Front matter (continued 2)

They made their way back to the house, Forbes valiantly explaining why it was foolish to have expected a letter before afternoon, and Agatha making irrelevant replies. She turned her companion over to Howard and escaped to her room with the mail addressed to Hephzibah Diggs. An absurd scruple regarding the opening of other people's letters temporarily paralyzed her efficient right arm, and she stood staring at the address of the communication without coming any nearer a knowledge of its contents. It was impossible to rid herself of the feeling that she was on the point of attempting something dishonorable.

"What a fool I am," she groaned in exasperation. "Hephzibah Diggs isn't anybody, but if she were anybody, she'd be me." She tore open the letter without giving herself a chance to evade the inevitable conclusion of this bit of logic.

It was from Warren, of course. She had been prepared for that, even without the testimony of his bold signature. With a curiosity that momentarily made her oblivious to the menacing aspects of the situation, Agatha read the brief communication:

"My Dear Miss Diggs:

"I am writing you a line to apologize for my conduct Sunday. You were all right, and I was all wrong. At the same time, you'll have to take a little share of the blame for being so distractingly pretty that a man's likely to lose his head when he comes near you.

"I am sending you by this mail a package which I hope you will accept as indicating my regret for having offended you, and my sincere wish to be

"Your friend, "Ridgeley Warren."

Agatha turned her thoughtful attention to the package which bore Hephzibah's name. She proceeded to strip off the wrapping paper with a haste indicating that her scruples were finally set at rest. Then as she took the cover from the five-pound box of chocolates, and gazed enraptured at the triumph of the confectioner's art, she temporarily laid aside the feeling of age due to the faithful impersonation of her great-aunt, and became nineteen or a trifle less.

"Chocolates," murmured Agatha. "And millions of them. In the person of Hephzibah Diggs I accept the apology."

When she reappeared upon the porch, her manner was cheerful, and a number of yawning cavities marred the symmetrical arrangement of the topmost layer of chocolates in the box up-stairs. Forbes greeted her with more animation than she had looked for, considering his recent crushing disappointment.

"That's you, isn't it, Miss Kent?"

"Yes."

"Here's a letter Howard has just read me. I want you to look it over and tell me what you think of it."

"Very well." Agatha seated herself comfortably and took the letter from his extended hand. But Forbes was evidently desirous of preparing her for its contents.

"It will be a surprise to you, I imagine, Miss Kent. What is your opinion of Hephzibah? Is she really such a stunning beauty?"

"I suppose she would be considered fairly good-looking if anyone liked the type." Agatha flattered herself that she had spoken with a creditable lack of prejudice.

"According to Warren she's considerably more than that. The fact is, he—but you'd better read the letter. That makes it plain enough."

With a return of her previous misgivings, Agatha followed his suggestion.

"My Dear Forbes:

"If you had shown a little more enthusiasm over my suggestion of dropping in on you again soon, I should have run down at the end of the week, and had a good talk with you. Owing to your inhospitable reluctance I'm obliged to trust to writing, which I sometimes think was invented, as somebody said about speech, for the purpose of concealing thought.

"To come straight to the point, I must confess that I had a short and not wholly satisfactory interview with the fair Hephzibah on Sunday, in the course of which my earlier impression of her beauty was more than confirmed. By jove, Burton, she positively is a dream. And the idea that a creature of that sort should spend her days amid pots and kettles is obnoxious to any right-thinking man. We've got to do something about it, Forbes. What do you think of sending her to school somewhere, and having her educated? It would be virgin soil, I imagine, for the poor girl can't open her mouth without taking a bite out of the king's English, and her voice is like a guinea hen's. But that could be trained out of her. For all her ignorance, she's nobody's fool. You can see that by looking at her.

"Now I'm putting the thing up to you because I suppose it would be better to have Miss Kent act for us in the matter. Judging from my brief experience Hephzibah—can't we find some euphonic substitute for that name?—is as self-respecting as the devil. Explain to Miss Kent that I'm a respectable man of philanthropic tendencies—hitherto unrecognized—and ask her what would be the best way to go about taking the girl in hand, and giving her an education, or enough of one so she can make a reasonably good appearance. And then we can decide on the next step. A few hundred a year will be enough to do the job properly, and if you feel like going into it with me, it might help to reassure Miss Kent as to the impeccability of my motives.

"Lord! What a letter! I haven't written so much with my own fist since I was in college, and at the same time I feel as if fifteen minutes of chinning would have made the matter a heap clearer. If the girl should prove to have enough head for the legitimate stage she ought to make a hit as Katharine, in Taming the Shrew. She's exactly the type, red hair and all.

"Regards to the voluble Miss Finch, to Howard, and of course to Miss Kent.

Yours, "R.W."

Agatha was glad the letter was a long one, as this gave her time to think. And yet the result of her thinking was but a confused jumble of varying apprehensions. Her recollection of Warren's face as he leaned toward her, was that of a man not easily turned aside from a purpose. But somehow or other he must be forced to surrender his absurd philanthropic intentions in behalf of Hephzibah Diggs.

Forbes was waiting for her verdict. "Well?" he said at last, when she showed no inclination to speak. "What do you think of it?"

Agatha cleared her throat. "It's out of the question," she shot at him so violently that he looked startled.

"I'm ready to vouch for Warren," he hastened to say. "I don't mean that he would be as ready to help a plain girl as a pretty one, but I assure you that your protégée would be perfectly safe as far as he's concerned. And I suppose he's right in thinking that beauty is one of the talents, and it's hardly fair to keep it wrapped in a napkin."

"But she doesn't want to be educated," Agatha protested. "She's perfectly satisfied just as she is."

Again Forbes seemed to find her vehemence perplexing. "Perhaps her ignorance explains her indifference," he suggested. "Do you think she's capable of learning?"

"I suppose she's capable enough."

"If she's really a strikingly handsome young woman with a fair mind, and Warren is sufficiently interested in her to give her an education, doesn't it seem that she should be encouraged to accept his offer? Surely if she is what he thinks, she is capable of something better than the work she is doing at present. Unless you have some good reason for feeling that it would not do—"

"But I have," flashed Agatha. "I have."

"Oh, indeed!" He seemed to be waiting for her to explain, and she floundered on with a horrible sensation of being caught in a quicksand.

"She doesn't wish to be educated. She doesn't wish any notice taken of her; she only asks to be let alone."

"To be let alone." He said the words over as if they had a hidden, mysterious meaning. "Oh, I think I begin to see."

Agatha sighed her satisfaction. She had no idea what explanation had presented itself to the perspicacious Mr. Forbes, but she perceived that at length her protests had taken effect and he was prepared to relinquish the argument. So great was her relief that the processes of his mind failed to interest her.

Unluckily Forbes was one of the people who insist on certainty. "I suppose," he said, a note of sympathy in his deep voice, "that the poor girl has been unfortunate."

Agatha blanched. He waited for her avowal, then tried again: "You mean, I suppose, there's some unhappy episode in her past life and she doesn't want to attract attention for fear of its bobbing up again."

Agatha stared at him aghast. Her first impulse to defend the character of Hephzibah Diggs at any cost yielded to a less worthy caution. If she gave Hephzibah a clean bill of health, figuratively speaking, what other reason could she invent for her invincible repugnance to attracting attention? With fascinated horror she realized that Forbes' conjecture exactly filled the requirements of the case. There was no help for it. The fair name of the blameless Hephzibah must be sacrificed to that most merciless of the divinities, the exigency of the moment.

"You have expressed it," faltered Agatha with an unnerving sense of rank injustice, "as well as I could have myself."

"Poor girl!" Forbes repeated, "and so young, too. At least I suppose she's young, from Warren's idea of educating her."

Again he waited for an answer, and Agatha stammered, "Ni-nineteen."

"And all this happened some time ago, I suppose."

"Oh, a long time." Agatha was crimson to her ears.

"It seems a shame," mused Forbes aloud. "Her whole life to be sacrificed for one step aside from the straight and narrow path. You and I know the world, Miss Kent. And we know—"

"Oh, please," protested Agatha faintly, "I don't know anything about it."

He leaned toward her quickly, touched by the appeal in her voice.

"Excuse me, Miss Kent. I know you belong to a generation whose women were trained to shut their eyes to a great many things. I don't believe in that theory of life, but I haven't any intention of violating your prejudices. All I wanted to say was that you and I have lived long enough to know that thousands of our respected citizens, prominent socially and otherwise, are every bit as guilty as that poor girl. And since this is the case, isn't it a pity that her morbid sensitiveness should shut her out of making something of herself?"

It was unbelievable. Hephzibah's reputation had been blackened in vain. Even now he was unwilling to leave her in the seclusion her sensitiveness craved. He was determined to drag her into a garish publicity. Iphigenia had been sacrificed and still the winds were unfavorable.

"Oh, I wish you would not talk of this any more," cried Agatha, the intensity of her feeling showing in her moved voice. "I understand Hephzibah's case a great deal better than you do, better than you ever can. And I know that the thing you're talking about is out of the question."

His face reflected her agitation in the shape of profound sympathy. "You're sure that if we talked it over, we wouldn't find a way out? Two heads are better than one, you know?"

"I'm absolutely certain."

"Then I won't distress you any further. Of course Warren has barely seen the girl, and it's evident that his head was a little turned by her beauty. You know her, and I'm sure you appreciate the responsibility of deciding a question that concerns her so closely, without even consulting her."

"I can speak for her as I would for myself."

"Then I'm sorry if the suggestion has worried you. I'll see you're not bothered again." He spoke confidently, and Agatha hoped he did not overestimate his influence where Ridgeley Warren was concerned. When she remembered the square chin of the last-named young man, she did not feel sure.

