understand that I'm sane now for the first time in years?"

"Curious," said the doctor, "that sanity is so often mistaken for madness, and the reverse. You remember," to Winchendon, "I told you once you would one day recover your reason. I noted private earmarks." He stooped to pick up the roll of bills. "Here, man, don't stand in your own light and his. He's asking a favor, not conferring one. Come. Your wife and boy will

be around shortly, if you use this judiciously."

"With more to follow," Winchendon said. "There is a position waiting for you."

Still dazed, Tom took the bills.

"Speak kindly, and remember he
Is human, just like you."

came from the cot.

"Just like you," Dr. Joy repeated.

B

CHAPTER XII.

LAND ALLISON SILVER walked before them. He was a tall boy for his age, slightly knock-kneed, and consequently his toes were prone to turn in. He threw his legs awkwardly from side to side, apparently taking delight in exaggerating his peculiarities. Occasionally he would give an upward leap, waving his arms, windmill fashion, in the air.

They crossed the village street a fair, broad avenue, shaded on either side by rows of stately trees, elm and maple — and, leaving the crowds behind them, entered a narrow road, dividing a small park in two. The grass grew soft and green on either side, and Silvie, giving a sudden run, turned a quick somersault; then, lying on his back, he threw his feet well over his head, his knees touching the ground behind him. At the same time he stretched his arms to their extreme limit in the other direction.

"Did you ever see such absurd contortions?" laughed Marianna.

"Silvie's all right," said Mr. Prior, laughing also.

Crossing a railroad-track which cut through the park just at the entrance to the cemetery, they entered between the high stone gate-posts, and, turning to the left, moved slowly through the oldest part of the ancient "yard." Here were headstones dating from the seventeenth century.

"This is the oldest grave here that of the first person buried in Quohonk; the wife of a high dignitary of the land, too, I believe."

Marianna was standing before a roughly hewn granite stone. It was high and narrow, and looked more like a rude hitchingpost than a monument. It was simply engraved with initials and the date, 1670.

"Come here," called Mr. Prior, "I have found some very quaint verses." "Taking out his note-book to copy them, he read aloud as he wrote:

"He many weeks felt Death's Attack But fervent prayers kept him back His faith and patience 'twas to try And learn us how to Live and Die Having the wings of faith and love & Feathers of an holy Dove He bids this wretched world Adieu & swiftly up to Heaven flew Disturb not then his precious Dust With Censors that are most unjust.'

According to that, his wings and feathers big F but small w-sprouted before he bade 'this wretched world adieu.””

"Yours is dated 1736; here is a later one that is rather quaint," called Marianna, who had moved a few rods away.

The young clergyman shut up his notebook. "I suppose one could find many interesting epitaphs. Some day when I have time I must come over here prepared to search for them; just now I have no time for anything other than luncheon."

Past the limit of the graves they came to the brow of a ravine. Here a grove of pinetrees defined the hillside. A few yards down they found a comfortable resting-place where they could sit on the ground, which was thickly bestrewn with clean, aromatic pine-needles. Far below, gliding through a pleasant pasture-land, was a sluggishly flowing stream. On its other bank was a farmhouse; and from where they sat they could see a man passing in and out from house to barn. The picture thus presented was one suggestive of quiet domestic peace and prosperity.

The weather, which only yesterday had been quite cold, had moderated and the sun shone warm and bright. Crickets were gaily chirping all about them. A large milkweed butterfly fluttered near, while overhead a white-winged gull poised for an instant on wide-spread wings and then turned sharply, flying straight towards the not very distant Sound.

Marianna's home-made "raised biscuits" and cakes, with hard-boiled eggs and bunches of Concord grapes, were spread out in company with the ham sandwiches and

doughnuts from Mr. Prior's paper bag. Everything tasted so good; they were so hungry; the air was so bracing; the sunlight so warming; the odor of the pine-needles so refreshing; the whole world an idyl! O youth and sentiment, a whole year is not too long to wait for the reward of such an hour!

Silvie went in search of horse-chestnuts. Squirrels were leaping amongst the branches overhead, and he felt the need of something to throw at them. Marianna took up his discarded napkin and, shaking out the crumbs, folded it neatly, putting her basket in order with true housewifely instincts. Edward Prior, stretched to his full length, lay on his back on the fragrant ground, his hands clasped under his head. From under their half-closed lids his eyes watched Marianna. For the first time she noticed the premature crow's feet.

"I like them," she thought; "they give a kindly expression to his face."

A sudden determination seized him. He sat up, turning his head as he arranged his coat collar and straightened his tie. He drew one foot back and, resting an arm on his knee, leaned forward to look into her face.

"The Bishop sent for me the other day, Miss Bill," he said. "This is my last year at Berkeley, you know. I expect to be ordained in the spring. He was good enough to say some very kind things to me, and assured me that he would look out for a congregation to my liking. He gave me a choice as to locality then. I may have the church here in Quohonk, or be sent to a Western diocese where there is a larger church that he could secure for me by making an exchange with the Bishop of Montana. The salary out there would be much larger, but he thought that, being Easternbred, I might prefer to remain where I had. always lived, with the probability of advancement to an Eastern city parish in a couple of years."

