Nobody had called except the clergyman, not even Mrs. Crawford, whose friendship and possible advice Mrs. Tracy had counted upon, and with whom she knew she should feel more at ease than with Mrs. Atherton from Brier Hill, or Miss Hastings from Collingwood.  She had seen both the last named ladies at church and had a nod from Mrs. Atherton, and that was all the recognition she had received from her neighbors up to the hot July morning, a week or more after the house-maid’s departure, when she was busy in the kitchen canning black raspberries, of which the garden was full.

Like many housekeepers who do their own work, Dolly was not very particular with regard to her dress in the morning, and on this occasion her hair was drawn from her rather high forehead, and twisted into a hard knot at the back of her head; her calico dress hung straight dawn, for she was minus hoops, which in those days were worn quite large; her sleeves were rolled above her elbows, and, as a protection against the juice of the berries, she wore a huge apron made of sacking.  In this garb, and with no thought of being interrupted, she kept on with her work until the last kettle of fruit, was boiling and bubbling on the stove, and she was just glancing at the clock to see if it were time to put over the peas for dinner, when there came a quick, decisive ring at the front door.

‘Who can that be?’ she said to herself, as she wiped her hands upon her apron.  ’Some peddler or agent, I dare say.  Why couldn’t he come round to the kitchen, door, I’d like to know?’

She had been frequently troubled with peddlers and agents of all kinds, and feeling certain that this was one—­ringing the bell a second time, as if in a hurry—­she started for’ the door in no very amiable frame of mind, for peddlers were her abomination.  Something ailed the lock or key, which resisted all her efforts to turn it; and at last, putting her mouth to the keyhole, she called out, rather sharply: 

‘Go to the back door:  I cannot open this,’

Then, as she caught a whiff of burnt syrup, she hurried to the kitchen, where she found that her berries had boiled over, and were hissing and sputtering on the hot stove, raising a cloud of smoke so dense that she did not see the person who stood on the threshold of the door until a voice wholly unlike that of any peddler or agent said to her;

‘Good morning, Mrs. Tracy.  I hope I am not intruding.’

Then she turned, and to her horror and surprise, saw Grace Atherton, attired in the coolest and daintiest of morning costumes, with a jaunty French bonnet set coquettishly upon her head, and a silver card-case in her hand.

For the moment Dolly’s wits forsook her and she stood staring at her visitor, who, perfectly at her ease, advanced into the room and said: 

‘I hope you will excuse me, Mrs. Tracy, for this morning call I came—­’

But she did not finish the sentence, for by this time Dolly had recovered herself a little, and throwing off her apron, she replied, nervously: