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 READY FOR
ANYTHING
••••
Four Touchstones for
Future-Focused
Learning

SUZETTE LOVELY
foreword by Sean Covey
Copyright © 2020 by Solution Tree Press
Materials appearing here are copyrighted. With one exception, all rights are
reserved. Readers may reproduce only those pages marked “Reproducible.”
Otherwise, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or
by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior
written permission of the publisher.
555 North Morton
Street Bloomington, IN 47404
800.733.6786 (toll free) / 812.336.7700
FAX: 812.336.7790
email: [email protected]
SolutionTree.com
Visit go.SolutionTree.com/21stcenturyskills to download the free
reproducibles in this book.
Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Lovely, Suzette, 1958- author.

Title: Ready for anything : four touchstones for future-focused learning / Suzette
Lovely.
Description: Bloomington, Indiana : Solution Tree Press, 2019. | Includes
bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019005402 | ISBN 9781947604391
Subjects: LCSH: Education--Aims and objectives. | Effective teaching. | School-to-
work transition. | Educational innovations. | Culturally relevant pedagogy. |
Individualized instruction.
Classification: LCC LB1025.3 .L696 2019 | DDC 370--dc23 LC record available at
https://lccn.loc.gov/2019005402

Solution Tree
Jeffrey C. Jones, CEO
Edmund M. Ackerman, President
Solution Tree Press
President and Publisher: Douglas M. Rife
Associate Publisher: Sarah Payne-Mills
Art Director: Rian Anderson
Managing Production Editor: Kendra Slayton
Production Editor: Alissa Voss
Senior Editor: Amy Rubenstein
Copy Editor: Miranda Addonizio
Proofreader: Elisabeth Abrams
Text and Cover Designer: Laura Cox
Editorial Assistant: Sarah Ludwig
 Acknowledgments

Solution Tree Press would like to thank the following reviewers:

Scott Carr
Principal
Heritage Middle School
Liberty, Missouri

Daniel Cohan
Community Superintendent
Jefferson County Public School District
Golden, Colorado

Christopher Eberlein
Principal
Speegleville Elementary School
Waco, Texas

Mike Hagadone
Deputy Superintendent
White River School District
Buckley, Washington

Mary Hendricks-Harris
Superintendent
Francis Howell School District
St. Charles, Missouri

Marsha Jones
Executive Director, Curriculum and
Instruction
Pasadena Independent School District
Pasadena, Texas

Amanda Ziaer
Principal
Hunt Middle School
Frisco, Texas
Visit go.SolutionTree.com/21stcenturyskills to download the
free reproducibles in this book.
 Table of Contents

About the Author

Foreword
Introduction
The Four Touchstones
In This Book

1 Rethinking Education
The Changing Paradigm of Schooling
Vital Skills for a Changing Economy
A Farewell to Average
The Any-Collar Workforce
Future-Ready Teaching and Learning
Constructive Rebellion Against Conformity
Conclusion: There Is No Limit for Better
Touchstone Takeaways

2 Implementing Innovative Practices

Six Characteristics of Innovative Educators
Eight Themes of Practical DREAMING
Strategies to Increase Innovation in the Student Environment
Conclusion: Take a Walk on the Dog Side of Life
 Touchstone Takeaways

3 Building a Strengths-Based Culture

Focusing on Strong Versus Wrong
Developing Leadership in Teachers and Students
Encouraging the Zookeeper Effect
Creating Defining Moments
Molding Mindsets—Theirs and Ours
Conclusion: Wise Up
Touchstone Takeaways

4 Designing Personalized Experiences

Seven Questions to Kickstart the Process
Core Components of Personalization
Strategies for Designing Personalized Experiences
Conclusion: Settle or Soar
Touchstone Takeaways

5 Collaborating With the Outside

Education Philanthropy Through the Ages
The Collective Impact Movement
Collaborating With Millennial Parents
Conclusion: Lower the Drawbridge
Touchstone Takeaways

Epilogue
Assess Your Identity
Turn Words Into a Movement
Conclusion: A New Hope
Appendix
Carlsbad Unified School District Graduate Profile
Lakeside Union School District Graduate Profile
References and Resources
Index
 About the Author

Suzette Lovely, EdD, spent thirty-four years serving K–12 schools

in every capacity—from instructional aide to teacher to principal to
central office administrator to superintendent. During her role as
superintendent in Carlsbad, California, she spearheaded several
efforts to support future-ready learning, including the
implementation of a career pathways grant involving eighteen school
districts throughout San Diego County; coordination of workforce
readiness meetings with community college presidents, elected
officials, and business leaders; and participation in collective impact
endeavors with nonprofits. Dr. Lovely was also one of a handful of
superintendents invited to participate in a focus group with
California’s governor to discuss the state’s new funding and
accountability system.
Since retiring, Dr. Lovely has remained active in strategic
planning work, superintendent searches, leadership coaching,
university teaching, and facilitation of the Women in Education
Leadership (WEL) Institute. Dr. Lovely has been recognized for her
visionary leadership and educational contributions by California
Senator Patricia Bates, the California PTA, Hi-Noon Rotary, the
Carlsbad Chamber of Commerce, The Master Teacher blog, and the
San Diego County Art Education Association.
Dr. Lovely is the author of three books: Staffing the Principalship,
Setting Leadership Priorities, and Generations at School. She has
also authored numerous journal articles on capacity building and
leadership development. Dr. Lovely has been a featured speaker at
several local, state, and national conferences.
Following her undergraduate work at the University of California,
Irvine, Dr. Lovely earned a master’s degree in educational
administration from National University and a doctorate from
California State University, Fullerton. Her doctoral research provides
unique insights into the generational perspectives of Millennial
teachers and their long-term commitment to the profession.
To learn more about Dr. Lovely’s work, email
[email protected], or follow @SuzetteLovely on Twitter. To
book Suzette Lovely for professional development, contact
[email protected].
 Foreword
by Sean Covey

