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