“Possibly, though I have not given it a thought,” Mr. Howland answered, his voice indicating that he neither deemed it essential for himself to be particular, or his sister to be troubled, about Mrs. Huntington’s rent. As far as dollars and cents were concerned, Miss Elinor was not troubled, though she did think it doubtful whether Adelaide would be as prompt as Alice had been. But when, as if to verify a proverb not necessary to be repeated here, Adelaide came to the door almost before her brother had ceased speaking, she began to think her suspicions groundless, and her manner was quite conciliatory toward the young lady, who, after throwing back her veil of dotted lace and fidgeting a while in her chair, managed to say: “It is very humiliating to me, Mr. Howland, to tell you what ma says I must. She fully expected that the agent who does her business would have sent her money ere this, but as he has not, she cannot pay you to-day. Shall we pack up our things at once?” she continued, playfully, as she saw the expression on Mr. Howland’s face. “Perhaps you had better,” he answered in the same strain, continuing in a more sober tone. “Tell your mother not to be concerned about the rent. It does not matter if it is not paid until the end of the year.” Adelaide drew a relieved breath, while Miss Elinor dropped her embroidery and involuntarily gave vent to a contemptuous “Umph!” The sound caught Adelaide’s ear, and thinking to herself, “Stingy old thing—afraid they will lose it, I dare say,” she made her call as brief as possible. Nodding to her civily as she arose to go, Miss Elinor turned to her brother, saying: “You know, Richard, you are to go with me to-night to call on Jenny Hayes.” But Richard did not know it, and as his distressed sister saw him going down the walk with Adelaide Huntington on his arm, she muttered: “I’d like to see the man who could make such a fool of me as that girl has made of him!” A wish not likely to be verified, considering that she had already lived forty-five years without seeing the man. CHAPTER VII. THE UNKNOWN DELIVERER. Very rapidly the spring passed away, and the soft, sunny skies of June had more than once tempted the blind man and his daughter into the open fields, or the woods which lay beyond. Their favorite resort, however, was a retired spot on the bank of the river, where, shut out from human eyes, they could speak together of the past, the present, and what the future might bring. Here, one pleasant afternoon, they came, and while Mr. Warren talked of his childhood and his early home, Alice sat sewing at his feet, until growing somewhat weary, she arose and began to search for wild flowers upon the mossy bank. Suddenly espying some beautiful pond lilies floating upon the surface of the water, she exclaimed: “Oh, father, father, these must be white lilies just like those you used to gather when a boy.”