after her.

With a low whistle, Doctor Stedman turned to William Jaquith.

"Our old friend seems agitated," he said. "What has happened to distress
her?"

Jaquith made no reply. He was tying up a rosebush with shaking fingers,
and his usually pale face was flushed, perhaps with exertion.

Doctor Stedman's bushy eyebrows came together.

"Hum!" he said, half aloud. "Lily Bent! why,--ha! yes. How is your
mother, Will? I have not seen her for some time."

"She's very well, thank you, sir!" said Will Jaquith, hurrying on his
coat, and gathering up his gardening tools. "If you will excuse me,
Doctor Stedman, I must get back to the office; Mr. Homer will be looking
for me; he gave me this hour off, to see to Mrs. Tree's roses. Good
day."

"Now, what is going on here?" said James Stedman to himself, as, still
standing on the porch, he watched the young man going off down the
street with long strides. "The air is full of mystery--and prickles. And
why is Lily Bent--pretty creature! Why, I haven't seen her since I came
back, haven't laid eyes on her! Why is she brought into it? H'm! let me
see! Wasn't there a boy and girl attachment between her and Willy
Jaquith? To be sure there was! I can see them now going to school
together, he carrying her satchel. Then--she had a long bout of slow
fever, I remember. Pottle attended her, and it's a wonder--h'm! But
wasn't that about the time when that little witch, Ada Vere, came here,
and turned both the boys' heads, and carried off poor Willy, and half
broke Arthur's heart? H'm! Well, I don't know what I can do about it.
Hum! pretty it all looks here! If there isn't the strawberry bush, grown
out of all knowledge! We were big children, Vesta and I, before we gave
up hoping that it would bear strawberries. How we used to play here!"

His eyes wandered about the pleasant place, resting with friendly
recognition on every knotty shrub and ancient vine.

"The snowball is grown a great tree. How long is it since I have really
been in this garden? Passing through in a hurry, one doesn't see things.
That must be the rose-flowered hawthorn. My dear little Vesta! I can see
her now with the wreath I made for her one day. She was a little pink
rose then under the rosy wreath; now she is a white one, but more a
rose than ever. Whom have we here?"

A wagon had drawn up by the garden gate with two sleepy white horses. A
brown, white-bearded face was turned toward the doctor.

"Hello, doc',"