It was just six o’clock. The Copleys had elected to have their Sunday-night supper after the evening service, and to that end Cornelia had prepared delectable lettuce, cheese, and date sandwiches, and had wrapped them in a damp cloth in the ice-box to be ready. There was a fruit salad all ready also, and a maple cake. It would take but a few minutes to make a pot of chocolate, and they would eat around the fire in the living room. Maxwell had promised to come early and go to church with them. Cornelia rather dreaded the ordeal for she felt sure that Maxwell meant to tell her about the crimson lady. Well, she might as well get it over at once and have him understand that she knew exactly where she stood. She had gone upstairs to dress and left Carey lying on the couch, looking into the fire, dreamily listening to Louise and Harry playing hymn tunes as duets. She planned to write a letter to her mother early the next morning giving her a picture of their beautiful Sunday and telling the news about Carey. She was flying around getting dressed for the evening when she heard a car come up to the front and stop. It came quietly, almost stealthily; so it could not be Brand. Could it be that Arthur Maxwell had arrived so soon? She tiptoed into her father’s room to look out of the window. If it was Maxwell, she must hurry and go downstairs. The car was a shabby old affair with a rakish air, and she could not see the face of the man who sat in the driver’s seat. A small boy was coming in the gate with a letter in his hand, which he pulled from his pocket, looking up at the house apprehensively. There was something familiar about the slouch of the boy, and about the limpness of his unkempt hair as he dragged his cap off and knocked at the door, but she could not place it. A vague unnamed apprehension seized her, and her fingers flew fast among the long strands of soft hair, putting them quickly into shape so that she might go down and see what was the matter. Two or three hairpins which had been in her hand as she hurried to the window she stuck in anywhere to hold the coils. She hurried to her room, seized her dress, began to slip it on, and flew back to the post of observation at the window. She heard Carey get up and open the door, and she strained to hear what the boy said, but could not make out anything but a low mutter. Carey was reading the note. What could it be? Clytie? Oh! Her heart gave a great leap of terror. It was almost time for Christian Endeavor! But surely, _surely_ Carey would not pay any heed to that girl now. With all the new ambitions and opportunities opening before him! Carey had made an exclamation, and was following the boy rapidly out to the car. Oh! What could he be going to do? Cornelia fastened the last snap of her dress, and fairly flew downstairs; but, when she reached the door the car was driving madly off up the hill, and Carey was nowhere in sight. The children were still playing duets, and had not noticed.