Caro was the first to give them greeting. She came first thing in the morning to give and receive news. Sally Cooper was engaged to a man from Meadowville, but wasn’t going to be married for a year, as her family thought she was too young. Clyde Fawcett was going with a girl from the city; she was a niece of Mrs. Craig Hale, and had been visiting Marshville. Frank Ives was just getting over typhoid fever, had been ill all summer, as Ellen knew from Caro’s letters. Then Ellen told of her good times, but not a word did she say of her windfall; that could wait, or not be told at all. So they talked till Jeremy Todd came in and Caro left. To Jeremy Ellen unburdened her heart, and learned from him that he, too, had been remembered in the will of his old friend Peter Barstow, and that an annuity of five hundred dollars was to be his. After his death this was to be continued, under certain conditions, paid to the person or persons named in a private letter left with the testator’s lawyer. “I can imagine that dear Don Pedro rather enjoyed creating a little mystery,” remarked Ellen. “I am so glad, dear Music Master, that this has come to you.” “I am pleased, too,” asserted Mr. Todd. “Strange that it should win one more respect from some quarters.” Ellen wondered if he referred to his wife, and hoped he did. Anything which increased her respect for her husband was not to be regretted. Frank Ives, still very wan and pale, lost no time in coming to call. His illness, which took him very near to the dark valley, had subdued him and had taken away a certain over-confidence, so that Ellen liked him better. There never had been anything snobbish about Frank, but he had been a little too self-satisfied. If Ellen was kinder than before, it was that her sympathies were aroused, and she made promises to ride and walk with the lad, promises which sent him away in a happy mood. Thus the autumn passed. Reed wrote often, reporting progress of his affairs. Mr. Barstow’s studio was his until the lease was up in the spring. Tom Clayton was sharing it with him. They were going over the pictures and hoped to have the exhibition and sale some time in December. Mabel wrote sometimes from New York, sometimes from Baltimore. She said less about her vocation and more about improving her mind. Ellen wondered when she would settle down to anything stable. “She will be steadfast enough once she really makes up her mind what she wants to do,” Ellen said to Miss Rindy. “The trouble is that she has no set duty,” Miss Rindy answered. “She is the sort of girl who should marry and have something to tie to. I wish she would. Does she ever mention Tom Clayton? He is the man for her.” “She mentions him once in a while, calls him a dear old thing. I sometimes wonder if she would mention him more, or less, if she were really interested in him.” “It’s just like a woman to take that sly way of covering her tracks and keep you guessing,” Miss Rindy asserted.