A few weeks after the return of our hero Mary and Mrs. Burns were seated in the living-room, Mrs. Burns as usual busy at her wheel, while Mary sat sewing at the window, where she could look out across the fields and see her sweetheart, who, with a white sheet containing his seed corn slung across his shoulder, was scattering the grain in the earth. She sang dreamily as she sewed, her sweet face beaming with love and happiness. No presentiment warned her of the approaching tragedy that was soon to cast its blighting shadow over that happy household—a tragedy that was inevitable. The guilty one had sown to the flesh, he must reap corruption. The seed had been sown carelessly, recklessly, and now the harvest time had come, and such a harvest! The pity of it was that the grim reaper must with his devouring sickle ruthlessly cut down such a tender, sweet, and innocent flower as she who sat there so happy and so blissfully unconscious of her impending doom. Suddenly, with an exclamation of astonishment, she jumped excitedly to her feet. “Mistress Burns,” she cried breathlessly, “here are grand lookin’ strangers comin’ up the path. City folk, too, I ken. Look.” Hastily the good dame ran to the window. “Sure as death, Mary; they’re comin’ here,” she cried in amazement. “Oh, lack a day, an’ I’m na dressed to receive the gentry.” A look of comical dismay clouded her anxious face as she hurriedly adjusted her cap and smoothed out her apron. “Is my cap on straight, Mary?” she nervously inquired. Mary nodded her head reassuringly. “Oh, dear, whatever can they want?” Steps sounded without. “Ye open the door, Mary,” she whispered sibilantly as the peremptory knock sounded loudly through the room. Timidly Mary approached the door. “Hist, wait,” called Mrs. Burns in sudden alarm. “My ’kerchief isna’ pinned.” Hastily she pinned the loose end in place, then folding her hands, she said firmly, “Noo let them enter.” Mary slowly opened the door, which, swinging inward, concealed her from the three strangers, who entered with ill-concealed impatience on the part of the two ladies who were being laughingly chided by their handsome escort. With a wondering look of admiration at the richly dressed visitors, Mary quietly stole out and softly shut the door behind her. With a murmur of disgust the younger of the two ladies, who was about nineteen, walked to the fireplace, and raising her quilted blue petticoat, which showed beneath the pale pink overdress with its Watteau plait, she daintily held her foot to the blaze. A disfiguring frown marred the dark beauty of her face as her bold black eyes gazed about her impatiently. “It’s a monstrous shame,” she flashed angrily, “to have an accident happen within a few miles of home. Will it delay us long, think you?” she inquired anxiously, addressing her companion.