for the remainder of the winter, elizabeth lived under the shadow of mrs. jarvis's expected visit. and though she was supposed to be the one who should benefit chiefly from it, a shadow it indeed proved. did she tear her pinafore, burst through the toes of her boots, run, leap, scream, or do any one of the many ungenteel things she was so prone to do, the stern question faced her: what did she suppose mrs. jarvis would think of a big girl, going on twelve, who could conduct herself in such a shocking manner? elizabeth mourned over her shortcomings, and longed to be proper and genteel. at the same time, while she condemned herself for the traitorous thought, she had almost come to look upon the expected visit as a not altogether unmixed blessing. for the mrs. jarvis of reality was not the glorious creature of elizabeth's dreams. her queens were one by one abdicating their thrones. the beautiful teacher was steadily growing less worshipful, in spite of much incense burned before her, and now even the fairy god-mother was proving but mortal. she had laid aside her golden scepter at that moment when, with perfect faith, her namesake had looked up to her as to a goddess and asked for a blessing upon eppie. but as yet elizabeth's soul refused to acknowledge the loss of either idol; and she lived in a state of excitement and worry over the impending visit.

at school she escaped from the thraldom of being the lady's namesake, for miss hillary of course made no allusion to the fatal name of jarvis, and the red cutter averted nearly all other troubles. so, in the reaction from home restrictions, elizabeth gave herself up almost entirely to drawing pictures and weaving romances. for joan of arc never disappointed one. she was always great and glorious, being composed entirely of such stuff as dreams are made of, and elizabeth turned to her from fallible mortals with much joy and comfort.

but mary's reports of school-life always showed the dreamer at the foot of her class, and miss gordon grew apprehensive. mrs. jarvis might arrive any day, ready to repeat the glorious offer she had already made to that improvident child. but if she found her dull and far behind her classmates, how could she be expected to offer anything in the way of higher education?

"elizabeth," her aunt said one evening as the family were gathered about the dining-room table, all absorbed in their lessons, except the troublesome one, "i do wish you had some of jean's ambition. now, don't you wish you could pass the entrance next summer with john and charles stuart?"

elizabeth glanced across the table at those two working decimals, with their heads close together. mr. macallister had come over to get advice on the long way, and had brought his son with him.

"oh, my, but wouldn't i love to!" she gasped.

"then why don't you make an effort to overtake them? i am sure you could if you applied yourself."

"but i'm only in the junior fourth yet, aunt, and besides i haven't got a—something jean told me about. what is it i haven't got, jean?"

jean, in company with malcolm, was absorbed in a problem in geometry.

"i don't think you've got any common sense, lizzie gordon, or you wouldn't interrupt," she said sharply.

"i mean," persisted elizabeth, who never quite understood her smart sister, "i mean what is it i haven't got that makes me always get the wrong answer to sums?"

"oh! a mathematical head, i suppose. there, malc, i've got it. see; the angle a.b.c. equals the angle b.c.d."

"yes, that's what's the matter," said elizabeth mournfully. "i haven't a mathematical head. miss hillary says so, too."

"but you might make up for it in other things," said annie, who was knitting near. "it would be lovely to pass the entrance before you are quite twelve, lizzie. jean is the only one, so far, that passed at eleven. you really ought to try."

after this elizabeth did try, spasmodically, for nearly a week, but gradually fell back into her old idle habits of compiling landscapes and dreaming dreams.

miss gordon questioned miss hillary next in regard to the difficult case. there was an afternoon quilting-bee at mrs. wully johnstone's, to which some young people had been invited for the evening, and there she met the young schoolmistress. as a rule, the lady of the dale mingled very little in these social gatherings. the country folk were kind and neighborly, no doubt; and, living amongst them, one must unbend a little, but she felt entirely out of her social element at a tea-party of farmers' wives—she who had drunk tea in edinburgh with lady gordon. but auntie jinit mckerracher had asked her on this occasion, and even lady gordon herself might have hesitated to offend that important personage, particularly as there had so lately been danger of a breach between the families. so, suppressing her pride, miss gordon went, and sat in stately grandeur at the head of the quilt, saying little until the young schoolmistress appeared. she, at least, did not murder her majesty's english when she spoke, though her manners were not by any means quite genteel.

