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“Lorania, you never told me that!”

“It seemed like making fun of him, when he had been so kind. I declined as civilly as I could. I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings. I meant to pay a visit to his mother and ask them to dinner, but you know I went to England that week, and somehow when I came back it was difficult. It seems a little odd we never have seen more of the Winslows, but I fancy they don’t want either to intrude or to be intruded on. But he is certainly very obliging about the garden. Think of all the slips and flowers he has given us, and the advice–“

“All passed over the fence. It is funny our neighborly good offices which we render at arm’s-length. How long have you known him?”

“Oh, a long time. He is cashier of my bank, you know. First he was teller, then assistant cashier, and now for five years he has been cashier. The president wants to resign and let him be president, but he hardly has enough stock for that. But Oliver says” (Oliver was Miss Hopkins’ brother) “that there isn’t a shrewder or straighter banker in the state. Oliver likes him. He says he is a sandy little fellow.”

“Well, he is,” assented Mrs. Ellis. “It isn’t many cashiers would let robbers stab them and shoot them and leave them for dead rather than give up the combination of the safe!”

“He wouldn’t take a cent for it, either, and he saved ever so many thousand dollars. Yes, he is brave. I went to the same school with him once, and saw him fight a big boy twice his size–such a nasty boy, who called me ‘Fatty,’ and made a kissing noise with his lips just to scare me–and poor little Cyril Winslow got awfully beaten, and when I saw him on the ground, with his nose bleeding and that big brute pounding him, I ran to the water-bucket, and poured the whole bucket on that big bullying boy and stopped the fight, just as the teacher got on the scene. I cried over little Cyril Winslow. He was crying himself. ‘I ain’t crying because he hurt me,’ he sobbed; ‘I’m crying because I’m so mad I didn’t lick him!’ I wonder if he remembers that episode?”

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Ellis.

“Maggie, what makes you think he is falling in love with Sibyl?”

Mrs. Ellis laughed. “I dare say he isn’t in love with Sibyl,” said she. “I think the main reason was his always riding by here instead of taking the shorter road down the other street.”

“Does he always ride by here? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Always!” said Mrs. Ellis. ” I had noticed.”

“I am sorry for him,” said Lorania, musingly. “I think Sibyl is very much taken with that young Captain Carr at the Arsenal. Young girls always affect the army. He is a nice fellow, but I don’t think he is the man Winslow is. Now, Maggie, advise me about the suit. I don’t want to look like the escaped fat lady of a museum.”

Lorania thought no more of Sibyl’s love affairs. If she thought of the Winslows, it was to wish that Mrs. Winslow would sell or rent her pasture, which, in addition to her own and Mrs. Ellis’ pastures thrown into one, would make such a delightful bicycle track.

The Winslow house was very different from the two villas that were the pride of Fairport. A little story and a half cottage peeped out on the road behind the tall maples that were planted when Winslow was a boy. But there was a wonderful green velvet lawn, and the tulips and sweet peas and pansies that blazed softly nearer the house were as beautiful as those over which Miss Lorania’s gardener toiled and worried.

Mrs. Winslow was a little woman who showed the fierce struggle of her early life only in the deeper lines between her delicate eyebrows and the expression of melancholy patience in her brown eyes.