ife. That it had been hard, and unpleasant, and that he
had been denied the benefits of schooling were about all the facts the
girls had gathered, even now.

After that Neale seemed more afraid than ever of meeting somebody on the
public streets. Agnes and Ruth knew that he never went out evenings,
save to climb over the fence and come to the old Corner House.

He was spending more time at his books, having earned a nice little sum
during the winter taking care of furnaces and shoveling paths. That work
was past now, and he said he had enough money to keep him comfortably
until the end of the school year.

It was another Saturday. Neale had driven out into the country for a
neighbor, but had promised to come to the old Corner House about four
o'clock. Almost always he took supper Saturday evening with the girls.
Mrs. MacCall usually had fishcakes and baked beans, and Neale was
extravagantly fond of that homely New England combination.

As it chanced, none of the four Kenways but Ruth went shopping that
afternoon. It was warm enough for Tess and Dot to have their dolls out
in the summer-house. They had set up house-keeping there for the season
and were very busy.

Agnes had found a book that she enjoyed immensely, and she was wrapped
up in an old coat and hidden in a crotch of the Baldwin appletree behind
the woodshed. She was so deeply absorbed that she did not wake to the
click of the gate-latch and did not realize there was a stranger in the
yard until she heard a heavy boot on the brick walk.

"Hello, my gal!" said a rough voice. "Ain't none of the folks to home?"

Agnes dropped the book and sprang down from the appletree in a hurry.
There at the corner of the shed stood a man in varnished top boots, with
spurs in the heels--great, cruel looking spurs--velveteen breeches, a
short, dirty white flannel coat, and a hard hat--something between a
stovepipe and a derby. Agnes realized that it was some kind of a riding
costume that he wore, and he lashed his bootleg with his riding whip as
he talked.

He was such a red-faced man, and he was so stout and rough looking, that
Agnes scarcely knew how to speak to him. She noted, too, that he had a
big seal ring on one finger and that a heavy gold watchchain showed
against his waistcoat where the short jacket was cut away.

"Who--who are you?" Agnes managed to stammer at last. "And what do you
want?"

"Why, I'm Sorber, I am," said the man. "Sorber, of Twomley & Sorber'