him--he's as particular as never was--and he wan't crooked and she
wan't deaf when they was born, so it's likely their children will be
all right. I'm that proud when I think of the match."

Roger fled out of the house, white of face and sick of heart. He went,
not to the bay shore, but to Isabel Temple's grave. He had never been
there since the night when he had rescued Lilith, but now he rushed to
it in his new agony. His aunt's horrible practicalities had filled him
with disgust--they dragged his love in the dust of sordid things. And
Lilith was rich; he had never known that--never suspected it. He could
never ask her to marry him now; he must never see her again. For the
second time he had lost her, and this second losing could not be
borne.

He sat down on the big boulder by the grave and dropped his poor grey
face in his hands, moaning in anguish. Nothing was left him, not even
dreams. He hoped he could soon die.

He did not know how long he sat there--he did not know when she came.
But when he lifted his miserable eyes, he saw her, sitting just a
little way from him on the big stone and looking at him with something
in her face that made his heart beat madly. He forgot Aunt Catherine's
sacrilege--he forgot that he was a presumptuous fool. He bent forward
and kissed her lips for the first time. The wonder of it loosed his
bound tongue.

"Lilith," he gasped, "I love you."

She put her hand into his and nestled closer to him.

"I thought you would have told me that long ago," she said.

Uncle Richard's New Year's Dinner

Prissy Baker was in Oscar Miller's store New Year's morning, buying
matches--for New Year's was not kept as a business holiday in
Quincy--when her uncle, Richard Baker, came in. He did not look at
Prissy, nor did she wish him a happy New Year; she would not have
dared. Uncle Richard had not been on speaking terms with her or her
father, his only brother, for eight years.

He was a big, ruddy, prosperous-looking man--an uncle to be proud of,
Prissy thought wistfully, if only he were like other people's uncles,
or, indeed, like what he used to be himself. He was the only uncle
Prissy had, and when she had been a little girl they had been great
friends; but that was before the quarrel, in which Prissy had had no
share, to be sure, although Uncle Richard seemed to include her in his
rancour.

Richard Baker, so he informed Mr. Miller, was on his way to Navarre
with a load of pork.