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“It was blowing,” declared Rebecca.

“It isn’t now,” said Mrs. Dent. “I can’t try to account for everything that blows out-of-doors. I have too much to do.”

She spoke scornfully and confidently, with defiant, unflinching eyes, first on the bush, then on Rebecca, and led the way into the house.

“It looked queer,” persisted Rebecca, but she followed, and also the boy with the trunk.

Rebecca entered an interior, prosperous, even elegant, according to her simple ideas. There were Brussels carpets, lace curtains, and plenty of brilliant upholstery and polished wood.

“You’re real nicely situated,” remarked Rebecca, after she had become a little accustomed to her new surroundings and the two women were seated at the tea-table.

Mrs. Dent stared with a hard complacency from behind her silver- plated service. “Yes, I be,” said she.

“You got all the things new?” said Rebecca hesitatingly, with a jealous memory of her dead sister’s bridal furnishings.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Dent; “I was never one to want dead folks’ things, and I had money enough of my own, so I wasn’t beholden to John. I had the old duds put up at auction. They didn’t bring much.”

“I suppose you saved some for Agnes. She’ll want some of her poor mother’s things when she is grown up,” said Rebecca with some indignation.

The defiant stare of Mrs. Dent’s blue eyes waxed more intense. “There’s a few things up garret,” said she.

“She’ll be likely to value them,” remarked Rebecca. As she spoke she glanced at the window. “Isn’t it most time for her to be coming home?” she asked.

“Most time,” answered Mrs. Dent carelessly; “but when she gets over to Addie Slocum’s she never knows when to come home.”

“Is Addie Slocum her intimate friend?”

“Intimate as any.”

“Maybe we can have her come out to see Agnes when she’s living with me,” said Rebecca wistfully. “I suppose she’ll be likely to be homesick at first.”

“Most likely,” answered Mrs. Dent.

“Does she call you mother?” Rebecca asked.

“No, she calls me Aunt Emeline,” replied the other woman shortly. “When did you say you were going home?”

“In about a week, I thought, if she can be ready to go so soon,” answered Rebecca with a surprised look.

She reflected that she would not remain a day longer than she could help after such an inhospitable look and question.

“Oh, as far as that goes,” said Mrs. Dent, “it wouldn’t make any difference about her being ready. You could go home whenever you felt that you must, and she could come afterward.”

“Alone?”

“Why not? She’s a big girl now, and you don’t have to change cars.”

“My niece will go home when I do, and not travel alone; and if I can’t wait here for her, in the house that used to be her mother’s and my sister’s home, I’ll go and board somewhere,” returned Rebecca with warmth.

“Oh, you can stay here as long as you want to. You’re welcome,” said Mrs. Dent.

Then Rebecca started. “There she is!” she declared in a trembling, exultant voice. Nobody knew how she longed to see the girl.

“She isn’t as late as I thought she’d be,” said Mrs. Dent, and again that curious, subtle change passed over her face, and again it settled into that stony impassiveness.

Rebecca stared at the door, waiting for it to open. “Where is she?” she asked presently.

“I guess she’s stopped to take off her hat in the entry,” suggested Mrs. Dent.

Rebecca waited. “Why don’t she come? It can’t take her all this time to take off her hat.”

For answer Mrs. Dent rose with a stiff jerk and threw open the door.

“Agnes!” she called. “Agnes!” Then she turned and eyed Rebecca. “She ain’t there.”

“I saw her pass the window,” said Rebecca in bewilderment.

“You must have been mistaken.”

“I know I did,” persisted Rebecca.

“You couldn’t have.”

“I did. I saw first a shadow go over the ceiling, then I saw her in the glass there”–she pointed to a mirror over the sideboard opposite–“and then the shadow passed the window.”