eplied, "but when a woman's curiosity
is aroused, she is easily managed. If father will drive home alone, I
consent to your terms. Father," she continued, turning around and
interrupting a conversation which Judge Moreland was holding with an
elder, "here is Harold Wainwright."

"Glad to see you, Harold," said the Judge, taking Wainwright's hand and
giving it the hearty shake of unaffected cordiality. "Glad to see the
son of the best friend I ever had. You must bring your grip up to the
house. What brought you to Fairville?"

Harold was about to reply to these numerous and disconnected remarks,
but he was interrupted by Florence. "Harold brings news I must hear; he
won't tell me unless I promise to let him walk home with me. Do you
mind, father?"

"Certainly not. I'll take Elder Jones home--if I can persuade him to
ride on Sunday," the Judge added in a whisper.

"Very well, then. Good-by, father," said Florence, moving toward the
door.

"Good-by, children. It's a hot day, so don't hurry. If you want to stop
under the willows to rest, I sha'n't mind, and I'll wait lunch for you.
Don't forget to move up to the house, Harold."

"Thank you, Judge," said Harold, "but as I leave in the morning, I don't
believe I had better bother you."

"Nonsense, my boy," called the Judge. "I'll send down for your traps
this afternoon."

When Florence and Harold reached the street, the congregation had mostly
dispersed. Instead of following the villagers along under the shady elms
into the heart of the village, they turned to the left, and tramped in
the hot sun toward the shore of the little lake which lay at the end of
the town. Judge Moreland's place was on the opposite bank, and although
the grey tower on the north wing of the house, rising above the
surrounding oak trees, seemed quite near, they were obliged to follow
the road for a mile and a half along the lake shore. About half way was
a clump of willow trees growing by the water, under whose shade they had
often stopped to rest. Florence and Harold both loved this little lake,
sunk like a gem amid the rough setting of the mountain crags, and they
both felt, instinctively, that they did not care to talk much until they
reached their old haunt under the willows. Even Florence forgot her
curiosity, and as she walked beside Harold over the road they had so
often tramped together, she seemed to forget that he had been away, and
that at their last meeting in distant Chicago so m