as the last monosyllabic epithet
she would have selected as applying to grave, earnest, downright
Desire.

At East Keaton, the train stopped for five minutes.

Sylvie had begged Mr. Kirkbright beforehand to get her mother's
foot-warmer filled with hot water at the station, and he had just
returned with it. She was busily arranging it under Mrs. Argenter's
feet again, and wrapping the rug about her, kneeling beside her
chair to do so, when some one entered the drawing-room car in which
the party was, and came up behind her.

She thought she was in the way of some stranger, and hastily arose.

"I beg your pardon," she said, instinctively, and turned as she
spoke.

"What for?" asked Rodney Sherrett, holding out both hands, and
grasping hers before she was well aware.

There were morning stars in her eyes, and a beautiful sunrise
crimsoned her cheek. These two had not seen each other all summer.

Aunt Euphrasia looked from one face to the other.

"Not to say anything for two years!" she thought, recalling inwardly
her brother's wise injunction. "It says itself, though; and it was
made to!"

"How do you do, Mrs. Argenter? I hope you are feeling better for
your country summer? Aunt Effie! _You're_ not surprised to see me?
Did you think I would let you go down without?"

No; Aunt Effie, when she had written him that regular little Sunday
afternoon note from Brickfield, telling him that they were all to
come down on Tuesday, had thought no such thing. And she was at this
moment, with wise forethought, packed in behind all the others, in
the most inaccessible corner of the car.

"You're not going down to the city?"

But he was. Rodney's eyes sparkled as he told her.

"Your own doctrine exemplified. Things always happen, you say.
One of the mills is stopped for just this very day of all
others,--repairing machinery. I'm off work, for the first time in
four months. There has been no low water all summer. Regular header,
straight through. Don't you see I'm perfectly emaciated with the
confinement? I've breathed in wool-stuffing till I feel like a
pincushion."

"An emaciated wool-stuffed pincushion! Yes, I think you do look a
little like it!" Aunt Euphrasia talked nonsense just as he did,
because she was so pleased she could not help it.

They paired, naturally. Miss Kirkbright and Mrs. Argenter, facing
each other in the corner, were eating tongue sandwiches out of the
same basket; and Sylvie had poured out for