would rather be an old maid for a thousand years than marry anybody who wasn’t Stephen Irving. Well, it all seems like a dream now, of course. How sympathetic you look, Anne . . . as sympathetic as only seventeen can look. But don’t overdo it. I’m really a very happy, contented little person in spite of my broken heart. My heart did break, if ever a heart did, when I realized that Stephen Irving was not coming back. But, Anne, a broken heart in real life isn’t half as dreadful as it is in books. It’s a good deal like a bad tooth . . . though you won’t think that a very romantic simile. It takes spells of aching and gives you a sleepless night now and then, but between times it lets you enjoy life and dreams and echoes and peanut candy as if there were nothing the matter with it. And now you’re looking disappointed. You don’t think I’m half as interesting a person as you did five minutes ago when you believed I was always the prey of a tragic memory bravely hidden beneath external smiles. That’s the worst . . . or the best . . . of real life, Anne. It won’t let you be miserable. It keeps on trying to make you comfortable . . . and succeeding . . . even when you’re determined to be unhappy and romantic. Isn’t this candy scrumptious? I’ve eaten far more than is good for me already but I’m going to keep recklessly on.”
After a little silence Miss Lavendar said abruptly,
“It gave me a shock to hear about Stephen’s son that first day you were here, Anne. I’ve never been able to mention him to you since, but I’ve wanted
