n on my part, but
somebody told me, or at least I understood, that you were engaged to
him."

"Somebody has told you a falsehood, then," she replied, and, with a bow
of rather strained dignity turned in at the gate of a house where a
moment before she had not had the remotest intention of stopping. If she
had been in a boat with him, she would have jumped into the water sooner
than protract the inter-view a moment after she had said that.
Mechanically she walked up the path and knocked at the door. Until the
lady of the house opened it, she did not notice where she had stopped.

Good-afternoon, Madeline. I'm glad to see you. You haven't made me a call
this ever so long."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Tuttle, but I haven't time to stop to-day. Ha--have you
got a--a pattern of a working apron? I'd like to borrow it."

CHAPTER V.

Now, Henry had not chanced to be at church that first Sunday evening when
Cordis obtained an introduction to Madeline, nor was he at Fanny Miller's
teaparty. Of the rapidly progressing flirtation between his sweetheart
and the handsome drug-clerk he had all this time no suspicion whatever.
Spending his days from dawn to sunset in the shop among men, he was not
in the way of hearing gossip on that sort of subject; and Laura, who
ordinarily kept him posted on village news, had, deemed it best to tell
him as yet nothing of her apprehensions. She was aware that the affection
between her brother and Madeline was chiefly on his side, and knew enough
of her wilfulness to be sure that any attempted interference by him would
only make matters worse. Moreover, now that she had warned Cordis that
Madeline was pre-empted property, she hoped he would turn his attention
elsewhere.

And so, while half the village was agog over the flirtation of the new
drug-clerk with Madeline Brand, and Laura was lying awake nights fretting
about it, Henry went gaily to and from his work in a state of blissful
ignorance. And it was very blissful. He was exultant over the progress he
had made in his courtship at the picnic. He had told his love--he had
kissed her. If he had not been accepted, he had, at least, not been
rejected, and that was a measure of success quite enough to intoxicate so
ardent and humble a lover as he. And, indeed, what lover might not have
taken courage at remembering the sweet pity that shone in her eyes at the
revelation of his love-lorn state? The fruition of his hopes, to which he
had only dared lo