It is both an honor and a pleasure to write the foreword for this

tremendous book by Dr. Suzette Lovely. Although we don’t know
each other well, her reputation precedes her, and I have the greatest
respect for the decades of her life she has devoted to education.
Having worked in all educational roles and capacities during this time
(from teacher’s aide to educator, principal, and then California
superintendent), Dr. Lovely truly walks her talk. What, then, has led
her to connect with me?
I am also in the education business. And although I come from
quite a different background (having never been an official teacher
or received a PhD), I spend my life in a classroom of sorts. I study
kids—their behavior, ideas, opinions, and more. And as president of
the FranklinCovey Education division, mentoring future-ready
learners is also my passion. Several years back, I published a book
(following in my father’s footsteps) called The 7 Habits of Highly
Effective Teens. Following a decade of research, I concluded that our
current education system is just not keeping up with the needs of
today’s students. This led my division at FranklinCovey to bring forth
a character-based curriculum of its own, The Leader in Me. We saw
the need and knew that something needed to be done.
Which brings me to Dr. Lovely. I am enormously gratified by her
courageous leadership in identifying ways to bring our current school
systems and educators into the new millennium. The time has come
to shift away from the paradigms of the past and embrace the
future. In Ready for Anything: Four Touchstones for Future-Focused
Learning, Dr. Lovely introduces us to her education model,
comprised of four touchstones or criteria which can help point
educators toward meaningful adjustments that will help prepare our
children for the future. These four touchstones are remarkable,
proven principles that work wherever a student or teacher falls in
their educational journey. Let me explain by giving a quick preview
of these principles.
First, Dr. Lovely stresses the need for implementing innovative
practices. Mahatma Gandhi said, “The future depends on what we
do in the present.” This touchstone encourages educators to
challenge students to innovate and create through new ideas and
practices. When they do this, they take a big step into the future.
The second touchstone describes how important it is to build a
strengths-based culture. This is accomplished by talking to students
about their interests and ideas and helping them utilize their innate
talents. This, in turn, can lead to new discoveries and build confident
learners of the future.
The third touchstone explains the importance of designing
personalized experiences for each and every student. There is no
one-size-fits-all approach to learning. Students must be individually
considered and given what they personally need to progress in their
own time and their own way.
Fourth, Dr. Lovely believes in the vital importance of collaborating
with the outside. Communities, organizations, parents, and others
help shape, mold, and connect students to their own unique
environments. It truly takes a village.
Each of these touchstones frames a future-ready learning process
that advances the cutting edge of education. As Abraham Lincoln
once said, “The best way to predict the future is to create it.” I
believe Dr. Lovely is doing just that. By providing this forward-
looking framework, she invites educators everywhere to utilize these
tools in the way that works best for their situation. I believe it’s time
that we take a good look at what’s happening around us in
technology, with the internet, social media, and the economy. It is so
important to recognize that today’s students need to be prepared to
face the reality of a changing world. We can no longer sit back
Other documents randomly have
different content
There seemed to be nothing for it but to take the bull by the horns—by the wrong horn, be
it remarked!—to go without further delay to Virginia Villa, and to put things right
somehow.

She would have to make Bee and her mother understand the position of affairs. She would
have to explain-or to hint—that though she herself would go to see Bee as often as she
could spare the time, yet they must not expect to find themselves quite upon the same
level, or look to have a welcome from all the circle of the Royston acquaintances. It was
too horrid, too disgusting, to have to do anything of the sort. But how could she help it?
Nothing else remained? After what had passed at luncheon, how could she ask her mother
to call?

Was it really impossible? Even now, would not complete frankness be the wiser, the nobler,
the better course? This thought came vividly; but Magda put it aside.

"I can't! I really can't!" she muttered impatiently. "I must wait! I must find out first what I
can do with them. After that—perhaps—I suppose I must tell mother!"

And she did not see the cowardice of her decision.

CHAPTER XIII
VIRGINIA VILLA

IT was a broiling afternoon, and no mistake. No wonder Merryl had felt the sun too hot!
Magda thought of this, and wished, with a touch of self-reproach, that she had gone to see
her sister before starting. By the time she reached Claughton Manor, her face was the
colour of a peony.

She rang and asked for Patricia. "Was Miss Vincent back yet?"

Miss Vincent had returned three days earlier.

"Could I see her?"

The man—an old family butler—was not sure. He believed that Miss Vincent had an
engagement that afternoon, but he would enquire.

"I won't keep Miss Vincent long. Only just a minute!" pleaded Magda.

She was shown into the breakfast-room, and the man disappeared. Returning, he said that
Miss Vincent would come presently, if Miss Royston could wait.

She was left in the breakfast-room, not taken upstairs, as she had hoped, into Patricia's
boudoir—a sure sign that the interview was to be brief. There she sat, and waited long.
Patricia often kept people waiting—those whom she counted to be of small social
importance; but she had never kept Magda quite so long before. Gloomy forebodings
attacked the girl. Did Patricia not care to see her, after all these weeks of separation? Had
she said or done something that Patricia did not like? Could it be that some inkling had
reached Patricia of the coming of the Majors to Burwood, and that she counted a friend of
theirs no longer a fit friend for herself?

Magda had time enough in which to conjure up no end of direful imaginings. Nearly three-
quarters of an hour passed, before a light step came down the passage, and Patricia
appeared, wearing one of her daintiest frocks and most bewitching hats, evidently ready
for some social function. She was drawing on a pair of white gloves.

"Well, Magda—how are you? So sorry to keep you waiting, dear, but I'm awfully busy since
getting back. And I have had to dress early, so as to be ready in time. I can give you two
or three minutes now." She just touched her lips to Magda's flushed cheek, eluding a
proffered embrace. "Don't crumple me, dear, please. Well—are you quite well, and
desperately busy too?"

"I'm never too busy to come here. Never!"

"You told me you were working very hard."

"Yes—but still—Patricia, when may I really see you? When may I come for a good long
talk? I want to hear all about your travels and everything."

"Of course—yes. I have no end of things to tell you." Patricia slowly buttoned her left
glove. "Let me see I'm afraid every single day this week is full. I must write, and name
some afternoon—next week."

Magda's face fell, while Patricia was wondering whether and how much Robert Royston
might have said to his sister as to their meeting abroad. It was her intention to avoid being
catechised about it by Magda; but, perhaps, on the whole, some slight allusion now was
desirable, all the more since there was no time for the said catechising. So, with a little
laugh, she remarked—

"You must have been amused to hear of my coming across your brother at Kandersteg."

"Rob! Not Rob!" cried Magda, in deep amazement. "Why, he never told me!"

This meant a good deal to Patricia, as a token of Rob's feelings. She only said, with a smile
—

"He did not think it important enough."

"Oh, it couldn't be that! It wasn't that! And you met—really! Were you in the same hotel?"

Patricia held out a hand. "Can you manage these buttons for me? They are rather difficult.
Yes, the same hotel. Just for three or four days or so. It was when he went up the
Blümlisalphorn with his friend, Mr. Ivor."

"He sent me a picture-card, I remember. But he did not say a word about you!"

"Too busy, my dear. Climbing takes a lot of time. And Mr. Ivor had a bad accident as they
were coming down the mountain—fell into a crevasse, and might have been killed. That
gave your brother more to do."

"I suppose so. But I do think he might have told me—if it was only half-a-dozen words."

"You shouldn't expect too much. Men hate writing letters on a holiday. By-the-by, thanks
so much for those nice flowers, and for your note. So good of you! And now, I'm afraid, I
really must say good-bye. But you will come again soon. I shall write and fix a day."

And that was all. Magda made her way out, mounted her bicycle, and set off for home;
going slowly much of the way, and walking up the hills with a heavy step. She was puzzled
by Rob's silence on what he must have known would be a great interest to her. She was
conscious of a slight subtle change in Patricia—she did not use the word "subtle," but she
felt it—which perplexed and weighed upon her. The manner was not less affectionate than
usual; yet some new element seemed to have crept into their friendship.

