Agatha looked pale and tired as she sat, rather languidly, in an easy
chair in Mrs. Farnam's pretty room. There was bitter frost outside, but
the new wooden house, standing among the orchards of South Ontario, was
warm, and furnished with a regard for comfort and artistic taste. Mrs.
Farnam was proud of her house and good-humored husband, who gave way to
her except about the growing of fruit. On this subject, she had told
Agatha, he was extraordinarily obstinate. She had some tact and much
kindly feeling, but had been a teacher and believed she had a talent for
managing other people's business. In fact, she had tried to manage
Agatha's, but was forced to admit without much success. Agatha, she
said, was difficult.

For all that, it had given her keen satisfaction to bring the girl there
when she was threatened by a nervous breakdown in consequence of
over-work. Agatha had been her confidential friend when they were at
school, but since Mabel married she had sometimes felt that the
confidence had been rather one-sided. She had told Agatha much, but the
latter had said little about her future plans.

"I don't think you're very much better yet," Mrs. Farnam said after a
pause in the talk, for she was seldom silent long.

Agatha languidly looked about the room, noting the warm color of the
polished floor, on which the light of the shaded lamp lay in a
glistening pool, the fine skin rugs, and thick curtains. She had not an
exaggerated love of comfort and her Toronto rooms were bare, but she
owned that Mabel had a pretty house. Besides, she had a husband who
indulged her and was always kind.