Latest on her list came the butcher. This shop was in a side-street; and as she drew near, she heard a loud strident voice, which sent an unpleasant thrill through her. The younger Jones, blue-aproned, stood on the pavement, grinning broadly; and facing him might be seen a young woman in a staring blue silk blouse, shrieking with laughter. "Oh, won't you, though? I know better, Mr. Jones. I know what I'm about! I say!—the Parkinses have promised they'll take me with them to the Show next week. You going too? Thought so! And the chap from Chicago—he'll be there! Somebody'll be jealous—I shouldn't wonder!" "All right!" responded Jones, in a tone of familiarity, unknown to Doris. "I expect I'll manage to hold my own." "You just try, that's all! He's uncommon sharp, that Chicago chap! Ain't easy taken in, I can tell you." She went into a fresh fit of shrieking laughter, though there seemed to be nothing to laugh at. Then they both caught sight of Doris. The young butcher pushed up his cap, instantly quiet and respectful. "Anything wanted, Miss?" "Yes." She gave her order briefly. "Will you, please, see that it is sent early?" "Goodness!—it's Miss Winton!" she heard from Jane, with a pert giggle, and that irrepressible young person bobbed her head in recognition. Doris gazed straight through and beyond her, ignoring her existence. She neither flushed nor showed self-consciousness, but went slowly by; and not even the Rectorinn could have held her head higher. "My! Ain't she proud?" reached her ears. Another scene had presented itself vividly to her imagination. She saw herself standing again—in the future!—outside that same butcher's shop; the same young woman from the farm being on the pavement. She heard once more the loud screaming laughter; and with the laughter came unendurable words— "I say!—that's my sister—Doris!" More and more rapidly went the girl, as if driven by forces that she was powerless to resist. She reached the Rectory, and made her way, without hesitation, to the morning-room. "Mother—" "Yes, dear." "You are right! I can't marry Dick!" There was a catch of her breath, but the tone was sternly resolute. Mrs. Winton held down her joy. "I was sure you would see it soon." "I love him—dearly—but—I can't!" She sat down with a reckless air, and opened her writing-case. "Father said I ought to write. I—suppose I must. He won't believe—if anybody else says it." "You know his address—?" cautiously. "He told me where he would be in town—to-morrow morning. I said I wouldn't let anybody else have it." Mrs. Winton, with rare wisdom, kept silence. Ten minutes went by; and still Doris gazed upon a blank sheet. "I don't know what to say," came at length. Mrs. Winton slowly approached. "Will you let me help you?" "Yes—please." She scribbled the date and began— "Dear Dick.'" "It ought to be—'Dear Mr. Maurice.'"