"Auntie, Mamma said that you and Uncle . . ."
"Yes, Marietje, we'll be glad to have you with us. Mamma has told you, hasn't she? . . . Then Addie can . . ."
"It's very kind of you, Auntie. But . . . but I would rather not come."
"What do you mean, dear?"
"I would rather stay here. . . . There's not much about me to cure; and I'm not anxious to be cured. And in your house . . ."
"Well?"
"I should be so gloomy. I am never bright or cheerful, you know. And I hardly ever come downstairs."
Adolphine's eyes filled with tears.
"It's true," she said, softly. "She lives up here."
"You would be cheerful enough with us, Marietje."
"No, Auntie, I should feel uncomfortable with you . . . because I am not cheerful. I should depress you all."
"We are not so easily depressed. And the chief thing is that Addie could treat you regularly."
Marietje gave a pale smile.
"Why won't you go, dear?" asked Adolphine.
The girl retained her pale smile. She seemed to be wrestling with a temptation that opened up soft and peaceful visions in her pale life as a constant invalid; but she did not wish to yield.
"Come," said Constance, "you had much better, really."
Suddenly Marietje felt herself grow very weak. She saw death, saw the end so very close before her eyes; and the soft, peaceful visions would never be more than a very brief hallucination, which after all she might as well accept. And, because she sud-
