"Can't prove it by me," Matilda sighed, looking pensively out of the window. "That Marsh boy come to see her once, though." "He didn't come again, I notice, no more'n the minister did." "No," Matilda rejoined, pointedly, with a searching glance at Grandmother, "and I reckon it was for the same reason. When young folks comes to see young folks, they don't want old folks settin' in the room with 'em all the time, talkin' about things they ain't interested in." "Young folks!" snorted Grandmother. "You was thirty!" "That ought to be old enough to set alone with a man for a spell, especially if he's a minister." "I suppose you think," the old lady returned, swiftly gathering her ammunition for a final shot, "that the minister was minded to marry you. I've told you more 'n once that you're better off the way you are. Marriage ain't much. I've been through it and I know." [Sidenote: Face to Face] With that, she sailed triumphantly out of the room, closing the door with a bang which had in it the sound of finality. Poor Miss Matilda gazed dreamily out of the window, treasuring the faint, fragrant memory of her lost romance. "If Rosemary has got a beau," she said to herself, "I hope she won't let Ma scare him away from her." At the post-office, Rosemary met Alden, face to face. She blushed and stammered when he spoke to her, answered his kindly questions in monosyllables, and, snatching _The Household Guardian_ from the outstretched hand of the postmaster, hurried away. Presently he overtook her. "Please, Rosemary," he said, "give me just a minute. I want to talk to you. I haven't seen you for a long time." "Yes?" She stopped, but could not raise her eyes to his face. "I can't talk to you here. Come on up the hill." "When?" The girl's lips scarcely moved as she asked the question. "Now. Please come." "I'll--I'll have to go home first, with this," she replied, indicating the paper. "Then I'll come." "All right. I'll go on ahead and wait for you. Shall I tie the red ribbon to the tree?" He spoke thoughtlessly, meaning only to be pleasant, but the girl's eyes filled. She shook her head decisively and neither of them spoke until they reached the corner where she must turn. [Sidenote: Waiting for Rosemary] "Good-bye," she said. "Auf wiedersehen," he replied, lifting his hat. "Don't be long." Always, before, it had been Rosemary who waited for him. Now he sat upon the log, leaning back against the tree, listening to the chatter of the squirrels and the twitter of little birds in the boughs above him. It was not yet noon, and the sunlight made little dancing gleams of silver-gilt on the ground between the faint shadows of the leaves. He waited for her in a fever of impatience, for in his pocket he had a letter for Edith, addressed in a dashing masculine hand.