"Then she shouldn't marry either one."
"That's what I thought," said Beatrice.
"Which one did she marry?"
"Who, Aunt Eleanor?"
"Why, the girl in the story?"
"Oh," answered Beatrice, colouring; "why, I—I've forgotten. It's queer, isn't it, how people forget things?"
"What book was it in?"
"I—I don't remember. My memory is poor, Aunt Eleanor. I'm going to my room, now, if you don't want me, and pack up some of my things."
Red and white clover blossomed in the yard, where the children were playing, and a butterfly winged its way through the open window, then flew swiftly out again. Mrs. Mackenzie sat by the table with her face hidden in her hands, while childish voices came to her ears in laughing cadence and filled her heart with fear and pain. Then there was a touch upon her shoulder.
"Eleanor!"