"Claire, I used to think in the old days that seem to have been fifty years ago, that you liked Pierce Douglass rather better than the other young men who used to be so fond of coming to our home; and I thought—in fact, I felt almost certain—that he liked you better than he did anybody else. Well, he has returned; and only yesterday I saw him on Clark Avenue. I was just coming down Reubens street, and I made all possible haste, because I thought it would be so pleasant to see his familiar face once more, and to answer his many questions. Besides, I presume I was silly, but I thought it more than probable that he was in correspondence with you, and would have some news of you to give me. I called to him, breathlessly, as I saw he was about to enter a car, and I thought more than likely he was looking for our address. 'Pierce,' I said, you know I have called him Pierce ever since I was a little bit of a girl, and he used to help me down the seminary stairs. He stopped and looked about him, and looked right at me, and made no movement toward me, though I was hastening to him. 'I am so glad to see you,' I said, for even then I did not understand. And then he spoke: 'Miss Benedict, is it? Why, I was not aware that you were in the city. I thought I had heard of a removal. I trust you are having a pleasant winter, Miss Benedict. We have a good deal of snow for this region, have we not? You will pardon my haste; I had signaled my car before you spoke.'
"And he lifted his hat, with one of his graceful bows, and sprang in and was gone. Yes, I pardoned his haste! I was glad to see the car swing around the corner. I was burning and choking. The idea of being met in that way by Pierce Douglass! Only six months since he called me 'little Doralinda Honora,' and begged me not to forget to mention his name ten times a day while he was absent. Claire, I could hardly get home, my limbs trembled so. Mamma was out executing one of your commissions, and I was glad, for I was not fit to see her for hours.
"I have heard to-day that Pierce has been in town for six weeks, and is to be married in the spring to Emmeline Van Antwerp. Is that any reason why he should have insulted me? I am certainly willing that he shall marry whom he pleases, if he can secure her. Claire, do you remember how Emmeline's taste in dress used to amuse him? But she is very rich, you know; at least, she is an only daughter, and her father has not failed. How does Pierce know but that in six months it will be Mr. Van Antwerp's turn?
"Well, I only hope, dear Claire, that I was utterly and entirely mistaken in your friendship for that man. It seems to me now that I must have been; for, with so base a nature, he could not have interested you.
"Oh, Claire, do you suppose papa knows of all these little stings that we have to bear? I can hardly see how he can be happy in heaven if he does, for he guarded us all so tenderly. Does that old worn-out church really fill your heart as it seems to, so that you can be happy without papa? That is wicked, I know, and if you are happy, I am glad you are. I do try to shield mamma, and she is like you, meek and patient.
"Good-night, dear! I am very weary of this day. I am going to try to lose the memory of it in sleep."
Claire rose up from reading this sheet, with a pale face out of which the brightness was strangely gone. It seemed a curious thing to her afterward, that she had thought to herself while reading it: "I am glad I spoke those words to Bud; I am glad I told him about a home where there is nothing but brightness. We need such homes."
She went about with a slow step, setting the little room to rights, arranging the fire for the night; then she sat down and worked over her class-book, arranging her averages for the week. She had not meant to do that work on that evening, but she seized upon it as something that would keep her thoughts employed. She did not want to think.
Suddenly, in the midst of the figures, she pushed the book from her, and burying her face in her hands, said to her heart in a determined way: "Now, what is the matter? Why do I not want to look this thing in the face? What is wounded, my pride?" After a little she drew a long, relieved breath, and sat erect. There was no need in covering this thing away; it would bear looking at.