er own eyes, and, above all, for giving her rustic lover
the chance of impersonating an injured emperor.

It did not simplify the situation to have Mite Shapley come in during
the evening and run upstairs, uninvited, to sit on the toot of her bed
and chatter.

Rose had closed her blinds and lay in the dark, pleading a headache.

Mite was in high feather. She had met Claude Merrill going to the
station that afternoon. He was much too early for the train, which the
station agent reported to be behind time, so he had asked her to take a
drive. She didn't know how it happened, for he looked at his watch every
now and then; but, anyway, they got to laughing and "carrying on," and
when they came back to the station the train had gone. Wasn't that the
greatest joke of the season? What did Rose suppose they did next?

Rose didn't know and didn't care; her head ached too badly.

Well, they had driven to Wareham, and Claude had hired a livery team
there, and had been taken into Portland with his trunk, and she had
brought Mrs. Brooks's horse back to Edgewood. Wasn't that ridiculous?
And hadn't she cut out Rose where she least expected?

Rose was distinctly apathetic, and Mite Shapley departed after a very
brief call, leaving behind her an entirely new train of thought.

If Claude Merrill were so love-blighted that he could only by the
greatest self-control keep from flinging himself into the river, how
could he conceal his sufferings so completely from Mite Shapley,--little
shallow-pated, scheming coquette?

"So that pretty Merrill feller has gone, has he, mother?" inquired Old
Kennebec that night, as he took off his wet shoes and warmed his feet at
the kitchen oven. "Well, it ain't a mite too soon. I allers distrust
that pink-an'-white, rosy-posy kind of a man. One of the most turrible
things that ever happened in Gard'ner was brought about by jest sech a
feller. Mothers hedn't hardly ought to name their boy babies Claude
without they expect 'em to play the dickens with the girls. I don' know
nothin' 'bout the fust Claude, there ain't none of 'em in the Bible,
air they, but whoever he was, I bate ye he hed a deceivin' tongue. If it
hedn't be'n for me, that Claude in Gard'ner would 'a' run away with my
brother's fust wife; an' I'll tell ye jest how I contrived to put a
spoke in his wheel."

But Mrs. Wiley, being already somewhat familiar with the circumstances,
had taken her candle and retired to her virtuous couch.