z cushion, watched the
portly, festive figure that moved away under the trees of the long
drive. Miss Bancroft usually seemed to roll slowly, but efficiently,
along on wheels as ponderous and impressive as an old-fashioned
stage-coach. He caught a last glimpse of lavender and white through
the shrubs that bordered the end of the lawn. He felt a good deal of
interest in this pilgrimage of his aunt's, although he had no very
clear idea of the purpose of it. It had something to do with two very
pretty young girls whom he had seen at an otherwise stupid dance the
night before. One of the girls looked like a Dresden doll, the other
had dark eyes, and a direct, shy, almost boyish smile. Her name was
Anne--Nancy. Nancy suited her much better. He had thought about her
several times. For no particular reason--she was hardly eighteen, and
he was, well, he was thirty-three, though that was neither here nor
there. It was simply that he liked her rather better than one likes
most girls of that age. She had a way of listening to a man without
that stupid, flustered expression, as though she was only wondering
what in the world she should say when it should be her turn to talk.
She liked books. He wondered if she knew that he wrote them. Of
course he wasn't world-famous, but it might interest her to know that
he was the George Arnold whose collections of exquisitely delicate
children's stories had already been translated into six foreign
languages, "including the Scandinavian."

He smiled to himself at the naive vanity which had prompted this
thought; and chastised it by telling himself that it was only too
likely that her ignorance or knowledge of what he did or was were
matters of like indifference to her.

Meantime, Miss Bancroft, puffing a little under the combined
difficulties of avoirdupois and a beaming September sun, was looking
with an almost pathetic anticipation at the rich cool shadows beneath
which slept the rambling mansion of Thomas Prescott.

"I shall order some tea. A man is always so much more amenable to
reason over a tea-table--and for my part, I'll not survive half an hour
without a little light refreshment. I suppose I'll have to listen to a
long discourse on the origin of the Slavic races or the religious
customs of the Aztecs, until I can get him down to argue with me on his
duty toward his fellow creatures. I hope to Heaven that his principles
are drowsy to-day. I can't bear it if I have to