ceremony of walking into the village for the mail.

Anne followed her downstairs sedately, perhaps a little dashed
presently to discover that this dignified proceeding had lost her
the walk. They were all gone. The house was very still, early
summer sweetness was drifting through wide-opened windows and
doors; the long day was slowly declining. In the woods close to
the door a really summery hum of insect life was stirring. Hong,
in dull minor gutturals, jabbered somewhere in the far distance to
a friend. Anne peeped into the deserted living room, softened
through all its pleasant shabbiness into real beauty by the shafts
of sunset red that came in through the casement windows; and was
deliberating between various becoming occupations--for Martin
might walk back with the girls--when her uncle called her.

He was sitting in the little room that was still called his
office, but that was really his study now, and the late afternoon
light, through the replaced rose vine, streamed in on the shabby
books and the green lampshade and the cluttered desk.

"Anne--you weren't there when that young chap tumbled. But I've
been worrying about it a little. There's no question--there's no
question that she--that Cherry--called him by his name. 'Martin,'
she called him."

Anne had crossed to the shadowy doorway; she stood still.

"It can't be!" protested the doctor, uneasily. "Did Alix say
anything to you about it?"