"Now I am not going to cry," she said sternly, and by way of carrying out
this resolve she again closed her eyes tight. It was desperately hard
work, and she could not have told whether two minutes or ten had passed
when she was startled by an odd, guttural voice close to her asking,
"What is the matter, little girl?"

If the voice was strange, the figure she saw when she looked up was
stranger still. A gaunt old man in a suit of rusty black, with straggling
gray hair and beard, stood holding his hat in his hand, gazing at her with
eyes so bright they made her uneasy.

"Nothing," she answered, rising hastily.

But the visitor continued to stand there and smile at her, shaking his
head and repeating, "Mustn't cry."

"I am not crying," Rosalind insisted, glancing over her shoulder to make
sure of a way of escape.

With a long, thin finger this strange person now pointed toward the house,
saying something she understood to be an inquiry for Miss Herbert.

Miss Herbert was the housekeeper, and Rosalind knew she was at church; but
when she tried to explain, the old man shook his head, and taking from his
pocket a tablet with a pencil attached, he held it out to her, touching
his ear as he uttered the one word "Deaf."

Rosalind understood she was to write her answer, and somewhat flurried she
sat down on the edge of the bench and with much deliberation and in large
clear letters conveyed the information, "She is out."