an," Margaret declared. "Still, it would make no
difference to me. He was the only person that I ever wanted to hide my
feelings from. I never so much as dreamed that he could care for
me--and, oh, Nan! suppose that he should be pretending simply to please
me!"

"You goose!" cried Nan. "Whoever heard of that man pretending, or trying
to deceive any one? If he was a young man, now, it would be different."

"Not with all young men," Margaret asserted. "There is Gabriel
Tolliver--I don't believe he would deceive any one."

"Oh, Gabriel--but why do you mention Gabriel?"

"Because his eyes are so beautiful and honest," answered Margaret.

But Nan tossed her head; she would never believe anything good about
Gabriel unless she said it herself--or thought it, for she could think
hundreds, yes, thousands, of things about Gabriel that she wouldn't dare
to breathe aloud, even though there was no living soul within a hundred
miles. And that fact needn't make Gabriel feel so awfully proud, for
there were other persons and things she could think about.

Ah, well! love is such a restless, suspicious thing, such an irritating,
foolish, freakish, solemn affair, that it is not surprising the two
young women were somewhat afraid of it when they found themselves in its
clutches.

CHAPTER THIRTY

_Miss Polly Has Some News_

The news which Miss Polly had laid as a social offering at Mrs. Lucy
Lumsden's feet, and which she boasted was very astonishing, had the
appearance of absurdity on the face of it. Miss Polly, with her work-bag
and her turkey-tail fan, had paid a very early visit to the Lumsden
Place. She went in very quietly, greeted her old friend in a subdued
manner, and then sat staring at her with an expression that Mrs. Lumsden
failed to understand. It might have been the result of special and
unmitigated woe, or of physical pain, or of severe fatigue. Whatever the
cause, it was unnatural, and so Gabriel's grandmother made haste to
inquire about it.

"Why, what in the world is the matter, Polly? Are you ill?"

At this Miss Polly acted as if she had been aroused from a dream or a
revery. Her work-bag slid from her lap, and her turkey-tail fan would
have fallen had it not been attached to her wrist by a piece of faded
ribbon. "I declare, Lucy, I don't know that I ought to tell you; and I
wouldn't if I thought you would repeat it to a living soul. It is more
than marvellous; it is, indeed, Lucy"--leaning a little n