end of the
veranda to catch the last glimpse of her, and waited till he caught
across the quiet night the faint click of Mrs. Owen's gate. And he was
inexpressibly lonely, now that she had gone.

He opened the door of the living-room and found his wife standing like
an accusing angel by the centre table. She loomed tall in her blue
tea-gown, with her brown braids falling down her back.

"Whom were you talking to, Morton?" she demanded with ominous severity.

"Miss Garrison came over to bring a book for Blackford. It's a grammar
he needed in his work."

He held up the book in proof of his assertion, and as she tossed her
head and compressed her lips he flung it on the table with an effort to
appear at ease.

"She wanted him to have it before his lesson in the morning."

"She certainly took a strange time to bring it over here."

"It struck me as very kind of her to trouble about it. You'll take cold
standing there. I supposed you were asleep."

"I've no doubt you did, Morton Bassett; but how do you suppose I could
sleep when you were talking right under my window? I had already sent
word about the noise you were making on the veranda."

"We were not talking loudly; I didn't suppose we were disturbing you."

"So you were talking quietly, were you! Will you please tell me what you
have to talk to that girl about that you must whisper out there in the
dark?"

"Please be reasonable, Hallie. Miss Garrison was only here a few
minutes. And as I knew noises on the veranda had disturbed you I tried
to speak in a low tone. We were speaking of Blackford."

"Well, I'd like you to know that I employed that girl to remedy your
mistakes in trying to educate Blackford, and if she has any report to
make she can make it to me."

"Very well, then. It was only a few days ago that you told me you had
done all you were going to do about Blackford; you gave me to
understand that you washed your hands of him. You're nervous and
excited,--very unnecessarily excited,--and I insist that you go back to
bed. I'll call Miss Featherstone."

"Miss Featherstone is asleep and you needn't bother her. I'm going to
send her away at the end of her week anyhow. She's the worst masseuse I
ever had; her clumsiness simply drives me frantic. But I never thought
you would treat me like this--entertaining a young woman on the veranda
when you thought I was asleep and out of the way. I'm astonished at Miss
Garrison; I had a better opinion of her. I