Mrs. Eastman twitched her thread viciously. “Bessy Houghton was born an old maid,” she said sharply. “She thinks nobody is good enough for her, that is what’s the matter. Lawrence got some silly boy-notion into his head last winter, but I soon put a stop to that.” “I always had an idea that Bessy thought a good deal of Lawrence,” said Maggie. “She has never been the same since he left off going with her. I was up there the morning after that prayer meeting night people talked so much of, and she looked positively dreadful, as if she hadn’t slept a wink the whole night.” “Nonsense!!” said Mrs. Eastman decisively. “She would never think of taking a boy like him when she’d turned up her nose at better men. And I didn’t want her for a daughter-in-law, anyhow. I can’t bear her. So I put my foot down in time. Lawrence sulked for a spell, of course—boy fashion—and he’s been as fractious as a spoiled baby ever since.” “Well, I dare say you’re right,” assented the dressmaker. “But I must say I had always imagined that Bessy had a great notion of Lawrence. Of course, she’s so quiet it is hard to tell. She never says a word about herself.” There was an unsuspected listener to this conversation. Lawrence had come in from the field for a drink, and was standing in the open kitchen doorway, within easy earshot of the women’s shrill tones. He had never doubted his mother’s word at any time in his life, but now he knew beyond doubt that there had been crooked work somewhere. He shrank from believing his mother untrue, yet where else could the crookedness come in? When Mrs. Eastman had gone to the kitchen to prepare dinner Maggie Hatfield was startled by the appearance of Lawrence at the low, open window of the sitting room. “Mercy me, how you scared me!” she exclaimed nervously. “Maggie,” said Lawrence seriously, “I want to ask you a question. Did Bessy Houghton ever say anything to you about me or did you ever say that she did? Give me a straight answer.” The dressmaker peered at him curiously. “No. Bessy never so much as mentioned your name to me,” she said, “and I never heard that she did to any one else. Why?” “Thank you. That was all I wanted to know,” said Lawrence, ignoring her question, and disappearing as suddenly as he had come. That evening at moonrise he passed through the kitchen dressed in his Sunday best. His mother met him at the door. “Where are you going?” she asked querulously. Lawrence looked her squarely in the face with accusing eyes, before which her own quailed. “I’m going to see Bessy Houghton, mother,” he said sternly, “and to ask her pardon for believing the lie that has kept us apart so long.” Mrs. Eastman flushed crimson and opened her lips to speak. But something in Lawrence’s grave, white face silenced her. She turned away without a word, knowing in her secret soul that her youngest born was lost to her forever.