"Roger," she said cordially as he came quickly up the steps. He greeted
her lightly and bent over Sidsall with an extended hand:

"The apple blossoms, I see, are here."

Rhoda wondered what nonsense Roger Brevard was repeating; Sidsall's face
was hidden from view. But then Roger was always like that, his manner was
never at a loss for the appropriate gesture. He had a great many points
in common with her, she thought; neither had been born in Salem, and his
rightful setting was in the best metropolitan drawing-rooms. He had been
here for a dozen years, now, in charge of the local affairs of the
Mongolian Marine Insurance Company; and she often wondered why, a member
of a family socially notable in New York, he continued in a city, a
position, of comparative unimportance.

She was, she said, going back to the lawn, the glare of Pleasant Street
was fatiguing; and she proceeded through the house with the surety of his
following. But on the close-cut emerald sod there was no sign of him, and
she found a seat in a basket chair by the willow tree beyond. She waited
for Roger with a small but growing impatience; he must be done
immediately with whatever he might say to Sidsall, and she wished to
discuss the possibilities of a rumor that President Polk intended to
visit Salem. There would be a collation, perhaps a military ball, to
arrange; Franklin Hall would be the better place for the latter. She
heard a faint silvery echo of laughter--Sidsall. It was extremely nice,
of course, in Roger Brevard to entertain her daughter, though she didn't
care to have the child give the effect of receiving men yet.

It was, finally, Sidsall who appeared, unaccompanied, in the drawing-room
window. She came forward to where Rhoda sat, her face still stirred with