In her heart she gave Forbes credit for having done his best. Later in the day Howard showed her a letter he had written to Mr. Ridgeley Warren at Forbes' dictation. Without explanation but in the most emphatic manner possible, Warren was assured that his scheme was impracticable. "I can not very well go into details," the letter ran, "but Miss Kent, who knows the case thoroughly, has convinced me that the kindest thing, as far as the girl is concerned, is to leave her alone." And to this sentiment Agatha sighed a tremulous amen.

CHAPTER VII

DAY DREAMS

For the first time since she could remember, Miss Finch felt herself living in an atmosphere of romance. If a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love only under the allurements of spring weather, Zaida Finch surpassed the average youth by full three seasons. Love and matrimony occupied her thoughts twelve months in the year, and to an extent inconceivable in view of her general colorless and withered aspect.

Though as far as possible removed from the designing spinster of the comic stage, Miss Finch had not as yet surrendered the hope of changing her name. From her point of view the unmarried woman was a self-advertised failure. Husbands, as far as she had been able to observe, were always disappointing, and not infrequently obnoxious, yet to lack one somehow proved one's self less than a woman. In those dreams which never passed the bounds of maidenly reserve, she sometimes imagined herself addressed by the prefix which indicates the dignity of wifehood—she would have died sooner than have coupled it with the name of any man of her acquaintance—and then in the words of a simpler and more direct age, she felt that her reproach among men had been taken away. The secret weighing heaviest on her heart was the knowledge that no man had ever indicated that he wanted her.

Needless to say, Miss Finch's present mood of sentiment was entirely vicarious. Agatha's prospects absorbed her almost to the exclusion of her own timid dreams. Miss Finch was constitutionally incapable of realizing Agatha's vivid beauty, though she sometimes told herself that if it were not for her red hair, which she innocently assumed to be a misfortune, Agatha would be a really pretty girl. Forbes had no sooner made his appearance than Miss Finch had inventoried his qualifications for Agatha's future husband, and had not found him altogether wanting. His blindness was a misfortune largely offset by his amiability, and free use of money, and in her association with him, Agatha had developed a sympathetic patience her old friend could not regard as characteristic.

"And it looks to me as if he were taken with her," Miss Finch had congratulated herself. "He chirks up as soon as she comes near him. If he likes her so well when he thinks she's an old woman, he ought to like her better when he finds she's a young one."

There was, to be sure, one serious difficulty to be met in the readjustment of Forbes' ideas on the important subject of Agatha's identity. At this point Miss Finch's dreams ended in chaotic confusion and with her oft-repeated lament, "There's no good going to come from cheating a blind man."

After Warren's visit, Miss Finch's match-making tendencies took another direction. If Warren had failed to make an impression on the unsusceptible Hephzibah, he had nothing to complain of as far as Phemie and Miss Finch were concerned. In spite of the agitation induced by her unwonted responsibilities on the occasion of Warren's visit, Miss Finch had been keenly alive to the young man's cheerful good humor, and his naive self-enjoyment had communicated itself to the one of his audience who seemed least responsive. "Exactly the one for dear Agatha," declared Miss Finch.

With the discovery of the source of the box of chocolates, Miss Finch's smoldering hopes leaped into flame. Caution had dictated Agatha's concealment of Warren's tangible apology, but to a girl of her temperament the solitary consumption of a five-pound box of confectionery was a moral impossibility. Her innate generosity forced her to share the sweets with Forbes and Miss Finch and Howard and even with Phemie. Three of her beneficiaries accepted their shares as unthinkingly as the lilies of the field, but Miss Finch showed a troublesome tendency to ask questions.

"Agatha, you don't mean you've been wasting your money on candy? A box of that size must have cost something awful."

"No, Fritz, I didn't buy it."

Experience had taught Miss Finch to be on her guard when Agatha wore that look of wide-eyed innocence. She pondered the seemingly straight-forward reply.

"Having things charged is the same as buying 'em, Agatha. You've got to pay for 'em some time."

"But these were given me, Fritz dear. They were an apology."

"Mr. Forbes!" gasped Miss Finch, and at once the strains of the wedding march rang in her ears.

"Mr. Forbes! The very idea! The only trouble with him is that he never did anything in his life to apologize for. He's so perfect that people mistake him for a worm and trample on him."

"I didn't mean to make you mad, Agatha," Miss Finch protested timidly, shrinking from the flame in Agatha's eyes. The inexplicable girl stared for a moment and then to Miss Finch's great relief, burst into a laugh.

"Fritz, you're funnier than a box of monkeys. If you must know, Mr. Warren sent the chocolates."

"To you?" Miss Finch almost screamed it. And forthwith the summer breeze brought to her nostrils the odor of orange blossoms.

"That's the question that's troubling me, Fritz. The box was addressed to Hephzibah. But as I am her nearest living relative—you might almost say her mother—"

Miss Finch swept these fine points aside. "I didn't know he'd ever seen you."

"He walked into the kitchen while you were at church. That's exactly his style, I imagine. And when he saw me there rolling biscuits, he talked a lot of nonsense and ended by kissing me."

"Agatha!" gasped Miss Finch. Her emotions were confused. She was under the impression that this recital confirmed her wildest hopes and at the same time outraged her finer sensibilities. Possibly her reprehensibly exultant feeling was due to an overwhelming certainty that this at least was life.

Her face aflame as if she and not Agatha had been the recipient of that kiss, Miss Finch attempted to discharge her responsibilities as mentor of youth. "Agatha, I can't understand it. I'm afraid you must have acted bold. I never heard of a gentleman's walking into a kitchen, and kissing a young lady he'd never seen before."

"Nor I, Fritz. And that leads me to the conclusion that Mr. Warren isn't exactly a gentleman. At the same time," Agatha added, helping herself to another chocolate, "he apologized very sweetly."

"Is he coming to see you?" demanded Miss Finch, who in her ignorance of the ways of the great world assumed that so spontaneous a tribute must be merely preliminary to an ardent courtship.

"He had an idea of taking my education in hand." Agatha briefly outlined Warren's philanthropic scheme in behalf of Hephzibah Diggs, and Miss Finch turned all colors as she listened. Now at last she knew that the romantic novels with which she solaced her leisure hours had not misled her. There really was such a thing as love at first sight.

"Agatha!" she ventured tremulously, "you could marry that man to-morrow if you liked. It's as plain as the nose on your face that he's dead in love with you."

"If it were as plain as the nose on his face, that would settle it. But as nothing would induce me to marry him to-morrow or any other day, the state of his feelings doesn't matter."

"But I'm sure, Agatha," remonstrated Miss Finch, "that you wouldn't want to break his heart."

Agatha's reply was a paroxysm of laughter that left her gasping and tearful. "Oh, Fritz," she half sobbed, as she wiped her eyes, "I'm so glad you didn't die when you were little."

Miss Finch was on her dignity. "I know you're making fun of me, Agatha. But it's no laughing matter to wreck a man's life."

Again Agatha yielded to mirth. "You've seen Mr. Warren and yet you say that."

"I can't see why you take that tone, Agatha. I'm sure he's a nice young man and so lively."

"I'll admit the liveliness but not the heart, at least not the broken heart. That young man owns a good, tough, thoroughly seasoned organ, take it from me."

Miss Finch sighed but with less dejection than her manner indicated. Little as she had learned of the ways of men and women in her guileless spinsterhood, she had somehow gathered the impression that girls occasionally abused the admirers who stood highest in their maidenly affections, for the pleasure of hearing them defended. And though she could not be sure that this explained Agatha's slighting references to a most agreeable young man, Miss Finch resolved to lose no opportunity of sounding Warren's praises. In his case, too, there was an unfortunate confusion of identity to be cleared up, but from Miss Finch's point of view, a young man who could give a kiss and a mammoth box of chocolates to a pretty girl, under the impression that she was a servant, would not hesitate to lay his heart at her feet when he discovered that her blood was as good as his own.

Developments convinced Miss Finch of the wisdom of her chosen tactics. She overlooked no opportunity to speak a good word for the absent Warren, acquiring a certain irrelevant eloquence on the theme. And though Agatha gave no indication of agreeing with her, it was evident that she enjoyed her earnestness and was more inclined to lead her on than to check her fluency.

Whether because of Miss Finch's judicious opposition or some less obvious reason, Agatha was in noticeably high spirits. She entered into playing her rôle with a whimsical abandon that at times moved even Miss Finch to laughter, in spite of her conscientious misgivings. Indeed the spirit of cheerful animation pervaded the entire household. Whether because Forbes had at length resigned himself to hearing from Julia only once in two or three weeks, or whether the improvement in his health furnished the necessary elasticity for resisting disappointment, his moods of depression were becoming very infrequent. He spent less time on the porch and more on long jaunts with Howard. The two went fishing frequently and sometimes Agatha made a third, in which case the pace was regulated strictly according to Forbes' view of what was due her advanced years. Agatha was sure she would find more enjoyment on the occasions when the two males went as fast and as far as they pleased, undeterred by consideration for the aged.

One exhilarating morning Forbes and Howard left soon after breakfast, taking their luncheon with them, and advising Agatha to expect them only when she saw them. With her customary knack for utilizing the moments, Agatha improved their absence to despatch a number of tasks awaiting her attention, and wound up by washing her hair. She made her appearance on the lawn in the early afternoon, her splendid mane falling almost to her waist and reflecting the sunshine like burnished copper. Already the little tendrils were beginning to curl about her face while the water dropped from the long ends.

