all agreed to that."

"You know, Tony, Miss Webster is my aunt," began Lucy in a warning voice,
loyalty resenting this criticism.

"Yes, but there's aunts--an' aunts," interrupted the lad with a grin.
"It's no use pretendin' you ain't drawn the devil of a one, 'cause I know.
Don't I live close at hand, an' ain't I got eyes?"

Lucy did not answer. They were nearing the village and to put an end to
the conversation, she took out her list of errands and began to read it
absently. But in the back of her mind she was turning over Tony's remarks.
She had never allowed herself to dwell on the time when the Webster
homestead would actually be her own. It seemed unfitting to plan on
acquiring property that could only come to her through the death of
another person. Now, however, she suddenly gave her imagination rein and
began to consider what changes she would make when the farm was really in
her hands.

The barn must be cleared out the first thing and be re-shingled. Then she
would strip the farm of its litter of rubbish and repair some of the
tools and household furniture. What a delight it would be to renovate the
old home with chintz hangings and fresh paint and paper! There were great
possibilities for making the interior of the house attractive on a small
expenditure of money. The time-worn mahogany was good, the proportions of
the rooms pleasing, and the great fireplaces, several of which were now
boarded up, were a distinct asset.

Of course she would have to have help with the work. It would be well to
get a capable man to manage the garden for her--some strong, intelligent
person, familiar with the problems of soil, fertilizer, and horticulture;
a person, for example, like, well--like Martin Howe. A flood of color
crept into her cheek.

Although she had never addressed a remark to Martin since the night when
he had abandoned her at the foot of the Howe driveway to face the
onslaughts of that drenching storm, she was perfectly aware that her
goings and comings had become a matter of no little concern to the austere
gentleman who dwelt on the other side of the wall. That he watched her she
knew, for she had been feminine enough to trap him into changing his
position that he might keep her in view.

Besides, was there not the miraculous bunch of flowers? She had, to be
sure, never acknowledged them even by the lifting of an eyelash, nor had
she proof that Martin's hand had really put them within her reach;
never