er head.

"Yes. I am coming home to live. Of course, this is my place of
residence; my voter's bed, as the politicians say, is here in
Herculaneum. But I mean to live here now in deed as well as in
thought."

"I am sure we shall be delighted to have you with us." This was said
gravely. A thought, which she would have repelled gladly, sprang into
being. "I know John will be glad. He's always talking about you and
your exploits at college."

"Our exploits," he corrected, laughing. "Shall we give them a little
exercise now?" he asked, with a gesture toward the long brown road.

She nodded, and they started off at a sharp trot, and presently broke
into a canter. So he was coming home to live? She felt a hot wave of
sudden anger sweep over her, and her hands tightened on the reins. It
was true, then? She loved her brother. What right had this man at her
side to threaten her brother's happiness? Had Katherine Challoner
signified her desire not to leave New York, would Warrington have
decided to return to Herculaneum? Her hands relaxed. What a silly
little fool she was! She, who despised and contemned gossip, was
giving it ready ear. Had she ever found gossip other than an errant,
cowardly liar? Gossip, gossip! Ah, if gossip, when she had made her
round, would not leave suspicion behind her; suspicion, hydra-headed!
What signified it that Warrington intended to come home to live? What
signified it that her brother's wife would live across the way? She
was ashamed of her evil thought; presently she would be no better than
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, or any of those women who get together to tear
somebody apart. As if Warrington could compare with her big, handsome,
manly brother! It was all impossible. She would punish herself for
even entertaining such a thought as had been hers but a moment gone.

She stole a glance at Warrington. He was riding easily, his feet light
in the stirrups, his head thrown back, his eyes half closed, and was
breathing deeply of the cool air, which was heavy with the smell of
sweet clover and dew-wet earth. It was a good, clean, honest face.
Indeed, it was all impossible. Dissipation writes plainly upon the
human countenance, and it had left no visible sign on Warrington's
face. It may be that dissipation sometimes whimsically neglects to
write at all.

They thundered over a wooden bridge. The spirit of the morning was in
the horses; they began to race. An unexpected curve in the road
discovered a