miss gordon opened the conversation by inquiring after the attainments of her family in matters scholastic.

they were all doing very well indeed, miss hillary reported. she spoke a little vaguely, to be sure. the red cutter appeared with such pleasant frequency these days that she was not quite sure what her pupils were doing. but she remembered that the gordons were generally at the head of their classes, and said so, adding the usual reservation which closed any praise of the family, "except elizabeth."

miss gordon sighed despairingly. "elizabeth does not seem as bright as the rest," she mourned. "i cannot understand it at all. her father was extremely clever in his college days; indeed, his course was exceptional, his professors all said. all our family were of a literary turn, you know, miss hillary. sir william gordon's father—sir william is the cousin for whom my brother was named—wrote exceedingly profound articles, and my dear father's essays were spoken of far and wide. no; i do not at all understand elizabeth. i am afraid she must be entirely a macduff."

it did not seem so much lack of ability, miss hillary said, as lack of application. lizzie always seemed employed at something besides her lessons. but perhaps it was because she hadn't a mathematical head. then she changed the subject, feeling she was on uncertain ground. she was secretly wondering whether it was rosie carrick or lizzie gordon who never got a mark in spelling.

elizabeth was made aware, by her aunt's remarks that evening, as they sat around the table for the usual study hour, that she had been transgressing again; but just how, she failed to understand. miss gordon talked in the grieved, vague way that always put elizabeth's nerves on the rack. to be talked at this way in public was far worse even than being scolded outright in private. for one never knew what was one's specific sin, and there was always the horrible danger of breaking down before the boys.

before retiring she sought an explanation from mary. yes, mary knew; she had overheard aunt telling annie that miss hillary had complained about lizzie not doing her sums. this was a blow to elizabeth. it was not so dreadful that anyone should complain of her to aunt margaret; that was quite natural; but that miss hillary should do the complaining! her teacher persistently refused to sit upon the throne which elizabeth raised again and again for her in her heart. miss hillary did not understand—did not even care whether she understood or not, while her pupil's worshiping nature still made pitiful attempts to put her where a true teacher could have ruled so easily and with such far-reaching results.

but the unmathematical head was not long troubled over even this disaster. it was soon again filled with such glorious visions as drove out all dark shadows of unspellable words and unsolvable problems. elizabeth's ambition reached out far beyond the schoolroom. there was no romance or glory about getting ninety-nine per cent. in an arithmetic examination, as rosie so often did, after all, and elizabeth could not imagine joan of arc worrying over the spelling of orleans. so she solaced herself with classic landscapes, with rhymes written concerning the lords and ladies that peopled them, and with dreams of future glory.

and so the days of anxious waiting for the great visit sped past; and in the interval elizabeth might have fallen hopelessly into idle habits had it not been for the one person who, quietly and unnoticed, exercised the strongest influence over her life. to the little girl's surprise, mother macallister was the one person who held out no hopes concerning mrs. jarvis. it seemed strange; for mother macallister was the most sympathetic person in the whole wide world, and, besides, the only person who could always be depended upon to understand. but she did not seem to care how rich or great or glorious that great lady was, and took no interest whatever in the hopes of her coming visit. but she did take a vital interest in her little girl's progress at school, and one day she managed to find the key to those intellectual faculties which elizabeth had kept so long locked away.

it was a saturday afternoon, and the two comrades—the tall, stooped woman with the white hair and the beautiful wrinkled face, and the little girl with the blue-checked pinafore, the long, heavy braid, and the big inquiring eyes—were washing up the supper dishes. they were alone, for charles stuart and his father and long pete fowler, the hired man, were away at the barn attending to the milking and the chores. the long bars of golden light from the setting sun came slanting down through the purple pines of the long hill. the snowy fields were gleaming with their radiance—rose pink and pure gold with deep blue shadows along the fences and in the hollows. the old kitchen, spotlessly clean, was flooded with the evening light—the yellow painted floor, the shining kettle sputtering comfortably on the stove, and the tin milk-pans ranged along the walls all gave back the sunset glow. this was the hour elizabeth enjoyed most—the hour when she and mother macallister were safe from the teasing and tormenting of charles stuart.

