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“I hope she has a sense of humor,” he said to himself. Then he got up hastily, went into the tent, and brought out a letter, which he read carefully from the beginning to the signature scribbled in the upper corner of the first page–“Your own Bess.” After that he sat quite still, letting his glance play with the mists of the valley, until Mrs. Dysart rang the supper-bell.

“If she has a sense of humor, how much she must enjoy her!” he said to himself, with the confusion of pronouns we all allow ourselves and view with such scorn in others.

* * * * *

When a man first awakes to the fact that he is thinking of the wrong woman, it is always with a comfortable sense of certainty that he can change his attitude of mind by a slight effort of the will. If he does not make the effort, it is only because he is long past the necessity of demonstrating himself to himself, and not from any fickleness of fancy on his own part. It was in this comfortable state of certainty that Sidney Palmerston betook himself, a few days later, to the Brownell tent, armed with a photograph which might have been marked “Exhibit A” in the case which he was trying with himself before his own conscience. If there was in his determination to place himself right with Miss Brownell any trace of solicitude for the young woman, to the credit of his modesty be it said, he had not formulated it. Perhaps there was. A belief in the general overripeness of feminine affection, and a discreet avoidance of shaking the tree upon which it grows, have in some way become a part of masculine morals, and Sidney Palmerston was still young enough to take himself seriously.

Miss Brownell had moved a table outside the tent, and was bending over a map fastened to it by thumb-tacks.

“I am trying to find out what my father is doing,” she said, looking straight into Palmerston’s eyes without a word of greeting. “I suppose you know they are about to begin work on the tunnel.”

The young man was beginning to be a trifle tired of the tunnel. “Dysart mentioned it yesterday,” he said. “May I sit down, Miss Brownell?”

She gave a little start, and went into the tent for another chair. When she reappeared, Palmerston met her at the tent door and took the camp-chair from her hand.

“I want to sit here,” he said willfully, turning his back toward the table. “I don’t want to talk about the tunnel; I want to turn the conversation upon agreeable things–myself, for instance.”

She frowned upon him smilingly, and put her hand to her cheek with a puzzled gesture.

“Have I talked too much about the tunnel?” she asked. “I thought something might be done to stop it.”

Palmerston shook his head. “You have done everything in your power. Dysart has been fairly warned. Besides, who knows?” he added rather flippantly. “They may strike a hundred inches of water, as your father predicts.”

“I have not been objecting merely to rid myself of responsibility; I have never felt any. I only wanted–I hoped”–She stopped, aware of the unresponsive chill that always came at mention of her father. “I know he is honest.”

“Of course,” protested Palmerston, with artificial warmth; “and, really, I think the place for the work is well selected. I am not much of an engineer, but I went up the other day and looked about, and there are certainly indications of water. I”–he stopped suddenly, aware of his mistake.

The girl had not noticed it. “I wish I could make people over,” she said, curling her fingers about her thumb, and striking the arm of her chair with the soft side of the resultant fist, after the manner of women.