ed the room to inform her mistress that Aunt
Judy was ready for her, stood in rigid uprightness, her torpid eyes
settled upon the lady. "I reckon," so ran the thought within the mazes
of her dark little interior, "dat Miss Rob's wuss disgruntled dan she
was dat ebenin' when I make my cake, fur she got two dif'ent kinds o'
shoes on."

The morning went on, and Keswick found that he must go out again for a
walk, although he had rambled several miles before breakfast. After her
household duties had been completed, Miss Roberta took her book out to
the porch; and about noon when her uncle came out and made some remarks
upon the beauty of the day, she turned over the page at which she had
opened the volume just after breakfast. An hour later Peggy brought her
some luncheon, and felt it to be her duty to inform Miss Rob that she
still wore one old boot and a new one. When Roberta returned to the
porch after making a suitable change, she found Keswick there looking a
little tired.

"Has your friend gone?" he asked, in a very quiet tone.

"He has not come yet," she answered.

"Not come!" exclaimed Keswick. "That's odd! However, there are two hours
yet before dinner."

The two hours passed and no Lawrence Croft appeared; nor came he at all
that day. About dusk the man at the Green Sulphur Springs rode over with
a note from Mr Croft. The note was to Miss March, of course, and it
simply stated that the writer was very sorry he could not keep the
appointment he had made with her, but that it had suddenly become
necessary for him to return to the North without continuing the journey
he had planned; that he was much grieved to be deprived of the
opportunity of seeing her again; but that he would give himself the
pleasure, at the earliest possible moment, of calling on Miss March when
she arrived in New York.

When Miss Roberta had read this note she handed it to Keswick, who, when
he returned it, asked: "Does that suit you?"

"No," said she, "it does not suit me at all."

CHAPTER VI.

It was mail day at the very small village known as Howlett's, and to the
fence in front of the post-office were attached three mules and a horse.
Inside the yard, tied to the low bough of a tree, was a very lean and
melancholy horse, on which had lately arrived Wesley Green, the negro
man who, twice a week, brought the mail from Pocohontas, a railway
station, twenty miles away. There was a station not six miles from
Howlett's, but, fo