She might never be happy herself, but she might make others happy.

She might never have a home of her own, but she might brighten and cheer other homes.

As an unprofessed Sister of Charity, she might go among those poor ones doing good; and dimly in the future she could see the cloistered, grateful walls shutting her from the troubles of this feverish life.

Standing there by the curtained window, her eyes fixed on the pitchy darkness, a new era in her existence seemed to dawn.
Miss Danton said nothing to any one about this new resolution of hers.
She felt how it would be opposed, how she would have to argue and combat for permission; so she held her tongue.

But next morning, an hour after breakfast, she came to Grace, and in that tone of quiet authority she always used to her father's housekeeper, requested the keys to the sideboard.
Grace looked surprised, but yielded them at once; and Kate, going to the large, carved, old-fashioned, walnut wood buffet, abstracted two or three bottles of old port, a glass jar of jelly, and another of tamarinds; stowed away these spoils in a large morocco reticule, returned the keys to Grace, and, going upstairs, dressed herself in her plainest dress, mantle, and hat, took her reticule, and set off.