"Why, it is settled," answered Miss Deborah; "it is all settled between Lois and young Forsythe. Arabella Forsythe told Adele Dale, and Adele Dale told me; quite privately, of course. It wasn't to be mentioned to any one; but it was only natural to speak of it to dear Ruth and to you." Gifford did not wait to hear more. "I must go," he said hurriedly. "I must get back to Mr. Denner," and he was off. "Oh, dear Giff!" cried Miss Deborah; taking little mincing steps as she tried to run after him. "You won't mention it? You won't speak of it to any one, or say I--I"-- "No!" he called back,--"no, of course not." "Not even to your aunt Ruth would be best!" But he did not hear her, and Miss Deborah went back to the house, annoyed at Gifford, because of her own indiscretion. Miss Ruth had gone to her own bedroom, and some time after Miss Deborah had disappeared in hers, the younger sister emerged, ready to go to Mr. Denner's. Miss Ruth had dressed with great care, yet with a proper sense of fitness, considering the occasion. She wore a soft, old-fashioned lawn with small bunches of purple flowers scattered over it, and gathered very full about the waist. But, before the swinging mirror of her high bureau, she thought it looked too light and bright for so sad a visit, and so trotted up-stairs to the garret, and, standing on tiptoe by a great chest of drawers, opened one with much care, that the brass rings might not clatter on the oval plates under them, and disturb Miss Deborah. The drawer was sweet with lavender and sweet clover, and, as she lifted from its wrappings of silvered paper a fine black lace shawl, some pale, brittle rose-leaves fell out upon the floor. That shawl, thrown about her shoulders, subdued her dress, she thought; and the wide-brimmed black hat of fine Neapolitan straw, tied with soft black ribbons beneath her little round chin, completed the look of half mourning. Miss Deborah answered her sister's knock at her bedroom door in person. She was not dressed to make calls, for she wore a short gown over her red flannel petticoat, and on her feet were large and comfortable list slippers. Miss Deborah's eyes were red, and she sniffed once, suspiciously. "Why, Ruth Woodhouse!" she cried. "Have you no sense? Don't, for pity's sake, dress as though you had gone into mourning for the man, when he's alive. And it is very forward of you, too, for if either of us did it (being such old friends), it should be I, for I am nearer his age." But Miss Ruth did not stop for discussion. "Are you not going?" she said. "No," Miss Deborah answered, "we'd better go to-morrow. You might just inquire of Mary, this afternoon, but we will call to-morrow. It is more becoming to put it off as long as possible." Miss Ruth had her own views, and she consented with but slight demur, and left Miss Deborah to spend the rest of the afternoon in a big chair by the open window, with Baxter's "Saints' Rest" upon her knee.