Agatha seated herself in the sun, lifting the coppery mass strand by strand, that it might dry more quickly. Had Miss Finch been versed in classical lore, she might have been reminded of the golden fleece for which men risked so much. As it was she said chidingly, "Agatha, you will freckle terribly if you're not careful."

"This sun is worth a peppering of freckles," Agatha answered recklessly, but she pulled her hair over her face and then she resembled Danäe veiled by a shower of gold. It was several minutes before she made a peek-hole in the screen, and looked at Miss Finch apprehensively.

"Fritz, I hear wheels. Don't tell me that in spite of my repeated warnings, we're going to have callers."

Miss Finch stood up. The very slight advantage due to an upright position was sufficient to enable her to recognize the occupant of the approaching vehicle. "It looks to me like Jim Doolittle."

"Jim Doolittle!" exclaimed Agatha, amazed. "Why, what can he want? He must be coming to see you, Fritz."

"Agatha!" quavered Miss Finch, and flushed a painful purple.

"Well, he certainly isn't coming to see me, and I find it hard to believe that Phemie is the magnet. He doesn't know Mr. Forbes and Howard is a trifle young to attract him. Please see what he wants, Fritz."

"I—I'd rather not, Agatha."

"Why, Fritz, what ails you? You can see for yourself that I'm in no condition to interview Mr. Doolittle. His modesty would never survive the shock. Send him away as soon as you can. It won't do to have all the busybodies of the neighborhood dropping in whenever they feel like it."

Reluctantly Miss Finch departed on her inhospitable mission. But it seemed that Agatha had done Mr. Doolittle an injustice. He had come on an entirely altruistic errand.

"There was a telegram at the office for Aggie's boarder, and I offered to bring it out, being as I was driving by."

"A telegram for Mr. Forbes!" fluttered Miss Finch, forgetting her shyness in sympathetic concern. "I hope there's no more trouble in store for that poor young man."

"Wal, the Bible says to him that hath shall be given, and I've noticed that's likely to come true, as far as trouble's concerned. How's the poor feller getting on? I had a little talk with him one day, and I made up my mind he warn't the June-bug sort of crazy, just the glum, hold-your-tongue kind."

"I guess Mr. Forbes' brains would hold their own alongside yours or mine!" Miss Finch spoke with some heat and realized her mistake in time to add, "Though of course he thinks a lot of things that aren't so." It soothed her conscience to realize the absolute truth of her closing statement.

"I know, hallucinations they call 'em," said Mr. Doolittle, proud of his mastery of the polysyllable.

Miss Finch was not sure whether Agatha could be reckoned a hallucination or not and she evaded the issue by adding pointedly, "He's got quite an aversion to company."

"I could see that. You'd have thought it would be a real relief to him to talk with me, man to man, after being shut up with a passel of women-folks, but no! I couldn't scarcely get a word out of him." Mr. Doolittle shook his head in sad wonder over the vagaries of a mind distraught, and then his attention wandered to a patch of color on the lawn. "Is that Aggie Kent in the brown dress with her hair hanging?"

"Yes."

"Looks like a haycock struck by lightning." Again Mr. Doolittle shook his head. "Aggie's a lucky girl to have you on hand to steady her and keep her acting sensible. I guess everybody 'round here knows who's the backbone in this house."

"Agatha's an awful capable girl," said Miss Finch. She was aware that she did not deserve the compliment, yet because of that contrary twist in human nature from which the most exemplary are not altogether free, it gave her pleasure. "Agatha don't need any backbone but her own," she insisted.

Mr. Doolittle straightened his sagging figure and tightened his lines. "Wal, if the young man should get vi'lent any time just call on me." He clucked to his horse and the ramshackle buggy creaked away.

The great moments of life come and go while we remain oblivious. As Mr. Doolittle jogged down the shaded drive, he said to himself that Zaida Finch would make some man a good wife. He even turned his head to look back, and the prim little figure hurrying across the grass seemed to his elderly eyes to radiate a certain maidenly charm.

All unconscious of this momentous occurrence, Miss Finch carried the telegram to Agatha, and that young woman shared her apprehension, though for a somewhat different reason.

"It's not so likely to mean trouble for him as for me. Perhaps some more of his city friends are coming to visit him. If they do, I think I'll have an attack of smallpox and quarantine the place." She stood up extending her hand for the message. "I must hunt him up right away and find out."

"You're not going that way, are you, Agatha, with your hair all down? You look like a crazy girl."

"What's the difference? Mr. Forbes won't be scandalized, because he can't see me. And the birds and the squirrels won't mind. It's not dry enough to put up yet."

Telegram in hand, she started up the slope behind the house. Miss Finch's faded, troubled eyes saw her silhouetted in glowing relief against the intense blue of the summer sky, and then lost her as she passed out of sight over the brow of the hill.

CHAPTER VIII

THE RESCUE

Forbes and Howard had spent the morning in the open. They had tramped miles under the genial sun, had eaten a luncheon which disproved the accepted theory as to the capacity of the human stomach, and at the conclusion of the meal had rested in the shade, Forbes smoking, and Howard sprawled upon the turf, idly watching the woolly clouds that like a flock of sheep grazed across a pasture of luminous blue.

Suddenly Howard leaped to his feet, and the next moment the report of his shotgun shattered the lazy hush of the summer day. To Forbes' secret annoyance, his nerves betrayed him into a violent start. He had not been aware that firearms were included among his young companion's impedimenta. "Hello!" he exclaimed disapprovingly. "What are you shooting at this time of year, boy? You'll get yourself into trouble if you're not careful."

"It's a chicken hawk. They're awful thick around here. Much as ever Ag—Miss Kent raised any chickens this spring."

"Oh!" Forbes subsided, with a smile. "Every season's open for chicken hawks, I suppose."

"Well, there's one robber out of the way," Howard boasted. "He went down like a stone. Say, Mr. Forbes, would you mind staying alone a few minutes while I run down the hill and see if I can find him?"

"Go ahead, my boy." Forbes smiled again, as Howard's headlong rush told how promptly he had acted on the permission. Forbes' mood was hopeful, and therefore indulgent. There was something tranquillizing in the atmosphere of the summer day. It was easy to believe in his ultimate and complete recovery, and even that Julia would wait for him instead of engaging herself to one of the men who were helping to make her summer enjoyable. Young Prendergast was the rival he had most reason to fear, and that was a sore spot with him, for Murray Prendergast had his father's money to recommend him, and little besides. Forbes was ready to defend Julia for breaking their engagement, but though tortures could not have elicited the avowal, in his heart he was humiliated by the possibility that Julia might turn from him, to throw herself into Murray Prendergast's arms. Eyes or no eyes, Forbes knew himself the better man.

Yet to-day in the sunny peace of this Arcadia, the thought of Prendergast had lost its power to sting him. He could reflect on Julia's love of admiration with a tolerant smile. Flirtation was the feminine equivalent of masculine wild oats, and he would be a fool to put an exaggerated importance on a beautiful girl's innocent coquetries. Miss Kent was hard on Julia. That was the way with the best of women. They did not know how to be fair to one another.

"Bless her dear heart!" Forbes was not thinking of Julia now. His smile had become tender. "What a champion she is! She never can see but one side, and that's yours—if you happen to be the fellow she likes."

His fancies, tenuous as the smoke of his cigar, wove themselves into pictures as he sat dreaming. He saw himself restored to health, and in a home of his own. He saw Julia beautiful as ever, but with matronly dignity replacing her girlish charm. And there were little shapes whisking in and out of that dreamland, creatures half sprite, half human, and his cigar went out as he watched their capers. An observer would have noted a hint of pathos in his smile as well as a whimsical humor.

He roused himself from his long reverie to wonder what had become of Howard. Making all due allowance for the ardor of the chase, Howard's absence had been protracted beyond all reason. Forbes whistled long and shrilly, shouted Howard's name, and waited with growing uneasiness. He could only make a rough estimate of the time that had elapsed since the boy's departure, but he knew it must be nearer an hour than the few minutes Howard had asked for. And it was not like Howard to forget him.

He had no way of measuring the time as it dragged on, but he ceased at length to assure himself that he was becoming a fidgety old woman, and frankly admitted he had reason for alarm. It was impossible to explain Howard's continued absence on the ground of boyish thoughtlessness. There was another and possibly a sinister explanation. His heart sickened as he realized that Howard might be seriously injured and with no aid near. As the thought suggested itself, he sprang to his feet in furious rebellion against his helplessness.

"I've got to get to the road somehow. Then I can hail the first wagon that passes, and send some one over here to look for that boy." He realized that the thing was simpler in the statement than in the doing. The last road they had crossed was at least half a mile from where he stood, and to grope his way unguided over half a mile of open country was a desperate undertaking. He was not even sure of the points of the compass.

Forbes was angry to find himself trembling. He took a stronger grip upon his self-control, and racked his brain for any information that would be of service. Howard had spoken of a south wind that morning and Forbes was under the impression that when they returned home from their jaunts up into the hills, they walked toward the setting sun. He wet his finger and held it up to test the direction of the breeze. He was likely to go wrong, he knew, but anything was better than inactivity.

Stumblingly and with his hands outstretched, he started on his way. His progress was slow. At first he was continually halted by imaginary obstacles from which he shrank till his groping hands convinced him that the way was clear. Resolving on bolder tactics, he marched along at a swinging pace till a collision with a stalwart pine sent him reeling back, gasping and half stunned. Again he tried caution and after an interminable half-hour abandoned it, as intolerably slow. He picked up a rotting branch over which he had stumbled, and waving this before him to make sure that no tree barred his way, he found himself making very creditable speed for a blind man without a guide.

