like yourn, folks would have to stop up their years with cotton. I jes
find myself watchin' fer you to come home, so's I can hear you singin'
them pretty duets round the house."

Lovey Mary smiled faintly; for a month past she had been unconsciously
striving to live up to Mrs. Wiggs's opinion of her, and the constant
praise and commendation of that "courageous captain of compliment" had
moved her to herculean effort.

But a sudden catastrophe threatened her. She sat on the door-step,
white and miserable. Held tight in the hand that was thrust in her
pocket was a letter; it was a blue letter addressed to Miss Hazy in
large, dashing characters. Lovey Mary had got it from the postman as
she went out in the morning; for five hours she had been racked with
doubt concerning it. She felt that it could refer but to one subject,
and that was herself. Perhaps Miss Bell had discovered her hiding-
place, or, worse still, perhaps Kate Rider had seen her at the factory
and was writing for Tommy. Lovey Mary crushed the letter in her hand;
she would not give it to Miss Hazy. She would outwit Kate again.

"All right, honey," called Mrs. Wiggs; "here you are. 'T ain't much of
a lunch, but it'll fill up the gaps. Me an' Miss Hazy jes been talkin'
'bout you."

Lovey Mary glanced up furtively. Could they have suspected anything?

[Illustration: "She sat on the door-step, white and miserable."]

"Didn't yer years sorter burn! We was speakin' of the way you'd
slicked things up round here. I was a-sayin' even if you was a sorter