Was it the Majors? Toiling up a long slope, she asked this question.

Anyhow, she would go at once to Virginia Villa, and would see how the land lay. No use
putting off.

Thither she went direct, not calling at home by the way. She left her bicycle in the tiny
front garden, and rang. A neat little maid opened the door and showed her into a drawing-
room which took her by surprise. It was much larger than she had expected—yes, plainly,
the front and back rooms had been thrown into one, making a room of good size,
handsomely furnished. On an easel in the back window stood a half-finished painting; and
work lay about carelessly. Magda recognised the tasteful fingers of her friend in the very
sweep of the window-curtains, and in the mass of flowers piled upon a side-table. Bee was
a born artist, and she carried with her an atmosphere of harmony.

Magda herself felt anything rather than harmonious this hour. She had never been more
uncomfortable in her life.

The two ladies came in together; Bee, as always, gentle, slender, reticent, quietly
affectionate, but rather holding back, as if not quite sure of Magda. The latter's constrained
kiss was hardly of a nature to reassure.

There was no manner of constraint about Bee's mother. Of medium height, plain in
feature, rather stout, wearing a short alpaca black skirt and a loose black jacket—she did
in a fashion resemble the photograph with which Magda was familiar. Only, no photograph
could reproduce the absolute ease and supreme composure of the original. In two points
alone was she like her daughter—in the slender pretty hands, and the soft low-toned
voice; but her speech was slower than Bee's, and she had the air of being much more sure
of herself.

"So this is your particular friend, Bee!" Mrs. Major's eyes examined Magda kindly, as she
shook hands.

Bee looked rather sad.

"I thought I had better come directly—though of course—though I was afraid—I thought
you might be too busy—"

"Not at all, Magda. Mother was so good—only think, instead of waiting for me to come
home and help her, as I expected, she did everything with the maids, and had the whole
house straight before I arrived. It was such a surprise."

"Then Mrs. Major has been here some time."

"More than a fortnight. And how she must have worked!"

"Work does nobody harm. Sit down, Miss Royston. Tea is coming directly."
As Mrs. Major spoke, the neat young girl brought in a tray, placing it upon a small basket-
table.

Magda murmured indistinct thanks, adding, "And you like Burwood?"

"It is not new to me. I used to visit in the neighbourhood when I was a child."

Magda was too much pre-occupied with her own line of thought to notice this, or to follow
it out, as she might have done. How to bring in what she had to say she did not know; and
the mental struggle kept her absent and dull. Bee waited on her, supplied her wants, and
asked questions about things in general. Mrs. Major filled gaps with easy talk, never for a
moment at a loss for something to say. She was evidently a well-read woman, and a clever
one; much more so than Magda had been accustomed to consider Bee. She tried Magda on
a variety of subjects, and had small response in any direction. For some time no loophole
occurred for anything personal.

Tea was nearly over when Bee remarked—"I hope you will come in very often, Magda."

Magda seized upon the opening. "Yes—I should like it very much. Only, of course, when
one is at home, there is a lot to do—and so many people to see—and—"

"We quite understand. I don't think you will find us at all unreasonable, dear."

Magda had an odd sense, of which she had never at school been conscious, that she was a
good deal younger than Bee. The latter seemed, all at once, to have gained years in age.
Not only was she older, but prettier, more dignified, more controlled in manner.

"But of course I do mean—" Magda came to a stop.

"No doubt you have a great many friends here, and perhaps not very much leisure,"
politely suggested Mrs. Major. It really seemed as if they were trying to help her out of her
difficulty.

"And then, Magda, having Miss Vincent must make a great difference. You are always
seeing her, are you not? And at first we shall not know all your friends, or they us."

The opportunity was not to be lost. Magda summoned up her courage. "I suppose—I
suppose not," she said, with averted gaze. "People here are rather—are rather slow, you
know—I mean, in calling on new-comers."

She looked up nervously to see the effect of her words, and intercepted one swift glance
between mother and daughter. Not an unkind glance; not offended; but amused.

"No doubt," assented Mrs. Major. "It is always wise to be careful."

Bee laughed. "But even if we don't know your friends, dear, and even if we are out of it all,
I hope we shall see you sometimes, when you can spare half-an-hour. You must not make
a burden of it."

Magda felt ashamed. "Of course I shall come," she said. "And if—if my mother—" she
stopped, hardly knowing what she had meant to say.

"I want so much to know your mother," Bee observed.

"But—but I'm not quite sure—" faltered Magda. "You see—mother isn't very strong—and
she has so many calls to pay—and I'm not sure—if she—"
It was impossible to finish the sentence, in face of Bee's soft wondering eyes, still more in
face of Mrs. Major's steady gaze and air of composed waiting. Magda found her feet
awkwardly, with crimsoning cheeks.

"I'm so sorry, I can't stay longer now," she added. "I'll come again soon, if I may."

"Pray come any day that you feel inclined," Mrs. Major responded easily, with no apparent
consciousness of what Magda had meant. "Bee's friends will always be welcome at Virginia
Villa." She said the name in precisely the same tone that she might have used to say
"Claughton Manor," or "Windsor Castle."

Bee went out to see Magda through the little front door, coming back with a shadow on her
face.

"I'm rather disappointed in your friend, my dear. But she may improve on a further
acquaintance. Is she always like this?"

"She was different at school. I don't understand her to-day—or what made her so. Unless
—it is something perhaps that her mother has said."

"Probably. Mrs. Royston may not intend to call, till she has hunted out our antecedents."

"It may be that, mother."

"But after being your friend for two years, she might have said enough to satisfy even
Burwood squeamishness."

"Yes—only—I never did tell Magda much."

"Not enough, perhaps."

"Mother, you have always hated snobbishness. And I know how you laughed at Miss Norris,
for dragging in her rich relations at every corner."

"And you are your mother's own daughter." Mrs. Major's small dark eyes, clever and deep-
set, rested lovingly on the girl. "However, one must take people as they are. Never mind.
It will all come right. I have no doubt that there is a finer side to Magda Royston—and that
this is a mere episode; not her fault."

"No. Only, I don't really think—if I had been in her place this afternoon—that I could have
done just so!"

"I'm perfectly sure that you could not, Bee." Mrs. Major spoke with decision.

CHAPTER XIV
A REVERSION OF THOUGHT

LEAVING her machine in the bicycle-shed, Magda went indoors, to find herself face to face
with her father. Up to that moment she had been entirely occupied with her own concerns
—dissatisfied with herself, disappointed not to have seen more of Patricia, uncomfortable
about Bee—and since leaving the house she had not once remembered Merryl.

The moment her eyes fell upon Mr. Royston she did remember. He was roving restlessly
about, between hall and study and drawing-room, as if not knowing what to do with
himself. At the sight of Magda, he faced round abruptly.

