Slipping them into her bag, she hastened from the store, drawing quickly back, however, as the man who had been staring at her brushed rudely against her. Nathalie glanced up with annoyance, but as he begged her pardon, with a sweep of his cap in an exaggerated bow, and another bold, somewhat mocking glance from his eyes, the pink in her cheeks deepened angrily. Nathalie, irritated at the incident, walked slowly down the narrow path leading to the flagging, but suddenly remembering her determination to explore the little village set in the hollow of a hill, the unpleasant occurrence passed from her mind. Attracted by the many flower-beds that bloomed so luxuriantly with such vivid coloring in the door yards of the little New England cottages beyond the post-office, she turned about and slowly strolled in that direction. Presently she came to a sudden pause to gaze admiringly across the road at a white, gable-roofed house, with bright green blinds, on a grassy terrace, peeping from beneath a mass of vines and leaves. It was surrounded by a garden from which came the gleam of many colors, in the tall, flowering rows of sweet peas that flanked its sides. But it was not so much their beauty that held her eyes as the small east wing of the building, where a wide, roomy porch was surmounted by the sign, The Sweet Pea Tea-House _Come in and have a cup of tea_ Nathalie would have enjoyed going over and having a sip of that social beverage, lured by the daintiness of the house and its sweet-pea garden, but, on discovering that she had left her purse at home, she continued her walk. A few steps down the road, and she was staring up at a timeless clock—looking as if its hands had been swept away in the mad rush of the hours—in the steeple of a church some distance back from the road. Then she was watching a horseshoer pounding with a noisy “Clank, clank” on the hoof of a horse, patiently standing in front of the blacksmith shop. A half-hour later, as she stood in front of a little neglected cemetery at one end of the village, staring in melancholy mood at its time-scarred stones, gleaming with a dulled whiteness from the rank and overgrown shrubbery, she heard the purr of an automobile. Turning carelessly, she noticed a bright red car, with the glossy, shiny look of newness, coming slowly in her direction, and quickly perceived that its only occupant was the bold-eyed man who had annoyed her in the post-office. She quickly glanced in another direction, but, to her surprise, the car came to a sudden stop, and as the man threw away his cigar, while doffing his cap, he said, pleasantly, “You have chosen rather a dreary place to linger, have you not, on this beautiful afternoon? Would you not like a little ride,—just a help up the hill, you know?”