the village. It's no use, Miss Thorne--you might stand on your
hilltop and proclaim your innocence until you were hoarse, and it
would be utterly without effect. Your status is definitely
settled."

"How about Aunt Jane?" she inquired. "Does my relationship count
for naught?"

"Now you are rapidly approaching the centre of things," replied
the young man. "Miss Hathaway is one woman in a thousand, though
somewhat eccentric. She is the venerated pillar of the community
and a constant attendant it church, which it seems you are not.
Also, if you are really her niece, where is the family
resemblance? Why has she never spoken of you? Why have you never
been here before? Why are her letters to you sealed with red wax,
bought especially for the purpose? Why does she go away before
you come? Lady Gwendolen Hetherington," he demanded, with
melodramatic fervour, "answer me these things if you can!"

"I'm tired," she complained.

"Delicate compliment," observed Winfield, apparently to himself.
"Here's a log across our path, Miss Thorne; let's sit down."

The budded maples arched over the narrow path, and a wild canary,
singing in the sun, hopped from bough to bough. A robin's cheery
chirp came from another tree, and the clear notes of a thrush,
with a mottled breast, were answered by another in the gold-green
aisles beyond.