiveness would often be wounded in the fight. Ah, if she could have but one friend!

IV.

FRIENDSHIP WITH CLAUDIA.

How long she mused she knew not, but at length a step startled her. Never having been intruded upon before, she sprang up, regardless of the unused book and pencils in her lap.

"Pardon me! O, what have I done alarmed you?"

The genial voice of John Brevoort reassured her in a moment. His pleading smile won all that he had asked.

"I was very foolish," she said simply, stooping for her lost

treasures.

He assisted in gathering them up as he answered,

"And I intrusive, I suppose. Is this your sylvan retreat, sacred to the arts? What a glorious studio!" and he glanced around.

"I was rambling about to find something new and strange to solace me for a penance I am about to undergo. I am invited out to tea at Mrs. Sandford's. There will be three Miss Sandfords in their holiday attire, served up with the best china." "But you will not eat them!'

"Heaven forbid!" and he laughed. "Nor digest them either, in any sense of the word. Crude women are as bad as unripe fruit. I have half a mind to turn complimentary, Miss Varian, and say you and your sister are the only sensible girls I have met in Crofton. Why, you did not even invite me to tea!"

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Thereby saved our reputation and our tea."

"Yes. You will set me down as a most ungrateful dog. Going out to tea is a bore. Why are parsons and pedagogues always fêted?"