The color died down, and she grew quiet, or thought she did.  She meant to be very quiet; very indifferent and calm.  She lifted up her eyes, and there was a sort of still flash in them.  Now that her cheek was cool, they burned,—­burned their own color, blue-gray that deepened almost into black.

“I’ve a good will, however,” she said slowly, “to find out what I can do.  Perhaps neither you nor I know that, yet.  Then I can make up my mind.  I rather believe in taking what comes.  A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.  Very likely nobody will ever care particularly whether I’m spoilt or not.  And if I’m spoilt for one thing, I may be made for another.  There have got to be all sorts of people in the world, you know.”

She was very handsome, with her white chin up, haughtily; her nose making its straight, high line, as she turned her face half away; her eyes so dark with will, and the curve of hurt pride in her lips that yet might turn easily to a quiver.  She spoke low and smooth; her words dropped cool and clear, without a tone of temper in them; if there was passionate force, it was from a fire far down.

If she could do so upon a stage; if she could look like that saying other people’s words—­words out of a book:  if she could feel into the passions of a world, and interpret them; then, indeed!  But Marion Kent had never entered into heights and depths of thought and of experience; she knew only Marion Kent’s little passions as they came to her, and spoke themselves in homely, unchoice words.  Mrs. Kemble or Charlotte Cushman might have made a study from that face that would have served for a Queen Katharine; but Queen Katharine’s grand utterances would never have thrilled Marion Kent to wear the look as she wore it now, piqued by the plain-speaking—­and the not speaking—­of the young village carpenter.

“I hope you don’t feel hurt with me; I’ve only been honest, and I meant to be kind,” said Frank Sunderline.

“No, indeed; I dare say you did,” returned Marion.  “After all, everybody has got to judge for themselves.  I was silly to think anybody could help me.”

“Perhaps you could help yourself better,” said the young man, loth to leave her in this mood, “if you thought how you would judge for somebody you cared for.  If your own little sister”—­

Now the quiver came.  Now all the hurt, and pique, and shame, and jealous disappointment rushed together to mingle and disguise themselves with a swell and pang that always rose in her at the name of her little dead sister,—­dead six years ago, when she was nine and Marion twelve.

The tears sprang to the darkened eyes, and quenched down their burning; the color swept into her face, like the color after a blow; the lips gave way; and with words that came like a cry she exclaimed passionately,—­

“Don’t speak of little Sue!  I can’t bear it!  I never could!  I don’t know what I say now.  Good-night, good-by.”