He paused, looking gravely, questioningly, at her. The color had faded from her cheeks. She looked startled — worried. "And did you choose choose the big church?" she faltered. "Way out West?"

The sun's rays were not so warm. She felt cold. Somehow the day had changed. He left her question unanswered. "Miss Bill," he was looking straight be

fore him now, and spoke in a low monotone, as though reading from unseen print. "I have something I ought to tell you; something I should have told you a year ago had you given me the opportunity; something which has haunted dominated me all the year; something which has brought me back to Southcreek almost against my better judgment. I know that you do not care for me; you have shown me the truth, not too kindly, but plainly. All the same, I feel it my duty to tell you that you are the only girl I have ever known whom I should care to ask to be my wife. It seems to me that, feeling as I do, it would not be fair not to let you know this. We will not speak of it again. I will not trouble you in any way. Don't answer me. I know how you feel. I am not making you a proposal, so you cannot refuse only," his manner grew more dignified, more emphatic, "I am telling you this now so that you can send for me, if ever in the future, by any chance, you should feel otherwise. It does not matter how many years hence, I shall always feel the same. I have loved you, I think, from the first time I ever saw you, and shall continue to do so, I am fully convinced, for all time. Don't speak;" he held up a deterring hand. "I am simply stating a fact, because I do not think it would be right, loving you as I do, to allow you to remain in ignorance of it. Sometime you may change. If that time ever comes, send for me. In the meantime I am not a rejected lover, but your friend, now and always."

me

He finished speaking. The silence was unbroken save by the gay, loud trill of a belated locust near. The wind stirred in the tree-tops, and a pine-cone dropped to earth. The sound of its fall seemed exaggerated. Far away a crow cawed. The harsh sound broke the spell. Edward Prior sighed and stood up, turning to help Marianna to her feet.

"If you go far out West," she murmured, her tall, slender young body leaning towards him almost as if she would fall, the corners of her sweet mouth drooping pathetically, "it will be very hard on me!"

His whole manner changed. His face was illumined with a look of supreme happiness; his eyes gleamed as they looked tenderly upon her.

"What! Is it true?" he exclaimed.

Coo-ee, coo-coo-ee!" Bland Allison Sil

ver, somewhere in the distance, had turned back to rejoin them.

Edward Prior raised her hand to his lips with the gallantry of the olden time.

"How cold you are," he said, "Marian, dear Marian! Marianna is too long. I shall call you Marian. Maid Marian is as poetical as Marianna-in-the-moated-grange. I shall make bold to tell your mother so!" He laughed and colored boyishly. "I feel like tossing up my cap and shouting,' Hurrah!""

Silver, now in sight, was running towards them, carrying his cap filled with the coveted horse-chestnuts.

"But why did you never come to see me?" Marianna asked, shyly, as, retracing their steps, walking slowly, side by side, they passed the ancient headstones.

"I did call, the day after we laid Annabel to rest. Your mother was ill and you were out. Silvie opened the door. I told him to be sure and ask you to send me some message as to when and where I could see you." "And he never told me - O Silvie!" The young man overtook the culprit with a few easy strides.

"Come here, you young rascal, and I'll -no, I won't." Releasing him, he rejoined the sister. "We 'll forgive him because he asked me to share luncheons to-day. Of course he forgot. How could he understand what the message meant to me - and to you, too," he added, boldly.

Lower sank the sweet voice. "And you were not in love with Annabel? Florrie saw you put those flowers on her grave."

The smile faded from Edward Prior's face, and was replaced by an expression of gravity that was stern in its intensity.

"Annabel understood me," he said. "We had many a talk about you, Marian. She encouraged me and was very friendlysisterly. In returning to Southcreek my next thought, after you, was of her. Poor girl! A bunch of flowers was the least token I could give of my grief- regret."

"And Miss Benton ?" persisted Marianna. "Oh, stop talking of other people," cried the young man. "Let us talk of you and me, just you and me."

CHAPTER XIII.

As they emerged into the village street they found themselves in the midst of a crowd as dense as that on the fair-grounds.

Some one shouted, "One, two, three, go!" Immediately ten or twelve young men and boys, tied together in pairs, started on a wild three-legged race, monopolizing the middle of the road. Their progress was hailed with loud shouts of laughter and yells of encouragement, and Silvie, delighted, stopped to watch. Next there was to be a sack race, followed by divers other tests of skill and endurance. The child was now in his element and was for darting off by himself, but his elders did not mean to lose him yet.

"Come and have our tintypes taken," said Mr. Prior, laying a detaining hand on the boy's shoulder. "Silvie, you must be in it, too— our Cupid, or angel in disguise — very well disguised!"

