or his temper. Even after dinner he was still
undecided. Should he go westward to Valley City by the ten o'clock
train? or wait till morning? or throw it all up and join the other men
at the mountains? It was a close evening. Anne was at that moment on the
ferry-boat.

Mademoiselle had carefully misled her friend Mr. Green; so great was her
caution, so intricate her manoeuvres, that she not only never once told
him the truth, but also had taken the trouble to invent elaborate
fictions concerning herself and her school at Valley City every time she
closed the half-house and bade him good-by. The only person who knew
where she really was was the Roman Catholic priest who had charge of the
mission church at the railway-car shops three miles distant; to this
secret agent was intrusted the duty of walking over once a week, without
exciting the notice of the neighborhood, to see if the half-house
remained safe and undisturbed. For this service mademoiselle paid a
small sum each week to the mission; and it was money well earned. The
priest, a lank, lonely, sad-eyed young Irishman, with big feet in low
shoes, came down the track once in seven days to Lancaster, as if for a
walk, taking the half-house within his varying circuit, and, with the
tact of his nation and profession, never once betraying his real object.
On this occasion Jeanne-Armande had even showed Mr. Green her tickets to
Valley City: what could be surer?

At sunset, in the city, the air grew cooler, a salt breeze came up the
harbor from the ocean, tossing bluely outside. Heathcote decided to take
another glass of wine, and the morning train. To the mountains?

The next day he was somewhat disgustedly eating breakfast at New
Macedonia; and going through the cars an hour later, came upon Anne. He
had not expected to see her. He was as much surprised as she was.

Why had he followed her? He could hardly have given a clear answer, save
perhaps that he was accustomed to follow his inclinations wherever they
led him, without hinderance or question. For there existed no one in the
world who had the right to question him; and therefore he was without
the habit of accounting for what he did, even to himself. It may,
perhaps, be considered remarkable that, with such a position and
training, he was, as a man, no worse than he was; that is, that he
should be so good a fellow, after all, when he had possessed such
unlimited opportunities to be a bad one. But natural refinem