Celia spoke gently.  “I think not.  I mean I can imagine no reason for it—­no good it could do.”

“But you can’t judge of that until you know what I have to say.  Something I did not understand has recently been made clear to me and—­it is of that I wish to speak.”

“If it has anything to do with the—­the difference between your family and mine, it is needless—­useless.  I cannot listen, I can only try to forget.”  On the last word Celia’s voice broke a little.

Allan took a step forward; “I do not think you have a right to refuse.  You should grant me the privilege of defending myself against—­”

Celia interposed, “I have not accused you, Mr. Whittredge; there is no occasion for defence, I must say good night.”

Nothing could have been more final than her manner as she moved away toward Bob, who waited at a discreet distance.  There was no uncertainty in her voice now, nor in the poise of her head.

Allan stood in the road, looking after her retreating figure.  He had bungled.  If he had begun in the right way, she would have been compelled to listen.  What could he do to obtain a hearing?  After two years of silence he could not wonder at her refusal to listen to him now.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND.

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.

“I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not.”

“Belle!” called Mrs. Parton from the porch, addressing her daughter, who swung lazily to and fro in the hammock, her eyes on a book, “I can’t find Jack, and I want you to take this money to Morgan.  Your father reminded me of the bill just before he left, and I haven’t thought of it from that day to this.”

“Oh, mother, can’t—?”

“Can’t who?  You know there isn’t a soul to send but you, and I must have this off my mind.  Manda is helping me with the sweet pickles, and Tilly has gone to camp-meeting.”

Belle rose reluctantly, tossed back her hair, and went in search of her hat.

“Be sure now to get a receipt,” Mrs. Parton said, as she gave the money into Belle’s hands.  “I am not afraid of Morgan, but the colonel is certain to accuse me of not paying it if I haven’t a receipt to show him.”

Belle tucked her book under her arm and walked off.

“Now, Belle,” protested her mother, “why can’t you leave that book at home?  Don’t let me hear of your reading as you go along the street.”

“I won’t, but I like to carry it,” answered Belle, patting it lovingly.  She was deeply interested in the story, and begrudged the time it took to walk to the magician’s.  Once there, she decided she would stay awhile to rest and finish the chapter.

The day was warm, and she strolled along in lazy fashion.  The Whittredge house as she passed looked deserted.  The front shutters were closed, and no one was to be seen.  Rosalind had gone away with her uncle for a few days.  Belle amused herself by imagining that Rosalind’s having been there at all was a dream, and she succeeded in producing a bewildering sense of unreality in her own mind.