neapple-topped posts. The
windows were opened, and white curtains with their over-draperies of
blue silk were swinging in and out on a fresh breeze where the Horror of
my dream had seemed to press itself against the black panes. Decidedly,
I must have had a bad attack of indigestion that night!

"See how nice?" Phillida was urging appreciation at my side. "We swung
those lovely old hangings from the arch, so they can be drawn across the
bedroom end of your room, if you like. Although I do not know why you
_should_ like, everything is so pretty! Your long Venetian mirror came
safely, and all your darling lamps. And--and I hope you like it so well,
Cousin Roger, that you will stay here always!"

When she left me alone, I walked to the different windows, contemplating
the stretches of lawn dotted with budding apple trees and the lake that
lay beyond shining in the sun. Was Phillida's charming wish to become a
fact, I wondered? Could this rest and calm hold me content here, where I
had meant merely to pause and pass on? I looked at the yellow country
road meandering past the lake into unseen distance. Should I ever see my
Lady of the Beautiful Tresses come that way, or travel that road to
where she lived? If I did meet her, would she forgive me the loss of her
braid? There would be a test for the sweetness of her disposition!

When a chiming dinner-gong summoned me downstairs, I found Vere awaiting
me beside Phillida. We shook hands, and he made some brief, pleasant
speech about their having expected me sooner. If pale, timid Phil had
become a surprising butterfly, Vere had taken the reverse progress
toward the sober grub. I like him better in outing clothes, although he
showed even more the unusual good looks which so unreasonably prejudiced
me against him. If he felt any strain in our meeting, his slow, tranquil
trick of speech and manner covered it. I hope I did as well! It was then
I discovered that his wife's pet name for him fitted like a glove. She
called him "Drawls."

The luncheon was good; cooked and served by a middle-aged Swedish woman
named Cristina. Afterward, I was conducted into the kitchen by the lady
of the house, to view the new fittings and improvements. Most odd and
pretty it was to see Phillida in that role of housewife, and to watch
her pride in Vere and deference to him. Let me record that I never saw
the daughter of Aunt Caroline fail in this settled course toward her
husband. Whether it was born