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with us for a few years yet. I know nothing about New York. I am told it is a wicked city. But you have been brought up carefully. I leave the decision in your own hands. Laura, what are you crying about?”

Emily felt as if she wanted to cry herself. To her amazement she felt something that was not delight or pleasure. It was one thing to long after forbidden pastures. It seemed to be quite another thing when the bars were flung down and you were told to enter if you would.

Emily did not immediately rush to her room and write a joyous letter to Miss Royal—who was visiting friends in Charlottetown. Instead she went out into the garden and thought very hard—all that afternoon and all Sunday. During the week in Shrewsbury she was quiet and thoughtful, conscious that Aunt Ruth was watching her closely. For some reason Aunt Ruth did not discuss the matter with her. Perhaps she was thinking of Andrew. Or perhaps it was an understood thing among the Murrays that Emily’s decision was to be entirely uninfluenced.

Emily couldn’t understand why she didn’t write Miss Royal at once. Of course she would go. Wouldn’t it be terribly foolish not to? She would never have such a chance again. It was such a splendid chance—everything made easy—the Alpine Path no more than a smooth and gentle slope—success certain and brilliant and quick. Why, then, did she have to keep telling herself all this—why was she driven to seek Mr. Carpenter’s advice the next week-end? And Mr. Carpenter would not help her much. He was rheumatic and cranky.

“Don’t tell me the cats have been hunting again,” he groaned.

“No. I haven’t any manscripts this time,” said Emily, with a faint smile. “I’ve come for advice of a different kind.”

She told him of her perplexity.

“It’s such a splendid chance,” she concluded.