Mr. Sheridan, turning about, suppressing a vast sigh, beheld Jane, standing and smiling at him with her most benevolent expression.

“Why—so there you are again! How glad I am to see you! Why haven’t you ever come to call on me? I’ve missed you,” he said, taking her hand. His pleasure was too sincere not to be extremely flattering.

“I would have come, only I’ve been pretty busy,” she explained; then her eyes twinkled. “That was Paul,” she said. “You remember I told you that he was coming. Isn’t he a nice boy?”

It was only the mischievous sparkle in her eyes that told Mr. Sheridan that she had a double meaning.

“A charming boy!” he declared with fervor; and then he laughed guiltily.

“That was mean of Dolly,” said Jane.

“What was mean?”

“To tie you up with Amelia Hartshorn.”

“Why, on the contrary, I—I thought Miss Hartshorn very agreeable,” replied Mr. Sheridan, fibbing like a gentleman.

Jane shrugged her shoulders.

“I was afraid that Dolly might have forgotten that you were a stranger, and leave you with one partner for the rest of the dance. And then you’d have been bored, and—and would have wanted solitude worse than ever.”

This remark brought first a puzzled expression and then a burst of half-shamefaced amusement from Mr. Sheridan.

“You evidently remember our conversation very clearly,” he remarked.

“Oh, yes, I do. I’ve thought about it quite often—that is, about some of the things you said.”

“And I must add that you seem to take great interest in your friends.”

“I suppose,” replied Jane with a sigh, “that you think I’m an awful busybody, too. Well, if I am I can’t help it. I mean well.”

Mr. Sheridan chuckled again. He had never before met any youngster who amused him quite as much as Jane did.

“Was it because you brought some pressure to bear on—er—Paul that he interrupted my dance with Miss Hartshorn?”

“Yes,” answered Jane absently.

“You seem to find it easy to make people do what you want.”

“No, not really—not at all. I had an awful time with Paul.” Then after a short pause, she added, “I’m awfully glad you came to-night. It seems to have cheered you up.”

“Why do you think I needed cheering up?”

“Because you were so gloomy.”

With a smile Mr. Sheridan changed the topic by suggesting that he get some refreshments, and to this proposition Jane assented enthusiastically.

“Do you remember that Miss Lily I told you about?” she inquired casually, when she had finished her ice. “There she is.”

“The very pretty young lady in the Spanish costume?”

“Yes. She’s horribly pretty, isn’t she? Would you like to dance with her?”

“Very much. Only I haven’t had the pleasure——”

“Oh, I’ll introduce you to her, if you like,” interrupted Jane, putting her plate on the window sill.

Mr. Sheridan raised his head, and looked at Jane with a touch of wariness. But her face was innocence itself, utterly disarming in its childlike simplicity.

Enormously amused, he gravely followed her across the room, to where Lily was sitting, chatting gaily to the two Webster boys; and Jane sedately performed the ceremony of introduction. Then, well-satisfied with her accomplishment, and feeling that she could do no more at present for these two, she retired to her eyrie in the hayloft, entirely forgetful of the unhappy Paul.

It is just possible that, as, out of the corner of her eyes she saw Mr. Sheridan approaching, Lily pretended to be enjoying the conversation of the Webster boys a little more than she really was. She felt the color burning in her cheeks, and was angry with herself.

“He’ll think I’m just a—a silly village girl,” she thought. Her natural shyness was greatly increased by the presence of this young man with his indescribable air of self-confidence; he was not at all like the two simple hearty, countrified Webster boys. There was something about him that marked him unmistakably as a product of city life, of ease, and rather varied worldly experience, and for some reason this made her a little bit afraid of him; or, perhaps afraid of herself. Usually the least self-conscious person in the world, she now found herself filled with misgivings about herself. She was afraid that there were numberless shortcomings about her of which she was unaware, but which he would not fail to notice; and this thought stung her pride. Furthermore, she was a trifle piqued at his attentiveness to Amelia, though not for worlds would she have admitted that any such silly vanity existed in her. Added to all this, was the sting that Amelia had left in her sensitive mind. Perhaps he had thought it undignified of her to have chatted with him so informally that day in the field—and then he had seen her peeping at him from the window.

All these doubts excited in her a desire to snub him a little. He was not to think her just a “silly village girl.” Perhaps her gay, dashing costume made her feel unlike herself, and gave her some of the self-confidence that she lacked by nature. Indeed, the pretty senorita was altogether quite a different person, from the simple, artless girl that Timothy Sheridan remembered so vividly. He was himself a thoroughly simple young man, and he was puzzled by the change in her.

