Ladies of the congregation, after a dignified season of hesitation, called on her—that is to say, after forty-eight hours—and were told by the servant that Miss Judge was not at home. She would be at home only on Thursdays from three to six. Some little confusion was caused by the name, but this was satisfactorily straightened out by the servant who explained that Miss Judge and Mrs. Sage were one and the same person, and that she was married all right and proper except, as you might say, in name. Mrs. Serepta Grimes, being an old friend, was one of the first to call. And this is what she said to Oliver October that same evening: “You ask me, did I see her? I did. I saw her sitting at a window upstairs as I came up the walk. She didn’t try to hide. She just sat there reading a book. I told the hired girl to say who it was and that I’d just as soon come upstairs as not if she didn’t feel like coming down. The girl said she wasn’t home—and wouldn’t be till Thursday. So I says, ‘You go up and tell her it’s me.’ In a minute or two she came back and told me the bare-facedest lie I ever heard. She knew she was lying, because I never saw a human being turn as red in the face as she did. She said Mrs. Sage wasn’t at home. She said Mrs. Sage asked her to say would I please come on Thursday next and have tea with her. She said Thursday was her day. Well, do you know what I did, Oliver? I just said ‘pooh’ and walked right up the stairs and into her room. She got right up and kissed me five or six times and—well, that’s about all, except I stayed so long I was afraid I’d be late for supper. She’s a caution, isn’t she? I declare I don’t know when I’ve had a better time. She didn’t talk of anything else but you, Oliver. She thinks you’re the finest—” “Did you see Jane?” broke in Oliver. “Certainly. Don’t you want to hear what Josephine said about you?” “No, I can’t say that I do. By the way, Aunt Serepta, there is something I’ve been wanting to ask you for quite awhile. Do you think Jane is pretty?” Mrs. Grimes pondered. “Well,” she said judicially, “it depends on what you mean by pretty. Do you mean, is she beautiful?” “I suppose that’s what I mean.” “What do you want to know for?” “Eh?” “I mean, what’s the sense of asking me that question? You wouldn’t believe me if I said she wasn’t pretty, would you?” “Well, I’d just like to know whether you agree with me or not.” “Yes, sir,” said she, fixing him with an accusing eye; “I do agree with you—absolutely.” “The strange thing about it,” he pursued defensively, “is that I never thought of her as being especially good-looking until recently. Funny, isn’t it?” “There are a lot of things we don’t notice,” said she, “until some one else pinches us. Then we open our eyes. I guess some one must have pinched you. It hurts more when a man pinches you—’specially a big strong fellow like Doc Lansing.”