tality in the broken limb of an old tree in the orchard. And now Reba's little new-born dreams—just a litter of fumbling half-blind mites of life now, with their eyes scarcely open—must die, too, slowly, one by one, while she performed her duty as a daughter.
Of course money could buy an outsider to fill the position of companion and comforter to her invalid mother. In some parts of the world, under some circumstances, it might be done with honor—but not in Ridgefield. No. If any such possibility did occur to Reba, she banished it instantly as unworthy. Only the close relationship of Aunt Augusta to her mother, and the gradual drift of circumstances, had made it ethically possible for her to attempt her present adventure at all. She must go home. There was no choice. She must go home. She must submit, stoop, and lift the heavy cross that Aunt Augusta so gloatingly cast upon her young shoulders.
The thought of the very atmosphere of Ridgefield (even with Aunt Augusta in Machias) was soul-shivering to Reba. She smiled to herself bitterly in the dark. She could not wear the pretty new gowns in Ridgefield. People would think her extravagant and extreme. The twenty-dollar hat would look out of place in the Jerome pew on Sunday and there was nowhere else to wear it. If she returned even with the style of dressing her hair changed, it would be discussed, she supposed. In Ridgefield you felt critical eyes gazing at you from behind shrouded windows as you walked along past the houses. Everybody knew you in Ridgefield, had always known you, and if you did anything unexpected, you became marked and conspicuous. And of what use in Ridge-
