right, trusting in Providence and Irene to help me out of the scrape. Of course he can’t fall in love with me, with Irene in the way, and if he takes to her I shall be glad. What do you think of my project? Write and tell me, but don’t try to dissuade me from it. My mind is made up, and you know I’m a stubborn little mule. “Did you ever hear of Reginald Travers? Colin McPherson wrote that he was a graduate of Princeton. That’s where you were. Maybe you know him. If you do, write at once and tell me what manner of man he is, and if you ever heard of his great-step-grandfather, Sandy McPherson. “Your loving cousin Rena.” CHAPTER IV REGINALD AND TOM Tom Giles, Attorney at Law in Newton, Mass., sat in his office one hot summer morning, wondering if he should accept an invitation he had received by letter from his friend and college chum, Reginald Travers, to spend a few weeks with him in Oakfield. “It is not a very gay town,” Reginald wrote. “The young persons have mostly emigrated to fairer fields in the west, and the old ones stay because they cannot get away and are attached to their rocky farms and houses and customs of a century ago. Some of them are as full of superstition as the negroes of the South, and I am told that what few young people there are here actually look into wells at noon and walk round haystacks at night, hoping to see their future consorts. To you, who are a descendant of the believers in Salem witchcraft, this sort of thing will be delightful, and I have no doubt you will be looking into a well some day at noon. There is a famous one on Uncle Colin’s farm, with a story attached to it. “But no matter about the well, that is the least attraction. The air is fine and there are some pleasant drives and views, while Uncle Colin’s house is roomy and hospitable, and Uncle Colin the most genial of hosts. I call him uncle although he is in no way related to me. His brother, Sandy McPherson, married my great-grandmother, Mrs. Travers. She was a widow, with an only son, who was my grandfather. The Travers family must have been given to only sons, for my father was one and I am one, and, as you know, nearly alone in the world. Some time before Sandy McPherson’s death, which occurred several months ago, I visited him and was greatly pleased with the canny old Scotchman. I think he was pleased with me, for he left a will, made after I was there, in which I figure conspicuously and not altogether satisfactorily. When I have made up my mind I may tell you about it. Until then don’t bother me. You know I do not like to discuss my affairs with anybody, and this affair least of all. It is not pleasant. Don’t fail to come. I want to see you awfully. “Reginald Travers.”