They reentered the fair-grounds. People were still arriving, and a long row of farmers' vehicles — carts, buggies, three-seated wagons, and runabouts — were hitched to the fence. Miss Benton, acting as her own chauffeuse, was, with her mother, leaving for home and a late luncheon, her automobile having been brought over to the fairgrounds for their use. The men in the street stopped their sport, giving the girl the right of way.

"Ah, there you are, Ned," she called, upon catching sight of Mr. Prior in the crowd which was watching her departure. "Have n't you had enough of this? We will give you a lift to Southcreek if you like."

She stopped the machine only long enough to hear his courteous refusal, and then with a whirr and a reckless putting-on of power she was gone, leaving a cloud of dust and a gaping crowd behind.

The tintypes finished, Marianna and Edward revisited the big exhibition-tent, and then went to see the oxen. Here they were having a trial of strength which would decide the award of the medals. Later they found Silvie, once more standing by the table of toy whips. He had been with some Southcreek boys the greater part of the afternoon, and had spent his last penny on candy. Now he deeply regretted the whip which had attracted him earlier in the day. "Well, Silvie, have you had all your heart could desire?" said Mr. Prior.

His words were for the boy, but he looked frankly, admiringly, at the sister. He had nothing to conceal now nothing to repress. Silvie's answer was equivocal. Mr. Prior handed him a quarter.

"Buy something for a reminder of the day."

"Whew-ee," whistled Silvie, and precip itated himself towards the coveted whips, returning triumphantly with the best of the lot. Now he was ready to go. He had his heart's desire.

The sun was setting in a blaze of glory, and train-time was near. By the time the journey was over and the Bill homestead reached night had come, but the starlight was bright, and the night as beautiful as had been the day. This time there was no unsatisfied longing in the good-night spoken at the gate - neither hesitancy, nor sadness, nor dread of the future. There was no doubt that Edward Prior would return on the morrow.

As they walked up the path to the open door, Silvie took his sister's arm, folding his hands together in an unaccustomed embrace.

"Has n't it been a peachy day, sis?"

They were met in the hall by Mrs. Pond, her whole air one of suppressed importance. She wore a black print dress, with a large blue-and-white checked apron neatly covering the skirt. Over this was a second, made not much more than half a yard square. Like the under ample apron, it was very clean; but it was faded from many washings, and in one corner a patch of new cloth formed an incongruous bit of color.

Her many and variously colored aprons formed Mrs. Pond's pet economy. Those who knew her well could at once determine the sort of work that occupied her attention by noticing what apron was most in evidence. It was not at all unusual, after she had changed her gown for the afternoon, for her to don several aprons at a time. Her change of gowns did not extend to a change of material, the only difference being that in the afternoon the material was fresh and new, those for morning wear having been passed on after the washtub had set its blurring mark upon the pattern. Over the dress she invariably tied a very stiffly starched white apron. This was usually decorated with lace of her own make, and was large enough to meet around her ample figure at the back. Over the white apron, to protect and keep it clean, it was her custom next to tie one of the large, colored aprons. These were invariably of a checked pattern, either in green, or blue, or brown, marked

off with white. Wearing one of these, she would sit and sew or "do patchwork;" but if she contemplated having a "cooked supper," then the small square bit of old cloth was added last of all, just as earlier in the day the latter accompanied the wearing of her sweeping-cap and the use of broom and dustpan. It was not until every item of real work of the day was finished that Mrs. Pond emerged from the different layers of cloth, resplendent in the spotless, ample folds of pure white. When thus arrayed she was ready to "see company," or, in summer, to sit out on the porch, there to enjoy the fragrant, balmy sweetness of the breeze wafted to her over the blossoming beds of old-time garden flowers. It was in this costume also that she would make her friendly and welcome visits to her neighbors, and it was only under stress of great excitement, or when the need of actual service from her was required, that she ever went to any near-by home wearing the several aprons that signalled "hard work."

"Come with me an' have your supper," she said, taking forcible possession of Silver. "Embargo and McKinley Tariff are over with my folks, and Minty and Trusty are to Mis' Tracy's." Motioning mysteriously to Marianna, she spoke in a gruff aside: "You go up softly to your Ma."

The young girl walked slowly up the stairs and along the wide front hall to her mother's room. She had been in the clouds, and now felt as if suddenly dropped to the earth again. The reaction oppressed her, and she felt sad and frightened.

On the high, four-posted bed, a relic of many generations of Bills, lay her mother, so white, so still! She was not asleep, and as her daughter came near she opened her eyes and faintly smiled. Stretching forth one hand, thin and marked by hard work, she turned the sheet aside. Lying beside her was a small bundle of white flannel.

"Your little sister, dear." Her lips formed the words, though scarcely a murmur came from them. "I cannot choose. I shall not try. We will call her Nina Ninetta Anita." She sighed contentedly, and her eyes closed again.

Marianna stooped and kissed her mother, and touched with gently caressing hand the soft, round little head by her side; then, turning, she quietly tiptoed to the hall and, passing the head of the stairs, went towards