ions
of the West. Looking forward to meeting his wife, who would probably
be equally pleasing, Elsie felt that in any event she should be as
happy between visits as it would be possible to be anywhere without
Elsie Moss.

A short drive through the quiet, shady streets of what seemed to be an
old, historic town brought them to the parsonage, one of a group of
handsome, rather stately buildings near and about a green common. Of
colonial style, built of brick, it had a portico with great Corinthian
pillars, window-frames and cornices of wood painted white, and stood
far back from the street with a beautiful lawn studded by great elms
and a glimpse of a garden in the rear.

The driveway led to a side entrance under a porte-cochere. As the
carriage drew up, Mr. Middleton glanced eagerly toward the door. His
face fell.

"Your Aunt Milly will be here directly," he said and ushered her in.
As she entered the beautiful hall, Elsie couldn't help feeling how
fortunate she was to escape the boarding-house.

There was no one in sight. Mr. Middleton looked about, then led her
into one of the great front rooms on either side of the wide hall and
asked her to make herself comfortable while he went to see if her aunt
were ill.

"She is not very strong, as you know, Elsie, and the excitement may
have been too much for her," he explained. "She has looked forward so
eagerly to your arrival."

Fortunately he did not await any reply. Elsie felt suddenly stunned as
by a blow. Left alone, she gazed about her in amazement that was
almost horror. The large, square, corner room lighted by four great
windows that reached from the floor to the heavy cornice was
comfortably, even luxuriously, furnished, but--the girl could scarcely
believe her eyes--it was the most untidy-looking place she had ever
been in! The heavy crimson hangings, faded by the strong summer
sunlight, lost further color by their layer of dust, quite visible even
at this distance and at first sight. There were ashes on the hearth,
though the heap of waste-paper, dust, and miscellaneous rubbish in the
fireplace showed that it hadn't been used for some time. The piano, a
baby-grand, stood open, with dust on its dingy keys and more dust on
its shining case. The centre-table held a handsome reading-lamp and
some books, but was littered with piles of old newspapers and magazines
without covers. A kitchen-apron was flung across an armchair; a dirty,
paper-covered