Perhaps this incident prevented her from noticing another but more passive one.  A group of men standing before the new mill—­the same men who had so solicitously challenged her attention with their bows a couple of hours ago—­turned as she approached and suddenly dispersed.  It was not until this was repeated by another group that its oddity forced itself upon her still angry consciousness.  Then the street seemed to be full of those excited preoccupied groups who melted away as she advanced.  Only one man met her curious eyes,—­the engineer,—­yet she missed the usual critical smile with which he was wont to greet her, and he gave her a bow of such profound respect and gravity that for the first time she felt really uneasy.  Was there something wrong with her hat?  That dreadful, fateful hat!  Was it too conspicuous?  Did he think it was vulgar?  She was eager to cross the street on the next block where there were large plate-glass windows which she and Piney—­if Piney were only with her now!—­had often used as mirrors.

But there was a great crowd on the next block, congregated around the bank,—­her father’s bank!  A vague terror, she knew not what, now began to creep over her.  She would have turned into a side street, but mingled with her fear was a resolution not to show it,—­not to even think of it,—­to combat it as she had combated the horrid laugh of the Secamp girls, and she kept her way with a beating heart but erect head, without looking across the street.

There was another crowd before the newspaper office—­also on the other side—­and a bulletin board, but she would not try to read it.  Only one idea was in her mind,—­to reach home before any one should speak to her; for the last intelligible sound that had reached her was the laugh of the Secamp girls, and this was still ringing in her ears, seeming to voice the hidden strangeness of all she saw, and stirring her, as that had, with childish indignation.  She kept on with unmoved face, however, and at last turned into the planked side-terrace,—­a part of her father’s munificence,—­and reached the symmetrical garden-beds and graveled walk.  She ran up the steps of the veranda and entered the drawing-room through the open French window.  Glancing around the familiar room, at her father’s closed desk, at the open piano with the piece of music she had been practicing that morning, the whole walk seemed only a foolish dream that had frightened her.  She was Cissy Trixit, the daughter of the richest man in the town!  This was her father’s house, the wonder of Canada City!

A ring at the front doorbell startled her; without waiting for the servant to answer it, she stepped out on the veranda, and saw a boy whom she recognized as a waiter at the hotel kept by Piney’s father.  He was holding a note in his hand, and staring intently at the house and garden.  Seeing Cissy, he transferred his stare to her.  Snatching the note from him, she tore it open, and read in Piney’s well-known scrawl, “Dad won’t let me come to you now, dear, but I’ll try to slip out late to-night.”  Why should she want to come?  She had said nothing about coming now—­and why should her father prevent her?  Cissy crushed the note between her fingers, and faced the boy.