He came to church the following Sunday and on other Sundays thereafter. His attendance was far more regular than it had been while Esther lived in the big house. It seemed almost as if he made it a point to be seen in public and to show to that public a countenance serene, unruffled, dignified--even defiant. He visited the post office every day, sometimes twice a day. His trotting horses began once more to show their paces about the Circle. Varunas Gifford was delighted, of course. “The old man’s gettin’ sensible again,” declared Varunas. “Was a time there when I snum it seemed as if he never cared two cents whether Claribel or Hornet or any of the rest of ’em could trot fast enough to get out of the way of an ox team. Never paid no attention to ’em, scurcely. Now he’s beginnin’ to show some signs of life! talkin’ about Sam Baker again, he is, and askin’ what kind of cattle Sam is cal’latin’ to send around the track over to Ostable when it comes Fair time. Looks to me as if I might be sailin’ around that track myself and fetchin’ a few dollars into port for him, same as I used to. Nabby, she’s growlin’ about it already, says I’m gettin’ too old for horse-racin’. ‘Gosh!’ I told her, says I, ‘don’t you fret yourself about that. When I get so old I can’t drive a trottin’ gig I’ll be just about old enough to have somebody else drive me in a hearse. Say,’ I says to her-- He, he!--‘make ’em hitch a couple of high steppers onto that hearse, won’t you, Nabby. I wouldn’t want nobody to beat me to the cemetery.’ _That_ stirred her up. He, he!” Reliance had received one more letter from Esther. It, like the first one, was written from Boston. She and Bob had been obliged to wait another week before sailing for Europe. That week had gone and they had sailed. Presumably they were in Paris now and Reliance was anxiously awaiting a third letter which should tell of their arrival and what had transpired since. Day after day she had been hoping that Foster Townsend might come to see her and that, as a result of their interview, she could write Esther that her uncle would, if not welcome, at least receive and read, a letter from her. But her hope was dying. Townsend did not call. She saw him almost daily through the little delivery window of the post office, but, although they exchanged greetings, his was always perfunctory and in his manner was no hint of a desire for conversation. But once only had a message come to her from the big house. This was at the end of the week following the elopement, when Varunas, in the Townsend two-seater, brought Esther’s trunk to the Clark cottage. Mr. Gifford had much to say concerning his errand.