with a long, determined
stride, but to-day the drowsy, mellowing influence of the Autumn
afternoon was strong upon her and filled her with placid content.
Without being actively conscious of it, she was satisfied with the
existing circumstances of her life. It was half over now. The half of
it yet to be lived stretched before her, tranquil, pleasant and
uneventful, like the afternoon, filled with unhurried duties and
calmly interesting days, Cecily liked the prospect.

When she came to her own lane she paused, folding her hands on the top
of the whitewashed gate, while she basked for a moment in the warmth
that seemed cupped in the little grassy hollow hedged about with young
fir-trees.

Before her lay sere, brooding fields sloping down to a sandy shore,
where long foamy ripples were lapping with a murmur that threaded the
hushed air like a faint minor melody.

On the crest of the little hill to her right was her home--hers and
Lucy Ellen's. The house was an old-fashioned, weather-gray one, low in
the eaves, with gables and porches overgrown with vines that had
turned to wine-reds and rich bronzes in the October frosts. On three
sides it was closed in by tall old spruces, their outer sides bared
and grim from long wrestling with the Atlantic winds, but their inner
green and feathery. On the fourth side a trim white paling shut in the
flower garden before the front door. Cecily could see the beds of
purple and scarlet asters, making rich whorls of color under the
parlor and sitting-room windows. Lucy Ellen's bed was gayer and larger
than Cecily's. Lucy Ellen had always had better luck with flowers.

She could see old Boxer asleep on the front porch step and Lucy
Ellen's white cat stretched out on the parlor window-sill. There was
no other sign of life about the place. Cecily drew a long, leisurely
breath of satisfaction.

"After tea I'll dig up those dahlia roots," she said aloud. "They'd
ought to be up. My, how blue and soft that sea is! I never saw such a
lovely day. I've been gone longer than I expected. I wonder if Lucy
Ellen's been lonesome?"

When Cecily looked back from the misty ocean to the house, she was
surprised to see a man coming with a jaunty step down the lane under
the gnarled spruces. She looked at him perplexedly. He must be a
stranger, for she was sure no man in Oriental walked like that.

"Some agent has been pestering Lucy Ellen, I suppose," she muttered
vexedly.

The stranger came on wi