I walked on by the water's edge until I reached the Lane; turning into that much coveted strip of territory I continued until I came opposite the Colton mansion, where, turning again, I strolled homeward by the path through the grove. Unconsciously my wandering thoughts strayed to Mabel Colton. It was here that I had met her on two occasions. I had an odd feeling that I should meet her here again, that she was here now. I had no reason for thinking such a thing, certainly the wish was not father to the thought, but at every bend in the path, as the undergrowth hid the way, I expected, as I turned the corner, to see her coming toward me. But the path was, save for myself, untenanted. I was almost at its end, where the pines and bushes were scattering and the field of daisies, now in full bloom, began, when I heard a slight sound at my left. I looked in the direction of the sound and saw her. She was standing beneath a gnarled, moss-draped old pine by the bluff edge, looking out over the bay. I stopped, involuntarily. Then I moved on again, as noiselessly as I could. But at my first step she turned and saw me. I raised my hat. She bowed, coldly, so it seemed to my supersensitive imagination, and I replaced the hat and continued my walk. I thought I heard the bushes near which she stood rustle as if she had moved, but I did not look back. Then, close behind me, I heard her voice. “Mr. Paine,” she said. I turned. She had followed me and was standing in the path, a bit out of breath, as if she had hurried. I waited for her to speak, but she did not. “Good afternoon, Miss Colton,” I said, awkwardly. Some one had to speak, we could not stand staring at each other like that. She said “Good afternoon,” also. Then there was another interval of silence. “You--you wished to speak to me?” I stammered. “I DID speak to you,” with significant emphasis on the “did.” “I thought you might, possibly, be interested to know that Don and I reached home safely the other day.” Considering that she had called upon Mother since, it seemed to me that my knowledge of her reaching home safely might have been taken for granted; but I said: “I am very glad to hear it, Miss Colton.” “We had no difficulty in finding the way after you left us.” The way being almost straight, and over the main traveled roads, this, too, was fairly obvious. “I felt sure you would have no trouble--after I left you,” I answered, with a significant emphasis of my own. She did not reply and, as I had nothing further to say, I waited for her to continue, or to break off the interview. She did neither, but stood, as if irresolute, looking down and stirring with her foot the leaves at the edge of the path. Suddenly she looked up. “Mr. Paine,” she said, “you are making it hard for me to say what I intended. But I think I should say it, and so I will. I beg your pardon for speaking as I did when I last saw you. I had no right to judge or criticize you, none whatever.”