When Lucy had performed her duty and the several greetings were over, and Uncle Ephraim had shaken the hand of the young hostess in true pump-handle fashion, the old man roaring with laughter all the time, as if it were the funniest thing in the world to find her alive; and the good clergyman in his mildest and most impressive manner had said she grew more and more like her mother every day—­ which was a flight of imagination on the part of the dear man, for she didn’t resemble her in the least; and the two thin girls had remarked that it must be so “perfectly blissful” to get home; and the young lawyer had complimented her on her wonderful, almost life-like resemblance to her grand-father, whose portrait hung in the court-house—­and which was nearer the truth—­to all of which the young girl replied in her most gracious tones, thanking them for their kindness in coming to see her and for welcoming her so cordially—­the whole of Lucy’s mind once more reverted to Bart.

Indeed, the several lobes of her brain had been working in opposition for the past hour.  While one-half of her mind was concocting polite speeches for her guests the other was absorbed in the fear that Bart would either get tired of waiting for her return and leave the sofa, or that some other girl friend of his would claim him and her delightful talk be at an end.

To the young girl fresh from school Bart represented the only thing in the room that was entirely alive.  The others talked platitudes and themselves.  He had encouraged her to talk of herself and of the things she liked.  He had, too, about him an assurance and dominating personality which, although it made her a little afraid of him, only added to his attractiveness.

While she stood wondering how many times the white-haired young lawyer would tell her it was so nice to have her back, she felt a slight pressure on her arm and turned to face Bart.

“You are wanted, please, Miss Lucy; may I offer you my arm?  Excuse me, Bunsby—­I’ll give her to you again in a minute.”

Lucy slipped her arm into Bart’s, and asked simply, “What for?”

“To finish our talk, of course.  Do you suppose I’m going to let that tow-head monopolize you?” he answered, pressing her arm closer to his side with his own.

Lucy laughed and tapped Bart with her fan in rebuke, and then there followed a bit of coquetry in which the young girl declared that he was “too mean for anything, and that she’d never seen anybody so conceited, and if he only knew, she might really prefer the ‘tow head’ to his own;” to which Bart answered that his only excuse was that he was so lonely he was nearly dead, and that he had only come to save his life—­the whole affair culminating in his conducting her back to the sofa with a great flourish and again seating himself beside her.

“I’ve been watching you,” he began when he had made her comfortable with a small cushion behind her shoulders and another for her pretty feet.  “You don’t act a bit like Miss Jane.”  As he spoke he leaned forward and flicked an imaginary something from her bare wrist with that air which always characterized his early approaches to most women.