d me about Annabel Sinclair the last
time you were here?"

"Lord!" he panted, but her gaze held him mercilessly. "I'm not likely
to forget it."

"What I want to know is this. How old was Annabel when--when you
kissed her?"

Thomas drew out his handkerchief and mopped his damp forehead.

"Why, I s'pose she was fifteen or sixteen. She wasn't as tall as
Diantha is, and I guess she was a few years younger."

Persis did not reply. When he ventured to look in her direction, she
was regarding him with strange dilated eyes.

"Thomas, you said she was Stanley Sinclair's wife."

"Well, she is, isn't she? Why, you don't mean--"

He interrupted himself, his look changing. "What kind of a man d'ye
think I am, Persis Dale?" he challenged her angrily. "If you've known
me all your life and think I'm the sort to be carrying on with other
men's wives--well, I guess I'd better be going."

He got to his feet and then sank helplessly into a chair. He had never
seen Persis cry before. He had not realized that she could cry. Yet
without doubt those were tears upon her cheeks.

But if crying, Persis was smiling, too. His heart fluttered, and
performed some extraordinary gymnastic feat, when she held out her hand.

"Thomas, I was in the wrong, I'll own it. I never favored jumping at
conclusions and less than ever now. Maybe--maybe if I hadn't thought
so much of you, I'd have been slower to think evil."

He did not trouble himself with the feminine lack of logic indicated in
her closing words. He had clasped her hand in both of his and was
holding it last, as if he never meant to let it go.

"Persis--Persis, you weren't fair to me in that, but I don't lay any
claim to being all I'd ought to be. There's no end of things you'd
have to forgive. I don't know as I've ever told you about the time Ed
Collins and I--"

A movement on the part of Persis' disengaged hand checked his
confession.

"Thomas," she protested while she smiled, "if you own up to any more
things, I declare I believe I'll have to even up by telling you how old
I am. And that's one thing a woman don't like to mention, except, of
course, to her husband."

Two days later Diantha Sinclair was married at eight o'clock in the
evening. The church was crowded. Wide-eyed girls took in every detail
and dreamed of acting the star role on a similar happy occasion.
Complacent matrons, in their Sunday best, exchanged voluble comments.
The wedding party was