"What do you suppose this means, Frank?"

Gregory looked at the shoes frowningly. "They're the slippers she got
to-day. She thinks you sent them to her."

"And she wouldn't have them because she thought I sent them! As sure as
I'm standing here, I never did it," said the clerk, solemnly.

"I know it," said Gregory. "I sent them."

"You!"

"What's so wonderful?" Gregory retorted. "I saw that she wanted them that
day when the shoe peddler was here. I could see it, and you could."

"Yes."

"I went across into the woods, and the man overtook me with his wagon. I
was tempted, and I bought the slippers of him. I wanted to give them to
her then, but I resisted, and I thought I should never give them. To-day,
when I heard that she was going to that dance, I sent them to her
anonymously. That's all there is about it."

The clerk had a moment of bitterness. "If she'd known it was you, she
wouldn't have given them back."

"That's to be seen. I shall tell her, now. I never meant her to know, but
she must, because she's doing you wrong in her ignorance."