"There's one thing the Majah was careful note to mention, my deah. Why should this young fellow be going abeout defending the good name of his niece? Do ye kneow, my deah, I fancy the young idiot is in love with her." "Well, suppose he is?" "But, my deah! In England, you kneow, it wouldn't mattah; it would be a case of hopeless devotion. But as I understand things heah, it may become awkward. Don't ye think so, love?" "It depends upon the young man. Edith could do worse than marry a good, clean, wholesome fellow like that." "Good gracious! You deon't allow your mind to go that fah?" "Why, certainly! I'd much rather she'd marry a strong young workingman than some burnt-out third-generation wreck of her own set in the city." "But the fellow has no means." "He has muscle and brains, and besides, she has something of her own." Saulisbury filled his pipe slowly. "Luckily, it's all theory on our part; the contingency isn't heah--isn't likely to arrive, in fact." "Don't be too sure. If I can read a girl's heart in the lines of her face, she's got where principalities and powers are of small account." "Really?" "Sure as shooting," she smilingly said. Saulisbury mused and puffed. "In that case, we will have to turn in and give the fellow what you Americans call a boost." "That's _right_," his wife replied slangily. Edith went to her room that night with a mind whirling in dizzying circles, whose motion she could not check. It was terrible to have it all come in this way. She knew Arthur cared for her--she had known it from the first--but with the happy indifference of youth, she had not looked forward to the end of the summer. The sure outcome of passion had kept itself somewhere in a golden glimmer on the lower sweep of the river. She wished for some one to go to for advice. Mrs. Thayer, she knew, would exclaim in horror over the matter. The Major had hinted the course she would have to take, which was to show Arthur he had no connection with her life--if she could. But deep in her heart she knew she could not do that. Suddenly a thought came to her which made her flush till the dew of shame stood upon her forehead. He had never been to see her; she had always been to see him! She knew that this was true. She did not attempt to conceal it from herself now. The charm of those rides with her uncle was the chance of seeing Arthur. The sweet, never-wearying charm that made this summer one of perfect happiness, that had made her almost forget her city ways and friends, that had made her brown and strong with the soil and wind, was daily contact with a robust and wholesome young man, a sturdy figure with brown throat and bare, strong arms.