Winthrop was silent a moment, striving to reconcile the announcement with her presence: evidently there were complications ahead. At last: “Oh!” he said, and again paused. “Would you like to see my Aunt?” asked Holly. “Er――I hardly know,” answered Winthrop, with a smile for his own predicament. “Would it sound impolite if I asked who your Aunt is?” “Why, Miss India Wayne,” answered Holly. “And I am Holly Wayne. Perhaps you’ve got the wrong place, after all?” “Oh, no,” was the reply. “You say this is Waynewood, and of course there can’t be two Waynewoods about here.” Holly shook her head, observing him gravely and curiously. Winthrop frowned. Apparently there were complications which he had not surmised. “Will you come into the house?” suggested Holly. “I will tell Auntie you wish to see her.” She prepared to descend from the low branch upon which she was seated, and Winthrop reached a hand to her. “May I?” he asked, courteously. Holly placed her hand in his and leaped lightly to the ground, bending her head as she smoothed her skirt that he might not see the ridiculous little flush which had suddenly flooded her cheeks. Why, she wondered, should she have blushed. She had been helped in and out of trees and carriages, up and down steps, all her life, and couldn’t recollect that she had ever done such a silly thing before! As she led the way along the path which ran in front of the porch to the steps, she discovered that her heart was thumping with a most disconcerting violence. And with the discovery came a longing for flight. But with a fierce contempt for her weakness she conquered the panic and kept her flushed face from the sight of the man behind her. But she was heartily glad when she had reached the comparative gloom of the hall. Laying aside her bonnet, she turned to find that her companion had seated himself in a chair on the porch. “You won’t mind if I wait here?” he asked, smiling apologetically. “The fact is――the walk was――――” Had Holly not been anxious to avoid his eyes she would have seen that he was fighting for breath and quite exhausted. Instead she turned toward the stairs, only to pause ere she reached them to ask: “What name shall I say, please?” “Oh, I beg your pardon! Winthrop, please; Mr. Robert Winthrop, of New York.” Holly wheeled about. “Mr. Winthrop!” she exclaimed. “If you please,” answered that gentleman, weakly. “Why,” continued Holly, in amazement, “then you aren’t an invalid, after all!” She had reached the door now and was looking down at him with bewilderment. Winthrop strove to turn his head toward her, gave up the effort and smiled strainedly at the marble Cupid, which had begun an erratic dance amongst the box and roses. “Oh, no,” he replied in a whisper. “I’m not――an invalid――at all.” Then he became suddenly very white and his head fell back over the side of the chair. Holly gave one look and, turning, flew like the wind up the broad stairway. [Illustration]