Mary rose to take the plates, and the young soldier insisted on helping. Miss Marilla, pleased to see them getting on so nicely, sat smiling in her place, reaching out to brush away a stray crumb on the table-cloth. Mary, lingering in the kitchen for a moment, to be sure the fire was not being neglected, lifted the stove-lid, and with the draught a little flame leaped up around a crumpled, smoldering yellow paper with the familiar “Western Union Telegraph” heading. Three words stood out distinctly for a second, “Impossible to accept,” and then were enveloped by the flame. Mary stood and stared with the stove-lid in her hand, and then, as the flame curled the paper over, she saw “Lieutenant Richard--” revealed and immediately licked up by the flame. It lay, a little crisp, black fabric with its message utterly illegible, but still Mary stood and stared and wondered. She had seen the boy on the bicycle ride up and go away. She had also seen the approaching soldier almost immediately, and the thought of the telegram had been at once erased. Now it came back forcefully. Dick, then, had sent a telegram, and it looked as if he had declined the invitation. Who, then, was this stranger at the table? Some comrade working Miss Marilla for a dinner, or Dick himself, having changed his mind or playing a practical joke? In any case Mary felt she ought to disapprove of him utterly. It was her duty to show him up to Miss Marilla; and yet how could she do it when she did not know anything herself? “Hurry, Mary, and bring the pie,” called Miss Marilla. “We’re waiting.” Mary put the stove-lid down, and went slowly, thoughtfully back to the dining-room bearing a pie. She studied the face of the young soldier intently as she passed him his pie, but he seemed so young and pleasant and happy she hadn’t the heart to say anything just yet. She would bide her time. Perhaps somehow it was all explainable. So she set to asking him questions. “By the way, Dick, what ever became of Barker?” she requested, fixing her clear eyes on his face. “Barker?” said Lyman Gage, puzzled and polite, then, remembering his rôle, “Oh, yes, _Barker_!” He laughed. “Great old Barker, wasn’t he?” He turned in troubled appeal to Miss Marilla. “Barker certainly was the cutest little guinea-pig I ever saw,” beamed Miss Marilla, “although at the time I really wasn’t as fond of it as you were. You would have it around in the kitchen so much.” There was covert apology in Miss Marilla’s voice for the youthful character of the young man he was supposed to be. “I should judge I must have been a good deal of a nuisance in those days,” hazarded the soldier, feeling that he was treading on dangerous ground. “Oh, no!” sighed Miss Marilla, trying to be truthful and at the same time polite. “Children will be children, you know.” “All children are not alike.” It was as near to snapping as sweet Mary Amber ever came. She had memories which time had not dimmed.