“It—it wasn’t so much what he said, exactly—no, not so much that,” Lucius circumlocuted. “It was more the—the length of time we were talking about you. That was the thing that struck _me_ about it, because I didn’t know—that is, I’d never heard—I——” “What _are_ you trying to say, Mr. Allen?” “Well, I mean,” said Lucius, “I mean I hadn’t known that he came around here at all.” “He doesn’t.” “That’s why I was so surprised.” “Surprised at what?” she said impatiently. “Why,” said Lucius, “surprised at the length of time that we were talking about you!” “What nonsense!” she cried. “_What_ nonsense! I don’t suppose he’s said two words to me or I to him in two years!” “Yes,” Lucius assented. “That’s what makes it all the more remarkable! I supposed the only girl he ever thought _anything_ about was Molly Baker, but he told me the only reason he ever goes there is just because she lives next door to him.” “Not very polite to Molly!” said Miss Ricketts, and she laughed with some indulgence for this ungallantry. “Still, Molly’s a determined girl,” Lucius suggested; “and she might——” “She might what?” “Nothing,” said Lucius. “I was only remembering I’d always heard she was such a—such a _grasping_ sort of girl.” “Had you?” “Yes, hadn’t you?” She was thoughtful for a moment. “Oh, I don’t know.” “So it seemed to me—well——” He laughed hesitatingly. “Well, it certainly was curious, the length of time we were talking about you to-day!” And he paused again as if awaiting her comment; but she offered none. “Well,” he said, finally, “I expect I better go join the old folks on the porch where I belong.” He was heartily received and made welcome in that sedate retreat, where, as he said, he belonged; but throughout the greetings and the subsequent conversation he kept a corner of his eye upon the dim white figure in the shadow of the maple trees down by the gate. Presently another figure, a dark one, graceful and young, came slowly along the sidewalk—slowly, and rather hesitatingly. This figure paused, took a few steps onward again; then definitely halted near the gate. “Who is that young man out there, talking to Mary?” asked Mary’s mother. “Can you make out, father?” “It’s that young Joe Perley.” “I’ve heard he drinks a good deal sometimes,” said Mrs. Ricketts thoughtfully. “His mother says he tries not to, but that it comes over him, and that he’s afraid he’ll turn out like his father.” Mr. Allen laughed cheerfully. “Anybody at Joe’s age can turn out any way he wants to,” he said. “Mrs. Perley needn’t worry about Joe any more. I just sat with him an hour down at the National House, and there was an open whisky bottle on the table before us, and he never once touched it all the time I was talking with him.” “Well, I’m glad of that,” said Mrs. Ricketts. “That ought to show he has plenty of will-power, anyhow.” “Plenty,” said Lucius.