Dosia, flushing and paling alternately, carried entirely out of her deterring placidity, her blue eyes dilatingly raised to his, her red lips quivering, was distractingly lovely; fear gave to her quick, uncalculated movements the grace of a wild thing. George, in spite of his solid good qualities, possessed the mistaken playfulness of the innately vulgar. He advanced, the spider now held between his thumb and forefinger, a little nearer to her—a little nearer yet. There is a type of bucolic mind to which the causeless, palpitating fear of a woman is an exquisitely funny joke. “Don’t,” said Dosia again, in a strangled voice, ready to fly from the chair. The spider touched her sleeve, with George’s fatuously smiling face behind it. The next instant she had fled wildly down to the screened corner of the veranda, with George after her, only to be stopped by the screens at the end. His following arms closed tightly around her as he kissed her in happy triumph. After one wild, instinctive effort at struggle, Dosia stood perfectly still, with that peculiarly defensive self-possession that came into play at such times. She seemed to yield entirely now to the rightful caresses of an accepted lover as she said in a perfectly even and casual tone of voice: “Let me go for a moment, George! I must get my handkerchief from up-stairs. I’ll be right back again.” “Don’t be gone long,” said George fondly, releasing her half-unconsciously at the accent of custom. “No,” said Dosia, very pale, and smiling back at him coquettishly as she went off with unhurried step—to dart up two pairs of stairs like a flying, hunted thing, and into her room, to lock the door fast and bolt it as if from the thoughts that pursued her. Lois, coming up the stairs half an hour later, rattled the door-knob ineffectually before she knocked. “Dosia, what’s the matter? To whom are you talking? Let me in! Katy said, when she came up, you would not answer—she said Mr. Sutton had been walking up and down the piazza for a long time. Dosia, let me in; let me in this minute!” The key clicked in the lock, the bolt slipped back, and the door flew open. Dosia, in her blue muslin frock, her hair in wild disorder, was standing in the center of the room, fiercely rubbing her already scarlet cheeks with a rough towel. Every trace of assumed listlessness had vanished; she was frantically alive, with blazing, defiant eyes, and talking half-disconnectedly. “Never let him come here again—never, never!” she appealed to Lois. [Illustration: _“Never let him come here again—never, never!_”] “Whom do you mean?” “George Sutton!” A contraction passed over her face; she began rubbing again with renewed fury. “Don’t do that, Dosia! You’ll take the skin off. Stop it!” Lois, alarmed, put her arm around the girl, trying to push the towel away from her. “Dosia, sit down by me here on the bed—how you’re trembling! What on earth is the matter? Dosia, you must not, you’ll take the skin off your face.”