"So here you are at last! Time enough too! Where have you been all day?"

"I've only been away since lunch. Not all day."

"Pretty sharp you went off too, never stopping to see if you were wanted. Never a thought
of your poor little sister, or how she might be!"

There was too much truth in this. She had hurried off, in fear that something might
prevent that which she had set her mind on doing.

"Isn't Merryl well, father?"

"Well! Not likely!—treated in such a way! My poor little girl! Sent off in that hair-brained
fashion, when she was only fit for bed! In this heat too! I'm not blaming your mother. She
didn't know. Merryl took care she shouldn't! But you might have had more sense. Not a
soul in the house sees to that child. She never complains—never thinks of herself—the
most unselfish little darling that ever lived. And you—always so full of your own affairs,
that you neither know nor care what becomes of anybody else!"

Magda swelled resentfully, for this of course was an exaggeration; but he went on
wrathfully—"I'll take good care nothing of that sort ever happens again! I'll look after her
myself in future—if—" and there was an ominous choke in his voice—"if—if she gets over—
this!"

Magda's heart gave a great frightened throb.

"Is Merryl lying down still?"

"Lying down still!" growled Mr. Royston. "That's all you know! That's all you care!" He
turned off, as if not trusting himself to say more, and disappeared in the study, shutting
the door.

Magda stood feeling dazed. It was as if a small thunderbolt had fallen at her feet. If Merryl
should get over this! She repeated the words to herself. Get over what? Something must
have come to pass while she was away—something unlooked-for. All sorts of conjectures
thronged up, none of which would fit the case. But Merryl was ill. Merryl must be ill. That
"if she gets over this" could have no other meaning. She must have been ill in the morning
—too ill for a long hot bicycle ride—and Magda had refused to go in her stead.

In one moment the world had changed; and she saw it from a new standpoint. No longer
was Patricia the one and only person to be considered. Suddenly she found how much
these home-ties really meant—how dear to her heart was this unselfish little sister, Merryl!
Ill! Perhaps not to get over it! Oh, but that was impossible. It could not have come upon
them with such frightful suddenness. And Mr. Royston was always an alarmist, especially in
regard to Merryl.

Magda plucked up courage, and went to the school-room. She must hear more—must
know what it all meant.
At first the room looked empty. Then she espied a small figure, curled up in one corner of
the deep old window seat, with long hair falling like a veil and hiding the child's face.

"Frip!" The word came fearfully. Dread surged up anew.

Francie made no answer. Magda went close, putting an urgent arm round the little figure;
and there was a slight shake of the shoulders, as if to repudiate her touch.

"Frip! what is it? Frip, tell me! I'm only just come in. What is the matter?"

Frip said one word—"Merryl!" and burst into tears.

"Go on! Go on!" commanded Magda.

"She is—oh, so bad!" sobbed Frip. "And the doctor has been. And he says—she never,
never ought to have gone! Her head did ache so, and her throat was sore, and I begged
her so to let you take the note. But she said you couldn't—you were busy—and she
wouldn't let me worry mother—and I couldn't find Pen."

"She never told me her head ached," spoke Magda miserably.

"She didn't tell me; but I saw. Of course I saw. And I do wish now I'd told mother, though
she said I mustn't. She said perhaps the ride would do her good. But it didn't. When she
tried to get up, after lunch, she nearly fainted right off. And then she said she had tumbled
off her bicycle twice, coming home; and the second time she banged her head against the
gate-post, and it hurt her so dreadfully, she could hardly get indoors. And the doctor says
nobody is to go into her room, except mother; and she's to be taken to the end spare
room; and Pen has gone out to find a nurse. And I don't know what to do without Merryl!"

Magda felt guilty and unhappy. It was easy to see that even little Francie blamed her; and
for once she had no words of self-defence to offer.

Penrose came in, grave and sad. "Is Frip here?" she said. Then—"So you have come back!"
Magda heard reproach in the tone.

"Yes. What is the matter with Merryl?"

Pen did not at once reply. "Come, Frip, dear," she said. "You had better run into the
garden."

"I don't want to go—without Merryl."

"Shall I come too? Run and get your garden-hat, and wait for me at the back-door. Don't
go upstairs."

Frip obeyed, and Pen turned to Magda. "We don't want much said before Frip," she
breathed. "Dr. Cartwright is afraid that it may be scarlet fever. There are one or two bad
cases in the town."

"Then it wasn't going out in the sun that made her ill."

"That has made her worse. She never ought to have gone—if any one had had the least
idea that she was so poorly. No one knew except Frip; and of course Frip did not
understand. I can't think how it was that none of us saw; but mother and I were very
busy; and she had such a colour. Frip says she turned quite white before she started—and
when she asked you to go."
The words, though pointed, were not unkindly spoken; and Magda was too unhappy for
vexation.

"I don't think I looked at her—particularly. And she never said she wasn't well. If I had
known, of course I would have gone."

"It is such a pity you did not. She fell from her bicycle with her head against the gate-post,
and it almost stunned her. That makes things so much worse. She was quite wandering
before Dr. Cartwright came, and he found her in a high fever. He cannot know for some
hours how much is due to the blow, and whether it really is scarlet fever; but he seems
pretty sure. Poor dear little Merryl. If only we had known!"

Pen spoke tenderly and went away. Magda, left alone, with nothing to do, nobody wanting
her, nobody turning to her, felt very wretched. When she thought of Merryl's plaintive
petition, and of her own curt refusal, she hardly knew how to bear herself. It was too
terrible to think that she might have refused Merryl's very last request—the very last time
that she would ever see and speak with her sister. It was not her way to cry easily; but she
sat long, looking straight before her, and feeling acutely that if that came to pass, she
could never be happy again.

Yet nobody seemed to think that she was to be pitied. This dawned upon her with a sense
of surprise. All the others were full of loving sympathy one for another; while towards
herself there was only blame; and no one expected her to mind very much. It startled her
to find things thus, and made her realise, more than she had ever done before, the
manner of life she had been living.

For it was not that she meant to be unkind or selfish; not that she was wanting in real
affection; but that she did not think, did not put others' happiness before her own, did not
live for those around. There was any amount of real love and tenderness below the
surface, but love of self had had the upper hand. And when she resented what they felt,
she quite forgot how very little she had yet shown of what this trouble meant to her. The
first impulse with Magda, as with many girls who pride themselves on their reserve, was to
hide what she felt, and to put on an appearance of indifference.

This was only the beginning of a long stretch of anxiety. The doctor's fear proved correct.
It was scarlet fever of a pronounced type; and the illness was greatly aggravated by the
blow on the head, which had caused slight concussion. Day by day reports grew worse;
and delirium was incessant.

The patient had been removed to a part of the house entirely separated from the rest, with
a staircase of its own, and an outer door; so the segregation could be complete. There was
at first some talk of the family going elsewhere for a time. But this was decided against.
They had all been with Merryl; and any one among them might already have caught the
complaint. So they remained where they were, all possible precautions being taken.
Nothing could induce Mrs. Royston to remain away from the sick-room. A second nurse
was a necessity, the case being so severe; so she and the nurse and child lived a separate
existence from the household.

