“Does my hair look decent?” asked Ellen, as the two girls peered into the mirror together. “The dew does take the curl out so. It must be lovely to have naturally curly hair, like yours, Fanny. It looks all the prettier for being damp and ruffled up.”

Fanny was pulling out the fluffy masses of curling brown hair about her forehead.

“Your hair looks all right, Ellen,” she said absent-mindedly.

She was wondering if Wesley Elliot would speak to her.

“I saw that Orr girl,” whispered Ellen; “she's got on a white dress, all lace, and a black sash. She does look pretty, Fanny; we'll have to acknowledge it.”

“Ye-es,” murmured Fanny who was drawing on a pair of fresh white gloves.

“You aren't going to wear those gloves down stairs, are you, Fan? I haven't got any.”

“My hands are all stained up with currant jelly,” explained Fanny hurriedly. “Your hands are real pretty, Ellen.”

Ellen glanced down at her capable, brown hands, with their blunt finger-tips.

“Did you ever notice her hands, Fanny?”

Fanny shook her head.

“Her nails are cut kind of pointed, and all shined up. And her hands are so little and soft and white. I suppose a man—do you think Jim would notice that sort of thing, Fanny?”

Fanny snapped the fastenings of her gloves.

“Let's go down stairs,” she suggested. “They'll be wondering what's become of us.”

“Say, Fan!”

Ellen Dix caught at her friend's arm, her pretty face, with its full pouting lips and brilliant dark eyes upturned.

“Well?”

“Do you suppose— You don't think Jim is mad at me for what I said about her, do you?”

“I don't remember you said anything to make anybody mad. Come, let's go down, Ellen.”

“But, Fan, I was wondering if that girl— Do you know I—I kind of wish she hadn't come to Brookville. Everything seems—different, already. Don't you think so, Fanny?”

“Oh, I don't know. Why should you think about it? She's here and there's no use. I'm going down, Ellen.”

Fanny moved toward the stairs, her fresh young beauty heightened by an air of dignified reserve which Ellen Dix had failed to penetrate.

Wesley Elliot, who had by now reached the wide opening into the hall in the course of his progress among the guests, glanced up as Fanny Dodge swept the last step of the stair with her unfashionable white gown.

“Why, good evening, Miss Dodge,” he exclaimed, with commendable presence of mind, seeing the heart under his waistcoat had executed an uncomfortable pas seul at sight of her.

He held out his hand with every appearance of cordial welcome, and after an instant's hesitation Fanny laid her gloved fingers in it. She had meant to avoid his direct gaze, but somehow his glance had caught and held her own. What were his eyes saying to her? She blushed and trembled under the soft dark fire of them. In that instant she appeared so wholly adorable, so temptingly sweet that the young man felt his prudent resolves slipping away from him one by one. Had they been alone—...

But, no; Ellen Dix, her piquant, provokingly pretty face tip-tilted with ardent curiosity, was just behind. In another moment he was saying, in the easy, pleasant way everybody liked, that he was glad to see Ellen; and how was Mrs. Dix, this evening? And why wasn't she there?

Ellen replied demurely that it had been given out on Sunday as a young people's social; so her mother thought she wasn't included.

They entered the crowded room, where Deacon Whittle was presently heard declaring that he felt just as young as anybody, so he “picked up mother and came right along with Joe.” And Mrs. Daggett, whose placid face had lighted with pleasure at sight of Fanny and Ellen, proclaimed that when the day came for her to stay at home from a young folks' social she hoped they'd bury her, right off.

So the instant—psychological or otherwise—passed. But Fanny Dodge's heavy heart was beating hopefully once more.

“If I could only see him alone,” she was thinking. “He would explain everything.”

Her thoughts flew onward to the moment when she would come down stairs once more, cloaked for departure. Perhaps Wesley—she ventured to call him Wesley in her joyously confused thoughts—perhaps Wesley would walk home with her as on other occasions not long past. Jim, she reflected, could go with Ellen.

Then all at once she came upon Lydia Orr, in her simple white dress, made with an elegant simplicity which convicted every girl in the room of dowdiness. She was talking with Judge Fulsom, who was slowly consuming a huge saucer of ice-cream, with every appearance of enjoyment.

