worst of it all was that it now seemed true, for she could not believe
that they would wish her to be so utterly unhappy. In spite of her
unworldliness and lack of practical training, the strong common-sense of
Clancy's question would recur, "What good will it do?" She was not
sacrificing her heart to sustain or further any cause, and her heart now
cried out against the wrong it was receiving. These miserable thoughts
rushed through her mind and pressed so heavily upon all hope that she
leaned her arms upon the table, and, burying her face, sobbed aloud.

"Mara," said her aunt, severely, "I did not think you could be so weak."

Until the storm of passionate grief passed, the young girl gave no heed to
Mrs. Hunter's reproaches or expostulations. At last she became quiet, as
much from exhaustion as from self-control, and said wearily, "You need
worry no further about Mr. Clancy. He will not come again. If he has a
spark of pride or manhood left, he will never look at me again," and a
quick, heart-broken sob would rise at the thought.

"I should hope you would not look at him again after his insolence to me."

Mara did not reply. For the first time her confidence in her aunt had been
shaken, for she could not but feel that Mrs. Hunter, in her judgment of
Clancy, saw but one side of the question. She did not approve of his stern
arraignment of her aunt, but she at least remembered his great
provocation, and that he had been impelled to his harsh words by loyalty
to her.

At last she said, "Aunty, I'm too worn out to think or speak any more
tonight. There is a limit to endurance, and I've reached it."