ery next week Jerome did not come, then a month went
by and he had not appeared once at the Squire's house.

Chapter XXIX

One Sunday afternoon, during the latter part of July, Lucina Merritt
strolled down the road to her aunt Camilla's. The day was very
warm--droning huskily with insects, and stirring lazily with limp
leaves.

There had been no rain for a long time, and the road smoked high with
white dust at every foot-fall. Lucina raised her green and white
muslin skirts above her embroidered petticoat, and set her little
feet as lightly as a bird's. She carried a ruffled green silk parasol
to shield herself from the sun, though her hat had a wide brim and
flapped low over her eyes.

Her mother had remonstrated with her for going out in the heat, since
she had not looked quite well of late. "You will make your head
ache," said she.

"It is so cool in Aunt Camilla's north room," pleaded Lucina, and had
her way.

She walked slowly, as her mother had enjoined, but it was like
walking between a double fire of arrows from the blazing white sky
and earth; when she came in sight of her aunt Camilla's house her
head was dizzy and her veins were throbbing.

Lucina had not been happy during the last few weeks, and sometimes,
in such cases, physical discomfort acts like a tonic poison. For the
latter part of the way she thought of nothing but reaching the
shelter of Camilla's north room; her mind regarding all else was at
rest.

Miss Camilla's house was closed as tightly as a convent; not a breath
of out-door air would she have admitted after the early mornings of
those hot days. Lucina entered into night and coolness in comparison
with the glare of day outside. When she had her hat removed, and sat
in the green gloom of the north parlor, sipping a glass of water
which Liza had drawn from the lowest depths of the well, then
flavored with currant-jelly and loaf-sugar, she felt almost at peace
with her own worries.

Her aunt Camilla, clad in dimly flowing old muslin, sat near the
chimney-place, swaying a feather fan. She had her Bible on her knees,
but she had not been reading; the light was too dim for her eyes. The
fireplace was filled with the feathery green of asparagus, which also
waved lightly over the gilded looking-glass, and was reflected airily
therein. Asparagus plumes waved over all the old pictures also. The
whole room from this delicate garnishing, the faded green tone of the
furniture covers a