Harris had an
indefinite impression that it was Mary Crawford, and that a trial was
approaching, more severe than any to which she had ever before subjected
herself. Susy was close at her side, and as the figure approached,
Josephine called her attention to it.

"Yes," said Susy, looking out of the window for only one instant, "that
_is_ Mary Crawford, and she is coming here."

To say that Josephine Harris's heart was beating quickly, and that there
was such a confused rumbling in her head as that which forms part of the
stage-fright to an actress or the first embarrassment to a public
speaker before a large audience--would only be stating the simple truth.
She had certainly been doing a bold act--even a rash one,--meddling in
the business of another, with the best intentions, it was true, but
under circumstances very liable to be misunderstood. If things should
not be as she had understood them to be, at the Crawford mansion, or if
she should fail in convincing Miss Crawford of the truth of the
statements she was ready to make, nothing could be more painful than the
position in which she would herself remain, and nothing more injurious
than the predicament in which she would have placed her aunt and cousin.
All this she realized, and for one moment she felt like running
up-stairs with her aunt, and hiding herself between two of the thickest
feather-beds, in spite of the heat of the season. But, courage once
more, Joe Harris! The playing of detective _en amateur_ is not always a
sinecure or a pleasant labor; but if it succeeds--aye, if it
succeeds--why then!

By the time these reflections had fairly passed through her mind, the
figure of Miss Crawford had entered the gate and was coming up to the
porch.

"Go into the back room, Susan," said the city girl. "You will not know
how to receive her. I must do it."

Instantly Susan glided through the back door, and shut it, and Josephine
Harris was alone in her singular position. At the same moment Miss
Crawford tapped at the closed front door, and Josephine at once opened
it to admit her.

Mary Crawford had been a charmingly-pretty country-girl--that Joe Harris
saw at a glance, the moment her eye took in the whole contour; and she
did not for a moment wonder that Richard should have been fond of her or
that his cousin should have used all _honorable_ means to supplant him.
More of what she had been than what she was, the observer saw. No
change, except age, could take