“Nobody knows. She looks like nineteen or twenty, but she has the ways of a woman of forty,—as far’s having her own way’s concerned. Then again, she’ll pet the cat or smile up at Mr. Adams like a child. I can’t make her out at all. The boarders are all fearfully curious—that’s one reason I take her part. They’re a snoopy lot, and I make them let her alone.” “You like her, then?” “You can’t help liking her,—yet she is exasperating. You ask her a question, and she stares at you and walks off. Not really rude,—but just as if you weren’t there! Well, I’ll tell her you’re here, anyway.” It was only by his extraordinary powers of persuasion that Pinky Payne had won his aunt’s consent to make this call, and, being Sunday afternoon, the recognized at-home day in Corinth, they had gone to the Adams house unannounced, and asked for Miss Austin. Upstairs, Mrs. Adams tapped at the girl’s door. It was opened slowly,—it would seem, grudgingly,—and Anita looked out inquiringly. “Callers for you, Miss Austin,” the landlady said, cheerily. “For me? I know no one.” “Oh, now, you come on down. It’s Mrs. Bates, and her nephew, Pinky Payne. They’re our best people—” “What makes you think I want to see your best people?” “I don’t say you do, but they want to see you,—and—oh, pshaw, now, be a little sociable. It won’t hurt you.” “Please say to Mrs. Bates that I have no desire to form new acquaintances, and I beg to be excused from appearing.” “But do you know who she is? She’s the lady that’s going to marry Doctor Waring, the new President. And Pinckney Payne, her cousin, is a mighty nice boy.” Mrs. Adams thought she detected an expression of wavering on the girl’s face, and she followed up her advantage. “Yes, he’s an awfully nice chap and just about your age, I should judge.” “I’ll go down,” said Miss Austin, briefly, and Mrs. Adams indulged in a sly smile of satisfaction. “It’s Pinky that fetched her,” she thought to herself. “Young folks are young folks, the world over.” Triumphantly, Mrs. Adams ushered Anita into the small parlor. “Mrs. Bates,” she said, “and Mr. Payne,—Miss Austin.” Then she left them, for Esther Adams had strict notions of her duties as a boarding-house landlady. “Mrs. Bates?” Anita said, going to her and taking her hand. “Yes, Miss Austin,—I am very glad to know you.” But the words ceased suddenly as Emily Bates looked into the girl’s eyes. Such a depth of sorrow was there, such unmistakable tragedy and a hint of fear. What could it all mean? Surely this was a strange girl. “We have never met before, have we?” Mrs. Bates said,—almost involuntarily, for the girl’s gaze was too intent to be given to a stranger. “No,” Anita said, recovering her poise steadily but slowly,—“not that I remember.”