ade a promise for a drive round the Pond Road. Margaret and
her brother were to come for her, and to return to Cross Corners for
tea.

At the hour fixed, she sat, waiting, under the elms, hat and mantle on,
and whiling the moments of delay with a new book Mr. Armstrong had lent
her.

Presently, the Rushleighs' light, open, single-seated wagon drove up.

Paul had come alone.

Margaret had a headache, but thought that after sundown she might feel
better, and begged that Faith would reverse the plan agreed upon, and
let Paul bring her home to tea with them.

Paul took for granted that Faith would keep to her engagement with
himself. It was difficult to refuse. She was ready, waiting. It would be
absurd to draw back, sensitively, now, she thought. Besides, it would be
very pleasant; and why should she be afraid? Yet she wished, very
regretfully, that Margaret were there.

She shrank from _tete-a-tetes_--from anything that might help to
precipitate a moment she felt herself not quite ready for.

She supposed she did care for Paul Rushleigh as most girls cared for
lovers; that she had given him reason to expect she should; she felt,
instinctively, whither all this pleased acquiescence of father and
mother, and this warm welcome and encouragement at Lakeside, tended; and
she had a dim prescience of what must, some time, come of it: but that
was all in the far-off by and by. She would not look at it yet.

She was afraid, now, as she let Paul help her into the wagon, and take
his place at her side.

She had been frightened by a word of her mother's, when she had gone to
her, before leaving, to tell how the plan had been altered, and ask if
she had better do as was wished of her.

Mrs. Gartney had assented with a smile, and a "Certainly, if you like
it, Faith; indeed, I don't see how you can very well help it; only----"

"Only what, mother?" asked Faith, a little fearfully.

"Nothing, dear," answered her mother, turning to her with a little
caress. But she had a look in her eyes that mothers wear when they begin
to see their last woman's sacrifice demand itself at their hands.

"Go, darling. Paul is waiting."

It was like giving her away.

So they drove down, through byways, among the lanes, toward the Wachaug
Road.

Summer was in her perfect flush and fullness of splendor. The smell of
new-mown hay was in the air.

As they came upon the river, they saw the workmen busy in and about the
new mills. Mr. Rushle