Complete isolation from friends and neighbours was involved for the whole party. It was a
new experience for Magda. Everybody was most kind; notes and enquiries, supplies of
beef-tea and jelly for the little invalid, arrived in profusion. But naturally and rightly, other
people had to avoid infection for themselves and their children.

No going to church; no entering of shops; no seeing of friends; no engagements. The

doctor of course came daily; before long twice and even three times in the day; but only
Mr. Royston or Pen spoke with him; and though the Vicar called often, he and Magda did
not happen to meet.

Patricia sent a little conventional note of sympathy, prettily expressed, and making it very
clear that she intended to hold aloof as long as possible. Magda was requested not even to
write to her, for fear of infection being conveyed through the post. Magda did think Patricia
might have said less about the need for care on her own account, and more about her
friend's trouble. It was the first real touch of disillusionment.

On the same day a letter arrived from Bee, so tender, so loving, so full of sympathy, that
Magda could not but mark the contrast. Bee seemed to think of nothing, to remember
nothing, except that Magda was in sorrow, and that she longed to comfort her. Magda
could not but think of Miss Mordaunt's words—"Bee is a friend worth having, and worth
keeping."

How little she had thought of late about kind Miss Mordaunt!—And still less of her own
aims and aspirations, her desire to live a brave and useful life!

She quite longed to speak out, to tell her mother about the Majors, to confess her own
folly in keeping silence. But Mrs. Royston was in the sick-room, out of reach. She had to
wait; and meantime nothing could be thought of except that long life-and-death struggle
going on upstairs in the distant end-room.

Then came a day when a few hours would decide the probable issue; when Merryl lay,
powerless, feeble, unconscious, just breathing, and on the very borderland of the next
world—when, hour by hour, they all knew that any moment might see the end. And of all
in the house, none grieved more bitterly than Magda. For she knew, she could not help
knowing, that her consenting to take the note might have made just all the difference. The
great danger was that Merryl would sink from exhaustion. And but for the added
complications, resulting from over-exertion and the fall from her bicycle, there could be no
doubt that her rallying-power would have been greater.

If Magda had never prayed before—and probably she had at times, however fitfully—she
did pray, fervently and passionately, in these days of suspense.

No one in the house thought now that she did not care. Little though she said, the burden
was plainly written on her face. Even Mr. Royston had ceased to reproach her; and Pen was
kind; and Frip often clung to her with childish pity. But there was no comfort. Magda felt
that there never could be any comfort, if Merryl should die.

She saw life in truer colours than ever before. There are times when we get away from
earth-mists, and gain clear views of the true proportions, the true values of things. This
was one such time. Many a resolution she made in those sorrowful waiting hours—if only
Merryl might recover!

Rob came down to see them. He thought nothing of infection for himself, being used to
sick-rooms of all kinds; and he had hoped to see Merryl, but against this Mr. Royston laid
an embargo. If Rob went to that room, he might not come back among the rest. Rob was
about to agree, about to say that he would return home that evening, when his eyes fell
upon Magda. He knew in a moment that she needed him more than Merryl.

No opportunity came before night for any word alone with her. Magda kept up and seemed
resolutely to hold aloof.
And next morning the cloud lifted. Merryl was better. Definite improvement had set in; and
the doctor, coming early, spoke in cheerful tones of recovery.

Until that moment Magda had not been seen to give way. But when Mr. Royston came in,
radiant with the good news, and when she learnt that confident hopes might at last be
indulged, she looked wildly round as if for escape. She rushed away, without a word, to the
deserted school-room, and knelt down, hiding her face on folded arms, to sob out her
vehement thanksgiving for this merciful escape from a life-long sorrow.

Pen found her thus; and she might as well have tried to stop a gale of wind with her hand,
as to stay with words that tempest of weeping. As with many who seldom are mastered,
when Magda was mastered, it was very completely. She did not even know that Pen had
been, or was gone. But presently a strong quiet hand was on her shoulder, gently pressing
it, and in time Rob's voice said—

"That will do!"

Magda sobbed on, and again came the words—

"That will do, Magda."

She was crumpled in a heap on the rug; and she allowed him to draw her to a sitting
posture. With gasping efforts after self-control, she at length managed to stop.

"What is it all about?" he asked then. "Try to tell me—quietly."

"Rob—if—if she had died—"

"Yes. Go on."

"It would have been my doing."

"In what way? Hush—" as the storm threatened to return. "It would have been your doing
—how?"

Gradually he induced her to pour out the whole—how she had failed all round, how she
had lived for self only, how she had refused to help Merryl when asked, how that one
ordinary slip in everyday kindness might have brought about tragic consequences. And
when she had related her tale, she found that he knew it already at least in part, that he
had divined what she must be going through, that he was here for the very purpose of
bringing help.

Not help of his own. He was here to point her to ONE stronger than himself,—"mighty to
save." Magda needed to be saved from her weakness of will, from her readiness to give in
to temptation. For the past she needed forgiveness; for the future, power to fight and to
conquer.

"But this must be no empty repentance," he urged. "You must let what has happened be a
warning to you. It is in the small things of common life that we fail most grievously; it is in
those small things that we often dishonour our Lord most, and do most harm to others.
You have to make a fresh start now, to remember that you are bound to His service. It
must not be any longer self-pleasing, self-indulgence—but—'Teach me to do the thing that
pleaseth Thee!' When you get back into everyday life again, don't let yourself forget."

"I'll try," she whispered in a subdued tone.

 CHAPTER XV
LIFE'S ONWARD MARCH

WEEKS and weeks had passed; all the long weeks of Merryl's acute danger, and of her slow
recovery with its many drawbacks; and then of her absence at the sea-side with her
mother. It seemed to Magda like years since the day that she had last called upon Patricia,
for that short and disappointing interview from which she had hoped so much.

No one else had caught the fever; and it was now over a month that Mrs. Royston and
Merryl had been away. The whole house had been thoroughly fumigated and disinfected;
much painting and papering had taken place; and everything which could be suspected of
conveying infection was destroyed. With the arrival of autumn, people were beginning to
realise that the Roystons were once more "safe," though some of the more nervous still
held aloof.

Mrs. Major and Bee had been for several weeks away from Burwood paying visits;
otherwise, Magda could not doubt, she and Bee would have met. Not yet had she found
opportunity to tell her mother about them; and she shrank from speaking first to her
sister. Pen might set herself against the acquaintance, and might influence Mrs. Royston to
refuse to call. A mistake again on the part of Magda!

The absentees were expected soon to return. Merryl was better, Mrs. Royston wrote,
though not so much better as every one hoped; but they would not remain much longer
away.