After a little, again he halted, thinking he heard a faint, wailing cry. He strained his ears, his heart thumping. "Howard!" he shouted. "Howard!" He wondered if his nerves were playing him a trick, or whether he really did hear a second time, that faint sound of distress. He started on at a reckless pace, brandishing his stick before him, and occasionally shouting Howard's name.

So utterly had the thought of his own safety passed from his mind that a second collision was only to be expected. But this time it was not a tree, whose impact sent him staggering backward, but a human form. Involuntarily he dropped his stick, catching at the nearest object to save himself, and was aware that two hands had seized him in a clutch as desperate as his own. For a moment they clung together in an embrace like the locked clasp of two drowning swimmers. Then a voice deep down in Forbes' consciousness said, "Good God, it's a woman."

As his head steadied he knew he was not mistaken. There was a smothering quantity of hair for one thing and it seemed to be everywhere at once. When he moved just a little to get away from it, he put his cheek against another cheek of exquisite smoothness. Surprise rendered him incapable of moving, and standing like a statue, he made other interesting discoveries. The woman in his arms was breathing in long-drawn gasps like sobs. He could feel the convulsive straining of her chest against his, as her breath came and went. Under his hand her heart plunged like some frantic creature in a trap. Then he realized that she was trying to speak.

"You fool," she could only whisper it, with that strange sobbing breath. "You fool! Oh, you fool!"

"My dear girl!" Forbes remonstrated. He could not have told why he was so sure of the fitness of this form of address, except that the curves of the pliant body, that lay limp against his heart, were somehow eloquent of youth. "I don't understand you."

His protest had an immediate and in some respects an unwelcome effect. At once her relaxed form stiffened and withdrew from his arms. A strand of hair rasped across his cheek producing a curious tingling like a mild electric shock. But she had not gone far, for he could distinctly hear her difficult breathing.

"You were walking to your death. In another minute you would have been over the cliff."

"Is it possible!" No normal man can escape death by a hair's breadth and remain unmoved. Forbes' face paled. For a moment he was intensely conscious of the myriad fragrances steeped in the sunny air, of the myriad sounds, significant of teeming life. But he had no time to waste on himself.

"I knew I ran a risk but it was necessary. As you see I am blind, and my attendant, a young fellow named Sheldon, left me for a few minutes while he hunted for a hawk he had shot. That must have been two hours ago. I'm afraid the boy is hurt."

She murmured something he failed to understand and he did not ask her to repeat it. "As soon as you are able to walk, please go somewhere and get help. He may be seriously injured."

"I said he was coming—I see—him coming." She still whispered but her breathing was obviously less painful.

"Howard coming? Do you mean Howard?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure you know him?"

"Yes."

"Does he seem to be hurt?"

"Not that I can see—he's running."

"Thank God!" Forbes exclaimed. He had time now to think of himself and his deliverer. He took a step nearer her, and it seemed to him, though he could not be sure, that she drew back a little.

"As I understand it, you saw me from a distance, and realized I was in danger. And you ran to help me."

"Yes." The monosyllable was hardly more than a breath.

"I thought I heard a cry once. Did you call?"

"I tried—to. Running up hill—I didn't—have breath."

There was a hysterical catch in her voice. Forbes seized her by the arm. "Oh, you're crying. Please don't."

"I'm not." She sobbed aloud as she denied the charge and continued to sob to his immense distress. He found her hand and patted it soothingly as if she had been a child.

"Poor girl! I can see how unnerving all this has been. But won't it help a little if you remember that you've saved my life?"

"Oh, don't! Don't!"

"I'm afraid you'll have to let me say it, but I'll wait till another time if you'd rather. Please tell me your name."

"It d—doesn't matter."

"It matters a great deal to me. It isn't every day, you know, that a man has his life saved by a beautiful girl." He felt singularly secure regarding his adjective. "And of course I want to know who you are."

She trenched her hand away with disconcerting energy. "It—doesn't matter about me," she said as well as she could for weeping. "But don't take such risks again. Good-by."

"Now this is positively absurd," exclaimed Forbes in real annoyance. "You've done me a tremendous service, the biggest one human being can do another, and I'm not the sort of man to remain ignorant of my benefactress. I want a chance to show that I'm not unappreciative."

Silence!

"Are you there?" Forbes demanded sharply. So vivid and illuminating were his recollections of the woman his arms had enfolded that it seemed preposterous he should never know how to address her.

Continued silence.

Forbes bit his lip and waited. And behind his back, a singular pantomime was being enacted. A young woman whose heavy red hair fell about her like a cloak, ran into the arms of a breathless boy approaching from the opposite direction. She put her lips to his ear and whispered, "Don't tell him who I am."

"All right, but what's the matter, Aggie? What are you crying for?"

"Never mind. Nothing. Don't tell him my name."

"But what if he asks me?"

"Don't tell him, that's all." She drew herself away from him and started by a circuitous route for home. Howard approached his waiting employer with a new perplexity superimposed on his former perturbation.

"Mr. Forbes, I don't know what you'll think of me—but down there I ran into the game warden."

"Oh, did you!" Forbes' attitude was a trifle absent-minded. "Then you weren't hurt."

"No, sir, I'm all right. But he'd got hold of a partridge some one had shot and he was bound I'd done it. And he made me go along with him and I thought I would never get away."

Howard's voice showed strain. Forbes' groping hand found his shoulder and patted it.

"All right, old man. No harm's done. I own I was anxious when you didn't show up, but no harm's done."

"Are you ready to go home now, Mr. Forbes? It's nearly four o'clock."

"Yes, we'd better go." Forbes took the boy's arm. "By the way, Howard, did you see a girl talking with me a few minutes ago?"

"Ye—es, I saw her." Howard's manner betrayed reluctance.

"What is her name?"

An incomprehensible silence followed. Forbes repeated the question with more than his customary peremptoriness.

"I—I don't think I can tell you, Mr. Forbes."

"Do you mean you don't know?"

Howard was a truthful boy. "Yes, I know it," he replied hesitatingly. "But she"—a sudden inspiration came to his aid—"Miss Kent don't want me to talk about her."

"I shall ask Miss Kent myself," Forbes rejoined coldly.

"Yes, sir," said Howard, brightening. "That would be better." He felt that it really was up to Aggie to get out of the difficulty as best she could. It was all very well to say to a fellow that he was not to tell a certain thing, but she didn't take into account that he would feel like a fool when he was asked a plain question.

As it proved, however, Forbes did not appeal to Miss Kent for enlightenment. As they neared the house Howard proved the youthful resilience of his spirits by making a little joke. "It's a good thing you're not married, Mr. Forbes."

Forbes did not agree with him, but he forced himself to smile amiably, and ask the reason for the conjecture.

"Because there's a long red hair on your coat collar."

Forbes saw the point and much besides. Understanding came in a flood. The girl was Hephzibah, of course, poor unfortunate Hephzibah, ashamed even to give her name and yet more sinned against than sinning, he was strangely sure. Without seeing it, he had felt the spell of her beauty, that beauty that had enthralled Warren. As he thought of his friend, Forbes was instantly convinced that he had too readily yielded to Miss Kent's insistence, regarding Warren's offer. He even felt a certain tempered irritation with his old friend for having taken on herself the responsibility of deciding for another so vital a matter. Now that the girl had saved his life it was unthinkable that he should leave her to her fate just because of an old-fashioned theory that there was no future for a woman who had once gone wrong.

He felt so strongly on the subject that he might have spoken his mind to Miss Kent on reaching home had he been given the opportunity. But Zaida Finch met him with the information that Miss Kent had gone to bed with a severe headache, and that a telegram had come for him about the middle of the afternoon. She hoped it was not bad news.

The telegram proved to be from Forbes' physician, who was going away for his vacation, and wished to look his patient over before leaving. It gave him his choice of coming to the city on Wednesday or Thursday, and Forbes chose Wednesday. He had decided to waste no time before having a talk with Warren.

CHAPTER IX

AN EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES

No human being expects to die and all expect to marry. Observation continually proves the groundlessness of one or both of these anticipations, without altering the attitude of the survivors. In the background of the consciousness of the most confirmed bachelor or spinster, stands the shadowy form of the possible wife or the possible husband.

Mr. James Doolittle, at fifty-five, had no idea of escaping the matrimonial yoke. He thought of himself always as an eligible young fellow, waiting for the right girl to come along. On two or three occasions earlier in life he had temporarily congratulated himself on finding the right girl, but as the ladies in question had disagreed with him, there had been no escape from the conclusion that he was mistaken. These disappointments he had accepted with an edifying equanimity, reminding himself that there were still as good fish in the sea as had ever graced a frying pan.

Just why, on a certain summer afternoon, Jim's vague and groping expectations should suddenly have focused upon Zaida Finch, and why her familiar, faded features and diminutive, gnome-like body should have taken on the quality of allurement, is one of the mysteries which will remain a mystery when the riddle of perpetual motion has been solved. As the memory of Miss Finch hurrying across the grass continually recurred to him, Jim said to himself that though a trifle more flesh would not hurt her, she was a cute little thing. And forthwith he was conscious of a feeling of youthful irresponsibility, flatly contradicting the testimony of the family Bible.

Yet it was with no very definite purpose in his mind that on the Wednesday following his brief call at Oak Knoll, Mr. Doolittle resolved on a second visit. Even incipient love is fertile in excuses. He argued that the most elementary sense of courtesy demanded his ascertaining the nature of the telegram of which he had been the bearer, and extending his sympathy in case it had brought bad news. With the lack of candor with himself, frequently manifested by wiser men in his condition, Mr. Doolittle failed to explain the fact that he assumed for the call the necktie which for thirty years he had worn on dress occasions, hand-painted daisies on a pink background. The silk was faded now and the daisies had lost much of their original perky luster, but with the hand-painted necktie tied under his chin, Mr. Doolittle felt himself a figure to appeal to the exacting feminine taste.

