worked rapidly, constructing the story. The blood dyed her face at the
thought of her obtuseness. Then she set her lips firmly. She had done
her best; if a wanton fate chose to interfere now and make Millicent
slave to the phantom of her early, radiant love, she, Anna, could do
no more!

"Here we are, I guess," called Brockton. The machine shot into a broad
street. A promenade between a double row of elms down its centre gave
it a spacious dignity. The modest courthouse stood on one side, as
green-bowered as if Justice were a smiling goddess; a few churches
broke the stretch of houses. And on the other side the library and
museum stood.

"Pretty little building, but plain," commented Brockton, making
disparaging note of its graceful severity.

"It's exactly suited to the place; it epitomizes its spirit," said
Anna, glibly. "It's austere without being forbidding--perfect Colonial
adaptation of the Greek."

Millicent made no architectural observation. Instead she said: "If you
don't mind, I should like to go in for a while. You could pick me up
later, perhaps on your way back to--Where is it we are lunching?"

Consternation looked out of Anna's eyes, bewilderment out of
Brockton's. But Millicent turned to them with such gentle command in
her gaze that they could offer no protest.

"Come back in half an hour, if you are ready," she said. Upon Anna,
whose baffled look followed her up the flagging between the