news outdistanced her to the porch. Charlotte
Plimpton looking very red and solid, her eyes glittering with
excitement, blocked her way.

"Alison?" she cried, in the slightly nasal voice that was a Gore
inheritance, "I'm told your father's gone to Calvary! Has Mr. Hodder
offended him? I heard rumours--Wallis seems to be afraid that something
has happened."

"He hasn't said anything about it to me, Charlotte," said Alison, in
quiet amusement, "but then he wouldn't, you know. I don't live here
any longer, and he has no reason to think that I would be interested in
church matters."

"But--why did you come?" Charlotte demanded, with Gore naivete.

Alison smiled.

"You mean--what was my motive?"

Charlotte actually performed the miracle of getting redder. She was
afraid of Alison--much more afraid since she had known of her vogue in
the East. When Alison had put into execution the astounding folly (to
the Gore mind) of rejecting the inheritance of millions to espouse
a profession, it had been Charlotte Plimpton who led the chorus of
ridicule and disapproval. But success, to the Charlotte Plimptons, is
its own justification, and now her ambition (which had ramifications)
was to have Alison "do" her a garden. Incidentally, the question had
flashed through her mind as to how much Alison's good looks had helped
towards her triumph in certain shining circles.

"Oh, of course I didn't mean that," she hastened to deny, although
it was exactly what she had meant. Her curiosity unsatisfied--and
not likely to be satisfied at once, she shifted abruptly to the other
burning subject. "I was so glad when I learned you hadn't gone. Grace
Larrabbee's garden is a dream, my dear. Wallis and I stopped there the
other day and the caretaker showed it to us. Can't you make a plan for
me, so that I may begin next spring? And there's something else I wanted
to ask you. Wallis and I are going to New York the end of the month.
Shall you be there?"

"I don't know," said Alison, cautiously.

"We want so much to see one or two of your gardens on Long Island, and
especially the Sibleys', on the Hudson. I know it will be late in the
season,--but don't you think you could take us, Alison? And I intend to
give you a dinner. I'll write you a note. Here's Wallis."

"Well, well, well," said Mr. Plimpton, shaking Alison's hand. "Where's
father? I hear he's gone to Calvary."

Alison made her escape. Inside the silent church, Eleanor Goodrich gave