she was wiping the cups and saucers with great pride and care. they were the half-dozen blue willow-pattern cups and saucers which mother macallister had saved from the wreck of her once complete set. they were used only on rare occasions, but to-night elizabeth had been permitted to set them out. she never tired of hearing their romantic story, and mother macallister told it again, as they washed and wiped and put them away on the top shelf of the cupboard.

they had been mother macallister's finest wedding present, given just before she left the old country, years and years ago, when she and father macallister were young, and there was no charles stuart. they had packed the precious blue dishes in a barrel with hay, and had brought them safely over all the long way. the stormy sea voyage of two months in a sailing vessel, the oft-interrupted train and boat journey from quebec to toronto, the weary jolting of the wagon-trail to the holland landing, and the storms of lake simcoe—the blue dishes, safe in their hay nest, had weathered them all. but the great disaster came when they were near home, just coming along the rough wagon track cut through the bush from cheemaun—champlain's road, they called it even then. and such a road as it was, little lizzie never saw—all stumps and roots, and great mud-holes where the wagon wheels sunk to the axle. there were two wagons tied together and drawn by a team of oxen, and the barrel of precious dishes was in the first one. and just as they were coming bumping and rattling down arrow hill, the hind wagon came untied and went crashing into the front one. and the tongue went straight through the barrel of blue dishes—from end to end—smashing everything except these few cups and saucers that had laid along the sides.

elizabeth wiped one of the cracked cups very carefully and a lump arose in her throat. she always felt the pathos of the story, though mother macallister expressed no regrets. but somehow, as the woman held one of the treasured dishes in her hard, worn hands, the tenderness in her eyes and voice conveyed to the child something of what their loss typified. they seemed to stand for all the beauty and hope and light of the young bride's life, that had been ruthlessly destroyed by the hardness and drudgery of the rough new land.

"they are to be yours when you grow up, you mind, little lizzie," mother macallister said, as she always did when the story of the blue cups and saucers was finished. elizabeth sighed rapturously. "oh, i'd just love them!" she cried, "but i couldn't bear to take them away from here. the cupboard would look so lonesome without them. i suppose i wouldn't need to, though, if i married charles stuart, would i?" she added practically.

mother macallister turned her back for a few minutes. when she looked at elizabeth again there was only a twinkle in her deep eyes.

"you would be thinking of that?" she asked quite seriously.

"oh, i suppose so," said elizabeth with a deep sigh, as of one who was determined to shoulder bravely life's heaviest burdens. "of course aunt thinks mrs. jarvis may take me away and make a lady of me, but i don't really see how she could; do you, mother macallister?"

"i would not be thinking about that, hinny. mother macallister would be sad, sad to see her little girl carried away by the cares o' the world and the deceitfulness of riches."

"i hope i won't ever be," said elizabeth piously. "sometimes i think i'd like to be a missionary, cause girls can't be like joan of arc now. but it says in the g'ogerphy that there's awful long snakes in heathen lands. i don't believe i'd mind the idols, or the black people without much clothes on, though of course it wouldn't be genteel. but martha ellen says we shouldn't mind those things for the sake of the gospel. but, oh, mother macallister! think of a snake as long as this room! malcolm heard a missionary in cheemaun tell about one. i think i'd be too scared to preach if they were round. and i couldn't take your lovely dishes away amongst people like that anyway; so sometimes i think i'll just marry charles stuart when i get big."

mother macallister busied herself arranging the dishes on the top shelf of the cupboard. her twinkling eyes showed not the slightest resentment that her son should be chosen only as an alternative to savages and boa constrictors.

"well, well," she said at last, very gently, "you and charles stuart would be too young to be thinking of such things for a wee while, lovey. but, indeed, it's mother macallister prays every day that you may both be led to serve the dear master no matter where he places you. eh, eh, yes indeed, my lassie."

elizabeth swung her dish-towel slowly, standing with eyes fixed on the pink and gold stretch of snow that led up to the glory of the skies above the long hill.

"i'm going to try when i grow big," she whispered.

