She had been puzzled a good deal of the time since she came to the country, and had learned many things she would not soon forget, and she was sorry to leave. But there was no alternative. They were going in the morning, and she bade good-bye to the cats and the cows and hens and Sorrel, but reserved her farewell to Chance for the station, as Kenneth said he was to go there with them. There had been one long sled ride in the mud and what little snow there was, and Connie had told Kenneth she would love him forever and ever, and that she was to send him a book with “I believe” and “Stir up” and “miserable sinners” and everything in it, and he was to read it through and know more the next time she saw him. And Kenneth promised everything, and felt his heart grow heavier as he listened and remembered that to-morrow she would be gone, and probably that was the last of Connie he would see for years. She told him her auntie would invite him to New York, where she would show him things, not like cats and hens, but the Brooklyn Bridge and a ferry-boat. Kenneth had not much faith in being asked by Mrs. Hart to visit New York. He had read that lady pretty well, and guessed how glad she was to leave them and how little chance there was for him to see Connie often. Mrs. Hart thought herself a very good woman, who tried to do her duty religiously. She had spent a week at the farmhouse and been treated like a queen, and was grateful for it, and meant at some future time to send a present to each of the family in token of her appreciation, but when Mrs. Stannard asked about Arnold’s in New York, and if it wasn’t the best place to buy a black cashmere such as she had in mind, and said she’d often thought she’d like to see the big stores, Mrs. Hart did not seem to take the hint. To shop at any fashionable place in New York with Mrs. Stannard was impossible, or to have her for a guest. She could give her the cashmere, but she could not help her buy it, or invite her to New York. Kenneth had been very nice to her and Connie, and she would send him something besides a prayer-book,—a silver-backed clothes-brush and possibly a manicure set. She had noticed that his hands were rough and his nails not what they should be. Perhaps he would not know what it was, but that other boy might. He was a Morris, and different. This was Mrs. Hart’s reasoning on the morning she made her preparations for leaving. She had had a very pleasant, restful time, and they had been so kind to her, she said to Mrs. Stannard, who was secretly hoping for an invitation to spend a few days in New York. There were several things besides a black cashmere which she would like to get, and she wanted to see the big city. But no hint that she was expected was given when Mrs. Hart finally said good-bye.