His state of mind pleasantly indeterminate, Mr. Doolittle jogged through the dust in the direction of Oak Knoll. As yet his ardor had not reached the point where the leisurely pace of the gray nag got on his nerves. The droning peace of the mid-summer world was reflected in the serenity of his spirit. But as he neared Oak Knoll, the sound of wheels halted him at the foot of the long driveway, and waiting there, some intuition ruffled the placidity of his mood, and left him alert and uneasy.

Jim knew his suspicion justified when suddenly upon his startled and hostile vision emerged another buggy, smarter than his own, and newly washed. The driver, Deacon Wiggins, looked up from the contemplation of his sorrel mare to bark a gruff greeting, "Afternoon, Jim."

Deacon Wiggins was eminently a marrying man. He had married early, and as often as a complacent Providence, assisted by pneumonia, heart disease and typhoid, had permitted. A rather rusty band of crêpe around his hat, preserved with commendable thrift from one bereavement to another, bore witness to his latest loss some three months earlier. And with a lover's quick suspicion, Mr. Doolittle leaped to the conclusion that the deacon's errand to Oak Knoll was the same as his own, that in his eyes, too, Zaida Finch had found favor. His voice rasping as he realized the insatiable greed of some of his sex, Jim Doolittle returned the deacon's greeting with a sneering, "Wasn't looking to see you here."

Deacon Wiggins at once drew rein. His errand had not been a sentimental one. He had called to collect from Miss Finch the amount of her very modest subscription to the cause of foreign missions, and had been met by Phemie with the news that the blind boarder and Howard had gone to the city on the early train, and that the ladies of the family were celebrating by spending the day with friends. Whereupon the deacon had replied that he would call again, and had gone his way unruffled, till halted by Doolittle's challenge. Though Deacon Wiggins was well past fifty and had been thrice married, he had not outgrown that instinct which impels two young cockerels to assault each other with murderous intent.

"You wasn't looking to see me, eh?" repeated Deacon Wiggins, ponderously sarcastic. "Well, I don't know as that matters, Jim, as long as I didn't come for the sake of seeing you."

Doolittle reddened violently. "No, it's plain enough what you've come for."

The note of unreasonable jealousy was unmistakable. And while the deacon was quite in the dark as to the other's meaning, all his masculine dignity was in arms over the realization that another man was attempting interference with his doing as he pleased. "Whether I came for one thing or another," he retorted, "I don't have to ask your leave."

"Must make Zaida Finch feel terrible proud to know you are thinking of her for Number Four."

The introduction of Miss Finch's name into the conversation took the deacon by surprise, but he made no attempt to allay the groundless suspicion. Instead he replied, "A good many women would rather be Number Four with some men than Number One with others I could mention." The magnanimity which kept him from giving names was clearly a pretense, for his significant smile pointed his meaning unmistakably.

"There's no accounting for tastes," acknowledged Mr. Doolittle, transformed by his fury to an unbecoming turkey red. "But sometimes folks have better taste than we give 'em credit for."

The deacon's smile was as belligerent as a blow.

"You're right there, Jim. You're right. I've always said that the sort of men who die old bachelors show the women ain't such fools as some folks take 'em to be."

He clucked to his horse and drove on. Doolittle, breathing hard and unable to think of a sufficiently crushing rejoinder to this final insult, waited till the deacon was out of sight before turning up the drive. To him Phemie repeated her story of the blind boarder's departure for the city, escorted by Howard, and the consequent gadding of the ladies of the family.

Mr. Doolittle drew a long breath as he realized that the fell designs of Deacon Wiggins had been temporarily foiled. He was not the man, however, to underestimate the gravity of the situation. His rival was notable for prompt action, as his previous marriages had abundantly proved. Left to himself, Doolittle might have meandered through several years of more or less ardent courtship, before reaching the point of asking Miss Finch to change her name, if indeed, he ever reached it. But the certainty that Deacon Wiggins would waste no time in such preliminaries forced him to realize that he, too, must act with promptness, or resign himself to loss. Jim's vague intention became definite in view of the purposes with which he credited the deacon. With mingled sorrow and indignation he wondered at the man's grasping nature.

Meanwhile Deacon Wiggins, jogging homeward, was undergoing a very similar psychological experience. The most pronounced trait in the deacon's character was his obstinacy. He was an ardent Democrat, for the reason, it was generally believed, that he lived in a community of devout Republicans. He had been drawn irresistibly to the Congregationalist body because, as his acquaintances were certain, he sprang from Methodist stock. In all his dealings Deacon Wiggins could be safely counted on to take the off-side. But it had been long, indeed, since anything had so whetted his native stubbornness as his brief interview with James Doolittle.

In a general sense it might be said that Deacon Wiggins was looking for a wife. He was always looking for a wife in those interruptions to his marital bliss, whose brevity shocked the finer sensibilities of Mr. Doolittle. But at present his attitude was one of critical observance rather than active search. Mentally he had inventoried the attractions of several unattached females of the community, though the thought of Zaida Finch, as designed by Providence to solace his loneliness, had never crossed his mind. But now that Doolittle's indiscreet opposition had turned his thoughts in her direction, Deacon Wiggins said to himself that he might go further and fare worse. Miss Finch was a fine woman, a little undersized and scrawny for his taste, but a woman of good temper and good principles, eminently qualified to make a satisfactory wife. Seemingly the newly-awakened ardor of Jim Doolittle was like a searchlight, illuminating virtues hitherto unnoticed. The deacon reached for his whip and surprised the sorrel mare by a cut across the flank. Mentally he had crossed his Rubicon.

Miss Finch, placidly ignorant of the designs of Destiny, had passed a pleasant day. She had found it an immense relief to have Mr. Forbes away, even for twenty-four hours, for she never lost the sense of walking amid pitfalls while he was in the house. Agatha, in the rebound from the necessity of acting the rôle of an elderly maiden lady, had been more whimsically childish than usual, and had imparted to her faded little friend something of her own irresponsibility. Accordingly Miss Finch passed a pleasant day, and a peaceful night, and woke in the morning quite unprepared for what fate had in store.

In Forbes' absence, the arrival of the Free Delivery was only an ordinary incident in the day's routine. Miss Finch went down the drive to get the mail a half-hour or so after the wagon had passed. And when in another half-hour it occurred to Agatha to inquire as to the results of that expedition, it took her a good five minutes to locate Miss Finch. At length her search brought her to a weather-beaten bench under the trees, where Miss Finch had seated herself as if to rest from the fatigue of the walk up the drive. At her feet were scattered various items of mail, which had slid off her lap in the stress of her emotions and lay on the grass unnoticed.

"Well, Fritz, you must have found some absorbing reading," Agatha began. "I've screamed myself hoarse calling you." She paused, regarding her old friend with sudden concern. Miss Finch's face was singularly flushed and her pupils dilated like those of a sleep-walker. In either hand she clutched a letter.

"Fritz, what it is?" Agatha exclaimed in real alarm. "Aren't you feeling well?"

Much to her relief, Miss Finch's head turned in her direction. Up to this time she had seemed oblivious to her presence.

"Yes, I feel all right, Agatha," she replied, her voice dreamy and unnatural. "I—I'm going to be married."

The violence of Agatha's start indicated an almost uncomplimentary incredulity.

"You are—what did you say, Fritz?"

"I'm—I'm going to be married."

"For heaven's sake! Who is it?"

Miss Finch's manner lost something of its assurance.

"I haven't quite—made up my mind."

Agatha's expression of astonishment changed quickly to consternation. She came close to the little lady, slipping a hand through her arm.

"Fritz, dear, hadn't you better come to the house and lie down? The sun is awfully hot, and you shouldn't have gone out without a hat." She studied Miss Finch's unnatural color with a sinking heart. Was it a touch of the sun or something worse?

Miss Finch, though perfectly aware of the nature of Agatha's apprehensions, showed no resentment. Indeed the difficulty she had experienced in combating her own incredulity enabled her to sympathize with her young friend's perplexity.

"When I say I haven't made up my mind, I mean I haven't decided which one to marry."

"Yes, I see, Fritz. Now let's go to the house. Just lean on me." Phemie would have to go for the doctor, Agatha decided. She herself would not dare to leave.

"If you don't believe me," exclaimed Miss Finch, a sense of injury at last making itself manifest in her voice, "you can read the letters for yourself."

Agatha snatched the extended missive, thankful for anything that would throw light on Miss Finch's singular hallucination. Her stubborn incredulity received its first shock when she saw Miss Finch's name written across the yellow envelope in an unmistakably masculine hand. The contents of the letter completed her undoing.

"Miss Zaida Finch:

"Dear Friend—I have always believed the truth of those words of Scripture that it is not good for man to be alone. (Gen. 2:18.) Three dear companions have I taken to myself only to yield them to the cold and silent tomb. Have you ever thought of changing your state? You are so much in my thoughts that it seems a leading to show that it is you who should fill the place of my three lost companions, till you, too, shall be called from battle to reward.

"I hope you will make this matter a subject of prayer, and will see your way clear to accept me as your husband. Write me how you feel about it. I enclose stamp.

"Yours truly, "Hiram L. Wiggins."