Patricia was among those who held longest aloof. If she chanced to meet any of the
Roystons out-of-doors, she gave them a very wide berth; this, up to the last fortnight,
during which she too had flitted elsewhere, Magda sometimes admitted to herself, though
to no one else, that she in Patricia's place could not have shown quite such excessive
caution to her greatest friend.

But was she Patricia's greatest friend? At one time she had felt sure. Doubts now troubled
her often.

All these weeks of trouble, of anxiety, of self-searching, were good for Magda. It was one
of those periods in life when one is taken apart from the ordinary round, and set upon a
watch-tower on the mountainside, to gain new views of the landscape, new views of duty,
new views of self. She had been compelled to pause, to think, to take stock of her own
aims and objects, to examine her course. She had been humbled in her own eyes; had
seen her failures; had made resolves for the future.

Now she was back again in ordinary life; and she found herself, as she might have
expected, back also amid the old temptations, the old tendencies, the old difficulties. Nay,
more—she was back amid the old views of life. A landscape, as seen from a lonely tower
upon the hill-side, has a very different aspect from that same landscape looked upon from
its own lowest level. She was assailed once more by the commonplace pleasures, the small
distractions, the hourly inducements to self-indulgence, which surround us all; and she
found resistance no easy matter.

Of course it was not easy—as Rob had frankly conceded. Life is not meant to be easy.
Though she would never forget what it had been to stand and wait in hourly expectation of
news that dear little Merryl had passed away, conscious that she herself had had a hand in
bringing about that peril—and though the shock of this experience had awakened and
aroused her, and had made her look upon life with a new realisation—still, there was all
the battle to be fought. Knowing that the foe is there, and must be conquered, is not at all
the same thing as being victor. Magda knew; but the fight lay ahead.

One thing had become clear to her mind, in those weeks of graver thought—that there is a
very definite danger in "drifting." She had to insist upon steady work for herself, of one
kind or another. The resolution was for a time more easily carried out, because during their
quarantine, few interruptions came, and social invitations were non-existent.

Her old favourite notion of a home some day with Rob was at this time strongly in the
ascendant. While hardly willing to admit the fact even to herself, she was disappointed in
Patricia; and being so naturally made her turn the more to Rob. She dwelt much upon this
dream of the future, picturing the little house that she would share with him, and painting
visions of herself as his housekeeper, his tried and valued sub-worker. Of possible trials
and rubs and boredom in that life, she never thought. The whole view was rose-coloured.

Any day Rob might have the offer of a living. Though still so young, she knew that he had
won golden opinions, that he had many friends, and that any of these friends might soon
find just the right nook for him. When that happy day should arrive, he would want her.
She never felt any doubt that this would be the case. For years there had been an
understanding between them that when he needed her she would go—an understanding
which no doubt was regarded much more seriously by Magda than by Rob. Still, though he
had sometimes laughed, he had never discouraged the dream; and she looked upon it as a
certainty. True, Mr. Royston might object; but if Rob wished it, Rob would get his way.

Magda decided that she would now, really and in sober earnest, begin to make herself
ready for the life. A good deal would no doubt be needed. Not merely the study of music
and history and languages—though Rob had intimated that all such learning might come in
usefully—but, much more, habits of neatness, method, self-control, general usefulness. A
mastery of cooking and needle-work suggested itself as desirable; and, during Mrs.
Royston's absence, she went in for a course of cookery-lessons, much to Pen's
astonishment. Also she set herself a daily task in plain needle-work, which hitherto she
had disdainfully eschewed. Even darning and patching were included.

"Really, Magda is very much improved. Very much indeed!" Mr. Royston remarked one
morning to Pen. His favourite notion of Woman presented her always as needle in hand,
and he had never been able to reconcile himself to his second daughter's objection to
sewing. "I found her yesterday in the school-room, making a child's frock."

"I wonder how long it will last," Pen could not resist saying.

"It will last; no doubt. She is growing older and more sensible. It will last," repeated Mr.
Royston confidently. Breakfast was on the table, and the gong had sounded; but Magda
unfortunately failed to appear in good time. No unusual event in the past, though lately
she really had striven after punctuality as part of her preparation for the future. Mr.
Royston expected everybody to be down before himself; and when she appeared, he
showed displeasure. "Breakfast at such a reasonable hour as we have it—there can be no
question of hardship," he declared.

Magda broke out in warm self-defence before she knew that the words were coming.
"I've not been late once for three weeks. But if I make one single slip, that always means a
scolding; and there's never any praise for doing better."

The manner was not too respectful, and she knew it. Fresh blame was certainly deserved
on that score. Happily, the entrance of letters made a diversion, and no more was said.
There were two for Magda, one from Rob, one from Patricia; and she flushed with pleasure
at sight of the latter, having given up all hope of hearing.

Neither letter could have immediate attention. During Merryl's absence, some of the little
duties always before done by Merryl had fallen to her share. She undertook them at first,
in the mood of self-reproach, and soon they were expected as a matter of course. Mr.
Royston liked to be waited on and fussed over by his daughters. She had to boil him an
egg in the silver egg-boiler; and because she was in a hurry, she turned the whole toast-
rack over on the floor, scattering its contents far and wide. Mr. Royston growled out that
Merryl never blundered, and he desired Magda to leave things alone, and to go back to her
seat. She obeyed, feeling aggrieved; and Mr. Royston, no less aggrieved, took up one of
his letters. Pen meanwhile was reading hers from Mrs. Royston.

"They hope to come next week," she observed, to divert attention from Magda's misdeeds.
"Mother says Merryl is still weak, poor little dear, and gets tired out directly. But the doctor
advises home for a time. Then there is something about Rob. He is paying a visit at some
place—what is the name? Rat—Rot—W-r-a-t-t—"

"Not Wratt-Wrothesley!" cried Magda in amaze.

"Why, what do you know about it?" demanded Pen.

Magda was examining the postmark of her own letter from Rob. "He actually is there. I
didn't know he had ever come across the Miss Wryatts."

"When did you come across them?"

"I've never seen them. They are Bee Major's aunts."

"Your school friend—Beatrice Major. You used to be always talking about her. By-the-by, I
meant to ask you—are these Majors that have come to live here related to your friend? I'm
told that they are delightful people."

Magda gasped. It was the last thing she had expected to hear from Pen. There was nothing
for it now but to speak out.

"It's they—themselves!"

"Nonsense!"

"It is, Pen. Beatrice and her mother."

"Why in the world haven't you told us? Why, they have been here—months! We ought to
have called at once."

"I did mean to tell mother. But I felt so sure you wouldn't like the idea of the house—
Virginia Villa. You are always so particular."

"Particular! As if it signified about the house! Mrs. Major is a person who can live where
she chooses. What does that matter? Why, all the county is calling on them. Really, Magda!
—To let us wait and come in at the end, when we might have been the first to call! It is too
bad!"

"I don't see how I could know! I was afraid you would keep mother from knowing them."

