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Annie thought it out after she had gone to bed that night. She had been imperturbable with her sisters, who had finally come in a body to make entreaties, although not apologies or retractions. There was a stiff-necked strain in the Hempstead family, and apologies and retractions were bitterer cuds for them to chew than for most. She had been imperturbable with her father, who had quoted Scripture and prayed at her during family worship. She had been imperturbable even with Benny, who had whispered to her: “Say, Annie, I don’t blame you, but it will be a hell of a time without you. Can’t you stick it out?”

But she had had a struggle before her own vision of the butcher and the grocer, and their amazement when she ceased to speak to them. Then she settled that with a sudden leap of inspiration. It sounded too apropos to be life, but there was a little deaf-and-dumb girl, a far-away relative of the Hempsteads, who lived with her aunt Felicia in Anderson. She was a great trial to her aunt Felicia, who was a widow and well-to-do, and liked the elegancies and normalities of life. This unfortunate little Effie Hempstead could not be placed in a charitable institution on account of the name she bore. Aunt Felicia considered it her worldly duty to care for her, but it was a trial.

Annie would take Effie off Aunt Felicia’s hands, and no comment would be excited by a deaf-and-dumb girl carrying written messages to the trades-men, since she obviously could not give them orally. The only comment would be on Annie’s conduct in holding herself aloof from her family and the village people generally.

The next morning, when Annie went away, there was an excited conclave among the sisters.

“She means to do it,” said Susan, and she wept.

Imogen’s handsome face looked hard and set. “Let her, if she wants to,” said she.

“Only think what people will say!” wailed Jane.

Imogen tossed her head. “I shall have something to say myself,” she returned. “I shall say how much we all regret that dear Annie has such a difficult disposition that she felt she could not live with her own family and must be alone.”

“But,” said Jane, blunt in her distress, “will they believe it?”

“Why will they not believe it, pray?”

“Why, I am afraid people have the impression that dear Annie has –” Jane hesitated.

“What?” asked Imogen, coldly. She looked very handsome that morning. Not a waved golden hair was out of place on her carefully brushed head. She wore the neatest of blue linen skirts and blouses, with a linen collar and white tie. There was something hard but compelling about her blond beauty.

“I am afraid,” said Jane, “that people have a sort of general impression that dear Annie has perhaps as sweet a disposition as any of us, perhaps sweeter.”

“Nobody says that dear Annie has not a sweet disposition,” said Imogen, taking a careful stitch in her embroidery. “But a sweet disposition is very often extremely difficult for other people. It constantly puts them in the wrong. I am well aware of the fact that dear Annie does a great deal for all of us, but it is sometimes irritating. Of course it is quite certain that she must have a feeling of superiority because of it, and she should not have it.”

Sometimes Eliza made illuminating speeches. “I suppose it follows, then,” said she, with slight irony, “that only an angel can have a very sweet disposition without offending others.”

But Imogen was not in the least nonplussed. She finished her line of thought. “And with all her sweet disposition,” said she, “nobody can deny that dear Annie is peculiar, and peculiarity always makes people difficult for other people. Of course it is horribly peculiar what she is proposing to do now. That in itself will be enough to convince people that dear Annie must be difficult. Only a difficult person could do such a strange thing.”