"but you don't need to be waiting for that, little lizzie," said mother macallister, and seeing this was an opportunity for a lesson, added, "come and we will be sitting down for a rest now, until the boys come in."

the dishes were all away, the oil-cloth covered table was wiped spotlessly clean and the shining milkpans were laid out upon it. there was nothing more to be done until charles stuart and long pete fowler came in with the milk. so mother macallister sat down in the old rocker by the sun-flooded window with her knitting, and elizabeth sat on an old milking-stool at her feet. and there in the midst of the golden glow reflected from the skies, while one pale star far above in the delicate green kept watch over the dying day, there the little girl was given a new vision of one who, though he was rich, yet for elizabeth's sake became poor, who, though he stretched out those shining heavens as a curtain, and made the glowing earth his footstool, had lived amongst men and for thirty-three beautiful years had performed their humblest tasks.

"run and bring the book, lizzie," mother macallister said at last, "and we'll jist be readin' a word or two about him."

elizabeth had not far to run. the old bible, with the edges of its leaves all brown and ragged—and most brown and ragged where the well-read psalms lay—was always on the farthest window-sill with father macallister's glasses beside it. she brought it, and, sitting again at mother macallister's feet, heard story after story of those acts of love and gracious kindness that had made his life the wonder and the worship of the ages.

and didn't little lizzie want to do something for him? mother macallister asked, and elizabeth nodded, unable to speak for the great lump in her throat. and then the wise woman showed her how he was pleased with even a tidy desk at school, or a sum with the right answer or all the words correct in a spelling lesson.

the memory of that golden afternoon never left elizabeth, never ceased to illuminate her after-life. always a shining sunset recalled that winter evening; the view from the broad, low window of the glorious staircase of earth leading up to the more glorious heavens, the reflection from it all flooding the old kitchen, lighting up the sacred pages, and the beautiful face and white hair bent above her. and, best of all, the memory of the lesson she had learned that evening at mother macallister's knee never lost its influence over her life. it was part of the glory and the most radiant part, that vision of the one who is the center of all beauty and joy and life.

sometimes in later years the brightness of the vision waned, often it almost faded from view; but there always remained a gleam towards which elizabeth's soul ever looked. and one day the vision began to brighten, slowly and imperceptibly, like the coming of the dawn, but as surely and steadily, until at last its glory filled her whole life and made it beautiful and noble, meet for the use of him who is the father of lights.

meantime, without any warning or apparent reason, elizabeth suddenly began to learn her lessons. no one but mother macallister understood why, but everybody saw the results. the connection between elizabeth's heart and brain had been made, and that done she even began to develop a mathematical head. it was no easy task getting over her idle habits; and it was so easy when a complex fraction proved stubborn to turn one's slate into an easel. but the saturday afternoon talks always turned upon the subject of the vital connection between fractions and the glories of the infinite, and every monday elizabeth went back to her tasks with renewed vim. and soon she began to taste something of the joy of achievement. it was fairly dazzling to feel oneself slowly creeping up from the foot of the class, and she found a strange exhilaration in setting herself against a rival and striving to outspell her in a match. here was glory right ready to hand. she was joan of arc herself, riding through the arithmetic and slaying every complex fraction that lay in her path.

miss gordon witnessed the transformation in elizabeth with amazement, and with devout thankfulness that by the judicious use of mrs. jarvis's name she had at last succeeded in arousing her niece's ambition. rosie saw and was both proud and puzzled. it seemed so queer to see lizzie working in school. mary gave up all hopes of ever catching up to her, and john and charles stuart were sometimes seized with spasms of alarm lest by some unexpected leap she might land some morning in their class.

elizabeth's days were not too full of work to preclude other interests, and just as the winter was vanishing in sunshiny days and little rivers of melting snow, two very great events occurred. just the last day before the easter vacation, miss hillary bade forest glen farewell and rode away for the last time in the red cutter. elizabeth and rosie left their decimals and the complete speller to take care of themselves for fully an hour, while with their heads on the desk they wept bitterly. for, after all, miss hillary was a teacher, and parting with even the poorest kind of teacher, especially one who was so pretty, was heart-breaking.

