“But if it should be true, and she’s a nervous woman, she might be scared enough to lose her wits,” said his wife, staring uneasily after Rebecca’s erect figure in the wagon disappearing over the crest of the hilly road.

“Wits that so easy upset ain’t worth much,” declared the man.  “You keep out of it, Maria.”

Rebecca in the meantime rode on in the wagon, beside a flaxen-headed boy, who looked, to her understanding, not very bright.  She asked him a question, and he paid no attention.  She repeated it, and he responded with a bewildered and incoherent grunt.  Then she let him alone, after making sure that he knew how to drive straight.

They had traveled about half a mile, passed the village square, and gone a short distance beyond, when the boy drew up with a sudden Whoa! before a very prosperous-looking house.  It had been one of the aboriginal cottages of the vicinity, small and white, with a roof extending on one side over a piazza, and a tiny “L” jutting out in the rear, on the right hand.  Now the cottage was transformed by dormer windows, a bay window on the piazzaless side, a carved railing down the front steps, and a modern hard-wood door.

“Is this John Dent’s house?” asked Rebecca.

The boy was as sparing of speech as a philosopher.  His only response was in flinging the reins over the horse’s back, stretching out one foot to the shaft, and leaping out of the wagon, then going around to the rear for the trunk.  Rebecca got out and went toward the house.  Its white paint had a new gloss; its blinds were an immaculate apple green; the lawn was trimmed as smooth as velvet, and it was dotted with scrupulous groups of hydrangeas and cannas.

“I always understood that John Dent was well-to-do,” Rebecca reflected comfortably.  “I guess Agnes will have considerable.  I’ve got enough, but it will come in handy for her schooling.  She can have advantages.”

The boy dragged the trunk up the fine gravel-walk, but before he reached the steps leading up to the piazza, for the house stood on a terrace, the front door opened and a fair, frizzled head of a very large and handsome woman appeared.  She held up her black silk skirt, disclosing voluminous ruffles of starched embroidery, and waited for Rebecca.  She smiled placidly, her pink, double-chinned face widened and dimpled, but her blue eyes were wary and calculating.  She extended her hand as Rebecca climbed the steps.

“This is Miss Flint, I suppose,” said she.

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Rebecca, noticing with bewilderment a curious expression compounded of fear and defiance on the other’s face.

“Your letter only arrived this morning,” said Mrs. Dent, in a steady voice.  Her great face was a uniform pink, and her china-blue eyes were at once aggressive and veiled with secrecy.