She lifted her eyebrows. “Why--taking him for a drive, I suppose.” “No. I mean--how do they happen to be together?” “Why shouldn't they be? They're old friends--” “They ARE!” And, in answer to her look of surprise, I explained that I had begun to speak of Beasley at Mrs. Apperthwaite's, and described the abruptness with which Dowden had changed the subject. “I see,” my cousin nodded, comprehendingly. “That's simple enough. George Dowden didn't want you to talk of Beasley THERE. I suppose it may have been a little embarrassing for everybody--especially if Ann Apperthwaite heard you.” “Ann? That's Miss Apperthwaite? Yes; I was speaking directly to her. Why SHOULDN'T she have heard me? She talked of him herself a little later--and at some length, too.” “She DID!” My cousin stopped rocking, and fixed me with her glittering eye. “Well, of all!” “Is it so surprising?” The lady gave her boat to the waves again. “Ann Apperthwaite thinks about him still!” she said, with something like vindictiveness. “I've always suspected it. She thought you were new to the place and didn't know anything about it all, or anybody to mention it to. That's it!” “I'm still new to the place,” I urged, “and still don't know anything about it all.” “They used to be engaged,” was her succinct and emphatic answer. I found it but too illuminating. “Oh, oh!” I cried. “I WAS an innocent, wasn't I?” “I'm glad she DOES think of him,” said my cousin. “It serves her right. I only hope HE won't find it out, because he's a poor, faithful creature; he'd jump at the chance to take her back--and she doesn't deserve him.” “How long has it been,” I asked, “since they used to be engaged?” “Oh, a good while--five or six years ago, I think--maybe more; time skips along. Ann Apperthwaite's no chicken, you know.” (Such was the lady's expression.) “They got engaged just after she came home from college, and of all the idiotically romantic girls--” “But she's a teacher,” I interrupted, “of mathematics.” “Yes.” She nodded wisely. “I always thought that explained it: the romance is a reaction from the algebra. I never knew a person connected with mathematics or astronomy or statistics, or any of those exact things, who didn't have a crazy streak in 'em SOMEwhere. They've got to blow off steam and be foolish to make up for putting in so much of their time at hard sense. But don't you think that I dislike Ann Apperthwaite. She's always been one of my best friends; that's why I feel at liberty to abuse her--and I always will abuse her when I think how she treated poor David Beasley.” “How did she treat him?” “Threw him over out of a clear sky one night, that's all. Just sent him home and broke his heart; that is, it would have been broken if he'd had any kind of disposition except the one the Lord blessed him with--just all optimism and cheerfulness and make-the-best-of-it-ness! He's never cared for anybody else, and I guess he never will.” “What did she do it for?”