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int. That made no difference with her own.

After three or four days of the chaperon’s open arrangement, it grew into a custom for Heathcote to meet Anne at sunset in

the garden, and stroll up and down with her for half an hour. She was always there, because she was sent there. Heathcote

never said he would come again; it was supposed to be by chance. But one evening Anne remarked frankly that she was very glad

he came; her grandaunt sent her out whether she wished to come or not, and the resources of the small garden were soon

exhausted. They were sitting in an arbor at the end of the serpentine walk. Heathcote, his straw hat on the ground, was

braiding three spears of grass with elaborate care.

“You pay rather doubtful compliments,” he said.

“I only mean that it is very kind to come so regularly.”

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e had decided that Anne was to marry Dexter; but if in the mean time her girlish fancy was attracted toward

Heathcote, so much the better. It would all the more surely eliminate the memory of that fatal name, Pronando. Of course

Heathcote was only amusing himself, but he must now be encouraged to continue to amuse himself. She ceased taking Anne to the

woods every day; she made her sit among the groups of ladies on the piazza in the morning, with worsted, canvas, and a

pattern, which puzzled poor Anne deeply, since she had not the gift of fancy-work, nor a talent for tidies. She asked

Heathcote to teach her niece to play billiards, and she sent her to stroll on the river-bank at sunset with him under a white

silk parasol. At the same time, however, she continued to summon Mr. Dexter to her side with the same dictatorial manner she

had assumed toward him from the first, and to talk to him, and encourage him to talk to her through long half-hours of

afternoon and evening. The old woman, with her airs of patronage, her half-closed eyes, and frank impertinence, amused him

more than any one at Caryl’s. With his own wide, far-reaching plans and cares and enterprises all the time pushing each other

forward in his mind, it was like coming from a world of giants to one of Lilliputians to sit down and talk with limited,

prejudiced, narrow old Katharine. She knew that he was amused; she was even capable of understanding it, viewed from his own

stand-po

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y looking through a window, make a girl grow nervous in that way, and a girl with whom he, Dexter, was dancing? With

inward angry determination, he immediately asked her to dance again. But he need not have feared interference; Heathcote did

not enter the room during the evening.

From the moment Miss Vanhorn heard the story of that day her method regarding her niece changed entirely; for Mr. Heathcote

would never have remained with her, storm or no storm, through four or five hours, unless he either admired her, had been

entertained by her, or liked her for herself alone, as men will like occasionally a frank, natural young girl.

According to old Katharine, Anne was not beautiful enough to excite his admiration, not amusing enough to entertain him; it

must be, therefore, that he liked her to a certain degree for herself alone. Mr. Heathcote was not a favorite of old

Katharine’s, yet none the less was his approval worth having, and none the less, also, was he an excellent subject to rouse

the jealousy of Gregory Dexter. For Dexter was not coming forward as rapidly as old Katharine had decreed he should come. Old

Katharin

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When Miss Vanhorn and her niece entered the ball-room, late in the evening, heads were turned to look at them; for the old

woman wore all her diamonds, fine stones in old-fashioned settings, and shone like a little squat-figured East Indian god.

Anne was beside her, clad in pale lavender–an evening costume simply made, but more like full dress than anything she had

yet worn. Dexter came forward instantly, and asked her to dance. He thought he had never seen her look so well–so much like

the other ladies; for heretofore there had been a marked difference–a difference which he had neither comprehended nor

admired. Anne danced. New invitations came, and she accepted them. She was enjoying it all frankly, when through a window she

caught sight of Heathcote on the piazza looking in. She happened to be dancing with Mr. Dexter, and at once she felt nervous

in the thought that he might at any moment ask her some question about the day which she would find difficulty in answering.

But she had not thought of this until her eyes fell on Heathcote.

Dexter had seen Heathcote too, and he had also seen her sudden nervousness. He was intensely vexed. Could Ward Heathcote,

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“Do as I bid you. Bessmer, you can come in now. I suppose it is ordered for the best that young girls should be such

hopeless simpletons!”

CHAPTER XV.

“No summer ever came back, and no two summers ever were alike. Times change, and people change; and if our hearts do not

change as readily, so much the worse for us.”–NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

“But, ah! who ever shunn’d by precedent The destined ills she must herself assay?”

–SHAKSPEARE.

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said to tell you,” said Anne, in conclusion, “but not to tell Mr. Dexter, unless you gave me permission.”

“Mr. Dexter alone?”

“Mr. Dexter or–any one, I suppose.”

“Very well; that will do. And Mr. Heathcote is right; you are not to breathe a word of this adventure to any one. But what

fascination it is, Anne Douglas, which induces you to hang yourself over rocks, and climb up into caves, I can not imagine!

Luckily this time you had not a crowd of spectators. Bring me the fern, and–But what, in the name of wonder, are you

wearing? Go to your room immediately and put on the lavender silk.”

“Oh, grandaunt, that?”

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was gone, being released, Anne ran up to her room, placed the fern in water, and then, happening to think of it,

looked at herself in the glass. The result was not cheering. Like most women, she judged herself by the order of her hair and

dress; they were both frightful.

Miss Vanhorn, also caught in the storm, did not return until late twilight. Anne, not knowing what she would decree when she

heard the story of the day, had attired herself in the thick white school-girl dress which had been selected on another

occasion of penance–the evening after the adventure at the quarry. It was an inconvenient time to tell the story. Miss

Vanhorn was tired and cross, tea had been sent up to the room, and Bessmer was waiting to arrange her hair. “What have you

been doing now?” she said. “Climbing trees? Or breaking in colts?”

Anne told her tale briefly. The old woman listened, without comment, but watching her closely all the time.

“And he

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ve; he was watching, then. A bright flush rose in her cheeks, and she talked gayly to Dexter during the six-mile

drive between the glistening fields, over the wet dark bridge, and up to the piazza of Caryl’s, where almost every one was

sitting enjoying the coolness after the rain, and the fresh fragrance of the grateful earth. Rachel Bannert came forward as

they alighted, and resting her hand caressingly on Anne’s shoulder, hoped that she was not tired–and were they caught in the

rain?–and did they observe the peculiar color of the clouds?–and so forth, and so forth. Rachel was dressed for the evening

in black lace over black velvet, with a crimson rose in her hair; the rich drapery trailed round her in royal length, yet in

some way failed to conceal entirely the little foot in its black slipper. Anne did not hurry away; she stood contentedly

where she was while Rachel asked all her little questions. Dexter had stepped back into the buggy with the intention of

driving round himself to the stables; he had no desire to expose the wrinkled condition of his attire to the groups on the

piazza. But in that short interval he noted (as Rachel had intended he should note) every detail of her appearance. Her only

failure was that he failed to note also, by comparison, the deficiencies of Anne.

When he

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s they had thought; he had met Miss Vanhorn, and learning where Anne was, had received permission to take her home.

“I shall not be disappointed after all,” he said, his white teeth gleaming as he smiled, and his gray eyes resting upon her

with cordial pleasure. He certainly was a fine-looking man. But–too large for a mill window. Fortunately mill windows are

not standards of comparison.

“It has been raining a long time; where did you find shelter?” he asked, as the spirited horses, fretted by standing,

started down the moist brown road at a swift pace.

“In a little cave in the hill-side above us,” answered Anne, conscious that at that very moment Heathcote was probably

watching them. She hesitated, and then, in spite of a distinct determination not to do it, could not help turning her head

and glancing backward and upward for a second behind her companion’s broad shoulders. In answer, a handkerchief fluttered

from abo

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