together; had they been growing away from each other in some things
since they had been older? Often it appeared so; but it was Marion
chiefly who seemed to change; then, all at once, in some unspoken
and intangible way, for a moment like this, she seemed to come
suddenly back again, or he seemed to catch a glimpse of that in her,
hidden, not altered, which _might_ come back one of these days. Was
it a glimpse, perhaps, like the sight the Lord has of each one of
us, always?

Meanwhile, what of Ray Ingraham?

Ray Ingraham was sweet, and proper, and still; just what Frank
Sunderline thought was prettiest and nicest for a woman to be. He
was always reminded by her ways of what it would be so pretty and
nice for Marion Kent to be. But Marion _would_ sparkle; and it is so
hard to be still and sparkle too. He liked the brightness and the
airiness; a little of it, near to; he did not like a whole car-full,
or room-full, or street full,--he did not like to see a woman
sparkle all round.

Mr. Ingraham had come into Dorbury Upper Village some half dozen
years since; had leased the bakery, house, and shop; and two years
afterward, Rachel had come home to stay. She had been left in Boston
with her grandmother when the family had moved out of the city, that
she might keep on a while with the school that she was used to and
stood so well in; with her Chapel classes, also, where she heard
literature and history lectures, each once a week. Ray could not
bear to leave them, nor to give up her Sunday lessons in the dear
old Mission Rooms. Dot was three years younger; she could begin
again anywhere, and their mother could not spare both. Besides,