ss Chancellor invited us both; she is very thoughtful. She is
not merely a theoretic philanthropist--she goes into details," said Miss
Birdseye, presenting her large person, in her chair, as if she herself
were only an item. "It seems as if we were not so much wanted in Boston,
just in August."

"And here you sit and enjoy the breeze, and admire the view," the young
man remarked, wondering when the two messengers, whose seven minutes
must long since have expired, would return from the post office.

"Yes, I enjoy everything in this little old-world place; I didn't
suppose I should be satisfied to be so passive. It's a great contrast to
my former exertions. But somehow it doesn't seem as if there were any
trouble, or any wrong round here; and if there should be, there are Miss
Chancellor and Miss Tarrant to look after it. They seem to think I had
better fold my hands. Besides, when helpful, generous minds begin to
flock in from _your_ part of the country," Miss Birdseye continued,
looking at him from under the distorted and discoloured canopy of her
hat with a benignity which completed the idea in any cheerful sense he
chose.

He felt by this time that he was committed to rather a dishonest part;
he was pledged not to give a shock to her optimism. This might cost him,
in the coming days, a good deal of dissimulation, but he was now saved
from any further expenditure of ingenuity by certain warning sounds
which admonished him that he must keep his wits about him for a purpose
more urgent. There were voices in the hall of the house, voices he knew,
which came nearer, quickly; so that before he had time to rise one of
the speakers had come out with the exclamation--"Dear Miss Birdseye,
here are seven letters for you!" The words fell to the ground, indeed,
before they were fairly spoken, and when Ransom got up, turning, he saw
Olive Chancellor standing there, with the parcel from the post office in
her hand. She stared at him in sudden horror; for the moment her
self-possession completely deserted her. There was so little of any
greeting in her face save the greeting of dismay, that he felt there was
nothing for him to say to her, nothing that could mitigate the odious
fact of his being there. He could only let her take it in, let her
divine that, this time, he was not to be got rid of. In an instant--to
ease off the situation--he held out his hand for Miss Birdseye's
letters, and it was a proof of Olive's having turned rat