“I’ll forgive you when I’ve had my revenge,” answered Miss Mullett, laughingly.

“Ah, the clouds break!  Let us be gone, Mr. Herrick, while the sun shines on our pathway!”

When the front door had closed Miss Mullett turned eagerly to Eve.

“Sit down, dear, and tell me!  Was he nice?  What did he say?”

IX.

  “’When He cometh, when He cometh
    To make up His jewels,
  All His jewels, precious jewels,
    His loved and His own. 
  Like the stars of the morning,
    His bright crown adorning,
  They shall shine—­’”

“Mr. Herring, sir, breakfast’s most ready.”

“So am I,” answered Wade, throwing open the door.  “It certainly smells good, Zephania.  Got lots of coffee?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Herring.”

“Herrick, Zephania.”

“Yes, sir; excuse me; Herrick.”

After breakfast Zene, as his father and Zephania called him, or Zenas Third, as he was known to the Village, appeared with Wade’s trunk on a wheelbarrow.  Zenas Third was a big, broad-shouldered youth of twenty with a round, freckled, smiling face and eager yellow-brown eyes.  He always reminded Wade of an amiable animated pumpkin.  Wade got his fishing tackle out of the trunk and he and Zenas Third started off for a day’s fishing.

They took the road past The Cedars, Wade viewing the house on the chance of seeing the ladies.  But although he failed and was a little disappointed he did not escape observation himself.

“There goes Mr. Herrick with Zenas Third,” announced Miss Mullett, hurrying cautiously to the sitting-room window.  As she had been in the act of readjusting her embroidery hoops when she arose, her efforts to secure all the articles in her lap failed and the hoops went circling off in different directions.  “They’re going fishing, Eve.”

“Are they?” asked Eve from the old mahogany desk by the side window, with only a glance from her writing.

“Yes, and—­Did you see where those hoops rolled to?”

“No, I didn’t notice.  But your handkerchief is over by the couch and you’re stepping on a skein of linen.”

“So I am.”  Miss Mullett rescued and reassembled her things and sat down again.  “Are you very busy, dear?”

“No.”  Eve sighed impatiently and laid her pen down.  “I’m not at all busy.  I wish I were.  I can’t seem to write this morning.”

“I’m so glad.  Not that you can’t write, of course, but that you’re not busy.  I want to talk.”

“Talk on.”  Eve placed her hands behind her head and eyed the few lines of writing distastefully.

“But I want you to talk, too,” said Miss Mullett, snipping a thread with her tiny scissors.

“I haven’t anything to say.”

“Nonsense, dear!  There’s always plenty to say.  Why, I’m sure if I lived to be a thousand, I’d not be talked out.  There’s always so many interesting things to talk about.”