Agatha read the unusual document breathlessly, too relieved by the discovery that Miss Finch's mind was not seriously affected to appreciate to the full the unique literary quality of the composition. Deacon Wiggins actually was proffering Miss Finch his hand and so much of his heart as had not been consigned to the tomb along with the three deceased ladies who had borne his name. Agatha's impressions of the deacon were vaguely hostile, yet she realized that from Miss Finch's standpoint, the occasion called for congratulations. Agatha was not unaware of the little spinster's attitude of wistful anticipation where matrimony was concerned. And though it was difficult to think of Deacon Wiggins as the realization of a romantic dream, she warned herself that she must not be a kill-joy.

"I'm sure, Fritz," Agatha said, with no trace of her usual mischief, "that the deacon will be very fortunate if you decide—" She checked herself, for Miss Finch was extending a second letter.

"For the love of Mike," Agatha gasped, borrowing from Howard's vocabulary as her own seemed inadequate. "You don't mean there's another?"

"Yes, there are two, Agatha," said Miss Finch, and under the circumstances her flitting expression of complacency was quite excusable.

The dreadful suspicion flashing through Agatha's mind, that the guileless Miss Finch had been made the butt of a peculiarly obnoxious practical joke, vanished as she read Jim Doolittle's letter. It was too characteristic for her to doubt its authorship.

"Dear Zaida:

"Please excuse me calling you Zaida, for as Zaida you are enshrined in my thoughts, and I think of you very often when I am sad and lonely and I wish I had a wife like you to cheer me, and to be a help-meet to me like the Bible says, and while I have not married again and again like some people I could name it has not been because I do not have a high opinion of women. And if I should be left alone I should not go looking for some one to take your place right away, for with me to love once is to love always, and, dear Zaida, my heart beats for you alone.

Yours truly, "James Doolittle."

Agatha was seized with a paroxysm of coughing, the businesslike conclusion of the letter seeming decidedly inconsistent with its impassioned prelude. Then, recovering herself, she went over to Miss Finch and kissed her.

"Well, Fritz, you're a lot too good for either one, but women are, as a rule. Which is it to be?"

Miss Finch looked down at her first love-letters with an anxious expression, hardly befitting the occasion.

"Well, Agatha, I'm not sure. There is a great deal of sentiment in Mr. Doolittle's letter. It's almost poetical in spots. I wouldn't have thought he had so much poetry in him?"

"Nor I," admitted Agatha.

"But the deacon's letter shows a beautiful religious spirit, and when you are choosing a husband you have to think of the things that are really important."

"The deacon is better off than Mr. Doolittle," suggested Agatha. "Though I've always heard he was inclined to be close."

"I wouldn't let such things weigh with me, Agatha. I can't imagine marrying a man because he had more money than somebody else. It's what a man is himself that counts with me."

"Then I suppose it's the deacon," said Agatha, with youth's characteristic readiness to jump at conclusions.

"I don't know, I'm sure. Don't hurry a body so, Agatha." Miss Finch spoke more sharply than was her wont. "If you were picking out a husband at my time of life, you wouldn't want to be rushed so that, like enough, you'd pick the wrong man."

Agatha shook her head. "No, Fritz, if I ever became such a heart-breaker that I had a batch of proposals in a single mail, I'd take as long as I could to make up my mind. I'd make the sweetness last like an all-day sucker."

Miss Finch's brief irritation vanished as she heard herself referred to as a heart-breaker. She blushed not unbecomingly.

"The names might help you in making up your mind," continued Agatha, bent on giving all the assistance in her power. "Which is the more—what is that word—mellifluous in your ears, Mrs. Wiggins, Mrs. Deacon Wiggins, or Mrs. James Doolittle?"

"I'm afraid you're not as serious-minded as you ought to be, Agatha," chided Miss Finch. "Marriage is 'most anything you like except a joke, and you can't make a joke of it, no matter how hard you try." As she moved toward the house with her two letters, leaving Agatha to collect the widely scattered mail, her face wore a troubled, anxious look, as if the fateful solemnity of the married state already had reached out from the future and enveloped her.

CHAPTER X

A CONFESSION

Because of her absorption in Miss Finch's engrossing problem, Agatha gave the travelers of the household less of her attention on their return that afternoon than those rather spoiled individuals had reason to expect. Not till the following morning when she read Forbes a letter from Julia, even more egotistic than the average communication of that self-centered young woman, did Agatha realize that something was amiss with her boarder. He seemed tired and low-spirited, disinclined to conversation, in decided contrast to Howard, who was bubbling over with items of interest relating to their brief trip. Clearly the jaunt had been too much for the convalescent's strength.

A little conscience-stricken that she had not earlier made the discovery, Agatha set herself resolutely to the task of reviving Forbes' drooping spirits, though with less than her usual success. And when late in the afternoon she suggested a walk, pleading that her knees were growing stiff from lack of exercise, he turned the tables on her unexpectedly by insisting that she go for a stroll with Howard as an escort, leaving him at home. And as her protest stirred him to a most uncharacteristic irritation, she yielded the point without further argument.

"Of course, if you really want to get rid of us, we'll go. Only I hate to leave you alone."

"I'm better company for myself than for others, dear lady. I'd rather be alone for a little. I'll try to sleep and perhaps I'll wake in a better humor."

Her only thought an impatient haste to have the ordeal over, Agatha started out, Howard in attendance. But her dejection yielded by degrees to the magic of the summer afternoon. It vanished completely when she challenged her brother to a race across a green stretch of pasture. They reached their goal laughing and breathless, Agatha in the lead, and climbing the low stone wall they dropped panting in the shade of a guardian elm. Agatha snuggled back against the huge trunk, tucking her feet under her, while Howard sprawled happily at her side, laying his head in her lap. Agatha's contented sigh as she ran her fingers through his hair, told of relaxed nerves.

"What a pity Mr. Forbes wouldn't come! It's so restful here. What did he do yesterday to tire him so?"

"He didn't do much of anything. Saw the doctor and Mr. Warren and then—"

"Warren? Did he see him?"

"Sure. Telephoned the first thing when we got to the city and Mr. Warren came up to the hotel for lunch. They let me go out and look around for a couple of hours while they talked. Say, Aggie, I wish you knew Mr. Warren. He's a dandy."

Agatha's expressive face betrayed no especial impatience to meet the object of Howard's eulogy. Indeed a grim tightening of her lips indicated that on this theme her brother and herself were far from agreement. But before the boy had time to be impressed by her lack of responsiveness, his attention was distracted by a cough from the direction of the road, eminently a stagey cough, due not to a tickling in the throat, but to some one's desire to announce his presence. Howard turned sharply, then sprang to his feet with a shout of mingled pleasure and astonishment.

"Why, hello, Mr. Warren! Did you come out to find us? It's the funniest thing but I was talking about you this very minute."

Warren, immaculate in a gray business suit and spotless panama, gave no indication of sharing the boy's pleasure in the unexpected encounter. He looked at him with disconcerting steadiness, and Howard, turning to his sister, saw her unconcealed consternation and realized that the game was up. He had momentarily forgotten the necessity of explaining Aggie. Mr. Warren would have to know the truth and undoubtedly would take it on himself to acquaint Mr. Forbes with the surprising state of affairs. Yet after all, Mr. Warren was a good sport. Perhaps if the thing were put up to him—

Warren's peremptory speech broke in on the boy's confused thoughts. "Chase along, Howard. I don't want you at present."

"What do you want me to do, Mr. Warren?"

"I don't care what you do as long as you don't stay here."

"I—but I—" Without understanding his sense of discomfiture, Howard blushed an angry scarlet, and faced the intruder with instinctive defiance. Then Agatha spoke wearily.

"It's all right, Howard. Run along, please."

She was not easily daunted, but something in Warren's manner was accountable for a singular chill at her heart that was like fear. She had forgotten how big the man was, and his nose was so unexpectedly long and his chin so heavy, and his eyes bored into her like augers and were of a steely gray besides, which made the figure more impressive. He seemed quite another person from the silly young man who had talked nonsense in the kitchen that Sunday morning and ended by kissing her cheek.

She heard Howard stumble away, muttering angrily to himself. Very deliberately Warren moved toward her. She forced herself to lift her eyes. He was looking down at her with the air of one who has the whip-hand and knows it. For some undefined reason she felt herself at a tremendous disadvantage.

"Look here," said Warren with the same hardness in his voice she had noticed when he spoke to Howard, "this won't do, you know."

Agatha remembered that she was Hephzibah Diggs just in time to drawl the inquiry through her nose. "What won't do?"

"You mustn't be putting ideas into the kid's head. He's a nice kid. Forbes is tremendously interested in him and so is Miss Kent. On Miss Kent's account if there were no other reason, you ought to let the boy alone."

She glared at him, fury growing with understanding. Her baleful gaze fought its way to him through tears of pure rage.

Her unexpected emotion softened him perceptibly. He laid aside his air of judicial sternness as easily as he would have removed his coat.

"Come now," he said, seating himself beside her. "We mustn't quarrel. And I dare say you meant no particular harm. Only keep in mind that it's hands off where the boy is concerned."

"Have you got anything to say to me?"

"You bet I have. I've come clear from town to say it, Hephzibah. By the way, isn't there something I could call you for short?"

"Yes, Miss Diggs."

He eyed her approvingly. A tear had splashed upon her burning cheek, and was making its leisurely way toward her chin, but tears with Agatha seldom gave the impression of feminine softness. Warren had the usual masculine horror of weepy women. It was a relief to perceive that for all her tears, Agatha's mood was murderous.

"No indeed, we mustn't quarrel," he repeated. "Because I've come on purpose to see you, and do you a good turn. I'm interested in you, and want to help you."

"I don't want none of your help."

"That's because you don't understand, little girl. This world is a pretty big place and so far you've seen only a measly little corner."

"It suits me." He saw an added enmity in her eyes, over this aspersion on her native village, and smiled tolerantly.