"The last thing I should do. But you never do understand! We only heard about them just
before Merryl fell ill; and then of course we could do nothing."

Magda was at a loss what to say. She felt that she had been not a little foolish. Pen went
on—

"I don't know how far it is all true; but everybody is talking about them. They say Miss
Major is one of the sweetest girls ever seen. And as for Mrs. Major—of course you know
that she is an Earl's granddaughter, or something of that sort. A Duke's cousin, some say."

"I don't know anything about it."

"And yet you call Miss Major your friend!"

"She never told me."

"If I had been you, I would have found out."

Which was undoubtedly true.

Magda began opening Patricia's letter. "Why—she is at Wratt-Wrothesley too. I can't

imagine what has taken Rob there."

"I can tell you that. Mr. Ivor, who went up the mountain with Rob, and fell into the
crevasse, is a great friend of the Miss Wryatts—and mother supposes that they wanted to
thank Rob for saving his life."

"And Mrs. Major and Bee are there too," murmured Magda, feeling rather dazed; for this
meant Patricia and Bee meeting under one roof in hourly intercourse.

"I dare say! Mrs. Major is their sister. Mother seems very much pleased that Rob should
have had the invitation. You don't seem to have made much use of your openings at
school."

Magda did not hear. She was suddenly engrossed by Patricia's letter, which indeed
contained something altogether unexpected and astounding. No exclamation passed her
lips. She read on in stupefied silence, at first hardly able to grasp the full meaning of the
words, which ran as follows:—

"Wratt-Wrothesley."
"Tuesday."
"MY DEAR MAGDA,—"

"You will be rather surprised to find that I am here, in the same

house with your brother, and with your friends the Majors. Why did you
not tell me about their coming to Burwood, you dear little goose? Did
you think I should be jealous? My aunt and I went lately to call at
Virginia Villa—not dreaming that you knew them! And we were just
charmed with them both. Mrs. Major is quite unique; and the daughter
so pretty and charming. Of course everybody knows all about Mrs.
 Major, directly it oozes out that she is a sister of the Miss Wryatts'; and I
believe it is solely through them that I have this invitation to Wyatt-
Wrothesley, where I have always longed to come—though certainly I
knew the Miss Wryatts slightly before. They are about the most
delightful people I ever came across; and the house and its surroundings
are simply perfect."

"I am enjoying myself here more than I can tell; and for more
reasons than one—as you will understand! You are such a devoted sister,
that you have certainly read Rob's letter before giving a look at mine; so
you know the news, and there is no need to tell you again. We are very,
very happy—he and I. How happy I cannot explain, or hope to make you
understand, since you have never yet been through the same. He is
such a dear fellow! I can hardly believe in my good luck! And it is nice to
think that one day you will be my sister. Not that we talk of marriage
yet. That must wait till Rob gets a living. But everything is so far settled
—except that Rob is writing to his father and mother and I am writing to
my aunt. Everybody here congratulates us both—each on having the
other—which is all right!"

"Your affectionate friend,"

"PATRICIA."

With dazzled eyes and beating heart, Magda tore open Rob's letter, not trusting herself to
speak. As from a distance she heard Mr. Royston's excited exclamations—

"Hallo! So Rob has stolen a march on us all! Engaged! And to Miss Vincent! Well, well, he
knows a pretty face when he sees it. Pretty manners too, and a nice girl; and there is
money in the background. Might have done worse for himself."

Magda was reading, or trying to read, Rob's short letter, brimming with suppressed joy and
tender gladness, which found no echo in her heart. He spoke of his darling—of his supreme
happiness—of his certainty that Magda would rejoice with and for him. Not one word about
that discarded dream of the future, now never to be anything but a dream. Not a thought
of her disappointment! For him and Patricia—all might be sunshine. But—where did she
come in?

She stood up hastily, sliding her chair back. "Where are you off to?" Mr. Royston asked. He
disliked any one leaving the table before himself. "Did you hear about Rob?"

"Yes—I know."

Before another word could be said, she was gone. It was impossible to stay, impossible to
hear them lightly and with laughter discussing that which was the death-knell of her
hopes. Again it was as if a small thunderbolt had crashed down at her feet; not this time
from any fault of her own, which might have been a comfort, had she only seen it. To bear
a trouble which comes straight from a Father's Hand is always easier than to endure one
which we have brought upon ourselves.

Still, it did seem very, very hard to Magda; and not less so because it was Patricia who had
stolen Rob from her. Till now she had never quite realised what that dream of the future
had been in her imagination—how fixed and stable it had seemed, how it had coloured all
her outlook, how it had comforted and helped her in little daily frets and worries, how it
had filled the horizon of her mind. And lately she had worked so hard, so eagerly, to make
herself ready! And now—now—she was nothing to Rob; now Rob would never want her,
would never again turn to her for sympathy. He had Patricia; and in Patricia, he would find
all he needed.

And she—Magda—had nobody! Not even Patricia remained to her. Patricia had Rob. She
was left alone.

The ground seemed cut away from beneath her feet; and she found herself stranded.

She had escaped from the house, in dread of being questioned, and either pitied or
laughed at; and she walked with hot impatient steps up and down the path at the far end
of the kitchen garden. She was angry with Rob; angry with Patricia. And she did not see in
this wreck of her dream one of Life's opportunities for real heroism—for putting self
manfully aside, and dwelling only on the happiness of others.

CHAPTER XVI
THE THICK OF THE FIGHT

SOME days later, in the afternoon, Magda lounged in the old school-room basket-chair,
with a novel on her knee. She failed to find the tale interesting, and she did not care to do
anything else. Of what use now to practise or work or study? The future for which she had
been toiling was at an end. No delightful little home with Rob lay before her—a home into
which no troubles or worries were ever to find admission. The dream was dead; and life
was a blank.

Her mood, of course, was wrong, and she knew it; but she would not admit that it might
be conquered. She only indulged in self-pity.

Everything had gone astray to-day; and she had nothing to which she could turn in
contrast.

The room looked untidy. This week it was in Magda's charge; and she had left
arrangements to care for themselves; a mode not conducive to order. The green window-
curtains hung awry; chairs stood crookedly; books lay about in confusion; and the table-
cloth had collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Presently she stood up and went across to a side-table. In her present mood of self-
compassion, she wanted further food for unhappiness; and it had come to her mind that
Rob, no long time since, had spoken in one of his letters about that future which now had
ceased to be. She unlocked her desk, and fished out a bundle of his letters, which she
began glancing through.

The one she wanted did not appear; but she found a doleful enjoyment in reading one
after another, and in contrasting their tone with what she knew she had to expect in days
to come. He would write to Patricia instead of to her; he would tell Patricia everything,
instead of telling her. That was the keynote of her mental ditty.
Losing herself in the thought, she ceased to read, and her fingers played aimlessly with the
desk. Unconsciously she pressed a small spring with force, and a piece of wood stirred.
Yes; there was a secret drawer there, of course; but she had not opened it for years and
years. A touch of idle curiosity made her open it now; and she found within a sealed
envelope. At the moment, memory brought no associations with the packet; but out of it
dropped a small photograph. Then recollection flashed back.

