home, for I saw Miss Jane going toward the beach
alone."

"Are you sure, mother?" There was a note of
anxiety in his voice.

"Yes, certainly. She had that red cloak of hers
with her and that miserable little dog; that's how I
know. She must be going to stay late. You look
tired, my son; have you had a hard day?" added
she, kissing him on the cheek.

"Yes, perhaps I am a little tired, but I'll be all
right. Have you looked at the slate lately? I'll
go myself," and he turned and entered his office.

On the slate lay the rose. He picked it up and
held it to his nose in a preoccupied way.

"One of mother's," he said listlessly, laying it
back among his papers. "She so seldom does that
sort of thing. Funny that she should have given
it to me to-day; and after Miss Jane's visit, too."
Then he shut the office door, threw himself into his
chair, and buried his face in his hands. He was
still there when his mother called him to supper.

When Lucy reached home it was nearly dark. She
came alone, leaving Bart at the entrance to the village.
At her suggestion they had avoided the main