Irene’s box of books which Mr. Conant had purchased for her in New York had been placed in the den, where she could select the volumes as she chose, and the chair-girl found the titles so alluring that she promised herself many hours of enjoyment while delving among them.  They were all old and secondhand—­perhaps fourth-hand or fifth-hand—­as the lawyer had stated, and the covers were many of them worn to tatters; but “books is books,” said Irene cheerily, and she believed they would not prove the less interesting in contents because of their condition.  Mostly they were old romances, historical essays and novels, with a sprinkling of fairy tales and books of verse—­just the subjects Irene most loved.

“Being exiles, if not regular hermits,” observed the crippled girl, sunning herself on the small porch outside the den, book in hand, “we may loaf and dream to our hearts’ content, and without danger of reproach.”

But not for long were they to remain wholly secluded.  On Thursday afternoon they were surprised by a visitor, who suddenly appeared from among the trees that lined the roadway and approached the two girls who were occupying a bench at the edge of the bluff.

The new arrival was a lady of singularly striking appearance, beautiful and in the full flush of womanhood, being perhaps thirty years of age.  She wore a smart walking-suit that fitted her rounded form perfectly, and a small hat with a single feather was jauntily perched upon her well-set head.  Hair and eyes, almost black, contrasted finely with the bloom on her cheeks.  In her ungloved hand she held a small walking-stick.

Advancing with grace and perfect self-possession, she smiled and nodded to the two young girls and then, as Mary Louise rose to greet her, she said: 

“I am your nearest neighbor, and so I have climbed up here to get acquainted.  I am Agatha Lord, but of course you do not know me, because I came from Boston, whereas you came from—­from—­”

“Dorfield,” said Mary Louise.  “Pray be seated.  Let me present Irene Macfarlane; and I am Mary Louise Burrows.  You are welcome, Miss Lord—­or should I say Mrs. Lord?”

“Miss is correct,” replied their visitor with a pleasant laugh, which brought an answering smile to the other faces; “but you must not address me except as ‘Agatha.’  For here in the wilderness formalities seem ridiculous.  Now let us have a cosy chat together.”

“Won’t you come into the Lodge and meet Mrs. Conant?”

“Not just yet.  You may imagine how that climb winded me, although they say it is only half a mile.  I’ve taken the Bigbee house, just below you, you know, and I arrived there last night to get a good rest after a rather strenuous social career at home.  Ever since Easter I’ve been on the ‘go’ every minute and I’m really worn to a frazzle.”

She did not look it, thought Mary Louise.  Indeed, she seemed the very picture of health.