Of course there was an . There always is.  
The fallow fields of the McClure estate no longer lie idle under the blue sky, a reproach to their owner. The property was not quite of the “miles and miles” in extent which Bonny-Gay had imagined, but it was still sufficient to set apart a goodly number of acres as a home for Mary Jane, who had never known how beautiful the country was until she was driven one day, along a smooth road, under over-hanging trees, and over bridges crossing here and there the prettiest stream in the world. The drive was interrupted, “to let the horses rest,” where there was a fine view of a cottage, freshly painted in cream and white, and with the most of extending from its sides.
 
Mary Jane had been allowed to make a little visit at the home of Bonny-Gay, and had been absent from street for one whole week. This day her absence was to end, even with this day; and she thought it a little odd that Bonny-Gay should seem so happy, as if she were glad that the visit were over. Though, of course, the guest knew better than that. There was not the slightest doubt in the heart of either “Sunday bairn” concerning their love.
 
“Oh! what a pretty house! We haven’t come this way before, have we? Is it on the road to the station, Bonny-Gay? How happy the folks must be who live there. But I’m happy, too. Dingy street will seem lovely to me when I get there. Do you suppose the baby has grown much? I wonder if Polly has learned any new things. Mother’s a master hand to teach, mother is. She taught me my letters while she was working round. She thinks I can, maybe, be spared to go to school—sometime. How I want to see her. Seems as if I could hardly wait.”
 
“Oh! I’m so glad, so glad!” laughed Bonny-Gay, and even the old coachman’s face beamed with smiles, though in ordinary he felt that it was his business, when on duty, to conduct himself like an .
 
“I s’pose you’ll write to me, won’t you? You promised, that other time, before you started, you know.”
 
“No. I shall do no such thing.”
 
“Bonny-Gay!” There was a volume of reproach in the tones.
 
“No. Not a line.”
 
“Whose house is this, do you suppose?”
 
“I don’t ‘suppose’ when I know things.”
 
“Whose, then?”
 
“Let’s go ask.”
 
“Why Beulah Standish McClure! What would your mother say? If there’s anything she wants you to be it’s a lady. So I’ve heard her say, time and again.”
 
“So have I. I’m tired of hearing it. I mean, I’m trying to be one. She wouldn’t care. She’d do it herself, if she were here.”
 
“Never! She never, never would be so rude.”
 
Bonny-Gay made a funny little , then leaned sidewise and hugged her friend.
 
“Do the Dingy street folks know better how to behave than the Place folks, missy?”
 
“Yes, Bonny-Gay, I think they do”; answered Mary Jane with dignity. For she had now been associated with the McClure household long enough to get a fair idea of the ; and she was sure that driving up to the doors of strange houses and inquiring their owners’ names, was not one. However, she could do nothing further, for it was Bonny-Gay’s carriage and not hers.
 
“Drive in, please.”
 
So the phaeton turned into the pretty driveway, bordered with , and around the lawn by a freshly prepared curve to the very front door itself. Mary Jane had turned her head a............