“As I understand it, my dear young lady, you wish to employ Brookville talent exclusively in repairing your house,” Fanny heard him saying, between smacking mouthfuls.

And Lydia Orr replied, “Yes, if you please, I do want everything to be done here. There are people who can, aren't there?”

When she saw that Fanny had paused and was gazing at her doubtfully, her hand went out with a smile, wistful and timid and sincere, all at once. There was something so appealing in the girl's upturned face, an honesty of purpose so crystal-clear in her lovely eyes, that Fanny, still confused and uncertain whether to be happy or not, was irresistibly drawn to her. She thought for a fleeting instant she would like to take Lydia Orr away to some dim secluded spot and there pour out her heart. The next minute she was ready to laugh at herself for entertaining so absurd an idea. She glanced down at Lydia's ungloved hands, which Ellen Dix had just described, and reflected soberly that Wesley Elliot sat at table with those dainty pink-tipped fingers three times each day. She had not answered Ellen's foolish little questions; but now she felt sure that any man, possessed of his normal faculties, could hardly fail to become aware of Lydia Orr's delicate beauty.

Fanny compelled herself to gaze with unprejudiced eyes at the fair transparent skin, with the warm color coming and going beneath it, at the masses of blond hair drawn softly back from the high round forehead, at the large blue eyes beneath the long sweep of darker lashes, at the exquisite curve of the lips and the firmly modeled chin. Yes; Jim had seen truly; the ordinary adjective “pretty”—applicable alike to a length of ribbon, a gown, or a girl of the commoner type—could not be applied to Lydia Orr. She was beautiful to the discerning eye, and Fanny unwillingly admitted it.

Lydia Orr, unabashed by the girl's frank inspection, returned her gaze with beaming friendliness.

“Did you know I'd bought a house?” she asked. “It's old and needs a lot of repairing; so I was just asking Judge Fulsom—”

“Deacon Amos Whittle is, so to say, a contractor,” said the Judge ponderously, “and so, in a way, am I.”

“A contractor?” puzzled Lydia. “Yes; but I—”

“If you'll just give over everything into our hands connected with putting the old place into A-number-one shape, I think you'll find you can dismiss the whole matter from your mind. In two months' time, my dear young lady, we'll guarantee to pass the house over to you in apple-pie order, good as new, if not better.... Yes, indeed; better!”

The Judge eyed his empty saucer regretfully.

“That's the best ice cream—” he added with total irrelevance. “Have some, won't you? I hear they're passing it out free and permiscuous in the back room.”

“I think we should like some cream, if you please, Judge Fulsom,” said Lydia, “if you'll keep us company.”

“Oh, I'll keep company with you, as far as strawberry ice cream's concerned,” chuckled the Judge, his big bulk shaking with humor. “But I see Mis' Fulsom over there; she's got her weather eye on us. Now, watch me skeedaddle for that cream! Pink, white or brown, Miss Orr; or, all three mixed? There's a young fellow out there in charge of the freezers that sure is a wonder. How about you, Fanny?”

The two girls looked at each other with a smile of understanding as the big figure of the Judge moved ponderously away.

“We never had ice cream before at a church sociable,” said Fanny. “And I didn't know Mrs. Solomon Black had so many lanterns. Did you buy all this?”

Her gesture seemed to include the shaded lamps, the masses of flowers and trailing vines, the gay strains of music, and the plentiful refreshments which nearly every one was enjoying.

“It's just like a regular party,” she added. “We're not used to such things in Brookville.”

“Do you like it?” Lydia asked, doubtfully.

“Why, of course,” returned Fanny, the color rising swiftly to her face.

She had caught a glimpse of Wesley Elliot edging his way past a group of the younger boys and girls, mad with the revelry of unlimited cake and ice cream. He was coming directly toward their corner; his eyes, alas! fixed upon the stranger in their midst. Unconsciously Fanny sighed deeply; the corners of her smiling lips drooped. She appeared all at once like a lovely rose which some one has worn for an hour and cast aside.

“It's such a little thing to do,” murmured Lydia.

Then, before Fanny was aware of her intention, she had slipped away. At the same moment Judge Fulsom made his appearance, elbowing his smiling way through the crowd, a brimming saucer of vari-colored ice cream in each hand.

