The next morning Thayor handed Alice a telegram. It was from Jack
Randall, accepting Sam\'s invitation to visit him.

"I am so glad he\'s coming!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands in delight. "Jack is a host in himself. Ah, that was a good idea of mine, dear—splendid idea! I want Holcomb to dine with us, of course, while Randall is here over Sunday; it\'s a pity he can\'t stay longer." Thayor had not said a word to her about his "idea" until he had shown her Randall\'s acceptance.

Alice said nothing, except to remark that she would be glad to see Mr. Randall again—he was always so amusing; she did not relish the idea of Holcomb sharing their table during his visit. She wondered whether Thayor was paying her back for the many she had given without consulting him.

"Who do you think is coming?" exclaimed Margaret, who had run over to Holcomb\'s cabin to tell him the news that afternoon; "nice Jack Randall!" she cried before he could even begin to think.

Holcomb opened his eyes in surprise.

"Father said you had met him at The Players," added Margaret.

"Met him—why I\'ve known Mr. Randall for years! It seems mighty good to think I\'m going to see the dear fellow again. Well, that is good news—dear old Jack!"

They were standing in the open doorway of the cabin. Holcomb thought he had never seen her look prettier than she did this sunny morning without her hat—dressed as she was in a simple frock of some soft white fabric cut low about her plump brown throat.

"May I come inside," she asked timidly, as she peeped into the new interior.

"Why, certainly. Come in and sit down; you are really the only visitor I\'ve had except your father—sit down—won\'t you?" He drew a chair up to his freshly scrubbed deal table.

Margaret looked up into his eyes—half seriously for a moment, as she stood by the proffered chair.

"You are coming to dine with us while he\'s here," she said in her frank way. "Father says you must."

Billy\'s embarrassment was evident. "That\'s really kind of him," he replied, "but don\'t you think I\'d better wait until—"

"There—you\'re going to refuse; I was half afraid you would. But you will come—won\'t you? Please, Mr. Holcomb!" She seated herself opposite him, resting her adorable little chin in her hands, her eyes again looking into his own.

"I mean I\'d rather your mother had asked me," he said, after a moment\'s hesitation. "I\'m afraid Mrs. Thayor would be better pleased if I did not come, much as I\'d like to."

The brown eyes were lowered and the corners of the young mouth quivered; she lifted her head and he saw the eyes were dim with two big tears.

"You\'ll come, won\'t you?" she faltered, trying hard to smile. He started to rise, looking helplessly about him as a man who casts about him for a remedy in an emergency.

"There, I shouldn\'t have said what I did," he explained as she brushed away the tears. "I\'m sorry—I didn\'t mean to hurt you."

"You haven\'t hurt me," she said; "you couldn\'t."

There was an awkward pause during which she buried her face in her dimpled brown hands. Holcomb breathed heavily.

"You don\'t understand," she resumed bravely, trying to clear the quaver in her voice, "and it\'s so hard for me to explain—and I want you to understand—about—mother, I mean. Mother is dreadfully rude to people at times—she is that way to nearly everyone whom she does not consider smart people." Her young voice grew steadier. "I mean whom she likes and are in her own set. It makes me feel so ashamed sometimes I could cry."

"Come," coaxed Holcomb, "you mustn\'t feel badly about it. People are all different, anyway. It\'s just Mrs. Thayor\'s way, I suppose, just as it\'s your way, and your father\'s way, to be kind to everyone," he said tenderly. He saw the colour flush to her cheeks.

"Mother has hurt you!" she cried indignantly. "I have seen it over and over again. Oh, why can\'t people be a little more considerate. It\'s not considered smart, I suppose. In society nearly everyone is rude to one another—some of them are perfectly nasty and they think nothing of saying horrid things about you behind your back! I hate New York," she exclaimed hotly; "I never knew what it was to be really happy until I came to Big Shanty and these dear old woods. You have had them all your life, so perhaps you can\'t understand what they mean to me—how much I love them, Mr. Holcomb."

"They mean considerable to me," he replied. "They seem like home. I liked what I saw in New York, and I had a good time down there with Jack, but I know I\'d get pretty tired of it if I had to live there in that noise."

"I hate New York," she repeated impetuously, her brown hands trembling after the tears. "If you had to go out—out—out—all the time to stupid teas and dances, you would hate it too. It was hard waiting for the camp. I—I—used to count the days—longing for the days you promised it would be ready. It was so hard to wait—but I knew you were doing your best, and daddy knew it too."

Holcomb reddened. "I\'m glad you trusted me," he said, and added, "I hope you will trust me always."

"Why, yes, of course I will!" she exclaimed, brightening. "Oh, you know I will, don\'t you?"

Holcomb was conscious of a sudden sensation of infinite joy; it seemed to spring up like an electric current from somewhere deep within him, and tingled all over him.

"I\'m glad you\'ll always trust me," he said, as he rose suddenly from his chair and, going over to her, held out his hand. The words he had just spoken he was as unconscious of as his impulsive gesture. "I hope you\'ll always trust me," he repeated. "You see I wouldn\'t like to disappoint you ever" he went on gently.

She gave the strong fingers that held her own a firm little squeeze, not knowing why she did it.

"Of course I will. Oh, you know I\'ll trust you—always—always." She said ............