Anna and John

He found her in a tasteful gown, its heavy tassels almost sweeping the
floor, while her long, glossy hair, loosened from its confinement of
ribbon and comb, covered her neck and shoulders as she sat before the
fire always kindled in her room.

"How picturesque you look," he said, gayly.

"John," and Anna's voice was soft and pleasing, "was Charlie greatly
changed? Tell me, please."

"I was so young in the days when he came wooing that I hardly remember
how he used to look. I should not have known him, but my impression is
that he looks about as well as men of forty usually look."

"Not forty, John, only thirty-eight," Anna interposed.

"Well, thirty-eight, then. You remember his age remarkably well," John
said, laughingly, adding: "Did you once love him very much?"

"Yes," and Anna's voice faltered a little.

"Why didn't you marry him, then?"

John spoke excitedly, and the flush deepened on his cheek when Anna
answered meekly: "Why didn't you marry that poor girl?"

"Why didn't I?" and John started to his feet; then he continued: "Anna,
I tell you there's a heap of wrong for somebody to answer for, but it is
not you, and it is not me--it's--it's mother!" and John whispered the
word, as if fearful lest the proud, overbearing woman should hear.

"You are mistaken," Anna replied, "for as far as Charlie was concerned
father had more to do with it than mother. I've never seen him since. He
did marry another, but I've never quite believed that he forgot me."