“What do you know about your uncle?”

“Oh, I’d seen him a few times, though I’d never been up to Ashley.  As long as Grandfather was alive and the mill at Adams Center was running, Uncle Burton used to go there to see his father, and I always used to be hanging around Grandfather and the mill, and the woods.  I was crazy about it all, as a boy, used to work right along with the mill-hands, and out chopping with the lumbermen.  Maybe Uncle Burton noticed that.”  He was struck with a sudden idea, “By George, maybe that was why he left me the mill!” He cast his eye retrospectively on this idea and was silent for a moment, emerging from his meditation to say, wonderingly, “Well, it certainly is queer, how things come out, how one thing hangs on another.  It’s enough to addle your brains, to try to start to follow back all the ways things happen . . . ways you’d never thought of as of the least importance.”

“Your Uncle Burton was of some importance to us,” she told him.  “Miss Oldham at the pension said that she had just met a new American, down from Genoa, and when I heard your name I said, ’Oh, I used to know an old Mr. Crittenden who ran a wood-working factory up in Vermont, where I used to visit an old cousin of mine,’ and that was why Miss Oldham introduced us, that silly way, as cousins.”

He said, pouncingly, “You’re running on, inconsequently, just to divert my mind from asking you again who or what Toucle is.”

“You can ask and ask all you like,” she defied him, laughing.  “I’m not going to tell you.  I’ve got to have some secrets from you, to keep up the traditions of self-respecting womanhood.  And anyhow I couldn’t tell you, because she is different from everything else.  You’ll see for yourself, when we get there.  If she’s still alive.”  She offered a compromise, “I’ll tell you what.  If she’s dead, I’ll sit down and tell you about her.  If she’s still alive, you’ll find out.  She’s an Ashley institution, Toucle is.  As symbolic as the Cumean Sybil.  I don’t believe she’ll be dead.  I don’t believe she’ll ever be dead.”

“You’ve let the cat out of the bag enough so I’ve lost my interest in her,” he professed.  “I can make a guess that she’s some old woman, and I bet you I won’t see anything remarkable in her.  Except that wild name.  Is it Miss Toucle, or Mrs. Toucle?”

The girl burst into laughter at this, foolish, light-hearted mirth which drenched the air all about her with the perfume of young gaiety.  “Is it Miss Druid, or Mrs. Druid?” was all she would say.

She looked up at him, her eyes shining, and cried between her gusts of laughter, as if astonished, “Why, I do believe we are going to be happy together.  I do believe it’s going to be fun to live with you.”

His appalled surprise that she had again fallen into the pit of incredulity was, this time, only half humorous.  “For God’s sake, what did you think!”