now, I shall interpret it that we are to part no more!” The schoolmistress stepped back with a sudden movement, as if an arrow had struck her.

“’One of the long granite blocks used as seats was hard by—­the one you may still see close by the Gingko-tree.  “Pray sit down,” I said.  “No, no,” she answered, softly, “I will walk the long path with you!”

     “’—­The old gentleman who sits opposite met us walking arm in arm
     about the middle of the long path, and said, very
     charmingly,—­“Good-morning, my dears!"’”

The reading stopped at luncheon time, and it was still raining.  On the table were letters for Becky forwarded from Siasconset.  An interesting account from Aunt Claudia of the wedding of Major Prime and Madge MacVeigh.

“They were married in the old orchard at the Flippins’, and it was beautiful.  The bride wore simple clothes like the rest of us.  It was cool and we kept on our wraps, and she was in white linen with a loose little coat of mauve wool, and a hat to match.  The only bride-y thing about her was a great bunch of lilacs that the Major ordered from a Fifth Avenue florist.  They are to stay in New York for a day or two, and then visit the Watermans on the North Shore.  After that they will go at once to the West, where they are to live on the Major’s ranch.  He has been relieved from duty at Washington, and will have all of his time to give to his own affairs.

“There has been an epidemic of weddings.  Flippins’ Daisy waited just long enough to help Mrs. Flippin get Miss MacVeigh married; then she and young John had an imposing ceremony in their church, with Daisy in a train and white veil, and four bridesmaids, and Mandy and Calvin in front seats, and Calvin giving the bride away.  I think the elaborateness of it all really reconciled Mandy to her daughter-in-law.”

There was also, from Randy, a long envelope enclosing a thick manuscript and very short note.

“I want you to read this, Becky.  It belongs in a way to you.  I don’t know what I think about it.  Sometimes it seems as if I had done a rather big thing, and as if it had been done without me at all.  I wonder if you understand what I mean—­as if I had held the pen, and it had—­come——­ I have sent it to the editor of one of the big magazines.  Perhaps he will send it back, and it may not seem as good to me as it does at this moment.  Let me know what you think.”

Becky, finishing the letter, felt a bit forlorn.  Randy, as a rule, wrote at length about herself and her affairs.  But, of course, he had other things now to think of.  She must not expect too much.

There was no time, however, in which to read the manuscript, for Cope was saying, wistfully, “Do you think you’d mind a walk in the rain?”

“No.”  She gathered up her letters.

“Then we’ll walk across the Common.”