"I would be glad to lead you out of a narrow way," she replied, in a tone so quiet and yet so rich that I was inclined to believe I had not yet seen Miss Warren. Perhaps she saw that I was becoming conscious of her existence, for I again detected the old mirthful light in her eyes. Was I or Mr. Yocomb's remark the cause? Who was Emily Warren anyway, and why must she be at the farmhouse at a time when I so earnestly wished "the coast clear?" The perverse world at last was asserting its true self, and there was promise of a disturbance in my shining tide. Moreover, I was provoked that the one remark of this Emily Warren had point to it, while my perfect flower of womanhood had revealed nothing definitely save a good appetite, and that she had no premonitions that this was the day of her destiny. CHAPTER IV REALITY "Father," said my fair ideal abruptly, as if a bright idea had just struck her, "did thee notice that Friend Jones's rockaway had been painted and all fixed up? I guess he rather liked our keeping him there before all the meeting." "Mother, I hope thee'll be moved to preach about the charity that thinketh no evil," said her father gravely. The young girl tossed her head slightly as she asserted, "Araminta Jones liked it anyway. Any one could see that." "And any one need not have seen it also," her mother said, with a pained look. Then she added, in a low aside, as we rose from the table, "Thee certainly need not have spoken about thy friend's folly." The daughter apparently gave little heed to her mother's rebuke, and a trivial remark a moment later proved that she was thinking of something else. "Adah, thee can entertain Richard Morton for a time, while mother attends to the things," said her father. The alacrity with which she complied was flattering at least, and she led me out on the piazza, that corresponded with my day-dream. "Zillah," called Mrs. Tocomb to her little girl, "do not bother Emily Warren. She may wish to be alone. Stay with Adah till I am through." "Oh, mother, please, let me go with Emily Warren. I never have a good time with Adah." "There, mother, let her have her own way," said Adah, pettishly. "Emily Warren, thee shouldn't pet her so if thee doesn't want to be bothered by her." "She does not bother me at all," said Miss Warren quietly. "I like her." The little girl that had been ready to cry turned to her friend a radiant face that was eloquent with the undisguised affection of childhood. "Zillah evidently likes you, Miss Warren," I said, "and you have given the reason. You like her." "Not always a sufficient reason for liking another," she answered. "But a very good one," I urged. "There are many better ones." "What has reason to do with liking, anyway?" I asked.