At a yard or two in front of him she paused astonished. This grave, tall figure with the melancholy brow, deep eyes and firmly compressed lips was an unaccustomed sight in this primitive town. Scarcely realizing what she did she gave a little courtesy and was proceeding on when he stopped her with a hurried gesture. “Is Mrs. Fairchild still living?” he asked, indicating the house she had just left. “Mrs. Fairchild? O no,” she returned, surveying him out of the corner of a very roguish pair of brown eyes, with a certain sly wonder at the suspense in his voice. “She has been dead as long as I can remember. Old Miss Abby and her sister live there now.” “And who are they?” he hurriedly asked; he could not bring himself to mention Paula’s name. “Why, Miss Abby and Miss Belinda,” she returned with a puzzled air. “Miss Abby sews and Miss Belinda teaches the school. I don’t know anything more about them, sir.” The courteous gentleman bowed. “And they live there quite alone?” “O no sir, Paula lives with them.” “Ah, she does;” and the young girl looking at him could not detect the slightest change in his haughty countenance. “Paula is Mrs. Fairchild’s daughter.” “Yes, sir.” “Thank you,” said he, and allowed the pretty brown-eyed miss to pass on, which she did with lingering footsteps and many a backward glance of the eye. Halting at the door of that small cottage, Edward Sylvester reasoned with himself. “She may be just such another fresh-looking, round-faced, mischievous-eyed school-girl. Spiritual children do not always make earnest-souled women. Let me beware what hopes I build on a foundation so unsubstantial.” Yet when in a moment later the door opened and a weazen-faced dapper, little woman appeared, all smiles and welcome, he owned to a sensation of dismay that sufficiently convinced him what a hold this hope of meeting with something exceptionally sweet and high, had taken upon his hitherto careless and worldly spirit. “Mr. Sylvester I am sure! I thought Ona would remember us after a while. Come in sir, do, my sister will be home in a few moments.” And with a deprecatory flutter comical enough in a woman at least seventy odd years old, she led her distinguished guest into a large unused room where in spite of his remonstrances she at once proceeded to build a fire. “It is a pleasure sir,” she said to every utterance of regret on his part at the trouble he was causing. And though her vocabulary was thus made to appear somewhat small, her sincerity was undoubted. “We have counted the days, Belinda and I, since we sent the last letter. It may seem foolish to you, sir; but Paula is growing so fast and Belinda says is so uncommon smart for her age that we did think that it was time Ona knew just what a straight we were in. Do you want to see Paula?”