azed up, crimsoning him to the temples. "I never
dreamed--good God, it's too vile," he broke off, as if his thoughts
recoiled from the discovery.

"I won't never go back there," she repeated doggedly.

"No----" he assented.

There was a long interval of silence, during which she imagined that he
was searching her face for more light on what she had revealed to him;
and a flush of shame swept over her.

"I know the way you must feel about me," she broke out, "...telling you
such things...."

But once more, as she spoke, she became aware that he was no longer
listening. He came close and caught her to him as if he were snatching
her from some imminent peril: his impetuous eyes were in hers, and she
could feel the hard beat of his heart as he held her against it.

"Kiss me again--like last night," he said, pushing her hair back as if
to draw her whole face up into his kiss.

XII

ONE afternoon toward the end of August a group of girls sat in a room at
Miss Hatchard's in a gay confusion of flags, turkey-red, blue and white
paper muslin, harvest sheaves and illuminated scrolls.

North Dormer was preparing for its Old Home Week. That form of
sentimental decentralization was still in its early stages, and,
precedents being few, and the desire to set an example contagious, the
matter had become a subject of prolonged and passionate discussion under
Miss Hatchard's roof. The incentive to the celebration had come rather
from those who had left North Dormer than from those who had been
obliged to stay there, and there was some difficulty in rousing the
village to the proper state of enthusiasm. But Miss Hatchard's pale prim
drawing-room was the centre of constant comings and goings from Hepburn,
Nettleton, Springfield and even more distant cities; and whenever a
visitor arrived he was led across the hall, and treated to a glimpse of
the group of girls deep in their pretty preparations.

"All the old names... all the old names...." Miss Hatchard would be
heard, tapping across the hall on her crutches. "Targatt... Sollas...
Fry: this is Miss Orma Fry sewing the stars on the drapery for the
organ-loft. Don't move, girls... and this is Miss Ally Hawes, our
cleverest needle-woman... and Miss Charity Royall making our garlands of
evergreen.... I like the idea of its all being homemade, don't you? We
haven't had to call in any foreign talent: my young cousin Lucius
Harney, the architect--you know he's up here prepar