s Lydia went on, quietly, "He and I will decide what to do."

"No, no!" Mary said. "He'll kill Carl!"

"I shouldn't think Carl would mind," said Miss Lydia.

The girl dropped down again on the step. "Oh, what shall I do--what
shall I do--what shall I do? He'll hate me."

"He'll be very, very unhappy," said Miss Lydia; "but he'll know what
must be done. I don't. And he'll forgive you."

"He won't forgive Carl! Father never forgives. He says so! And if he
won't forgive Carl he mustn't forgive me!" She hid her face.

There was a long silence. Then she said, in a whisper, "When will you
. . . tell him?"

"To-night."

Again she cringed away. "Not to-night! Please not to-night. Oh, you
promised you wouldn't tell! I can't bear-- Let me think. I'll write to
Carl. No! No! Father _mustn't_ know!"

"Listen," said Lydia Sampson; "you must get married right off. You can't
wait until December. That's settled. But your father must manage it so
that nobody will suspect--anything. Understand?"

"I mean to do that, anyway, but--"

"Unless you tell a great many small stories," said little, truthful Miss
Lydia, "you can't manage it; but your father will just tell one big
story, about business or something. Gentlemen can always tell stories
about business, and you can't find 'em out. The way we do about
headaches. Mr. Smith will say business makes it necessary for him to
hurry the wedding up so he can go away to--any place. See?"

Mary saw, but she shook her head. "He'll kill Carl," she said again.

"No, he won't," said Miss Lydia, "because then everything would come
out; and, besides, he'd get hanged."

Again there was a long silence; then Mary said, suddenly, violently:

"Well--_tell him_."

"Oh, my!" said Miss Lydia, "my! my!"

But she got up, took the child's soft, shrinking hand, and together in
the hazy silence of the summer night they walked--Miss Lydia hurrying
forward, Mary holding back--between the iron gates and up the driveway
to the great house.

Talk about facing the cannon's mouth! When Miss Sampson came into the
new Mr. Smith's library he was sitting in a circle of lamplight at his
big table, writing and smoking. He looked up at her with a resigned
shrug. "Wants something done to her confounded house!" he thought. But
he put down his cigar, got on his feet, and said, in his genial, wealthy
way:

"Well, my good neighbor! How are you?"

Miss Lydia could only gasp, "Mr. Smith--" (there was a faint movem