him--and I
hate him all the more for it--for having entered so deeply into my
life that I could not cast him out when I knew him unworthy. It is
humiliating. There--let us lock up Eden and go home. I suppose you are
dying to see Joyce and tell her your precious plot has succeeded."

Willard did not appear to be at all impatient. He had relapsed into a
brown study, during which he let Miss Sally lock up the house. Then he
walked silently home with her. Miss Sally was silent too. Perhaps she
was repenting her confidence--or perhaps she was thinking of her false
lover. There was a pathetic droop to her lips, and her black eyes were
sad and dreamy.

"Miss Sally," said Willard at last, as they neared her house, "had
Stephen Merritt any sisters?"

Miss Sally threw him a puzzled glance.

"He had one--Jean Merritt--whom I disliked and who disliked me," she
said crisply. "I don't want to talk of her--she was the only woman I
ever hated. I never met any of the other members of his family--his
home was in a distant part of the state."

Willard stayed with Joyce so brief a time that Miss Sally viewed his
departure with suspicion. This was not very lover-like conduct.

"I dare say he's like all the rest--when his aim is attained the
prize loses its value," reflected Miss Sally pessimistically. "Poor
Joyce--poor child! But there--there isn't a single inharmonious thing
in his house--that is one comfort. I'm so thankful I didn't let
Willard buy those brocade chairs he wanted. They would have given
Joyce the nightmare."

Meanwhile, Willard rushed down to the biological station and from
there drove furiously to the station to catch the evening express. He
did not return until three days later, when he appeared at Miss
Sally's, dusty and triumphant.

"Joyce is out," said Miss Sally.

"I'm glad of it," said Willard recklessly. "It's you I want to see,
Miss Sally. I have something to show you. I've been all the way home
to get it."

From his pocketbook Willard drew something folded and creased and
yellow that looked like a letter. He opened it carefully and, holding
it in his fingers, looked over it at Miss Sally.

"My grandmother's maiden name was Jean Merritt," he said deliberately,
"and Stephen Merritt was my great-uncle. I never saw him--he died when
I was a child--but I've heard my father speak of him often."

Miss Sally turned very pale. She passed her cobwebby handkerchief
across her lips and her hand trembled. Willa