Again she hesitated, but in the end she promised. She came that day and on other days. And with each session in the shanty she grew to know Bob Griffin better and to like him better. And, now fortified by the reasonable excuse that the presentation of the portrait was to be his birthday surprise, she said no word to her uncle nor to any one of her growing intimacy with Elisha Cook’s grandson. And the secret might have been kept until the birthday had not Fate, disguised as Millard Fillmore Clark, interfered. Mr. Clark, as a usual thing, kept away from the Townsend mansion and its environs. He had never been known to refuse an invitation to dine there and might have made his niece’s presence an excuse for spending much time on the premises had not several pointed hints from Captain Foster, backed by peremptory orders from Reliance, made him aware of the possibility that frequent visits might not be welcome. “I’d like to know why I can’t stop in once in a while, just to pass the time of day if nothin’ more,” he protested, indignantly, on one occasion. “Esther’s my relation, just as much as she is Foster Townsend’s, as far as that goes. I feel about as much responsibility for her as I ever did. No sense in it, I know, but I can’t get over it. Maybe I don’t forget as easy as some folks seem to.” Reliance, who was preparing the outgoing mail, kept on with her work. “I’m glad of that,” she observed, calmly. “Then of course you haven’t forgotten what Varunas Gifford called you the last time you were hangin’ around the stable in his way. I should think that ought to stick in your memory. It would in mine.” Millard drew himself up. “Varunas Gifford is nothin’ but a--a no-account horse jockey,” he declared. “And maybe you didn’t hear what I called him back.” “Maybe he didn’t, either. Or perhaps he did; I recollect you looked as if you’d come home in a hurry that day. There, there! Don’t you let me hear again of your trottin’ at Foster Townsend’s heels, tryin’ to curry favor. When he wants us at his house he invites us to come there. Yes, and sometimes when he doesn’t want us, I shouldn’t wonder. Behave yourself, Millard. If you don’t know what self-respect is, look it up in the dictionary.” So Millard, although he boasted much, at the store and about town, of his intimacy with the great man, dared not presume upon it. Therefore Foster Townsend was surprised to be accosted by him outside the post office one afternoon and to learn that Mr. Clark had something important to tell him. “Well, what is it?” he asked, impatiently. “Heave ahead with it. I’m in a hurry.” Millard looked cautiously over his shoulder. “Don’t speak so loud, Cap’n Foster,” he whispered. “Reliance is inside there and she’s got the door open. I haven’t told her what ’tis. I haven’t told anybody.” “All right. Then I wouldn’t bother to tell me. Keep it to yourself.”