ose of an uproarious young--well, nephew, say,--would
mean. Only his eagerness to go on playing the game cast a doubt upon that
explanation.

They went out abruptly after a while, just as it was getting dark, to
settle a bet as to which of them could walk the farthest along the top
rail of a certain old fence. Miss Wollaston saw them go with unconcealed
dismay, but it was hard to see how even a conscientious chaperon could
have prevented it so long as the child's elder brother would do nothing
to back her up. To Mary, half-way in her trance, it didn't seem much to
matter what the relation was or what came of it. It was a fine spring
night and they were a pair of beautifully untroubled young animals. Let
them play as they would.

Their departure, did, however, arouse Graham to the assumption of his
duties as host and he launched himself into a conversation with Miss
Wollaston; a fine example, Mary thought, of what really good breeding
means. Her aunt's questions about life in the navy were not the sort that
were easy to answer pleasantly and at large. They drew from him things he
must have been made to say a hundred times since his return and sometimes
they were so wide of the mark that it must have been hard not to stare or
laugh. He must have been wishing, too, with all his might down in the
disregarded depths of his heart, that the old lady would yield to the
boredom and fatigue that were slowly creeping over her. Soon! Before that
pair of Indians came back. But by nothing, not even the faintest
irrepressible inflection of voice was that wish made manifest.

It broke over Mary suddenly that this would never happen. Aunt Lucile
might die at her post, but she'd never, in Graham's presence, retire
through a door which was known to lead to her bedroom. She rose and going
around to her aunt's chair, laid a light hand on her shoulder. But she
spoke to Graham.

"Let's go out and bring in the wanderers," she said. "Aunt Lucile has had
a pretty long day and I know she won't be able to go to sleep until
Sylvia is tucked in for the night."

When the door had closed behind them and they stood where the path,
already faintly indicated, led down to the road, he stopped with a jerk
and mutely looked at her.

"Do you know where that fence of theirs is?" she asked.

"Yes, I guess so," he said. Then--it was almost a cry--"Must we go there?
Right away?"

"I don't know that we need." (Why should he be tortured like that! What
d