he peace and quiet of the locality. The result
was several summer outings for Miss Martha, and she never knew that she
owed them to the man with whom she had just missed spending her life.

Serene in the safety of her niece, and of her goods, and in the
prospect before her, she waited at the station for the train to
Portland. Her gray lisle-thread gloves were new, so was her tissue veil
and her straw hand-bag. She was conscious that she looked genteel, and
her mental sky was as cloudless as the firmament above her while she
watched the train draw into the station. She scanned each platform as
the cars slowly passed, and soon her search was rewarded by the sight
of Miss Derwent's brown-clothed figure and the eyes that laughed a
response to the eager face below. Miss Martha trotted briskly up the
steps.

"Here you are, my dear. What a day! Did you remember to send that
grocery list to Shaw's? Did Jenny come? Oh, yes. There she is. How do
you do, Jenny?" greeting Edna's cook, whose stolid rosy face gazed from
the chair opposite the one to which Miss Derwent led her friend.

All the way to Portland Miss Martha's tongue kept pace with the
velocity of the train. The one subject upon which it halted was her
niece. She longed to know all that Edna could tell her, but she
hesitated to reveal how slight was her own knowledge.

She cleared her throat before speaking tentatively.

"Judge Trent tells me you saw my niece at the farm."

"Yes, indeed," replied Edna. "I begged her to stay long enough for me
to have the pleasure of bringing you together, but she felt that she
couldn't do so."

Miss Lacey flushed. "Oh, we've met, you know," she replied.

"Indeed? I didn't understand, then."

"Oh, certainly. Of course I met her in Boston when she came on from the
West. Judge Trent,"--Miss Martha swallowed and moved uneasily,--"it
wasn't exactly convenient for him to go into the city that day. He's
just now been up to the farm to see Sylvia,--and of course _my_ visit
with her was very hurried and--unsatisfactory." Miss Martha swallowed
the obstacle in her throat again, whatever it was. She had a vague idea
that her conscience was rising in revolt against the impression she was
endeavoring to make. She was wont to say that some folks might have
consciences that spoke in still small voices, but that hers was the
yelling kind. On this occasion she repressed it firmly, although the
effort reddened her cheeks still further. Conscience