"It was so silly of her to want a husband at her time of life," continued Annabel; "besides being so unfair to me. And what we are to do this year to eke out the Parish Nurse money I cannot imagine. I had a Sale of Work two years ago, and a Concert two years before that, and I don't want to have either of them again so soon, though I don't see what else I can have, and we haven't money enough without." "It is such a business getting up a Sale of Work in a small parish like this," said Arthur. Annabel agreed with him. "And in a little village people don't want a lot of tea-cosies and antimacassars and fancy blotters," she added, as if in large towns the thirst for these articles was insatiable. "Why not have a Jumble Sale?" suggested Fay. "Jumble sales are so splendid at killing three birds with one stone: they clothe the naked, feed the hungry, and clear out your wardrobe at the same time." "I don't see how they feed the hungry," Arthur objected. But Fay had her answer ready. "By the money they make, of course. And in the present instance feeding the hungry would be a synonym for supporting the Parish Nurse." Annabel's brow was lined with anxiety. "I see what you mean about Jumble sales, but they have terrible disadvantages." "As for instance?" I prompted her. I saw she was bursting to divulge the tragedies attendant upon Jumble sales. "We had one, if you remember, five or six years ago for the village hall, and made quite a nice little sum by it. But Cutler bought one of Reggie's old suits at it, and wore it on a Sunday afternoon when he came up to see after the stove in the greenhouses; and I saw him standing in the peach-house and went up to him and put my hand on his shoulder, thinking he was Reggie! Wasn't it dreadful? I feel I shall never get over it as long as I live." Of course the twins shouted with laughter at this, and Arthur and I were not far behind them in our exuberance of mirth. But Annabel looked quite serious--even distressed. "I see nothing to laugh at in it--nothing at all," she said in accents of reproof; "it was a most embarrassing position both for me and for Cutler. I'm sure I pitied him as much as I pitied myself." "Did you say anything?" I asked as soon as I could speak--"while you still believed him to be me, I mean?" Annabel blushed: five long years had not obliterated the disgrace of that terrible moment in the peach-house. "Unfortunately I did; I said: 'What are you doing here, my dear?' It wouldn't have mattered so much if I hadn't said 'my dear.' But I did." Of course our mirth burst forth afresh. No one who knew Annabel could have blamed us. "I see nothing funny in my calling Cutler 'my dear,'" she said with dignity; "quite the reverse." "But it was--it was excruciatingly funny," I gasped. "I can assure you it was not intentional." "You needn't assure us," I said; "we never for one mad moment suspected that it was."