"I wouldn't waste any loyalty on this burg if I were in your place. I asked half a dozen people where I could find you and every one pretended he'd never heard of you."

Agatha's look showed her taken aback and Warren was not slow to follow up his advantage.

"Of course I knew they were lying. Even in this unobservant community, my dear Hephzibah, you could hardly escape notice any more than on Broadway. I assume these young men were protecting their reputations by denying the pleasure of your acquaintance."

"Oh," murmured Agatha, "I never thought I could hate anybody the way I hate you."

"You shouldn't feel that way, my child. I'm not trying to hurt your feelings. I'm perfectly ready to let bygones be bygones and give you a hand up. I only mentioned this to show the narrowness of these little country places. They never forget, Hephzibah, and believe me, they never forgive."

The fire of her wrath had dried her tears. Her eyes bright with hate, she met his gaze in silence.

"There's something about you, Hephzibah," continued Warren, a slight uneasiness of manner showing that his sang froid was not quite proof against her silent hostility, "something which makes me certain that it would pay to educate you. You could learn, I'm positive of it. And you'll take on polish. You say you're satisfied with things as they are. That only shows your ignorance, my dear child. Instead of being a poor little drudge, slighted and snubbed by a lot of country jays, you could make a place for yourself in the big world. I can't tell you now just what will open up for you, but at the least it would be like fairyland compared with what you have to expect here."

Her anger seemed to have moderated to tranquil contempt. She sat aloof and disdainful, waiting for him to finish and take his departure.

"I own you don't know me well enough to feel sure of my motives in making this offer," Warren went on almost humbly. "But you can ask Miss Kent about the blind man who's boarding with her this summer, and see what sort of reputation she gives him. And he's in this thing with me. In fact it was at his suggestion that I came down here to-day."

At last he had succeeded in interesting her. Although she did not speak she turned with a quickness that had the effect of an interruption, and the recent disdainful calm of her expression was replaced by a rather wistful look.

"Yes, Forbes is in for this, tooth and nail." Warren was pleased at the altered demeanor of his audience. "When I first suggested it to him, he talked it over with Miss Kent, and the old lady discouraged him. I imagine she's a good sort but about as broad as a knitting needle. She insisted that it was better for you to be let alone, and she talked old Forbes over, and I thought the whole thing was settled. But after you saved Forbes' life—"

"Why," cried Agatha. "How—how—." Her usually ready tongue failed her, and in her blushing confusion Warren thought her adorable.

"I suppose you wonder how he knew you were his rescuer," Warren continued, enjoying to the full the pleasing effect of his revelation. "It came to him by a sort of intuition. He quizzed the kid, but Howard wouldn't tell. It simply goes to show how strait-laced the old lady is. She'd forbidden him even to talk about you. But something you said or did fitted in with what I had told Forbes about you, and he decided that he couldn't rest easy under such an obligation."

"It's only a guess." Agatha had found her voice. "You don't know anything about it."

"It was a safe bet, even before I told you and watched your face. Now it's a dead certainty. Listen! Forbes came to see me yesterday and we cocked up this scheme. See how it strikes you."

He had her attention now, close and serious, with no suggestion of disdain. Painstakingly he explained the plan. They had selected a woman both knew to act as Hephzibah's tutor. They would send her to some quiet place where there would be little to distract the girl's thoughts from her work. Her tutor, an impoverished gentlewoman, would undertake the cultivation of manners befitting the best society, and would mold her literary taste by reading to her from the English classics, in addition to her regular instruction.

"I don't say it will be so very much fun for six months," Warren owned frankly. "But we both think it would be a good idea for you to work for all you are worth at the start, and make all the progress possible. And when once you—well, when the rough edges are smoothed off a little, you can come to town and mix in a little fun with the day's work. What do you think of the idea?"

Agatha's answer was a shake of her head.

"Too strenuous a program, is it?" Warren looked disappointed at her lack of ambition. "Well, it isn't necessary to travel at such a pace. Both Forbes and I felt it would be more encouraging to you in the long run, if your advancement was so rapid that you couldn't help realizing it."

"Yes, that would be better if—but it won't work. Thank you. It's kind of you, but I—I can't go away."

"Away? Do you mean away from this hole in the woods?"

Agatha nodded with no attempt to defend her native place against his sneers.

"This home of yours, where a nice kid like Howard is forbidden to speak of you, and where older men look scared when your name is mentioned and say they never heard of you?"

"You said all that before." Agatha had turned rather white. "And it won't do any good to say it again."

Warren studied her averted face, a pensive face at that moment. He had a confused certainty that he had been too hard on her. He had only spoken the truth and for her good, but he had overdone it. He had been brutal.

"Hephzibah," he said suddenly, a new gentleness in his voice, "I know what's the matter with you. You're in love."

There was something so virginal in her protesting recoil that he had to stop a moment for breath. Yet a quality in the movement gave him an odd conviction of her innate fineness, in spite of that chapter in her past he found it hard to forget.

"There's no other explanation, Hephzibah." He tried to speak lightly without any great degree of success. "When a girl of your sort sticks to a place of this sort, like a barnacle to a ship's bottom, it's as sure as shooting that there's a man in the case. Come, Hephzibah, own up."

She lifted her chin in a regal way she had—an incongruous motion in a country girl who "worked out"—and looked at him squarely. With a little thrill he saw that her eyes had filled again. And though she did not speak, those brimming eyes seemed a brave, frank avowal that his surmise had hit the mark.

"Well, Hephzibah, I'm glad you aren't going to need our help—Forbes' and mine—in order to be happy. I hope your young man knows he's lucky." He was astonished at the keenness of the pang which marked this formal renunciation. "When is it to be, Hephzibah?"

"Why, it's not—you don't understand—I'm not going to be married."

Warren sat up straight. "The devil, you're not," he said, his voice harshly cynical.

The girl rose and stamped her foot on the grass. The soft turf swallowed the sound, but the passionate gesture was not less impressive because noiseless. "You hush!" she said. "Don't you dare to think things like that about him. He's perfect. He never harmed anybody, never! And for you to dare to blacken him with your beastly thoughts just because I've been fool enough to care."

Swayed by unprecedented emotion, Warren rose to his feet. In her earlier anger the girl had been merely a lovely virago. Now, in her furious defense of the man he had apparently misjudged, she was superb. Warren felt himself swept from his moorings.

"Very well, Hephzibah. I'll take your word for it that he's all right."

"He doesn't know. He doesn't even dream. There's—He loves some one else."

"Don't, Hephzibah. Poor little girl! What a damned muddle life is." He was fumbling for his card.

"Can you write, dear?"

"After a fashion." All in a minute she was another woman, with radiant mischief peering out of her eyes.

"Here's my address on this card. If you should change your mind, write me. I hope and believe you will. Just because one man is blind, it doesn't follow that there's nothing else in life."

She gave a slight start, looking at him obliquely, the mischief quite gone from her eyes. But she accepted his card, and then of her own accord gave him her hand. "You have been good to take so much trouble," she said. "Thank you." The two had changed markedly since the dialogue under the elm tree began. The girl's hostility had vanished as completely as the man's condescension.

On his way back to the city that night, Warren evolved the theory that Hephzibah was originally of gentle blood. That accounted for the quality of her beauty, for something in her manner suggesting one accustomed to homage rather than to service. Warren was inclined to believe it also explained a singular fact which impressed him more as he thought over the events of the afternoon than it had at the time. There could be no question but that in moments of extreme excitement, a certain uncouthness disappeared from her speech and manner, and she lapsed, so to speak, into the idioms of her presumably cultured forebears. In Warren's opinion this cast a most interesting side-light on the subject of heredity.

CHAPTER XI

A WILFUL MAN MUST HAVE HIS WAY

Though there was no likelihood of another letter from Julia for a week at least, Forbes showed an abnormal interest in the contents of the mail bag, and Agatha guessed he was expecting to hear from Warren. She, too, found herself anxiously anticipating the arrival of the letter addressed in the vigorous hand which in some obscure way was so suggestive of the man's personality. When it came four days after that unique dialogue under the elm tree, and the duty of reading it devolved upon herself, Agatha's heart beat suffocatingly.

But as it proved, all her thrills were anticipatory. The letter itself contained nothing she did not already know, and that little was told tersely and obscurely, evidently with the intention of preventing Miss Kent, the probable reader, from learning that her counsel had been ignored. With businesslike brevity Warren stated that he attended to the matter they had discussed the previous week. He, Forbes, was correct in his conjecture as to the identity of the party who had done him the service he had spoken of, but said party had turned his proposition down flat. "And now that our consciences are clear," Warren wrote, "the only thing left is to drop the whole matter. Hope the unpleasant effect of your treatments has worn off and that your eyes are feeling better.

"R.W."

It was plain from the expression of Forbes' face that he shared Agatha's uncomplimentary opinion of the communication in question. The remainder of the day he was frowningly contemplative, resisting all efforts to draw him into conversation. For the first time Agatha saw in his face lines suggesting a determination akin to stubbornness.

By morning his manner showed the relief of having reached a decision. Agatha was not unprepared to have him say at the conclusion of the morning meal, "Miss Kent, when you have a little time I would like to have a talk with you."

"I can come now."

"There's no hurry—no especial hurry, that is. Any time this forenoon."

But Agatha's curiosity was awakened. She conducted him out upon the porch, ensconced him in a comfortable chair, and seated herself beside him. As a preliminary, he took her hand and kissed it.

"I must begin with a confession, my dear lady. I have been keeping a secret from you, in fact more than one."

"Dear me! And I thought you had accepted me as mother confessor."

