seemed mean and homely in
her eyes. She saw her father's silhouette on the curtain, his corncob
pipe in his mouth, and while she would have liked to exhibit her lover
to her family, she was ashamed of their rustic ways and feared the
impression they might make upon the mayor of Warwick.

The village of Hillside was typical of the country. In summer time a
stream dropping down from the hills turned the wheels of a large paper
mill. There was a general store, a post-office, a white, wooden
Congregational church with four Corinthian pillars, and an inn dating
from Colonial days, as its swinging sign-board, adorned with the
blurred image of a Revolutionary soldier, bore witness. This inn, "The
Old Continental," had recovered from its moribund condition with the
advent of the automobile, and was often the scene of gay supper parties
from Warwick. It had received a new coat of yellow paint and a new
roof, but the Society for the Preservation of Colonial Landmarks had
decreed that the figure of the soldier on the sign-board should remain
untouched by the brush. Thus the uniform that had once shone so spick
and span in streaks of buff and blue would better recall the ragged
regimentals of the well-known poem.

The distance from Warwick was ten miles, but it still lacked something
of six o'clock when Emmet drove into the stable, blanketed his mare,
and lifted his companion from the sleigh. He led her through a side
door and into a small room that had formerly been the kitchen. Here,
in a huge brick fireplace, blazing logs threw out a dancing light that
glinted on the polished mahogany table and quaint chairs, and disclosed
the dark red walls and brown beams, as well as several highly coloured
English coaching scenes.

Lena seated herself close to the blaze, and glanced up at the sooty
arch above her head with small appreciation of the historic memories of
the place, of the archaeological interest inherent in the swinging
crane and twisted andirons. It did not occur to her, as it would have
occurred to many visitors, to open the doors of the baking-ovens at the
side and to peer within. If she thought at all of these things, it was
merely to realise their inconvenience, and to be reminded of the
similar room in her own home.

And yet, though she did not know it, she was eligible to membership in
the Daughters of the American Revolution. Her ancestors had taken
their muskets from just such chimney places to go forth