and a street lamp, just lighted, shone across into the room.
Luclarion had been sitting with her, and her gray knitting-work lay
upon the chair that she offered when she had picked it up, to Mr.
Oldways. Then she went away and left them to their talk.

"Mrs. Ripwinkley has been spry about it," she said to herself, going
softly down the stairs. "But she always was spry."

"You're getting well, I hope," said Uncle Titus, seating himself,
after he had given Desire his hand.

"I suppose so," said Desire, quietly. "That was why I wanted to see
you. I want to know what I ought to do when I am well."

"How can I tell?" asked Uncle Titus, bluntly.

"Better than anybody I can ask. The rest are all too sympathizing. I
am afraid they would tell me as I wish they should."

"And I don't sympathize? Well, I don't think I do much. I haven't
been used to it."

"You have been used to think what was right; and I believe you would
tell me truly. I want to know whether I ought to go to Europe with
my mother."

"Why not? Doesn't she want you to go?"--and Uncle Titus was sharp
this time.

"I suppose so; that is, I suppose she expects I will. But I don't