course you must go with us."

"But do you _care_?"

"Why, if there were any proper way, and if you really hate so to
go,--but there isn't," said Mrs. Ledwith, not very grammatically or
connectedly.

"She _doesn't_ care," said Desire to herself, after her mother had
left her, turning her face to the pillow, upon which two tears ran
slowly down. "And that is my fault, too, I suppose. I have never
been _anything_!"

Lying there, she made up her mind to one thing. She would get Uncle
Titus to come, and she would talk to him.

"He won't encourage me in any notions," she said to herself. "And I
mean now, if I can find it out, to do the thing God means; and then
I suppose,--I _believe_,--the snarl will begin to unwind."

Meanwhile, Luclarion, when she had set a nice little bowl of
tea-muffins to rise, and had brought up a fresh pitcher of ice-water
into Desire's room, put on her bonnet and went over to Aspen Street
for an hour.

Down in the kitchen, at Mrs. Ripwinkley's, they were having a nice
time.

Their girl had gone. Since Luclarion left, they had fallen into that
Gulf-stream which nowadays runs through everybody's kitchen. Girls