his perplexity. He laid the violin bow down on the old bench.

"Well, there is no use in my following her, and I have no right
to do so even if it were of use. But I certainly wish she hadn't
fled in such evident terror. Eyes like hers were never meant to
express anything but tenderness and trust. Why--why--WHY was she
so frightened? And who--who--WHO--can she be?"

All the way home, over fields and pastures that were beginning to
be moonlight silvered he pondered the mystery.

"Let me see," he reflected. "Mr. Williamson was describing the
Lindsay girls for my benefit the other evening. If I remember
rightly he said that there were four handsome ones in the
district. What were their names? Florrie Woods, Melissa
Foster--no, Melissa Palmer--Emma Scott, and Jennie May Ferguson.
Can she be one of them? No, it is a flagrant waste of time and
gray matter supposing it. That girl couldn't be a Florrie or a
Melissa or an Emma, while Jennie May is completely out of the
question. Well, there is some bewitchment in the affair. Of
that I'm convinced. So I'd better forget all about it."

But Eric found that it was impossible to forget all about it.
The more he tried to forget, the more keenly and insistently he
remembered. The girl's exquisite face haunted him and the
mystery of her tantalized him.

True, he knew that, in all likelihood, he might easily solve the
problem by asking the Williamsons about her. But somehow, to his
own surprise, he found that he shrank from doing this. He felt