that was bad enough, but on the very same day old sandy mclachlan came to the school and took eppie away. fortunately, her two friends did not know until the evening that eppie, too, was gone forever; but when they did discover it, elizabeth's grief was not to be assuaged.

the next morning eppie and her grandfather drove away from forest glen. jake martin had not resorted to the law as he had threatened, neither had tom teeter relaxed his vigilance. the old man's highland pride had at the last driven him forth. the hardest part of it all had been that the thrust that had given him his final hurt had come from his closest friend. noah clegg was the warmest-hearted man in forest glen and would have given over his whole farm to sandy if he would have accepted it. but, as tom teeter declared hotly, noah had no tact and was a blazing idiot beside, and a well-intentioned remark of his sent old sandy out of the community. noah was not a man of war and was so anxious that his old friend should give up his untenable position peaceably that he had very kindly and generously explained to sandy that it would be far better for him to come and live on a neighbor that wanted him than on a man like jake martin, who didn't.

that very day, proud, angry, and cut to the heart, sandy packed his household goods and left the place. there was much talk over the affair and everyone expressed deep regret—even jake martin. but he wisely refrained from saying much, for tom teeter excelled all his former oratorical nights in his hot denunciation of such a heartless crocodile, who could dance on his neighbor's grave and at the same time weep like a whited sepulchre. long after the countryside had given up talking of poor sandy's flitting, they discussed tom's wonderful speech.

elizabeth and rosie had one letter from eppie. they were living in cheemaun, she said, and grandaddy was working in a big garden nearby and she was going to a great school where there were six teachers. elizabeth's sorrow changed to admiration and envy; and soon the excitement of having a new teacher drove eppie from her mind.

and still the winter slowly vanished and spring advanced, and still mrs. jarvis did not come. vigilance at the dale was never relaxed through the delay, however. everything was kept in a state of preparation, and miss gordon ordered her household as soldiers awaiting an onset of the enemy. sarah emily had a clean apron every morning, and the house was kept in speckless order from the stone step of the front porch to the rain-barrel by the back door of the woodshed. even the barnyard was swept every morning before the younger gordons left for school, and every day their sabbath clothes were laid out in readiness to slip on at the sight of a carriage turning in off champlain's road.

but the days passed and no carriage appeared, neither did a line come from the expected lady explaining her tardiness. hope deferred made miss gordon's nerves unsteady and her heart hard towards the cause of her daily disappointment. by some process of unreason which often develops in the aggrieved feminine mind, she conceived of elizabeth as that cause, and the unfortunate child found herself, all uncomprehending as usual, fallen from the heights of approbation to which her progress at school had raised her, to the old sad level of constant wrong-doing.

and so the days passed until once more may came down arrow hill with her arms full of blossoms, and turned the valley into a garden. dandelions starred the green carpet by the roadside, violets and marigolds draped the banks of the creek with a tapestry of purple and gold. the wild cherry-trees fringed champlain's road with a white lacey hedge, heavy with perfume and droning with bees. the clover fields flushed a soft lilac tint, the orchards were a mass of pink and white blossoms, and the whole valley rang with the music of birds from the robin's first dawn note to the whip-poor-will's evensong.

elizabeth tried not to be wildly happy, in view of her shortcomings, but found it impossible. may was here and she, too, must be riotously joyful. the boys were wont to be off on fishing expeditions once more, and over hill and dale she followed them in spite of all opposition. one radiant afternoon john and charles stuart went, as usual, far afield on their homeward journey from school. they crossed the creek far below the mill and, making a wide circuit round the face of arrow hill, came home by way of tom teeter's pasture-field. they had chosen this route on purpose to rid themselves of elizabeth, but she had dogged their footsteps; and now arrived home with them, weary but triumphant. as they approached the old stone house, she remembered that she bore dismaying signs of her tumultuous journey. she had met with many accidents by the way, among others a slip into a mud-hole as they crossed the creek. so, when they reached the low bars that led from tom's property into the dale field, she allowed the boys to go on alone, while she sat upon the grass and strove to repair damages.

