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Of Captain Anthony he never got even a glimpse, but he saw the old cousin several times, going and coming about the yard and its environs. Finally one day he met her, coming up a path which led to a spring down in a firry hollow. She was carrying two heavy pails of water and Alan asked permission to help her.

He half expected a repulse, for the tall, grim old woman had a rather stern and forbidding look, but after gazing at him a moment in a somewhat scrutinizing manner she said briefly, “You may, if you like.”

Alan took the pails and followed her, the path not being wide enough for two. She strode on before him at a rapid, vigorous pace until they came out into the yard by the house. Alan felt his heart beating foolishly. Would he see Lynde Oliver? Would–

“You may carry the water there,” the old woman said, pointing to a little outhouse near the pines. “I’m washing–the spring water is softer than the well water. Thank you”–as Alan set the pails down on a bench–“I’m not so young as I was and bringing the water so far tires me. Lynde always brings it for me when she’s home.”

She stood before him in the narrow doorway, blocking his exit, and looked at him with keen, deep-set dark eyes. In spite of her withered aspect and wrinkled face, she was not an uncomely old woman and there was about her a dignity of carriage and manner that pleased Alan. It did not occur to him to wonder why it should please him. If he had hunted that feeling down he might have been surprised to discover that it had its origin in a curious gratification over the thought that the woman who lived with Lynde had a certain refinement about her. He preferred her unsmiling dourness to vulgar garrulity.

“Are you the young minister up at Rexton?” she asked bluntly.

“Yes.”

“I thought so. Lynde said she had seen you on the shore once. Well”–she cast an uncertain glance over her shoulder at the house–“I’m much obliged to you.”

Alan had an idea that that was not what she had thought of saying, but as she had turned aside and was busying herself with the pails, there seemed nothing for him to do but to go.

“Wait a moment.” She faced him again, and if Alan had been a vain man he might have thought that admiration looked from her piercing eyes. “What do you think of us? I suppose they’ve told you tales of us up there?”–with a scornful gesture of her hand in the direction of Rexton. “Do you believe them?”

“I believe no ill of anyone until I have absolute proof of it,” said Alan, smiling–he was quite unconscious what a winning smile he had, which was the best of it–“and I never put faith in gossip. Of course you are gossipped about–you know that.”

“Yes, I know it”–grimly–“and I don’t care what they say about the Captain and me. We are a queer pair–just as queer as they make us out. You can believe what you like about us, but don’t you believe a word they say against Lynde. She’s sweet and good and beautiful. It’s not her fault that she never went to church–it’s her father’s. Don’t you hold that against her.”

The fierce yet repressed energy of her tone prevented Alan from feeling any amusement over her simple defence of Lynde. Moreover, it sounded unreasonably sweet in his ears.

“I won’t,” he promised, “but I don’t suppose it would matter much to Miss Oliver if I did. She did not strike me as a young lady who would worry very much about other people’s opinions.”

If his object were to prolong the conversation about Lynde, he was disappointed, for the old woman had turned abruptly to her work again and, though Alan lingered for a few moments longer, she took no further notice of him. But when he had gone she peered stealthily after him from the door until he was lost to sight among the pines.