"'when he cometh, when he cometh

to make up his jewels,

all his jewels, precious jewels,

his loved and his own.

like the stars of the morning,

his bright crown adorning,

they shall shine—'"

"mr. herring, sir, breakfast's most ready."

"so am i," answered wade, throwing open the door. "it certainly smells good, zephania. got lots of coffee?"

"oh, yes, mr. herring."

"herrick, zephania."

"yes, sir; excuse me; herrick."

after breakfast zene, as his father and zephania called him, or zenas third, as he was known to the village, appeared with wade's trunk on a wheelbarrow. zenas third was a big, broad-shouldered youth of twenty with a round, freckled, smiling face and eager yellow-brown eyes. he always reminded wade of an amiable animated pumpkin. wade got his fishing tackle out of the trunk and he and zenas third started off for a day's fishing.

they took the road past the cedars, wade viewing the house on the chance of seeing the ladies. but although he failed and was a little disappointed he did not escape observation himself.

"there goes mr. herrick with zenas third," announced miss mullett, hurrying cautiously to the sitting-room window. as she had been in the act of readjusting her embroidery hoops when she arose, her efforts to secure all the articles in her lap failed and the hoops went circling off in different directions. "they're going fishing, eve."

"are they?" asked eve from the old mahogany desk by the side window, with only a glance from her writing.

"yes, and—did you see where those hoops rolled to?"

"no, i didn't notice. but your handkerchief is over by the couch and you're stepping on a skein of linen."

"so i am." miss mullett rescued and reassembled her things and sat down again. "are you very busy, dear?"

"no." eve sighed impatiently and laid her pen down. "i'm not at all busy. i wish i were. i can't seem to write this morning."

"i'm so glad. not that you can't write, of course, but that you're not busy. i want to talk."

"talk on." eve placed her hands behind her head and eyed the few lines of writing distastefully.

"but i want you to talk, too," said miss mullett, snipping a thread with her tiny scissors.

"i haven't anything to say."

"nonsense, dear! there's always plenty to say. why, i'm sure if i lived to be a thousand, i'd not be talked out. there's always so many interesting things to talk about."

"and what is it this morning?" asked eve, smiling across at the sleek head bent above the embroidery frame.

"mr. herrick. tell me what you think of him, eve."

"i haven't thought—much."

"but you ought to. i'm positive he is very much impressed, dear."

"really? with what?"

"with you." eve laughed, softly.

"carrie, you're incorrigible! you won't be satisfied until you've got me married to some one."

"of course i shan't. i don't intend that you shall make the mistake i did."

"you didn't make a mistake, you dear thing. your mistake would have been to marry. you'd never have been contented with just one man, carrie; you know you think every one you meet is perfectly beautiful."'

"because i haven't one of my very own," replied miss mullett, tranquilly. "i made a great mistake in not marrying. i would have been happier married, i'm sure. every woman ought to have a man to look after; it keeps her from worrying over trifles."

"do you think i worry over trifles?" asked eve.

"you're worrying over that story this minute."

"if i am, it's unkind of you to call my stories trifles. please remember that if it wasn't for the stories, such as they are, i couldn't afford marmalade with my tea."

"and you probably couldn't afford me," said miss mullett, "and i guess i'm a good deal like marmalade myself—half sweet and half bitter." miss mullett laughed at the conceit.

"anyway, dear, you don't cloy," said eve. "but you're not like marmalade the least bit; you're—you're like a nice currant jelly, just tart enough to be pleasant. how's that?"

"just so long as you don't call me a pickle i don't mind," replied the other. presently: "you must acknowledge that he's very attractive, dear."

"who?" asked eve, coming suddenly out of her thoughts.

"mr. herrick. and i think he has the most wonderful voice, too; don't you? it's so deep and—and manly."

"carrie, if his satanic majesty called on us, you'd be telling me after he'd gone how manly he looked!"

"well, i'm not one to deny the resemblance between man and the devil," responded miss mullett, with a chuckle. "i dare say that's why we like them so—the men, i mean."

"does mr. herrick strike you as being somewhat devilish?" inquired eve, idly.

"n-no, i suppose not. not too much so, at least. i think he must be very kind; he has such nice eyes. he's the sort of man that makes a lovely husband."

eve clapped her hands to her ears, laughing.

"carrie, stop it! i refuse to listen to any more laudations of mr. herrick! think how the poor man's ears must burn!"

"let them. he has very nice ears, eve. did you notice how small and close they were?"

"i did not!" declared eve despairingly. "nor did i specially observe his teeth or his hair or his feet, or—"

"but you noticed the scar on his face, didn't you?"

"yes, i couldn't very well help doing that," owned eve. "any more than i could help noticing his hands."

"so strong looking, aren't they?" asked miss mullett, eagerly.

"are they? i thought them rather ugly."

"oh, how can you say so? just think of all the wonderful things those hands must have done! and as for the scar, i thought it gave him quite a distinguished air, didn't you?"

"carrie mullett, i am not interested in mr. herrick. if you say another word about him before luncheon—"

"you can say that if you like," interrupted miss mullett placidly, "but you are interested in him, my dear."

"carrie!"

"then why can't you write your story? oh, you can't fool me, my dear!"

eve turned a disdainful back and picked up her pen, resentful of the warmth that she felt creeping into her cheeks.

miss mullett smiled and drew a new thread from the skein.