In this unamiable mood she fretted until late in the afternoon, when old Peggy, who had been sent on an errand to the village, returned, bringing the news that Mr. Warren was not expected to live, and that she saw Mr. Howland entering the door as she passed. Then lowering her voice to a whisper, she continued: “Right up against the window was a man’s head, which looked so like your father that I stopped a little, hoping he would turn his face one side, but he didn’t, and I came along.” “My father,” repeated Adelaide, “isn’t within a hundred miles of here.” Still the idea troubled her even more than the news of Mr. Warren’s illness, and after old Peggy left the room, she turned to her mother saying: “Wouldn’t it be mean if father had come back and gone to see Mr. Warren?” “I suppose it would be right, though,” returned her mother, while Adelaide continued: “Right or wrong, nobody wants him turning up bodily just yet, for Mr. Howland is so squeamish about a little deception that any chance of winning him would be rather slim, if he knew father was not dead as he believes him to be. If I secure him before he finds it out, he can’t help himself, and I wish he’d either propose or let it alone. I declare, mother, I think it is your duty as a prudent, careful parent to ask what his intentions are. You can tell him there is a great deal of talk about his coming here so much, and unless he is serious, you prefer that he should discontinue his visits, hinting, of course, that you fear my affections are already too deeply enlisted for my future happiness should he not be in earnest. Say, mother, will you tell him this when he comes again?” Mrs. Huntington at first refused, but Adelaide’s entreaties finally prevailed, and it was decided that when Mr. Howland next visited them he should be questioned concerning his intentions. “Oh, I hope he’ll come to-night,” said Adelaide, and feeling confident that he would, she made some changes in her dress, smoothed her glossy hair, and then, just as it was growing dark, lay down upon the lounge, building castles of the future, and wondering if she should be Adelaide Huntington one year from that day. As she lay thus, she heard the gate open and shut—a heavy footstep was coming up the walk, and thinking it must be Mr. Howland she assumed a half reclining posture, which she fancied was careless and graceful, and then awaited the appearance of her expected visitor. He did not ring, and she heard his step in the hall. Nearer and nearer he came, his hand was on the knob, and as the door swung back the large black eyes, which turned at first so eagerly in that direction, flashed their surprise and anger, not on Richard Howland, but on William Huntington, who keenly felt the coldness of his welcome. “Father,” she exclaimed, “where did you come from?”