“I don’t wish to call on Thurley,” he said sharply, “as you well know. If you insist on my driving you up to her house, I’ll do so. My wife will call on her when she sees fit.” Which somewhat subdued the quartette, who murmured their gratitude and were hurriedly raced back until the Fincherie was reached. Whispering their thanks, each personally thinking what a dreadful disposition Dan Birge had, they raced up the walk—the leisure class of Birge’s Corners, as Dan thought with half a chuckle. He was wondering what Thurley would say to them, as he turned his machine in the opposite direction. CHAPTER XXVII Dan’s car rounded the driveway of the cemetery, one of those desolate country burial grounds on a remote hill with a neglected wooden fence running about it and wild shrubbery crowding in on the graves. He saw a smart cab in front of the tottering gate. He knew it belonged to but one person—Thurley—and he deliberately halted his machine and crossed the road to read the telling monogram T. P. entwined with fantastic plumes, consolation for having no real ancestors or crest. As he did so, Dan was glad—glad with all his heart! He climbed the path which was nearest Philena’s grave. He knew Thurley would be beside it. ... She was sitting with her back towards him, lost in her thoughts and unconscious of any one’s being close at hand. Dan paused. He was trembling—as Lorraine trembled when he had so grudgingly asked her hand in marriage. He knew Thurley had never loved him in the deepest sense—and yet—he seemed to see her as the old wild-rose girl in gingham, waiting for her lover’s coming! He put his hand to his head as if it pained. Then he came a step in advance. It was hard work to believe this was Thurley. She wore a wonderful silk driving coat which covered an afternoon frock of val lace tied with pink ribbons and a petticoat of pink satin. Her hat, a large, white lace affair, lay beside her, its silver ties half hidden in the grass. Her brown hair was smooth and glossy, betraying endless brushing and care. One hand halfway supported her splendid, tall self—it was very white these days and the nails shone, while a ring of diamonds sparkled up in triumph. Her pink satin slipper toes and the flesh-colored stockings peeked out coquettishly. With a flash of humor Dan spied the tiny anklet watch on its braided, glittering chain. Thurley was very close to the crimson rambler plant which she and Dan planted for Philena on a Memorial Day, long before Thurley had said her reluctant yes! Here he stepped on a twig whose crackling noise caused Thurley to turn half way and glance up with neither fear nor surprise—nor special delight. “Why, it’s Dan Birge,” was all she said, raising her hand cordially. “Do you mind?” His voice sounded weak and far away. “May I sit down? I—I was passing and I saw your cab; I was sure it was yours from the monogram—”