"Why—Ned Fairfax!" she uttered.

It was the face of a boy of sixteen or seventeen; good-natured and sensible. She was a
trifle amused, in spite of herself; recalling the long-past day when, in a fit of childish
wrath, because her last letter to him had remained unanswered, she had tragically closed
and sealed and put away his likeness, resolving to forget his existence.

"Seems to be my fate!" she muttered. "Everybody gives me up in turn."

A familiar voice outside the door broke upon these musings. "All right, Frip. I'll come
presently. I must have a chat with Magda first."

And Rob came in; sunburnt, healthy, glowing with happiness.

Magda stood up reluctantly. She resented his manifest and supreme gladness, in which she
had no share.

"Well, Magda," as she returned his kiss in limp fashion. "I have come for your
congratulations. Why did you not write?"

"I—meant to. Are you going to stay?" So different from former comings did this seem, that
she had to swallow a lump in her throat.

"I'm sleeping at Claughton. Came back with Patricia yesterday. I want to hear how Merryl
is after her change. Not strong yet, I'm told. Well?" And his quiet happy eyes looked into
hers.

She was silent, gazing on the ground. "Not one word!" in a tone of surprise. "Why—
Magda!"

"I don't see how you can expect—" She spoke resentfully.

"Not expect congratulations!"

"Of course—I do congratulate you. One always has to say that, I suppose," and there was
a hard little laugh. "All the same—Rob, you did tell me—"

"What did I tell you?"

"That you didn't mean to marry."

"I told you that I had not seen the right girl—and I had not. While that was the case, I was
a non-marrying man. But now, I have seen her! Which makes all the difference!"

"Yes, it means that you'll never want me!"

Rob laughed outright at the injured tone. It was too comic—from the point of view of a
man, and especially of a man over head and ears in love!
"My dear Magda!" he said. "You are not a child any longer. Don't you see that this alters
everything—must alter everything? If I had not met Patricia, I might have gone on single
for years, perhaps even for life. But—I have met her."

"Oh, I know! Of course, I understand. It's all quite right and sensible, I dare say—only it
does just make all the difference to me. You'll never want anybody now except Patricia."

It was Amy Smith over again, but without consciousness of the "green-eyed monster."
Magda was seeing things solely from her own point of view.

"Magda, are you an infant still?"

"No," shortly. "Only—I have looked forward—"

"I would not look forward any more in that spirit! I am sorry if my happiness means
disappointment to you. Why, I thought you would be delighted—Patricia being your
particular friend."

"I'm not."

"Don't make other people uncomfortable, pray, by treating them to a November fog."

Magda was silent.

"Come—be brave and sensible," he urged. "Some friends are expected there to tea this
afternoon, and Patricia sent a particular message, hoping that you would come."

She murmured something like assent, and he went away evidently disappointed in her. No
sooner was he gone, than she felt ashamed of her own moodiness, realising that if she
should show any slight to Patricia, it could only end in a breach between herself and Rob.

The others were invited also; and not long after four o'clock they arrived at Claughton. A
goodly company was already assembled on the large lawn, under shadow of some ancient
cedars. It was a scene, and Magda felt secretly grateful to Pen and her mother for not
allowing her to go in less than her "best," though she had flung out indignantly at the
interference after luncheon. In her then state of mind she had been disposed to think that
"anything" would do. Why bother to be smart?

Patricia, a dainty nymph in white and green, stood upon the grass, dispensing smiles upon
an admiring world. She was particularly gracious to Mr. Royston—Mrs. Royston had not
been able to come—and she welcomed her future sisters-in-law with exactly the right
degree of warmth, kissing each lightly on the cheek, and paying chief attention to Pen as
the elder.

Pen and Mr. Royston stayed in the circle which surrounded Patricia; but Magda fell back to
a retired position, half sheltered by bushes. She had no wish to remain prominently
forward, under Rob's observation.

To her surprise, she saw Bee, apparently the centre of another little circle, farther off; and
Mrs. Major, looking distinguished in a rich black silk, seated in the post of honour, and
receiving pointed attentions from Mr. and Mrs. Framley.

It was all oddly the reverse of what she had pictured so often in earlier months, before the
arrival of the Majors at Virginia Villa.
Her own inclination would have been to escape from the crowd altogether; but that at
present was out of the question. A fear of annoying Rob restrained her.

But what to do with herself was the question. Plainly she was not needed by Patricia; and
having done her duty, she would not go forward again. All the ladies were chatting
together, and being waited on with cups of tea by the limited number of masculine guests.
There was no one for whom Magda cared; and nobody who cared for her. So she told
herself rather dismally, as she stood apart, watching the people, listening to the buzz of
voices. Bee once had cared; and, but for her own folly, Bee would undoubtedly care still,
since hers was no changeable nature. But things were altered. How could Magda expect
that either Bee or her mother would forget the manner in which she had treated them?

She was saying this to herself, when a hand touched hers, and she awoke with a start, to
find Bee's soft brown eyes looking into her own.

"Why did you not come to me, Magda? I could not get away sooner, but I've been trying.
Don't stay here all alone. Would you not like some tea?"

"Oh, thanks—but it doesn't matter. I can get some for myself presently. It's all right—don't
bother about me, please." Magda was annoyed to hear a tell-tale huskiness in her own
voice. That would never do. She pulled herself together, with an air of indifference. "The
people over there want you. Don't stay."

Bee kept her position, and Magda examined her with more attention. She was very pretty,
in her white embroidered frock and shady hat—so pale and delicate featured, with marked
dark brows and a gentle smile. Yet there was something of sadness in those sweet eyes;
and a wonder assailed Magda—had she given serious pain to her friend by her recent
conduct?

"Bee, I want to talk with you some day," she broke out impulsively. "Not here. Another
time. I want to explain—"

"Any day. You are always welcome at our house. I think I pretty well understand already.
Don't you feel very glad about your brother?"

"Bee! How can I? When you know what I always expected!"

The words ended abruptly. Bee slipped her arm through Magda's, and led her into a little
side-path winding among trees.

"Come, shall we have a turn through the grounds? Tea will do presently. Yes, I know you
used to talk of keeping house for him some day. But that was only a dream. One knew it
might never come true. And surely you must be glad about this—if it means his greater
happiness. You—who are so fond of your brother! How can you help being glad?"

She would not seem to see the struggle going on at her side. Magda was in danger of a
breakdown.

"Don't you see—" Bee went on—"that it is the right thing for him? If she is the one woman
who can fill his life and make him happy—then, surely, he should marry. And you must
wish the very best for him. Not merely that you should have something that you would
like, but that he should live the fullest and most useful life possible. I don't know Miss
Vincent well yet; but one can't help admiring her. And he is devoted to her—quite, quite
devoted."