She took some knitting from her work-table, and, shaking out its fleecy
softness, began to work, the big wooden needles making a velvety sound as
they rubbed together. Gifford was opposite her, his hands thrust moodily
into his pockets, his feet stretched straight out, and his head sunk on
his breast. But he did not look as though he were resting; an intent
anxiety seemed to pervade his big frame, and Helen could not fail to
observe it. She glanced at him, as he sat frowning into the fire, but he
did not notice her.

"Something troubles you, Gifford."

He started. "Yes," he said. He changed his position, leaning his elbows
on his knees, and propping his chin on his fists, and still scowling at
the fire. "Yes, I came to speak to you about it."

"I wish you would," Helen answered. But Gifford found it difficult to
begin.

"I've had a letter from aunt Ruth to-day," he said at last, "and it has
bothered me. I don't know how to tell you, exactly; you will think it's
none of my business."

"Is there anything wrong at the rectory?" Helen asked, putting down her
work, and drawing a quick breath.

"Oh, no, no, of course not," answered Gifford, "nothing like that. The
fact is, Helen--the fact is--well, plainly, aunt Ruth thinks that that
young Forsythe is in love with Lois."