"No," she said, trying to make her voice sound natural. "Only I'm to stay here for Christmas. Dr. Lanfair and Mrs. Fetzer will both be away."
"Well," said Miss Grammer practically, "I'm sure we shall have a pleasant time." Blinking in her queer fashion, she delivered a little homily which expressed her philosophy of life. She had had deep and wide experience with disappointment.
"There's only one person for each of us to be absolutely sure of, that's ourselves, and we've got to make our happiness dependent upon things which we can get for ourselves. Now one can always have books and nature, and we should make the most of those pleasures and learn to rely upon them and not upon human beings or worldly fortune. I've had to do that."
Miss Grammer returned to her books and concentrated her attention upon them. Her remarks indicated no vain boasting; she had done exactly what she claimed to have done. But she was quite forty.
Ellen sat for a little while looking out of the window. She felt stupefied; presently she was conscious that she had difficulty in breathing. Was she going to cry? She must get quickly from under these smothering ranks of dull books and this heavy pile of stone and away from the keen eyes of her companion. It had always been her habit in trouble to run out of doors. She rose and put on her hat and coat.
"Just a few minutes and I'll be ready," said Miss Grammer.
"I think I'll go now," answered Ellen steadily. "See you in the morning."
Miss Grammer looked at the door which closed gently. She knew the main facts of Ellen's life, and suspecting that Harrisburg held some young man to whom she was attached, she sighed.
Outside Ellen stood still. The night was bright and starlit. She went round the great building to the rear and there sat down upon a familiar bench which was a part of the architectural design and bore an inscription which she knew by heart:
"To those who shall sit here rejoicing,
To those who shall sit here sorrowing, greeting!
So have we done in our time."