There were but few persons in the large drawing-room, and they had been quite sequestered in their little alcove. Linda returned to her seat, and lingered there, thinking, thinking. Presently she smiled and whispered to herself, "He never once said he loved, never once. 'As moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine,'" she murmured musingly. So he would marry her and take her to his city, where there would be no Aunt Ri, no warm-hearted neighbors to welcome her with cordial emphasis, as there would be when she went back to Sandbridge. Nevermore the flat, level roads, the little salt rivers, the simple every-day intercourse of friend with friend, the easy-going unambitious way of living, the smiling content. Instead, the eager struggle for greater ostentation and luxury, which she saw even in the city where she now was; the cold, calculating stares from utter strangers, when she went among them, interest lacking, affection wanting. But on the other hand, she would come back to her old home every year, and it would be truly hers. But how hard it would be to go from it again! And after a while she would be coming less and less frequently. She would grow reticent and unapproachable. Repression would silently work the change in her. She would have the opportunity of pouring out her thoughts on paper, to be sure, but--so she would at home. "No, no, no," she cried; "I'd rather a thousand times teach my restless boys for the remainder of my life. I don't love him, and that is exactly what is wrong. Where he lives has nothing to do with it. Goodbye, Talbot's Angles. You were never mine, and you never will be now." She went to her room, tip-toeing gently that Miss Ri might not hear her in the adjoining one. She slipped quietly into a chair near the window and gave herself up to her thoughts. She must not let Miss Ri think her caller had remained so short a time, and the dear woman must not be told of what had occurred. When she heard a stirring around in the next room, she knocked on the door, which was quickly opened to her. "Well, child, has your young man gone?" came the query. "What did he have to say?" "He told me the same thing Grace did about Talbot's Angles." "He did? The wretch!... Linda, why did we ever treat him so well? He doesn't deserve it." "Why, Aunt Ri, he can't help being the great-grandson of Cyrus Talbot." "He could help coming down here and stirring up all this fuss." "He sent his regards to you." "I don't want them. What else did he say?" "It appears that they have some new evidence, found in the paper which Grace directed them to. Some old receipts which seem to establish the fact that Cyrus Talbot really did have the right to rent the place to a certain John Briggs. I don't know how these receipts came into the possession of our branch of the family, but probably Briggs gave them to our great-grandfather to keep safely. At all events, Berkley Matthews and Mr. Jeffreys have worked it all out."