"Then who's to go to the Tide Mill?" demanded the lawyer. "You and Miss Lacey, hand in hand. It's fitting that you should protect one another." "Miss Lacey lives with Edna Derwent at the island in the summer,--keeps house for her, plays watch-dog, and all that sort of thing." "Indeed? How small the world is! I knew I felt drawn to Miss Lacey. I'd forgotten until you mentioned it how I adore Miss Derwent. Do give me the detail, Judge." "Get out. You can't do that Boston business. I suppose you'd better mail this letter to Miss Lacey," tossing the missive over to the young man's desk. "I can take it to her house this evening. I have to go to thank her for my handkerchief that she sent back. Do you want me to--no!" with a sudden turn back to his desk. "Do I want you to what?" "Nothing." "Don't be an idiot!" exclaimed the lawyer, exasperated by his own indecision concerning this affair so foreign to his experience. "No, it's none of my business," said Dunham. "Do I want you to ask Miss Lacey if she'll go up to the farm? Yes, I do. Tell her all expenses paid." After supper that night, for they had supper at six in this rural city of Seaton, John Dunham took a trolley car for the tree-lined street where Miss Lacey's cottage stood behind its row of poplars. "Utterly inappropriate," mused Dunham, smiling to himself as he glanced up at these "old maids of the forest." "They would be far better placed in front of Judge Trent's. He is a bachelor by conviction." Miss Lacey saw the young man coming up the walk, and herself opened the door, although she kept a little maid of fourteen, who attended school by day and assisted Miss Martha in her free hours for her board and lodging. "How do you do, Mr. Dunham?" she said, brow and voice anxious. "I hope nothing bad has brought you." "Do you call gratitude and admiration bad?" asked John, as she hastily shook hands with him. "There's very little of either ever walks in this door," returned Miss Martha dejectedly. "Step into the parlor, please. I'll pull up the shades in one minute." She suited the action to the word, and as she threw open a window the scent of lilacs floated into the room. "These are nice long evenings, aren't they?" she pursued lugubriously. "What are you grateful for, Mr. Dunham?" "My handkerchief, of course." "Law! Your handkerchief!" repeated Miss Lacey. "Do sit down." A swift glance at the spider-legged furniture caused John to choose the haircloth sofa, whose shining surface bulged substantially. He wondered where the judge used to sit. Any of the chairs would have held him, but perhaps they both used this sofa. If so, they must have led a migratory existence; and perhaps its slipperiness had infected and undermined the stability of the judge's affections. "You didn't need to make any fuss about the handkerchief," added Miss Martha.