as she was scraping the mud from her wet stockings and struggling to re-braid her hair, she heard voices coming from tom teeter's barnyard. glancing through the tangle of alder and raspberry bushes she was overjoyed to see annie standing by the strawstack talking to granny teeter. annie was the old woman's especial pet, and often went over to keep her company when tom was in town or on an oratorical tour. elizabeth sighed happily. she would wait and go home with annie. one was almost always safe in her company.

so she sat down on the end of a rail, teetering contentedly. the rattle of a wagon could be heard on champlain's road. tom was driving in at the gate, coming from town. he would be sure to have some sweeties, and would probably send them home with annie. granny was hobbling about the barnyard, a red and black checked shawl round her head and shoulders, a stick in her hand, which she used as much to rap the unruly pigs and calves as for a support. she was complaining in her high querulous voice about her turkeys, the contrary little bastes, that would nivir stay to home at all, at all, no matter if ye give them the whole farm to ate up. tom rode up and stood talking with them, and elizabeth, watching him through the raspberry bushes for signs of a package of candy, saw him take a letter from his pocket. then he pointed to the straying turkeys going "peep, peep" over the hillside, and, as granny turned to look at them, he slipped the letter into annie's hand. elizabeth remembered having seen tom do this once or twice before, when he came over of an evening. she wondered what this could be about, and decided to ask annie as soon as she came. suppose it should be a letter from mrs. jarvis, saying she had started!

her sister was a long time in coming, and when she did appear at last, walking along the path, she came very slowly. she was reading the letter and smiling very tenderly and happily over it.

"hello, annie!" shouted elizabeth, scrambling up on the fence top. the letter disappeared like a flash into the folds of annie's skirt; and at once elizabeth's older self told her she must not ask questions about that letter, must not even allude to it. some faint recollection of that early dawn when she had seen the farewell in their orchard drifted through her mind.

"why, lizzie," said her older sister, "how did you come here?" she caught sight of the books. john carried the dinner-pail on condition that elizabeth bore the school-bag. "haven't you got home yet?"

"no. the boys went 'way round, miles below the mill to hunt moles, and i got into the creek. and just look at my stockings, annie!"

"oh, lizzie!" cried her sister in distress, "what will aunt say?" then added that which always attached itself to elizabeth's misdemeanors, "what would mrs. jarvis think if she were to come to-day?"

"oh, bother! i don't believe she'll ever come for years and years," said elizabeth recklessly. "do you, ann; now, really?"

"ye-s, i think she might soon be here now." something in her big sister's voice made elizabeth look up quickly. dimples were showing in annie's cheeks. her eyes were radiant.

"oh, do you think so? well, horace promised to come anyway, but what makes you think she'll come soon?"

annie shook her head, still smiling. "aw, do tell me," coaxed elizabeth. "did aunt get a letter?"

"no," the dimples were growing deeper, the eyes brighter, "but if she's coming at all she's coming this week, because—because the year's nearly up." she added the last words in a whisper and looked startled as soon as she had uttered them.

"because what?" cried elizabeth, bristling with curiosity.

"nothing, nothing," said annie hastily. "it's," she was whispering again, "it's got something to do with our secret, lizzie, and you mustn't ask me like a good little girl. and you won't tell what i said, will you?"

elizabeth was quite grown-up now. "oh, no, i won't ever, ever tell. but you're not quite sure she's coming, are you? 'cause i never finished working the motto she sent me."

"no, i'm not quite sure. but i think she will."

elizabeth nodded. she understood perfectly, she told herself. that letter was from mrs. jarvis, but having something to do with annie's secret—which meant mr. coulson—its contents must not be disclosed.

she went to work at her lessons that evening and forgot all about the letter and mrs. jarvis, too. decimals were not so alluring since the may flowers had blossomed. a thousand voices of the coming summer called her away from her books. but elizabeth was determined to finish a certain exercise that week, for mother macallister was looking for it. malcolm and jean were sitting down on the old pump platform doing a latin exercise. elizabeth could not understand anyone studying there, with the orioles building their nest above and the vesper-sparrows calling from the lane. so she took her books up to her room, pulled down the green paper blind to shut out all sights and sounds, lit the lamp, and there in the hot, airless little place knelt by a chair and crammed her slate again and again with figures.

