“Her coming is not so much to be feared, after all,” breathed Lucy, growing more amiable instantly. “I feared she would be trying to lure Mr. Moore, whom I have set my heart upon winning, away from me. He has not said so much as a word to me yet, but I am sure he intends to, else why is he lingering here when the doctor said that he could go his way, almost a week ago, if he so desired? “His waiting to recuperate still further, as he called it, was merely an excuse to linger where I am, and he would not do that unless he was in love with me, and meant to propose to me, Ma says.” For an hour or more, Mr. Moore lingered in the old garden, lost in deep thought. At length he retraced his steps slowly to the old farmhouse. Lucy was standing on the steps which led into the wide, cool kitchen. “What do you think of our guest, Miss Jess?” she asked, displaying more anxiety in her tone than she was aware of. “She impressed me very favorably at first sight,” he answered, adding: “I imagine she would wear well in a long and close acquaintance.” “Do you think her pretty?” persisted Lucy, eagerly. “Well, no, not as artists and critics define beauty. Still, she is scarcely more than a child at present. She may become, in the years to come, a girl who might be termed unusually handsome. Father Time is so prodigal in his gifts in the flower of youth. And then, again, she might develop into a--well, comparisons are odious, they say, and we will make none in this instance, content to let time do his best or his worst, as fate decrees.” He did not see a young face, half screened by the climbing rose branches at the window directly overhead, nor did he, therefore, know that the young person under discussion--Jess herself--had heard every word of the conversation. Jess had drawn hastily back, her face as red as the great, dewy roses that nodded to her from outside the window. From the first moment her eyes had met those of the handsome stranger at the gate, the old life had seemed to fall suddenly from her. She had said to herself: “Surely, this is the hero of my daydreams; the face, come to life, of the Romeo whom Juliet loved, whose picture hangs on the walls of Blackheath Hall, and like the boyish face, too, of John Dinsmore, when he was a little lad, and came there to visit; and like the bust of Apollo, too; and the knight’s pictures in the old books.” And he did not think her fair: probably, on the contrary, he considered her homely; he had said as much, and tears of wounded pride welled up to the girl’s eyes. She never realized until that moment that she had so much vanity to hurt. CHAPTER XXI. HOW EASILY THINGS GO WRONG. For the first time in her young life, Jess lies awake through all the long, dark, cool hours of the night. As a rule, her senses droop swiftly into the lands of dreams quite as soon as her dark, curly head touches the pillow. To-night the sweet boon of sleep is denied her for the first time.