od, solemnly promised each other that they would never
marry, and would always live together. From that time Cecily's mind
had been at ease. In her eyes a promise was a sacred thing.

The next evening at prayer-meeting Cromwell Biron received quite an
ovation from old friends and neighbors. Cromwell had been a favorite
in his boyhood. He had now the additional glamour of novelty and
reputed wealth.

He was beaming and expansive. He went into the choir to help sing.
Lucy Ellen sat beside him, and they sang from the same book. Two red
spots burned on her thin cheeks, and she had a cluster of lavender
chrysanthemums pinned on her jacket. She looked almost girlish, and
Cromwell Biron gazed at her with sidelong admiration, while Cecily
watched them both fiercely from her pew. She knew that Cromwell Biron
had come home, wooing his old love.

"But he sha'n't get her," Cecily whispered into her hymnbook. Somehow
it was a comfort to articulate the words, "She promised."

On the church steps Cromwell offered his arm to Lucy Ellen with a
flourish. She took it shyly, and they started down the road in the
crisp Autumn moonlight. For the first time in ten years Cecily walked
home from prayer-meeting alone. She went up-stairs and flung herself
on her bed, reckless for once, of her second best hat and gown.

Lucy Ellen did not venture to ask Cromwell in. She was too much in awe
of Cecily for that. But she loitered with him at the gate until the
grandfather's clock in the hall struck eleven. Then Cromwell went
away, whistling gaily, with Lucy Ellen's chrysanthemum in his
buttonhole, and Lucy Ellen went in and cried half the night. But
Cecily did not cry. She lay savagely awake until morning.

"Cromwell Biron is courting you again," she said bluntly to Lucy Ellen
at the breakfast table.

Lucy Ellen blushed nervously.

"Oh, nonsense, Cecily," she protested with a simper.

"It isn't nonsense," said Cecily calmly. "He is. There is no fool like
an old fool, and Cromwell Biron never had much sense. The presumption
of him!"

Lucy Ellen's hands trembled as she put her teacup down.

"He's not so very old," she said faintly, "and everybody but you likes
him--and he's well-to-do. I don't see that there's any presumption."

"Maybe not--if you look at it so. You're very forgiving, Lucy Ellen.
You've forgotten how he treated you once."

"No--o--o, I haven't," faltered Lucy Ellen.

"Anyway," said Cecily coldly, "you shouldn't encourag