lap, until the footsteps of the last of the others to depart had ceased to sound upon the pavement below.  Then, with a wordless exclamation, she sprang to her feet, pulled the window-shade carefully down to the sill, and, when she had done that, struck a match on the heel of her shoe—­a soiled white canvas shoe, not a small one—­and applied the flame to a gas jet.  The yellow light flared up; and she began to pace the room haggardly.

The court-house bell rang nine, and as the tremors following the last stroke pulsed themselves into silence, she heard a footfall on the stairs and immediately relapsed into a chair, folding her hands again in her lap, her expression composing itself to passivity, for the step was very much lighter than Joe’s.

A lady beautifully dressed in white dimity appeared in the doorway.  She hesitated at the threshold, not, apparently, because of any timidity (her expression being too thoughtfully assured for that), but almost immediately she came in and seated herself near the desk, acknowledging the other’s presence by a slight inclination of the head.

This grave courtesy caused a strong, deep flush to spread itself under the rouge which unevenly covered the woman’s cheeks, as she bowed elaborately in return.  Then, furtively, during a protracted silence, she took stock of the new-comer, from the tip of her white suede shoes to the filmy lace and pink roses upon her wide white hat; and the sidelong gaze lingered marvellingly upon the quiet, delicate hands, slender and finely expressive, in their white gloves.

Her own hands, unlike the lady’s, began to fidget confusedly, and, the silence continuing, she coughed several times, to effect the preface required by her sense of fitness, before she felt it proper to observe, with a polite titter: 

“Mr. Louden seems to be a good while comin’.”

“Have you been waiting very long?” asked the lady.

“Ever since six o’clock!”

“Yes,” said the other.  “That is very long.”

“Yes, ma’am, it cert’nly is.”  The ice thus broken, she felt free to use her eyes more directly, and, after a long, frank stare, exclaimed: 

“Why, you must be Miss Ariel Tabor, ain’t you?”

“Yes.”  Ariel touched one of the roses upon
Joe’s desk with her finger-tips.  “I am Miss
Tabor.”

“Well, excuse me fer asking; I’m sure it ain’t any business of mine,” said the other, remembering the manners due one lady from another.  “But I thought it must be.  I expect,” she added, with loud, inconsequent laughter, “there’s not many in Canaan ain’t heard you’ve come back.”  She paused, laughed again, nervously, and again, less loudly, to take off the edge of her abruptness:  gradually tittering herself down to a pause, to fill which she put forth:  “Right nice weather we be’n havin’.”

“Yes,” said Ariel.

“It was rainy, first of last week, though. I don’t mind rain so much”—­this with more laughter,—­ “I stay in the house when it rains.  Some people don’t know enough to, they say!  You’ve heard that saying, ain’t you, Miss Tabor?”