“Dwight’s letters, mamma.  You mustn’t touch them!” Lulu’s voice was sharp.

“Say!” Cornish, at the door, dropped his voice.  “If there was anything I could do at any time, you’d let me know, wouldn’t you?”

That past tense, those subjunctives, unconsciously called upon her to feel no intrusion.

“Oh, thank you,” she said.  “You don’t know how good it is to feel—­”

“Of course it is,” said Cornish heartily.

They stood for a moment on the porch.  The night was one of low clamour from the grass, tiny voices, insisting.

“Of course,” said Lulu, “of course you won’t—­you wouldn’t—­”

“Say anything?” he divined.  “Not for dollars.  Not,” he repeated, “for dollars.”

“But I knew you wouldn’t,” she told him.

He took her hand.  “Good-night,” he said.  “I’ve had an awful nice time singing and listening to you talk—­well, of course—­I mean,” he cried, “the supper was just fine.  And so was the music.”

“Oh, no,” she said.

Mrs. Bett came into the hall.

“Lulie,” she said, “I guess you didn’t notice—­this one’s from Ninian.”

“Mother—­”

“I opened it—­why, of course I did.  It’s from Ninian.”

Mrs. Bett held out the opened envelope, the unfolded letter, and a yellowed newspaper clipping.

“See,” said the old woman, “says, ’Corie Waters, music hall singer—­married last night to Ninian Deacon—­’ Say, Lulie, that must be her....”

Lulu threw out her hands.

“There!” she cried triumphantly.  “He was married to her, just like he said!”

* * * * *

The Plows were at breakfast next morning when Lulu came in casually at the side-door.  Yes, she said, she had had breakfast.  She merely wanted to see them about something.  Then she said nothing, but sat looking with a troubled frown at Jenny.  Jenny’s hair was about her neck, like the hair of a little girl, a south window poured light upon her, the fruit and honey upon the table seemed her only possible food.

“You look troubled, Lulu,” Mrs. Plow said.  “Is it about getting work?”

“No,” said Lulu, “no.  I’ve been places to ask—­quite a lot of places.  I guess the bakery is going to let me make cake.”

“I knew it would come to you,” Mrs. Plow said, and Lulu thought that this was a strange way to speak, when she herself had gone after the cakes.  But she kept on looking about the room.  It was so bright and quiet.  As she came in, Mr. Plow had been reading from a book.  Dwight never read from a book at table.

“I wish——­” said Lulu, as she looked at them.  But she did not know what she wished.  Certainly it was for no moral excellence, for she perceived none.

“What is it, Lulu?” Mr. Plow asked, and he was bright and quiet too, Lulu thought.

“Well,” said Lulu, “it’s not much.  But I wanted Jenny to tell me about last night.”