theless, she could have staked her oath upon it.

Once she had almost defied his silence by thanking him; in fact, she had
actually ventured to the confines of the Webster land with this intention;
but on arriving within range of his presence, her courage had deserted
her. He looked so forbidding that a foolish agitation had swept over her,
and compelled her to drop her eyes, and walk away in silence.

She had never known herself to be so nervous before. One would almost
think she was afraid of Martin Howe. How absurd! He was nothing to her,
less than nothing.

If she liked to study his fine, athletic figure and the free swing of his
magnificent body as he worked, it was solely from an aesthetic standpoint.
One seldom had an opportunity to see a man as perfectly molded as he. His
face was interesting, too; not handsome, perhaps, but attractive. It was a
pity it was so stern and set, for she was sure he could smile if he
chose; indeed he had smiled that night when he had come home and been
unconscious of her presence in the house. It had been a compelling smile,
charming for its very rareness. She had often thought of it since and
wished she might behold it again. Of course she never would. Yet it would
be pleasant to do so. Probably he smiled often at home,--even laughed
sometimes. How she would like to hear him laugh,--just once.

He was a very fascinating person,--purely as a character study, of course,
nothing more. Since, however, she was indulging in speculations concerning
him, it would be amusing to know what he thought of her; for he did think
of her, that was obvious. What motive prompted him to do it? Perhaps he
admired her, thought her pretty. If he did, why didn't he make some
further effort to talk with her? Usually men were only too eager to
improve the acquaintance of girls they liked. It surely could do Mr.
Martin Howe no harm to call a good morning to her over the wall, as his
sisters did, even if he did deplore the existence of the Websters.

Then the tenor of Lucy's arguments shifted. Probably Martin neither
admired nor liked her. Doubtless, along with her aunt and all that
pertained to the hated blood, he despised her and simply watched her in
disgust. But if so, why did he bother to send flowers to her?

Lucy shook her head. She was back at the point from which she had started
and was no nearer a solution of Martin Howe and his baffling mental
outlook. What did it matter anyway? What he thought