ally as
he had his arm on the back of the sofa behind me."

"Maybe he was makin' love to the sofa. Didn't you know that Donald
Maxwell was engaged to be married before he ever set foot in
Durford?"

"Good gracious, no! What are you talking about?"

"Well, he certainly was, for keeps."

"Then he had no business to pose as a free man, if he were engaged. It
is dreadful to have to lose faith in one's rector. It is next to
losing faith in--in----"

"The milk-man. Yes, I quite agree with you. But you see I don't recall
that Donald Maxwell did any posing. He simply kept quiet about his own
affairs--though I do think that it would have been better to let
people know that he was engaged, from the start. However, he may have
concluded his private affairs were his own business. I know that's
very stupid; but some people will persist in doin' it, in spite of all
you can say to 'em. Perhaps it never occurred to him that he would be
expected to marry anyone living in a little sawed-off settlement like
this."

"There's no use in abusing your native village; and"--her voice
quavered on the verge of tears--"I think you are very unsympathetic."
She buried her nose in her handkerchief.

Mrs. Burke gazed sternly at Virginia for a full minute and then
inquired:

"Well, do you want to know why? You started with just foolishness, but
you've ended up with meanness, Virginia Bascom. You've taken your
revenge on people who've done you nothin' but kindness. I know pretty
well who it was that suggested to your father that the mortgage on the
rectory should be foreclosed, and the Maxwells turned out of house and
home. He's always been close-fisted, but I've never known him to be
dead ugly and vindictive before.

"Yes. You were behind all this wretched business--and you're sorry for
it, and wish you could undo the unkindness you've done. Now I am goin'
to talk business--better than talkin' sympathy, because it'll make you
feel better when you've done what I tell you. You go and call on Mrs.
Betty immediately, and tell her that you are very grateful to her
husband for saving your father's life, and that money couldn't
possibly pay for the things she and Mr. Maxwell did for him, and that
you're everlastingly indebted to 'em both."

"But--but," wailed the repentant Virginia, "what can I say about the
tent? Pa won't go back on that--not if his life had been saved twice
over."

"Never you mind about that. You do your part of the business