you deserve your own way about your holiday."

And Tom Duffan said, "_Thank you, Kitty_," in such a peculiar way that
Kitty lost all her wits, blushed crimson, dropped her fan, and finally
left the room with the lamest of excuses. And then Mrs. Duffan said,
"Tom, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! If men know a thing past
ordinary, they must blab it, either with a look or a word or a letter; I
shouldn't wonder if Kitty told you to-night she was going to the
Branch, and asked you for a $500 check--serve you right, too."

But if Kitty had any such intentions, Max Raymond changed them. Kitty
went very sweetly to the Peak, and two days afterward Max Raymond,
straying up the hills with his fishing rod, strayed upon Tom Duffan,
sketching. Max did a great deal of fishing that summer, and at the end
of it Tom Duffan's pretty daughter was inextricably caught. She had no
will but Max's will, and no way but his way. She had promised him never
to marry any one but him; she had vowed she would love him, and only
him, to the end of her life.

All these obligations without a shadow or a doubt from the prudent
little body. Yet she knew nothing of Max's family or antecedents; she
had taken his appearance and manners, and her father's and mother's
respectful admission of his friendship, as guarantee sufficient. She
remembered that Jack, that first night in the theatre, had said
something about studying law together; and with these items, and the
satisfactory fact that he always had plenty of money, Kitty had given
her whole heart, without conditions and without hostages.

Nor would she mar the placid measure of her content by questioning; it
was enough that her father and mother were satisfied with her choice.