d by her affection; she raised her eyes, and
let him look deep into them for one short moment. "He shall see the
truth this once," she thought; "though nothing to him now, it will come
back to him."

Adelaide Kellinger did that time a bold thing; she let Wainwright see
that she loved him, relying upon the certainty that he would not think
she knew he saw it, much less that she intended him to see it. She had
the balance of reality on her side, too, because she really did love
him--in her way.

In another moment he had left her, and was walking rapidly down the
river-road. Adelaide went back to the village.

Her first step was to find out whether Honor was at home; she was not.
At the library, then? Not there. "Already gone to Brother Bethuel's,"
she thought. She next woke up Royce, laughed at his ill nature,
flattered him a little, coaxed him into good temper, and finally told
him plainly that she would not stand his bearishness any longer; that
he must go and dress himself anew, brush his hair, and come back and be
agreeable.

"You will turn into a mountain outlaw yourself, if I do not see to you,"
she said.

"Oh, let me off for to-day," said Royce lazily.

"This moment!"

She had her way: Royce took himself off, followed by the injunction to
come back looking like an Apollo. Now, to make one's self look like an
Apollo is an occupation which no young man is in his heart above; and,
when incited thereto by an expressed belief from feminine lips that he
has only to try, he generally--tries. Not long afterward Royce returned
to the parlor looking his best, threw himself into a chair, and took up
a book carelessly. He knew Adelaide would comment. She did. She called
him "a good boy," touched the crisp, curling ends of his yellow hair,
and asked why he kept them so short; stroked his forehead, and said
that, on the whole, he looked quite well. Her heart was beating rapidly
as she chatted with him; she listened intently; everything depended upon
a chance. Ten minutes before, she had executed a daringly bold
action--one of those things which a woman can do once in her life with
perfect impunity, because no one suspects that she can. If she will do
it alone, and only once, there is scarcely any deed she may not
accomplish safely. A few more moments passed, Adelaide still listening;
then came a shuffling step through the passage, a knock at the door,
and, without waiting for reply, the burly figure of the revenue
dete