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Emily was pale, but her eyes were black with earnestness and intense feeling.

“Yes, it’s settled—I’m not going,” she said. “I thank you with all my heart, Miss Royal, but I can’t go.”

Miss Royal stared at her—realised in a moment that it was not the slightest use to plead or argue—but began to plead and argue all the same.

“Emily—you can’t mean it? Why can’t you come?”

“I can’t leave New Moon—I love it too much—it means too much to me.”

“I thought you wanted to come with me, Emily,” said Miss Royal reproachfully.

“I did. And part of me wants to yet. But away down under that another part of me will not go. Don’t think me foolish and ungrateful, Miss Royal.”

“Of course I don’t think you’re ungrateful,” said Miss Royal, helplessly, “but I do—yes, I do think you are awfully foolish. You are simply throwing away your chances of a career. What can you ever do here that is worth while, child? You've no idea of the difficulties in your path. You can’t get material here—there’s no atmosphere—no———”

“I’ll create my own atmosphere,” said Emily, with a trifle of spirit. After all, she thought, Miss Royal’s viewpoint was just the same as Mrs. Alec Sawyer’s, and her manner was patronising. ‘And as for material—people live here just the same as anywhere else—suffer and enjoy and sin and aspire just as they do in New York.”

“You don’t know a thing about it,” said Miss Royal, rather pettishly. “You'll never be able to write anything really worth while here—no big thing. There’s no inspiration—you'll be hampered in every way—the big editors won’t look farther than the address of P. E. Island on your mansucript. Emily, you’re committing literary suicide. You'll realise that at three of the clock some white night, Emily B. Oh, I suppose, after some years you'll work up a clientele of Sunday School and agri-