couple alive. You ought to go and see them, they'd be
delighted. Aunt Flora just loves company. They're real lonesome by
times."

"Haven't they any children?" asked Constance indifferently. Her
interest was in the place, not in the people.

"No. They had a niece once, though. They brought her up and they just
worshipped her. She ran away with a worthless fellow--I forget his
name, if I ever knew it. He was handsome and smooth-tongued, but he
was a scamp. She died soon after and it just broke their hearts. They
don't even know where she was buried, and they never heard anything
more about her husband. I've heard that Aunt Flora's hair turned
snow-white in a month. I'll take you up to see her some day when I
find time."

Mrs. Hewitt did not find time, but thereafter Constance ordered her
rambles that she might frequently pass Heartsease Farm. The quaint old
spot had a strange attraction for her. She found herself learning to
love it, and so unused was this unfortunate girl to loving anything
that she laughed at herself for her foolishness.

One evening a fortnight later Constance, with her arms full of ferns
and wood-lilies, came out of the pine woods above Heartsease Farm just
as heavy raindrops began to fall. She had prolonged her ramble
unseasonably, and it was now nearly night, and very certainly a rainy
night at that. She was three miles from home and without even an extra
wrap.

She hurried down the lane, but by the time she reached the main road,
the few drops had become a downpour. She must seek shelter somewhere,
and Heartsease Farm was the nearest. She pushed open the gate and ran
up the slope of the yard between the hedges of sweetbriar. She was
spared the trouble of knocking, for as she came to a breathless halt
on the big red sandstone doorstep, the door was flung open, and the
white-haired, happy-faced little woman standing on the threshold had
seized her hand and drawn her in bodily before she could speak a word.

"I saw you coming from upstairs," said Aunt Flora gleefully, "and I
just ran down as fast as I could. Dear, dear, you are a little wet.
But we'll soon dry you. Come right in--I've a bit of a fire in the
grate, for the evening is chilly. They laughed at me for loving a fire
so, but there's nothing like its snap and sparkle. You're rained in
for the night, and I'm as glad as I can be. I know who you are--you
are Miss Foster. I'm Aunt Flora, and this is Uncle Charles."

Constance let hersel