of her wilfulness to be sure that any attempted interference by him would
only make matters worse. Moreover, now that she had warned Cordis that
Madeline was pre-empted property, she hoped he would turn his attention
elsewhere.

And so, while half the village was agog over the flirtation of the new
drug-clerk with Madeline Brand, and Laura was lying awake nights fretting
about it, Henry went gaily to and from his work in a state of blissful
ignorance. And it was very blissful. He was exultant over the progress he
had made in his courtship at the picnic. He had told his love--he had
kissed her. If he had not been accepted, he had, at least, not been
rejected, and that was a measure of success quite enough to intoxicate so
ardent and humble a lover as he. And, indeed, what lover might not have
taken courage at remembering the sweet pity that shone in her eyes at the
revelation of his love-lorn state? The fruition of his hopes, to which he
had only dared look forward as possibly awaiting him somewhere in the dim
future, was, maybe, almost at hand. Circumstances combined to prolong
these rose-tinted dreams. A sudden press of orders made it necessary to
run the shop till late nights. He contrived with difficulty to get out
early one evening so as to call on Madeline; but she had gone out, and he
failed to see her. It was some ten days after the picnic that, on calling
a second time, he found her at home. It chanced to be the very evening of
the day on which the conversation between Madeline and Cordis, narrated
in the last chapter, had taken place.

She did not come in till Henry had waited some time in the parlour, and
then gave him her hand in a very lifeless way. She said she had a bad
head-ache, and seemed disposed to leave the talking to him. He spoke of
the picnic, but she rather sharply remarked that it was so long ago that
she had forgotten all about it. It did seem very long ago to her, but to