cted hopefully, and
when she and Mollie received their next month's pocket money, she would
send that to Mrs. Wilson. It would take some time to pay back the fifty
dollars, but Mrs. Wilson had assured her that she could return it at her
own convenience. Bab felt that her vague distrust of this whole-souled,
generous woman had been groundless, and in her impulsive, girlish fashion
she was ready to do everything in her power to make amends for even
doubting this fascinating stranger who had so nobly come to her rescue.

By following carefully the directions given her by Mrs. Wilson for
finding her house, Bab arrived at her destination with very little
confusion. She looked at her watch as she ascended the steps and saw that
it was just half past four o'clock. "I'm on time at any rate," she
murmured as she rang the bell.

"Is Mrs. Wilson here?" she inquired of the maid who answered the bell.

"Come this way, please," said the maid, and Bab followed her across the
square hall and through a door hung with heavy portieres. She found
herself in what appeared to be half library, half living room, and seemed
especially designed for comfort. A bright fire burned in the open fire
place at one side of the room, and before the fire stood a young man, who
turned abruptly as Bab entered.

"How do you do, Miss Thurston," said Peter Dillon, coming forward and
taking her hand.

"Why--I thought--" stammered Barbara, a look of keen disappointment
leaping into her brown eyes, "that Mrs. Wilson--was--"

"To be here," finished Peter Dillon, smiling almost tantalizingly at her
evident embarrassment. "So she was, but she received a telephone message
half an hour ago and was obliged to go out for a little while. I
happened to be here when the message came and she told me that she
expected you to call at half past four o'clock and asked me if I would
wait and receive you. She left a note for you in my care. Here it is."

Peter Dillon handed Bab an envelope addressed to "Miss Barbara Thurston,"
looking at her searchingly as he did so. Bab colored hotly under his
almost impertinent scrutiny as she reached out her hand for the envelope.
She had an uncomfortable feeling at that moment that perhaps Peter Dillon
knew as much about the contents of the envelope as she did.

"Thank you, Mr. Dillon," she said in a low voice. "I think I won't wait
for Mrs. Wilson. Please tell her that I thank her and that I'll write."

"Very well," replied the youn