David’s attitude in respect to herself Polly did not understand. She was taking all possible tasks upon her shoulders in order to avoid him. Nita, true to her promise, accompanied her hostess like a shadow, thus effectually hindering David from any effort he might wish to make to see her alone. Last June if he had been thwarted in his attempts as she was thwarting him at present, he would have gone about black of face and gloomy of manner, making it apparent to everybody that he considered himself as being ill-used. Yet now he smiled genially to all and was seemingly at peace with himself and the world. Could it be that up in the great woods he had learned self-control? Or was he actually as contented as he seemed? Perhaps--Polly’s heart quickened with sudden hope--he had fallen in love with somebody else and was here only to obtain his freedom from the bonds under which he might believe himself in honor to be held. The joy was brief. David Collins was not one to feel bound to anybody or anything not agreeable to himself. She sighed. No, that explanation of his present conduct was scarcely practicable. Polly admitted to herself that David was far more attractive in this new rôle than he had been in the old. No wonder Marietta said that he was changed. With the thought of Marietta she returned to her former supposition, and which she had set aside as not to be entertained. David had always liked Marietta, and the girl herself had plainly enough been bent on winning him. Had he been won over? Polly wished it could be so--yes, ardently wished it--thereby proving to herself beyond any further doubt that her love--if love it had ever been--was love no longer. She could see him wedded to Marietta without the breath of a sigh. If only he were not taking their engagement for granted, as he once did! She shuddered at the possibility. “Are you sure, Polly, that you are not making a mistake?” Juanita Randolph asked, on the fourth afternoon of her visit. They had come up to the grove back of the house, where Sardis Merrifield had heard the story of the “Ten Little Girls.” Polly looked up from her crocheting, her eyes questioning. “What about?” “About David. Are you positive that you do not care for him?” The blood sprang into Polly’s face, and mounted to her hair. “I know,” she replied simply. “I wondered--that is all,” Mrs. Randolph said, as if in apology. “Weren’t you sure whether you loved Mr. Randolph or not?” “Perfectly sure--from the first.” It was the other’s face that pinked this time. “And you made me believe you didn’t care a rap about him, in fact, hated him!” chided Polly. Mrs. Randolph laughed softly. “I had no idea that he would ever care for me.” “I thought he did until we heard that story about Blanche Puddicombe. I am sorry for the man she married.” The elder woman shook her head with a bit of a sigh. “I wonder if she liked Nelson.”