on,--Rebecca was at the age that seeks a piquant substitute for an
unpoetical family name,--"Rebel and I are wondering if we may ask you
who Mr. John Tenison is?"

John Tenison! Margaret's heart stood still with a shock almost
sickening, then beat furiously. What--how--who on earth had told
them anything of John Tenison? Coloring high, she looked sharply
at Rebecca.

"Cheer up, angel," said Rebecca, "he's not dead. He sent a telegram
to-day, and Mother opened it--"

"Naturally," said Margaret, concealing an agony of impatience, as
Rebecca paused apologetically.

"He's with his aunt, at Dayton, up the road here," continued
Rebecca; "and wants you to wire him if he may come down and
spend tomorrow here."

Margaret drew a relieved breath. There was time to turn around,
at least.

"Who is he, sis?" asked Rebecca.

"Why, he's an awfully clever professor, honey," Margaret answered
serenely. "We heard him lecture in Germany this spring, and met him
afterwards. I liked him very much. He's tremendously interesting." She
tried to keep out of her voice the thrill that shook her at the mere
thought of him. Confused pain and pleasure stirred her to the very
heart.--He wanted to come to see her, he must have telephoned Mrs.
Carr-Boldt and asked to call, or he would not have known that she was
at home this week end,--surely that was significant, surely that meant
something! The thought was all pleasure, so great a joy and pride
indeed that Margaret was conscious of wanting to lay it aside, to
think of, dream of, ponder over, when she was alone. But, on the other
hand, there was instantly the miserable conviction that he mustn't be
allowed to come to Weston, no--no--she couldn't have him see her home
and her people on a crowded hot summer Sunday, when the town looked
its ugliest, and the children were home from school, and when the
scramble to get to church and to safely accomplish the one o'clock
dinner exhausted the women of the family. And how could she keep him
from coming, what excuse could she give?

"Don't you want him to come--is he old and fussy?" asked Rebecca,
interestedly.

"I'll see," Margaret answered vaguely. "No, he's only thirty-two
or four."

"And charming!" said Maudie archly. Margaret eyed her with a
coolness worthy of Mrs. Carr-Boldt herself, and then turned
rather pointedly to Rebecca.

"How's Mother, Becky?"

"Oh, she's fine!" Rebecca said, absently in her turn. When Maudie left
them at the nex