with her from England.
Judith thought contrastingly of Eben King's staring, primrose-colored
house in all its bare, intrusive grandeur. She gave a little shrug of
distaste.

"I wish Bruce knew of this," she thought, flushing even in her
solitude at the idea. "Although if it is true that he is going to see
Kitty Leigh I don't suppose he'd care. And Aunt Theo will be sure to
send word to Eben by hook or crook. Whatever possessed me to say such
a mad thing? There goes Mrs. Tony now, all agog to spread such a
delectable bit of gossip."

Mrs. Tony had indeed gone, refusing Mrs. Theodora's invitation to stay
to tea, so eager was she to tell her story. And Mrs. Theodora, at that
very minute, was out in her kitchen yard, giving her instructions to
Potter Vane, the twelve year old urchin who cut her wood and did
sundry other chores for her.

"Potter," she said, excitedly, "run over to the Kings' and tell Eben
to come over here immediately--no matter what he's at. Tell him I want
to see him about something of the greatest importance."

Mrs. Theodora thought that this was a master stroke.

"That match is as good as made," she thought triumphantly as she
picked up chips to start the tea fire. "If Judith suspects that Eben
is here she is quite likely to stay in her room and refuse to come
down. But if she does I'll march him upstairs to her door and make him
ask her through the keyhole. You can't stump Theodora Whitney."

Alas! Ten minutes later Potter returned with the unwelcome news that
Eben was away from home.

"He went to Wexbridge about half an hour ago, his ma said. She said
she'd tell him to come right over as soon as he kem home."

Mrs. Theodora had to content herself with this, but she felt troubled.
She knew Mrs. Tony Mack's capabilities for spreading news. What if
Bruce Marshall should hear it before Eben?

That evening Jacob Plowden's store at Wexbridge was full of men,
sitting about on kegs and counters or huddling around the stove, for
the March air had grown sharp as the sun lowered in the creamy sky
over the Ramble Valley hills. Eben King had a keg in the corner. He
was in no hurry to go home for he loved gossip dearly and the
Wexbridge stores abounded with it. He had exhausted the news of Peter
Stanley's store across the bridge and now he meant to hear what was
saying at Plowden's. Bruce Marshall was there, too, buying groceries
and being waited on by Nora Plowden, who was by no means averse to the
serv