miss gordon had been darning on the side porch, but had left her work a moment and gone out to the kitchen to request sarah emily to sing—provided it were necessary to sing at all—a little less boisterously. tom teeter was in the study with mr. gordon, and, to show her indifference, sarah emily was calling forth loud and clear the chronicles of all those "finest young gents that ever were seen," who had come a-courting all in vain.

the singer being reduced to a sulky silence, the mistress of the house passed out on a tour of inspection. she glanced approvingly at the two eager young students in the orchard, calling softly to jean not to remain out after the dew began to fall. the little boys were playing in the lane. mary was with them, but the absence of noise showed that elizabeth was not. miss gordon moved quietly upstairs. the door of elizabeth's room was closed; she tapped, then opened it.

elizabeth's face, hot and flushed, was raised from her slate. the lamp was flaring, and the room was stifling and smelt of kerosene. but she looked up at her aunt with some confidence. she half-expected to be commended. she was certainly working hard and surely was not doing anything wrong.

for a moment miss gordon stood staring. she was seized with a sudden fear that perhaps elizabeth was not quite in her right senses. then she noted the extravagant consuming of kerosene in the day-time.

"elizabeth," she said despairingly, "how is it possible that you can act so strangely? is the daylight not good enough that you must shut yourself up here? take your books and go downstairs immediately, and blow out the lamp and tell sarah emily to clean it again. really, i cannot understand you!"

elizabeth went tumultuously down the stairs. no, her aunt didn't understand, that was just the trouble. if she ever showed any signs of doing so, one might occasionally explain. she flung her books upon the kitchen table and went out to the back kitchen door and, sitting down heavily upon a bench there, gave herself up to despair. she gazed drearily at malcolm and jean and listened to the laughter from the lane without wanting to join either group. mr. macallister had come over a few minutes earlier, bringing the pretender as usual. john and the latter were upstairs. elizabeth knew they were planning to run away from her on the queen's birthday, but she did not care. she told herself she did not care about anything any more. her heart was broken, and if mrs. jarvis were to drive in at the gate that very moment she would not take ten million dollars from her, though she begged her on her bended knees.

miss gordon went back to her darning on the side porch, and worked at it feverishly, wondering if the child were really in her right mind. she had much to worry her these days, poor lady. her ambition for the family threatened to be disappointed. mrs. jarvis was evidently not coming. malcolm and jean would probably graduate from the high school and there their education must stop. and annie was acting so strangely. she could not but remember that it was just one year ago that evening that she had bidden annie dismiss her undesirable suitor. and now, rumor said the young man bade fair to be highly desirable, and no other lover had as yet appeared. of course, mr. coulson had gone, declaring his exile would last a year, and then he would return. but miss gordon had little faith in young men.

annie had not fretted, only for a day or so—that was the strange part—but their life together had never been the same. there were no pretty, sweet confidences from her favorite, such as used to make miss gordon feel young and happy, and lately annie had been so silent and yet with a face that shone with an inner light. her aunt felt lonely and shut out of the brightness of the girl's life. much she wondered and speculated. but annie's firm mouth closed tightly and the steady eyes looked far away when the young school-teacher's name was mentioned.

well, it was a blessing the girl did not fret, the aunt said to herself, for there was little likelihood of his returning. he had probably forgotten all about her since last winter—young men were like that. she sighed as she confessed it, remembering one who had declared he would come back—but who had remained away in forgetfulness.

as she sat there in gloomy meditation, a rumbling noise made her look up. a carriage was coming swiftly along champlain's road, one of those smart buggies that came only from the town. it stopped at the gate, and the driver, a young man, alighted. elizabeth saw him, too, and suddenly forgot her despondency. she had seen annie but ten minutes before, walking across the pasture-field towards granny teeter's. she arose with a spring and went tearing through the orchard, bringing forth indignant remarks from her studious brother and sister as she flashed past. annie had just reached the gate leading from the orchard. elizabeth flung herself upon her.

"oh, annie!" she gasped, radiant and breathless. "somebody's coming. and you'll never, never guess, 'cause it's mrs. jarvis, and she's brought mr. coulson!"