“He hasn’t said anything about it to me, Charlotte,” said Alison, in quiet amusement, “but then he wouldn’t, you know.  I don’t live here any longer, and he has no reason to think that I would be interested in church matters.”

“But—­why did you come?” Charlotte demanded, with Gore naivete.

Alison smiled.

“You mean—­what was my motive?”

Charlotte actually performed the miracle of getting redder.  She was afraid of Alison—­much more afraid since she had known of her vogue in the East.  When Alison had put into execution the astounding folly (to the Gore mind) of rejecting the inheritance of millions to espouse a profession, it had been Charlotte Plimpton who led the chorus of ridicule and disapproval.  But success, to the Charlotte Plimptons, is its own justification, and now her ambition (which had ramifications) was to have Alison “do” her a garden.  Incidentally, the question had flashed through her mind as to how much Alison’s good looks had helped towards her triumph in certain shining circles.

“Oh, of course I didn’t mean that,” she hastened to deny, although it was exactly what she had meant.  Her curiosity unsatisfied—­and not likely to be satisfied at once, she shifted abruptly to the other burning subject.  “I was so glad when I learned you hadn’t gone.  Grace Larrabbee’s garden is a dream, my dear.  Wallis and I stopped there the other day and the caretaker showed it to us.  Can’t you make a plan for me, so that I may begin next spring?  And there’s something else I wanted to ask you.  Wallis and I are going to New York the end of the month.  Shall you be there?”

“I don’t know,” said Alison, cautiously.

“We want so much to see one or two of your gardens on Long Island, and especially the Sibleys’, on the Hudson.  I know it will be late in the season,—­but don’t you think you could take us, Alison?  And I intend to give you a dinner.  I’ll write you a note.  Here’s Wallis.”

“Well, well, well,” said Mr. Plimpton, shaking Alison’s hand.  “Where’s father?  I hear he’s gone to Calvary.”

Alison made her escape.  Inside the silent church, Eleanor Goodrich gave her a smile and a pressure of welcome.  Beside her, standing behind the rear pew, were Asa Waring and—­Mr. Bentley!  Mr. Bentley returned to St. John’s!

“You have come!” Alison whispered.

He understood her.  He took her hand in his and looked down into her upturned face.

“Yes, my dear,” he said, “and my girls have come Sally Grover and the others, and some friends from Dalton Street and elsewhere.”

The news, the sound of this old gentleman’s voice and the touch of his hand suddenly filled her with a strange yet sober happiness.  Asa Waring, though he had not overheard, smiled at her too, as in sympathy.  His austere face was curiously illuminated, and she knew instinctively that in some way he shared her happiness.  Mr. Bentley had come back!  Yes, it was an augury.  From childhood she had always admired Asa Waring, and now she felt a closer tie . . . .