“Here we are!” he announced cheerfully. “Had to get a habeas corpus on this ice cream, though. Why, what's become of Miss Orr? Gone with a handsomer man—eh?”

He stared humorously at the minister.

“Twa'n't you, dominie; seen' you're here. Had any ice cream yet? No harm done, if you have. Seems to be a plenty. Take this, parson, and I'll replevin another plate for myself and one for Miss Orr. Won't be gone more'n another hour.”

Fanny, piteously tongue-tied in the presence of the man she loved, glanced up at Wesley Elliot with a timidity she had never before felt in his company. His eyes under close-drawn brows were searching the crowd. Fanny divined that she was not in his thoughts.

“If you are looking for Miss Orr,” she said distinctly, “I think she has gone out in the kitchen. I saw Mrs. Solomon Black beckon to her.”

The minister glanced down at her; his rash impulse of an hour back was already forgotten.

“Don't you think it's awfully warm in here?” continued Fanny.

A sudden desperate desire had assailed her; she must—she would compel him to some sort of an explanation.

“It's a warm evening,” commented the minister. “But why not eat your cream? You'll find it will cool you off.”

“I—I don't care much for ice cream,” said Fanny, in a low tremulous voice.

She gazed at him, her dark eyes brimming with eager questions.

“I was wondering if we couldn't—it's pleasant out in the yard—”

“If you'll excuse me for just a moment, Miss Dodge,” Wesley Elliot's tone was blandly courteous—“I'll try and find you a chair. They appear to be scarce articles; I believe the ladies removed most of them to the rear of the house. Pardon me—”

He set down his plate of ice cream on the top shelf of Mrs. Solomon Black's what-not, thereby deranging a careful group of sea-shells and daguerreotypes, and walked quickly away.

Fanny's face flushed to a painful crimson; then as suddenly paled. She was a proud girl, accustomed to love and admiration since early childhood, when she had queened it over her playmates because her yellow curls were longer than theirs, her cheeks pinker, her eyes brighter and her slim, strong body taller. Fanny had never been compelled to stoop from her graceful height to secure masculine attention. It had been hers by a sort of divine right. She had not been at all surprised when the handsome young minister had looked at her twice, thrice, to every other girl's once, nor when he had singled her out from the others in the various social events of the country side.

Fanny had long ago resolved, in the secret of her own heart, that she would never, never become the hard-worked wife of a plodding farmer. Somewhere in the world—riding toward her on the steed of his passionate desire—was the fairy prince; her prince, coming to lift her out from the sordid commonplace of life in Brookville. Almost from the very first she had recognized Wesley Elliot as her deliverer.

Once he had said to her: “I have a strange feeling that I have known you always.” She had cherished the saying in her heart, hoping—believing that it might, in some vague, mysterious way, be true. And not at all aware that this pretty sentiment is as old as the race and the merest banality on the masculine tongue, signifying: “At this moment I am drawn to you, as to no other woman; but an hour hence it may be otherwise.” ... How else may man, as yet imperfectly monogamous, find the mate for whom he is ever ardently questing? In this woman he finds the trick of a lifted lash, or a shadowy dimple in the melting rose of her cheek. In another, the stately curve of neck and shoulder and the somber fire of dark eyes draws his roving gaze; in a third, there is a soft, adorable prettiness, like that of a baby. He has always known them—all. And thus it is, that love comes and goes unbidden, like the wind which blows where it listeth; and woman, hearing the sound thereof, cannot tell whence it cometh nor whither it goeth.

In this particular instance Wesley Elliot had not chosen to examine the secret movements of his own mind. Baldly speaking, he had cherished a fleeting fancy for Fanny Dodge, a sort of love in idleness, which comes to a man like the delicate, floating seeds of the parasite orchid, capable indeed of exquisite blossoming; but deadly to the tree upon which it fastens. He had resolved to free himself. It was a sensible resolve. He was glad he had made up his mind to it before it was too late. Upon the possible discomfiture of Fanny Dodge he bestowed but a single thought: She would get over it. “It” meaning a quite pardonable fancy—he refused to give it a more specific name—for himself. To the unvoiced opinions of Mrs. Solomon Black, Mrs. Deacon Whittle, Ellen Dix, Mrs. Abby Daggett and all the other women of his parish he was wholly indifferent. Men, he was glad to remember, never bothered their heads about another man's love affairs....

