Yesterday morning Miss Lavinia received a letter from Sylvester Latham, thanking her for the offer of temporary protection for his daughter, and telling her, in curt business terms, meant to be affable, to name her own price for the office.

I have never before seen the ladylike Lavinia Dorman so completely and ungovernably angry.  I could do nothing with her, and last evening it took the united efforts of Martin, father, and Evan to convince her that it was not a real affront.  Poor Mr. Latham, he has not yet gotten beyond money valuation of friendship; but then it is probably because he has had no chance.  Perhaps—­but no, life is too serious just now in that quarter for me to allow myself remotely pleasant perhapses.

Miss Lavinia was too agitated to play piquet to-night, so she and Martin sat in the porch where the light from the hall lamp was sufficient to enable them to play a couple of games of backgammon, to steady her nerves, she said; and presently, as the dice ceased rattling, Evan gave me a nudge of intelligence, and looking over I found that they had reversed the board and were playing “Give away” with checkers.

“After this, what?” I whispered to Evan.

“Jackstraws,” he answered, shaking with silent laughter.

* * * * *

Horace Bradford turned his mind for the next few days to the many things about the place that needed his attention, resolving that he would let a week or so elapse before making any further attempt to see Sylvia, and in that time hoped to find Miss Lavinia at home, and from her possibly receive some light upon the gossip about Mr. Bell, as well as news of Sylvia herself.

The sinking-fund for repairs and rebuilding the house that he and his mother had been accumulating ever since he had made his own way, he found to be in a healthy condition.  A new hay barn and poultry house was to be put up at once; and, as soon as practicable, his wish of many years, to restore the brick house, that had been marred by “lean-tos” in the wrong places, to its colonial simplicity, could be at least begun.

Every day until two or three o’clock in the afternoon he gave to these affairs, and then he went to his books.  But here again he met with a strange surprise, a new sensation,—­he could neither fix his mind upon writing, nor take in what he read; the letters were as meaningless as fly specks on the pages.  After a day or two he gave up the attempt.  He had worked too closely during the last term, he thought; his sight did not register on his brain,—­he had heard of such cases; he would rest a week or so.