e coming around again." She rose from the steps, still facing
the village. "Tell me, who is my nearest neighbor there, in the white
cottage?" she demanded.

"I am," Barry said unexpectedly. "So if you need--yeast is it, that
women always borrow?"

"Yeast," she assented laughing. "I will remember. And now tell me about
trains and things. Listen!" Her voice and look changed suddenly:
softened, brightened. "Is that children?" she asked, eagerly.

And a moment later four children, tired, happy and laden with orchard
spoils, came around the corner of the house. Barry presented them as
the Carews--George and Jeanette, a bashful fourteen and a
self-possessed twelve, and Dick, who was seven--and his own small dusty
son, Billy Valentine, who put a fat confiding hand in the strange
lady's as they all went down to the gate together.

"You are my Joanna's age, Jeanette," said Mrs. Burgoyne, easily. "I
hope you will be friends."

"Who will I be friends with?" said little Billy, raising blue expectant
eyes. "And who will George?"

"Why, I hope you will be friends with me," she answered laughing; "and
I will be so relieved if George will come up sometimes and help me with
bonfires and about what ought to be done in the stable. You see, I
don't know much about those things." At this moment George, hoarsely
muttering that he wasn't much good, he guessed, but he had some good
tools, fell deeply a victim to her charms.

Mrs. Carew came out of her own gate as they came up, and there was time
for a little talk, and promises, and goodbyes. Then Barry took Mrs.
Burgoyne to the station, and lifted his hat to the bright face at the
window as the train pulled out in the dusk. He went slowly to his
office from the train and attacked the litter of papers and clippings
on his desk absent-mindedly. Once he said half aloud, his big scissors
arrested, his forehead furrowed by an unaccustomed frown, "We were only
kids then; and they all thought I was the one who was going to do
something big."

CHAPTER IV

Barry appeared at Mrs. Carew's house a little after midnight to find
the card-players enjoying a successful supper, and the one topic of
conversation the possible sale of Holly Hall. Barry, suspected of
having news of it, was warmly welcomed by the tired, bright-eyed women
and the men in their somewhat rumpled evening clothes, and supplied
with salad and coffee.

"Is she really coming, Barry?" demanded Mrs. Lloyd eagerly. "And how