for Miss Walden to call, but, apparently, no such intention was in the mind of the mistress of Stoneledge.

"Perhaps after a bit she will write and invite me up there," Marcia Lowe then pondered. But no invitation came, and finally the little doctor's temper rose.

"Very well," she concluded, "I'll go to her and have it out. I'm not a bit afraid, and, besides, Uncle Theodore's business is too important to delay any longer. She doesn't know, but she must know."

So upon a fine afternoon Marcia Lowe set forth. Grim determination made her face stern, and she looked older than she really was. When she passed the Morleys' cabin she smiled up at Mary, who was standing near by, but the amiable mistress ran in and slammed the door upon the passerby. A little farther on she came to Andrew Townley's home and she paused there to speak to the old man sunning himself by the doorway.

"You certainly do favour your uncle, Miss Marching," Andrew mumbled; he had heard the stranger's claim of relationship and trustingly accepted it; but her name was too much for him.

"Since you come I git to thinking more and more of Parson Starr. He was the pleasantest thing that ever happened to us-all."

"Oh! thank you, Mr. Townley!"

So lonely and homesick was the little doctor that any word of friendliness and good-will drew the tears to her eyes. They talked a little more of Theodore Starr and then the walk to Stoneledge was continued.

Marcia Lowe had never seen any of the family except from a distance, and she dreaded, more than she cared to own, the meeting now. Still she had come to set right, as far as in her lay, a bitter wrong and injustice, and she was not one to spare herself.

Her advance had been watched ever since she left Andrew Townley's cabin, but in reply to her timid knock on the front door, Lily Ivy responded with such an air of polite surprise that no one could have suspected her of deceit.

"Certainly, ma'am, Miss Ann is to home. She am receiving in the libr'y. Rest your umbril' on the table, ma'am, and take a char. I'll go and 'nounce you to Miss Ann."

Left alone, Marcia did not know whether she wanted to laugh or cry. The brave attempt at grand manner in the half-ruined house was pitiful as well as amusing.

"This way, ma'am. My mistress done say she'll receive you in the libr'y."

And there, in solemn state, sat the mistress of the Great House. She, too, had had time to prepare for the meeting, and she was sitting gauntly by the west window awaiting her guest.

"It was right kind of you to overlook my neglect," Miss Walden began, pointing to a low chair near her own, "but I never leave home and I am an old woman."

The soft drawl did not utterly hide the tone of reflection on the caller's audacity in presuming to enter a home where she was not wanted.

The window was almost covered by a honeysuckle vine and a tall yellow rose bush; the afternoon breeze came into the room heavy with the rare, spicy fragrance, and after a moment's resentment at the measured welcome, Marcia said cheerfully:

"You see—I had to come, Miss Walden. I've only waited until I could become less a shock to you. You believe I am Theodore Starr's niece, do you not? I know there are all sorts of silly ideas floating around concerning me, but I need not prove my identity to you, need I?"

The winning charm of the plain little visitor only served to brace Miss Walden to greater sternness.

"I have no doubt about you. You are very like your uncle, Theodore Starr."

"Then let me tell you what I must, quickly. It is very hard for me to say; the hardest thing I ever had to do—but I must do it!"

Ann Walden sank back in her stiff armchair.

"Go on," she said, and her eyes fastened themselves on the visitor. She wanted to look away, but she could not. She was more alive and alert than she had been in many a year—but the reawakening was painful.

"I only knew—the truth after mother died. I found a letter among her things. Why she acted as she did I can never know, for she was a good woman, Miss Walden, and a just one in everything else. You may not understand; we New Englanders are said to love money, but we must have it clean. I am sure mother meant nothing dishonest—we had our own little income from my father and—the other was not used to any extent—I have made it all up."

"I—do not understand you!"

This was partly true, but the suffering woman knew enough to guide her and put her on the defence.

"There was a will made before my uncle came here—in that he left everything to mother and me in case of his death, but the letter changed all that—he wanted you to have the money!"

"Your mother was quite right!" the sternness was over-powering now; "the will was the only thing to carry out. I could not possibly accept any money from Theodore Starr nor his people."

For a moment Marcia Lowe felt the shrinking a less confident person feels in the presence of one in full command of the situation. She paused and trembled, but in a moment her sense of right and determination came to her aid. Her eyes flashed, and with some spirit she said:

"You are only speaking for yourself now."

"For whom else is there to speak?"

"The child!"

Had Marcia dealt Ann Walden a physical blow the result could not have been different. Horrified and appalled, the older woman gasped:

"What child?"

"My uncle's and your sister's! Miss Walden, you could not expect me to believe the story that the people tell around here. You perhaps think your sister was not married to my uncle—but I trust him. I think you and I, no matter what has passed, owe it to this little girl to do the best we can for her. I have left my home to help; I have no one besides her in the world—please consider this and be forgiving and generous. Oh! what is the matter?"

For Ann Walden had risen and stood facing Marcia with such trembling anger that the younger woman quailed.

"I wish you to leave my house!"—the words came through clenched teeth—"leave it and never return."

"If you resist me in this way," anger met anger now, "I will have to consult a lawyer. I mean to carry out my uncle's desires; I will not be party to any fraud where his child is concerned. I hoped that you and I might do this together for her—but if I have to do it alone I am prepared to do so. I have brought the letter I found among my mother's things—may I read it to you?"

"No!" Ann Walden stared blankly at the firm face almost on a level with her own, for Marcia Lowe had risen also.

"You—you cannot forgive us for the long silence? But at least do me this justice: I came when I could—as soon as possible. I was ill—oh! Miss Walden can you not understand how hard this is for me to do? Think how I must put my own mother at your mercy—my own, dear mother!"

Only one thought held Ann Walden—would her visitor never go? The few moments were like agonized hours; the shock she had received had been so fearful that for a moment she was stunned, and before the true significance overwhelmed her she must be alone!

"I—have nothing to forgive. You and yours, Miss Lowe, have nothing to do with me and mine—you must indeed—go! I cannot talk of—the past to you. You—have made a great mistake—a fearful mistake. My sister has—has nothing——"

The stern young eyes compelled silence.

"I—I wish you would let me help you—for the love you once had for Uncle Theodore," said Marcia Lowe; "you must have forgiven your sister when she told you; can you not forgive him?"

"Stop! You do not know what you are talking about——" Vainly, almost roughly, the older woman strove to push the knife away that the ruthless, misunderstanding young hands were plunging deeper and deeper into the suddenly opened wound.

"Oh! yes, Miss Walden, I know—here's the letter!"

She held it out frankly as if it must, at least, be the tie to bind them.

"I spoke