appeared that she had brought more flowers and a fresh supply of
books. She had remained even longer than on her first visit and she
and Mother had talked about almost everything under the sun. One topic,
however, had not been discussed, a fact which my guarded questions made
certain. She, like myself, had said nothing concerning the day in the
woods.

"I told her of your consenting to help Mr. Taylor in his dilemma," said
Mother.

"Did you?" said I. "It was kind of you to put it in that way."

"That was the truthful way of putting it, wasn't it? She seemed very
much interested."

"Indeed. And surprised, I presume."

"Why, yes, I think so. She seemed surprised at first; then she laughed;
I could not understand why. She has a very pleasant laugh, hasn't she?"

"I have never noticed." This was untrue.

"She has. She is a charming girl. I am sorry you were not here when she
called. I told her you would be home soon and asked her to wait, but she
would not."

"I am glad she didn't."

"Roscoe!"

"I am, Mother. That young lady comes here to see you merely because she
has nothing else to do just now. I shouldn't accept too many favors from
her."

Mother said I was unreasonable and prejudiced and I did not argue the
point. Lute and Dorinda discussed the caller at the supper table until I
was constrained to leave the room. Mabel Colton might amuse herself with
Mother and the two members of our household whom she had described as
"characters," she might delude them into believing her thoughtful and
sympathetic and without false pride, but I knew better. She had insulted
me. She had, in so many words, told me that I was lazy and worthless,
just as she might have told her chauffeur or one of the servants. That
it was true made no difference. Would she have spoken in that way to--to
Victor Carver, for instance? Hardly. She was just what I had thought
her at first, a feminine edition of Victor, with more brains than he
possessed.

Captain Jed Dean came into the bank the third day after my installation
as bookkeeper and teller. I was alone in the director's room, going
over some papers, and he entered and shook hands with me. The old fellow
professed delight at my presence there.

"George tells me you're takin' hold fust-rate," he said. "That's good.
I'm glad to hear it."

"Why?" I asked. There was a trace of his old pomposity in the speech--or
I imagined there was--and I chose to resent it. These were the days whe