In his anxiety to so play the impassioned lover as to conceal the recreancy he had fostered in his own heart, Harry did not notice the coolness of this greeting. Then, too, his self-satisfaction had always done him the invaluable service of preventing a ready perception of the repellant attitudes of others. He came forward eagerly to press a kiss upon her lips, but she checked him with uplifted hand. “O, the family's in there, are they?” said he, looking toward the open windows of the parlor. “Well, what matter? Isn't it expected that a fellow will kiss his affianced wife on his return, and not care who knows it?” He pointed to the old apple-tree where they had plighted their troth that happy night, with a gesture and a look that was a reminder of their former meeting and an invitation to go thither again. She comprehended, but refused with a shudder, and, turning, motioned him to the farther end of the piazza, to which she led the way, moving with a sweeping gracefulness of carriage that Harry thought had wonderfully ripened and perfected in the three months that had elapsed since their parting. “'Fore gad,” he said to himself. (This was a new addition to his expletory vocabulary, which had accrued from Ned Burnleigh's companionship.) “I'd like to put her alongside of one of the girls that Ned's always talking about. I don't believe she's got her equal anywhere.” Arriving at the end of the piazza he impetuously renewed his attempt at an embrace, but her repulse was now unmistakable. “Sit down,” she said, pointing to a chair; “I have something to say to you.” Harry's first thought was a rush of jealously. “Some rascal has supplanted me,” he said bitterly, but under his breath. She took a chair near by, put away the arm he would have placed about her waist, drew from her pocket a dainty handkerchief bordered with black, and opened it deliberately. It shed a delicate odor of violets. Harry waited anxiously for her to speak. “This mourning which I wear,” she began gently, “I put on when I received the news of your downfall.” “My downfall?” broke in Harry hotly. “Great heavens, you don't say that you, too, have been carried away by this wretched village slander?” “I put it on,” she continued, unmindful of the interruption, “because I suffered a loss which was greater than any merely physical death could have occasioned.” “I don't understand you.” “My faith in you as a man superior to your fellows died then. This was a much more cruel blow than your bodily death would have been.” “'Fore gad, you take a pleasant view of my decease--a much cooler one, I must confess, than I am able to take of that interesting event in my history.” Her great eyes blazed, and she seemed about to reply hotly, but she restrained herself and went on with measured calmness: