isn't your house, you know, so it isn't quite so bad for me to say so; and
I'm so glad you hate it as much as I do. Now I am never going to think
about it again,--never."

"Why, can you help it, Mrs. Philbrick?" asked Stephen, in a wondering
tone. "I can't. I hate it more and more, I verily believe, each time I
come home; and I think that, if my mother weren't in it, I should burn it
down some night."

Mercy looked at him with a certain shade of the same contempt with which
she had looked at the house; and Stephen winced, as she said coolly,--

"Why, of course I can help it. I should be very much ashamed of myself if
I couldn't. I never allow myself to be distressed by things which I can't
help,--at least, that sort of thing," added Mercy, her face clouding with
the sudden recollection of a grief that she had not been able to rise
above. "Of course, I don't mean real troubles, like grief about any one
you love. One can't wholly conquer such troubles as that; but one can do a
great deal more even with these than people usually suppose. I am not sure
that it is right to let ourselves be unhappy about any thing, even the
worst of troubles. But I must hurry home now. It is growing late."

"Mrs. Philbrick," exclaimed Stephen, earnestly: "please come into the
house, and speak to my mother a moment. You don't know how she has been
looking forward to your coming."

"Oh, no, I cannot possibly do that," replied Mercy. "There is no reason
why I should call on your mother, merely because we are going to live in
the same house."