The chairs from the sitting room had been removed to the yard, where they were grouped about small tables adequately illuminated by the moon and numerous Japanese lanterns. Every second chair appeared to be filled by a giggling, pink-cheeked girl; the others being suitably occupied by youths of the opposite sex—all pleasantly occupied. The minister conscientiously searched for the chair he had promised to fetch to Fanny Dodge; but it never once occurred to him to bring Fanny out to the cool loveliness of mingled moon and lantern-light. There was no unoccupied chair, as he quickly discovered; but he came presently upon Lydia Orr, apparently doing nothing at all. She was standing near Mrs. Black's boundary picket fence, shielded from the observation of the joyous groups about the little tables by the down-dropping branches of an apple-tree.

“I was looking for you!” said Wesley Elliot.

It was the truth; but it surprised him nevertheless. He supposed he had been looking for a chair.

“Were you?” said Lydia, smiling.

She moved a little away from him.

“I must go in,” she murmured.

“Why must you? It's delightful out here—so cool and—”

“Yes, I know. But the others— Why not bring Miss Dodge out of that hot room? I thought she looked tired.”

“I didn't notice,” he said.... “Just look at that flock of little white clouds up there with the moon shining through them!”

Lydia glided away over the soft grass.

“I've been looking at them for a long time,” she said gently. “I must go now and help cut more cake.”

He made a gesture of disgust.

“They're fairly stuffing,” he complained. “And, anyway, there are plenty of women to attend to all that. I want to talk to you, Miss Orr.”

His tone was authoritative.

She turned her head and looked at him.

“To talk to me?” she echoed.

“Yes; come back—for just a minute. I know what you're thinking: that it's my duty to be talking to parishioners. Well, I've been doing that all the evening. I think I'm entitled to a moment of relaxation; don't you?”

“I'm a parishioner,” she reminded him.

“So you are,” he agreed joyously. “And I haven't had a word with you this evening, so far; so you see it's my duty to talk to you; and it's your duty to listen.”

“Well?” she murmured.

Her face upturned to his in the moonlight wore the austere loveliness of a saint's.
[Illustration: Her face upturned to his in the moonlight, wore the austere loveliness of a saint's.]

“I wish you'd tell me something,” he said, his fine dark eyes taking in every detail of delicate tint and outline. “Do you know it all seems very strange and unusual to me—your coming to Brookville the way you did, and doing so much to—to make the people here happy.”

She drew a deep, sighing breath.

“I'm afraid it isn't going to be easy,” she said slowly. “I thought it would be; but—”

“Then you came with that intention,” he inferred quickly. “You meant to do it from the beginning. But just what was the beginning? What ever attracted your attention to this forlorn little place?”

She was silent for a moment, her eyes downcast. Then she smiled.

“I might ask you the same question,” she said at last. “Why did you come to Brookville, Mr. Elliot?”

He made an impatient gesture.

“Oh, that is easily explained. I had a call to Brookville.”

“So did I,” she murmured. “Yes; I think that was the reason—if there must be a reason.”

“There is always a reason for everything,” he urged. “But you didn't understand me. Do you know I couldn't say this to another soul in Brookville; but I'm going to tell you: I wanted to live and work in a big city, and I tried to find a church—”

“Yes; I know,” she said, unexpectedly. “One can't always go where one wishes to go, just at first. Things turn out that way, sometimes.”

“They seemed to want me here in Brookville,” he said, with some bitterness. “It was a last resort, for me. I might have taken a position in a school; but I couldn't bring myself to that. I'd dreamed of preaching—to big audiences.”

She smiled at him, with a gentle sidewise motion of the head.

“God lets us do things, if we want to hard enough,” she told him quite simply.

“Do you believe that?” he cried. “Perhaps you'll think it strange for me to ask; but do you?”

A great wave of emotion seemed to pass over her quiet face. He saw it alter strangely under his gaze. For an instant she stood transfigured; smiling, without word or movement. Then the inward light subsided. She was only an ordinary young woman, once more, upon whom one might bestow an indulgent smile—so simple, even childlike she was, in her unaffected modesty.

“I really must go in,” she said apologetically, “and help them cut the cake.”