"So I have. I decided not to tell you for fear of worrying you. But the truth is that I came near walking over the cliff one afternoon, when I was out with Howard, and ending my troubles by breaking my neck."

Agatha succeeded in expressing a sufficient degree of shocked horror in her exclamation.

Forbes patted her hand reassuringly. "But I didn't, you see. My life was saved in a conventionally romantic way. A beautiful girl flung herself into my arms, and when she could get her breath, gave me a terrific scolding."

"Oh!" Agatha looked at him with unfeigned interest. "How did you know she was beautiful? Did Howard tell you?"

"No, Warren."

"Oh!" She seemed a little disappointed. "But he wasn't there, was he?"

"No, but he'd told me about her. And I think I should have known anyway."

"How?" Again he noted the animation in her tone.

"I'm not quite sure. Perhaps a blind man develops a sort of sixth sense. Anyway, as I stood there with my arms about her—it was necessary in the circumstances, and you needn't look shocked as I suspect you're doing—I had as vivid an impression of youth and beauty as if I'd seen her."

"More so, probably," amended Agatha joyously.

"No, not if Warren's right. He says she's something extraordinary. Can't you guess who it was?"

"I believe that Mr. Warren"—Agatha seemed to be searching her memory for details—"talked rather extravagantly about Hephzibah."

"Yes, Hephzibah was the girl. And that puts quite a new light on Warren's plan for educating her, don't you see?"

"No, I don't." Agatha's brevity implied distaste for the subject.

"Well, I do. A man's chance interest in a pretty girl may be perfectly innocent and unobjectionable, but you can't compare it with what one feels for the woman who has saved one's life."

"I told you that she wanted to be left alone. I told you that it would be kinder."

"Wait, please." Under the deference of his manner, she perceived a resolution that was adamant. "I've told you only one of the secrets that I have kept from you. Here's the other. When I was in town I saw Warren and we laid plans for taking Hephzibah's case in hand, regular uplift proposition, don't you know. Warren was to see her and arrange matters. We had everything settled. We had a governess selected and had decided on a little sea-side place for them to stay until she was presentable. Warren was going to ask a girl he knows to buy her a suitable outfit."

"I don't wonder you've been blue," Agatha said in tones of soft reproach. "Planning all this out and not a word to me."

To her surprise he blushed high. "No," he said after a moment, "I've been down in the depths, God knows, but not for that reason. I thought—well, you seemed to feel so strongly on the subject of not interfering with Hephzibah, that I didn't want to bother you."

"And now you do? Is that why you're telling me about it?"

"I'm telling you because I want your help." He set his jaw grimly as he faced her. "I left Warren to engineer the thing and he's bungled it."

"It wasn't his fault." Agatha evinced a commendable eagerness not to be unjust to the absent. "When Hephzibah has made up her mind, trying to change it is like going against a stone wall."

"Possibly. But I shan't feel satisfied till I've tried my persuasive powers on her." Forbes sat waiting for some comment from Agatha, and when none was offered, explained firmly, "I want an interview with her."

Still Agatha did not speak. She was beginning to feel an aversion to Hephzibah Diggs which amounted to positive hatred. That talk with Warren had been trying enough, with his repeated references to some scandalous episode in her past. But for reasons perfectly clear to Agatha herself, the interview with Forbes promised to be vastly worse.

"Well?" Forbes was puzzled by her silence. "Had she better come here? Or shall I have Howard take me to her home?"

"Oh, no." The dismay in Agatha's voice negatived the last suggestion conclusively. Forbes found her tremors a trifle irritating. He had to remind himself that she was an old lady, and that for many years her will had been supreme in her little circle. He found her hand and patted it affectionately. He was beginning to think that these sentimental attentions counted more with elderly women than with younger ones.

"Well, then, we'll have her here. Will you send her word, some time to-day?"

"I'm not sure she'll come."

"Then I'll go to her." His obstinacy showed in his voice. "I tell you I'm going to talk to that girl. She's got a chance at last. She's young and it's inconceivable that she should turn down such an offer if she really understood it."

"That's the sort of girl she is. Worthless, trifling."

Forbes withdrew his hand from hers. To her amazement Agatha saw she had really offended him. And now to her dislike of Hephzibah was added a preposterous jealousy. She, Agatha Kent, had devoted herself to Forbes all summer only to have him act like a spoiled child when she ventured a criticism of a girl he had met only on one occasion, a girl with a past, at that. What was Hephzibah to him or he to Hephzibah, that for her sake he was ready to affront his father's old friend and his own?

"I shan't need Howard this morning," remarked Forbes pleasantly but with a relentless holding to his purpose which forced her to realize the hopelessness of altering his intention. "So if you please, ask him to take the message. The girl may be all that you say, and my interest and effort may all be wasted, but I prefer to see for myself."

"Very well," said Agatha swallowing. She perceived that he considered her a narrow-minded old person, who thought it impossible for a woman to return to the paths of rectitude, after once stepping aside. He would not take her word for Hephzibah. He was determined to interview her for himself. Agatha looked at him with narrowing eyes. Very well! Let him take the consequences.

"I'll see that Hephzibah gets the message," she said with dignity. "I can't answer for results."

"Of course not." Now that he had gained his point, his manner was thoroughly friendly. "I'll take the entire responsibility for the outcome."

Agatha realized that she was dismissed. She went up-stairs feeling out of sorts with Forbes and positively murderous where Hephzibah was concerned. She even played with the thought of having that obtrusive young woman smitten with mortal illness, too sick for the interview Forbes insisted on, and in a few days reaching the end of her brief and troubled life. She dismissed the thought when she realized that Forbes was capable of summoning a physician from the city to attend the patient.

The door of Miss Finch's room was ajar. Miss Finch sat at the table with a sheet of paper spread out before her and a pen in hand. The seriousness of her expression suggested that she was on the point of making her last will and testament.

"Fritz," exclaimed Agatha, appearing in the doorway, "I have a message for you to give Hephzibah Diggs."

Miss Finch looked at her wildly.

"Will you please say that Mr. Forbes would like to see her some time to-day. Say it's very important."

As Miss Finch continued to stare, Agatha showed signs of impatience. "Well, why don't you begin?"

"Begin what, Agatha?"

"Why, say what I've just told you, that Mr. Forbes wants to see me this afternoon."

Miss Finch groaned and shook her head. "Oh, Agatha, it seems so wicked."

"Wicked! If that's not unreasonable. Here I am taking all the pains to come up-stairs to you, to have you give me the message so I won't need to stretch the truth the least little bit, and then you talk as if I were an ordinary prevaricator, without a conscience."

Miss Finch quailed before Agatha's simulated indignation. "Oh, if you look at it that way," she replied feebly and made an effort to recall the message. "Hephzibah, Mr. Forbes wants to see you to-day."

"Tell me it's very important," prompted Agatha.

"It's very important," Miss Finch repeated, and looked on the point of bursting into tears.

"I'll be there at three o'clock," replied Agatha in the person of Hephzibah. Then her gaze fell on the letters lying open on the table and she temporarily forgot her own perplexities in the perennial feminine interest in a love-affair.

"Oh, Fritz," she exclaimed, coming closer. "You're writing the letter, aren't you? Which one is it to be?"

Miss Finch looked at the blank sheet before her with an expression equally blank.

"Agatha," she hesitated, "it almost seems to me—at least don't you think Mr. Doolittle is rather the best-looking?"

Agatha pondered the question with the seriousness its importance deserved.

"I rather think he is, Fritz. The deacon is much too fat. My ideal of manly beauty isn't broad enough to include a fat man. It's surprising how some people thrive on bereavement."

Miss Finch fidgeted with her pen. "But perhaps the deacon is a little more careful about his appearance."

Again Agatha acquiesced. "Mr. Doolittle is far from particular. I've seen him in the village with only one suspender, and the usefulness of that dependent on one anemic-looking safety-pin. I've honestly trembled for fear of what might happen. The deacon's away in the lead in the matter of clothes."

Again Miss Finch looked nervously at the paper before her and then surprised Agatha by laying down her pen.

"I rather thought I'd write them to-day," she said. "It's been—well, not long, but quite a time since their letters came, and I thought—"

She fell into an indeterminate silence, and Agatha finished the sentence for her. "Of course they're getting impatient. It's cruel to keep them on the rack this way. Why don't you put them out of their misery, Fritz?"

"Why, I don't want to hurry, Agatha. I must wait to be sure. There's some nice things about each one and some that aren't so nice. I'll have to think it over a while yet."

Agatha was watching the little woman keenly. "Fritz," she asked with unusual, gentle gravity, "are you sure you want either of them? Don't you think you'd be happier just to stay on with me?"

Miss Finch regarded her interrogator with evident amazement. "Why, Agatha, I might never have another chance."

This was too true to question. Agatha remained silent.

"I sometimes can't help wishing," Miss Finch owned plaintively, "that there hadn't been two. That's what makes it so puzzling—having to choose. And there seems so much to be said on both sides. But to refuse them both—why, Agatha, it would be flying in the face of Providence."

Agatha said no more. Leaving Miss Finch to her dreams, she went up to the garret to find an appropriate costume for Hephzibah in her forthcoming momentous interview. She felt she could act her rôle with more spirit if dressed appropriately to the part. Agatha did not underestimate the difficulty of her proposed masquerade. It was an easy matter to evolve a personality sufficiently consistent to deceive Warren, for Warren had never met the dignified and elderly spinster, Miss Agatha Kent. Forbes, on the contrary, had spent hours in that lady's company nearly every day through the summer, and knew every inflection of her voice. The forthcoming interview with Forbes presented any number of terrifying possibilities.