liged."

"Won't you come in?" Laura must not be rude, at any cost.

"No, I can't. I must run back. My light bread's raisin' and it'll raise
the ruff if I don't work the meanness out of it."

Just then Jerry Swaim came bounding through the hall doorway. "Look
here, Laura! See what I have found." She held up her beaded hand-bag and
pulled the stuffed silken purse out of it. "Now how did it ever get in
there? I'm a good many things, but I never knew I was a shoplifter,"
Jerry declared, laughingly, a bit of confused blush making her prettier
than usual.

"Why--why--" Laura was embarrassed, not for Jerry's sake, but on account
of those steel hooks thrusting themselves into her back through the
honeysuckle-vines.

"Say, Laury, I jis' wanted to say I'm goin' to Mis' Lenwell's first.
Good-by." Stellar Bahrr's voice, sharp and thin, cut through the vines.

As Laura turned to reply Jerry saw her fair face redden, and her voice
was almost harsh as she spoke clearly, to be well heard.

"I remember now. I must have put it in there by mistake when you were
down-town yesterday afternoon. I guess I thought it was my bag."

Mrs. Bahrr, turning to go, had caught sight of Jerry's hand-bag through
the leaves, and remembered perfectly that Jerry had carried it with her
down-town the day before, and how well it matched the beaded trimming of
her parasol, her wide-brimmed chiffon hat, and the sequins of her sash
trimmings against her silk walking-skirt.

Jerry recalled taking the bag with her, too, and she recalled just then
what Mrs. Stellar Bahrr had hinted about Laura not wanting York to
admire other women. Why did that thought come to the girl's mind just
now? Was the wish of the evil mind of the woman hitching away across
lots and corkscrewing down alleyways projecting itself so far as this?

XI

AN INTERLUDE IN "EDEN"

An interlude should be brief. This one ran through a few midsummer days
with amazing rapidity, considering that in its duration the current of a
life was changed from one channel, whither it had been tending for
almost a quarter of a century, to another and widely different course
that ran away from the very goal-mark of all its years of inspiring
ambition.

It was late afternoon of a July day. Jerusha Darby sat in the
rose-arbor, fanning and rocking in rhythmic motion. The rose-vines had
ceased to bloom. Their thinning foliage was augmented now by the heavier
shade of thrifty moon-vines.

Midsum