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Annie was out of the room, and, slipping softly down-stairs and out into the yard, crouched close to the fence overgrown with sweetbrier, its foundation hidden in the mallow, and there she listened. She wanted to know what Imogen and her other sisters were about to say to Tom Reed, and she meant to know. She heard every word. The distance was not great, and her sisters’ voices carried far, in spite of their honeyed tones and efforts toward secrecy. By the time Tom had reached the gate of the parsonage they had all crowded down there, a fluttering assembly in their snowy summer muslins, like white doves. Annie heard Imogen first. Imogen was always the ringleader.

“Couldn’t you find her?” asked Imogen.

“No. Rang three times,” replied Tom. He had a boyish voice, and his chagrin showed plainly in it. Annie knew just how he looked, how dear and big and foolish, with his handsome, bewildered face, blurting out to her sisters his disappointment, with innocent faith in their sympathy.

Then Annie heard Eliza speak in a small, sweet voice, which yet, to one who understood her, carried in it a sting of malice. “How very strange!” said Eliza.

Jane spoke next. She echoed Eliza, but her voice was more emphatic and seemed multiple, as echoes do. “Yes, very strange indeed,” said Jane.

“Dear Annie is really very singular lately. It has distressed us all, especially father,” said Susan, but deprecatingly.

Then Imogen spoke, and to the point. “Annie must be in that house,” said she. “She went in there, and she could not have gone out without our seeing her.”

Annie could fairly see the toss of Imogen’s head as she spoke.

“What in thunder do you all mean?” asked Tom Reed, and there was a bluntness, almost a brutality, in his voice which was refreshing.

“I do not think such forcible language is becoming, especially at the parsonage,” said Jane.

Annie distinctly heard Tom Reed snort. “Hang it if I care whether it is becoming or not,” said he.

“You seem to forget that you are addressing ladies, sir,” said Jane.

“Don’t forget it for a blessed minute,” returned Tom Reed. “Wish I could. You make it too evident that you are — ladies, with every word you speak, and all your beating about the bush. A man would blurt it out, and then I would know where I am at. Hang it if I know now. You all say that your sister is singular and that she distresses your father, and you” — addressing Imogen — “say that she must be in that house. You are the only one who does make a dab at speaking out; I will say that much for you. Now, if she is in that house, what in thunder is the matter?”

“I really cannot stay here and listen to such profane language,” said Jane, and she flitted up the path to the house like an enraged white moth. She had a fleecy white shawl over her head, and her pale outline was triangular.

“If she calls that profane, I pity her,” said Tom Reed. He had known the girls since they were children, and had never liked Jane. He continued, still addressing Imogen. “For Heaven’s sake, if she is in that house, what is the matter?” said he. “Doesn’t the bell ring? Yes, it does ring, though it is as cracked as the devil. I heard it. Has Annie gone deaf? Is she sick? Is she asleep? It is only eight o’clock. I don’t believe she is asleep. Doesn’t she want to see me? Is that the trouble? What have I done? Is she angry with me?”

Eliza spoke, smoothly and sweetly. “Dear Annie is singular,” said she.

“What the dickens do you mean by singular? I have known Annie ever since she was that high. It never struck me that she was any more singular than other girls, except she stood an awful lot of nagging without making a kick. Here you all say she is singular, as if you meant she was” — Tom hesitated a second — “crazy,” said he. “Now, I know that Annie is saner than any girl around here, and that simply does not go down. What do you all mean by singular?”