It was three days later and the last of the trial was over. Elizabeth had felt unexcited throughout, but now was beginning to seem a little jaded, as though the pouring out of so much knowledge had left her limp and empty. She had not seen much of Miss Miranda, so full had the days been, merely contenting herself with telephoning or consulting with Mrs. Bassett at the kitchen door. But now she was climbing the hill again, with none too energetic feet, to be sure, and rather a dull and vacant head, but with a heart lightened of a very definite burden. She could not know her exact standing for some days, but she had, she admitted to herself frankly, no great doubt as to the result. Nothing had seemed very difficult, for steady and conscientious labor had proved its value at last. She felt rather more concerned about David. His work, also, would be finished to-day, so that she might hope to see him at the cottage that evening. A telegraph messenger passed her, coasting joyously down the hill on his bicycle as she was toiling upward. At the gate she found Michael, the yellow dispatch still in his hand. “I’m going in, shall I take it to Miss Miranda?” she said, but the old Irishman shook his head. “It is for me,” he answered, and, as though to prove it, turned the envelope so that she could see the address, “Mr. Michael Martin, Somerset Lane.” Michael somehow seemed rather an unexpected person to be receiving telegrams, but he was in one of his silent moods, unfortunately, and did not offer to tell his news. “I am needing help in the garden,” was all he condescended to say as he pocketed the envelope; “could you give me a hand with pulling the lettuce? Miss Miranda has not been able to come inside the place for a week.” “I’ll just go in and speak to her first,” Elizabeth said, a remark that seemed to displease him greatly. “As you will,” he returned, shrugging his shoulders grumpily, “but it will be dark before long and plenty of time for visiting then. It will be black darkness, too, for there is no moon now.” With a sigh Betsey agreed that he was probably right and that he should, at any rate, be humored. The garden did indeed look neglected and in want of the care Miss Miranda was accustomed to give it. The very hens and ducks seemed to be moping and less cheerful in their clucks and quackings, as though they missed their mistress and found the unsympathetic Michael a very sorry substitute. When Betsey was once established between the lettuce rows he went away at once to hoe the sweet corn, so that conversation was impossible. They labored in silence for a long time until it began to grow too dark to see clearly. “I will not stop before he does,” Betsey told herself, rather nettled at his uncordial behavior; “he will think I am shirking if I do.”