“I have a confession I don’t mind making now. At half-past twelve o’clock last night I stood on this spot watching you. Thor and I were camping out in the orchard. It was too hot to go into the house. I heard a queer clicking, and saw a light in this direction, and came to look after Homer’s Jack-o’-lantern. Instead, I saw you at the study window, busy—oh! how wickedly busy—with the typewriter!” He stopped abruptly, for the face into which he smiled was bloodless, the eyes aghast. She made a movement as if to grasp the shawl and pillow and rush away—then her forehead fell upon the hand that clutched at the pickets for steadiness. “Are you angry?” pleaded March, amazed and humble. “If I had not loved you, I should not have been here. Was it an impertinent intrusion?” “No! And I am not angry—only startled.” Her complexion was still ashy, and her tongue formed the syllables carefully. “I can understand that you must have thought strange of what you saw. But I am used to typewriting. I earned fifty dollars”—with mingled pride and defiance March thought engaging—“last winter by copying law papers. And I told you—everybody must know how poor we are.” “I know more than that, dearest!” laying his hand over her cold fingers. “I surmised when I saw Mrs. Wayt dictating to you, what it meant.” She was all herself again. In defense of her sister’s secret, as he imagined when she began to speak, she rallied her best forces. Her speech was grave, dignified, and direct. “I do not know what you surmised. The truth is that Mr. Wayt was taken suddenly ill last night. His sermon must be ready by this morning. There was not time to get a substitute. So my sister found his notes. They were very full. She read them aloud to me. Nobody else can make them out. I copied the sermon with the machine from her dictation. You will understand that we would not like to have this spoken of. Good-evening!” She was beyond reach in a moment, in another beyond call.