Jed was called from his outside duties and stood, battered
hat in hand, to receive his commands. Jed was old and black and his wool
was white as snow; his strong, perfect teeth glittered with gold
fillings. How the old man had fallen to this vanity no one knew, but
sooner or later all the money he made was converted into fillings.

"They do say," he once explained to Sister Angela, "that 'tain't all
gold as glitters, but dis year yaller in my mouth, ma'am, is right sure
gold an' it's like layin' up treasure in heaven, for no moth nor rust
ain't ever going to distroy anythin' in my mouth. No, ma'am! No
corruption, nuther."

Jed, listening to Sister Angela, now, was beaming and shining.

"I want you to go to Stone Hedgeton to-morrow, Uncle Jed. You better
start early. You must meet every train until you see a young lady--she
will be looking about for someone--and bring her here. In between trains
make yourself and the horses comfortable at the tavern. I'm glad you do
not drink, Jed."

"Yes-m," pondered Jed, "but I 'spect there might be mo' dan one young
lady. I reckon it would be disastering if I fotched the wrong one. Isn't
thar something 'bout her discounterments as might be leading, as yo'
might say, ma'am?"

"Jed, I rely upon you to bring the right young lady!"

There was no use of further arguing. Jed shuffled off.

Alone, of all the household, little Mary Allan was not taken into Sister
Angela's confidence, and this was unfortunate, for Mary ran well in
harness, but was apt to go a bit wild if left to her own devices.
What people did not confide to Mary she generally found out for herself.

Mary was known to Silver Gap as the "last of them Allans." Her father
and mother both died soon after Mary showed signs of persisting--her ten
brothers and sisters had refused to live, and when Mary was left to her
fate Sister Angela rescued her, and the girl had been trained for
entrance into a Sisterhood later on.

She was abnormally keen but discouragingly superstitious; she had moods
when the Sisters believed they had overcome her inheritance of reticence
and aloofness. She would laugh and chat gaily and appear charmingly
young and happy, but without warning she would lapse back to the almost
sullen, suspicious attitude that was so disconcerting. Sister Angela
demanded justice for Mary and received, in return, a kind of loyalty
that was the best the girl had to give.

She regarded, with that strange interpretation