ne crossed the hall. Her masses of black hair were rolled
into a huge knot on top of her head; she was wearing a white work slip
and her arms were bare to the elbows--the finest arms he had ever seen,
Arthur thought. She seemed in a hurry and her face was flushed--she would
have looked no differently if she had heard his voice and had come forth
to prevent his getting away without having seen him. "Meg!" called her
sister. "Can you--"

Madelene apparently saw her sister and Arthur for the first time. "Good
morning, Mr. Ranger. You've come too late. Father's out."

Arthur repeated his doleful tale, convincingly now, for his hand did feel
queer--as what hand would not, remembering such a touch as Madelene's,
and longing to experience it again?

"Certainly," said Madelene. "I'll do the best I can. Come in."

And once more he was in her office, with her bending over him. And
presently her hair came unrolled, came showering down on his arm, on his
face; and he shook like a leaf and felt as if he were going to faint,
into such an ecstasy did the soft rain of these tresses throw him. As
for Madelene, she was almost hysterical in her confusion. She darted
from the room.

When she returned she seemed calm, but that was because she did not lift
those tell-tale gray eyes. Neither spoke as she finished her work. If
Arthur had opened his lips it would have been to say words which he
thought she would resent, and he repent. Not until his last chance had
almost ebbed did he get himself sufficiently in hand to speak. "It wasn't
true--what I said," he began. "I waited until your father was gone. Then
I came--to see you. As you probably know, I'm only a workman, hardly even
that, at the cooperage, but--I want to come to see you. May I?"

She hesitated.

"I know the people in this town have a very poor opinion of me," he went
on, "and I deserve it, no doubt. You see, the bottom dropped out of my
life not long ago, and I haven't found myself yet. But you did more for
me in ten minutes the other day than everything and everybody, including
myself, have been able to do since my father died."

"I don't remember that I said anything," she murmured.

"I didn't say that what you said helped me. I said what you _did_--and
looked. And--I'd like to come."

"We never have any callers," she explained. "You see,
father's--our--views--People don't understand us. And, too, we've found
ourselves very congenial and sufficient unto one another.