Fluttering her fan nervously, she chatted with him, asked him questions, laughed,—all with a little air of frivolity, and carelessness. She felt a sort of resentment toward him, and this lead her once or twice to make a remark designed “to take him down off the high horse” that she imagined (on no grounds whatever) that he had mounted. His expression of bewilderment and polite surprise gave her a satisfaction that was not unmixed with regret and displeasure at herself. At length, when the music started up again, he asked her to dance. By this time, his manner had grown a little cold and formal, and Lily was piqued. So, with a little shake of her head, she told him that she had promised this one to Mr. Webster. There was something in her slight hesitation before she answered that made him feel that this was not quite true; and, hurt and puzzled, he bowed, expressed his regret, and the hope that he might have the pleasure later, and withdrew. On the whole, Jane’s diplomacy had been anything but successful.

Mr. Sheridan slipped out to smoke a cigar in the fresh, cold air, and to meditate on the irritating vagaries of the feminine gender. Lily’s reception had hurt him more than he liked to admit even to himself.

“What was the matter with her? She wasn’t a bit like that before—she seemed so gentle and unspoiled and kind. Hang it, there’s no way of understanding what a girl really is like, anyhow. I’ve just been an idiot.”

After a moment or two, he told himself fiercely,

“Well, if she doesn’t want to dance with me, I certainly shan’t bother her.”

A little later, he threw away his cigar, and went in again. But he did not dance. He sat and talked pleasantly to Mrs. Webster for twenty minutes or so, and then joined his host by the fire, with whom he discussed agriculture and politics for the rest of the evening.

In the meantime, Paul, deserted by Jane, had managed to extricate himself from the toils of the fair Amelia, and possessed by a deep sense of injury, had climbed up again to the hayloft, with the double purpose of expressing his indignant feelings to Jane, and getting well out of the reach of his recent partner.

“Well, I must say—if that’s the way you keep a bargain—” he began. Jane looked around at him with an abstracted expression, and then unable to control herself at the sight of his aggrieved face, burst into the most unsympathetic laughter.

“Oh, you poor creature! I am sorry! I forgot all about you!”

“Do you think you’re giving me fresh information?” inquired Paul, in tones of bitterest sarcasm.

“How did you get away?”

“Much you care!”

“There, don’t be angry. Tell me how you did get away?”

“If you must know—I just bolted.”

“Paul!”

“Couldn’t help it. Just had to. Sorry if it was uncouth and all that—but there are limits to human endurance!”

“Now who’s hard on Amelia?”

Paul grinned unwillingly.

“I guess you were about right. The whole time I was with her, she was picking on things about people—all the other girls who were the least bit pretty. Not plain, straight-forward out-and-out wallops, mind you, but all sorts of sweet and sly—”

“Oh, I know her way. And did you just up and leave her?”

“No. We pranced around a while, and then she sat down, and made me fan her. And then we pranced around some more—until I thought I was going to die, and she kept talking—first about what she thought about girls nowadays, and then about poetry—you can imagine about how much I had to say to that sort of stuff. And then we pranced around some more, and by that time I’d concluded that I had only myself to rely on”—this with renewed bitterness, “so I told the woman that I had a—a weak heart, and guessed I’d better get a little air—”

“Paul, you didn’t!” cried Jane, horrified.

“Yes, I did,” said Paul, grimly. “I’d gotten to the point where I’d have flopped down, and played dead if necessary. She seemed to swallow the story, bait, line and hook, and was quite sympathetic—and here I am, and the next time you try to get me into a fix like that—”

“I say,” interrupted Jane, “Mr. Sheridan hasn’t danced with Lily at all! He’s gone and plopped himself down with all those old fogies around the fire!”

At this Paul took his turn to chuckle.

“Serves you right! Now will you keep your fingers out of other people’s pies? I told you you were too young to be meddling with such things. But I guess you’re just like all women—jump at conclusions, and then start trying to run things—”

“You think you’re awfully clever, don’t you?” retorted Jane acidly.

“Not clever—just humanly intelligent. Intuition may be all right for women, but plain horse-sense is good enough for me.”

“What’s intuition?” demanded Jane.

“The thing that makes girls think they know more than men do,” replied Paul, scornfully. “Your friend Amelia says she’s got a lot of it. Ask her what it is.” Then he turned to her with an exasperating grin; he was getting immeasurable satisfaction out of her discomfiture. “Practice what you preach, old lady. I guess it’s about time that you left a thing or two to Providence.”

Jane felt that it was time to change the subject.

“People are queer,” she remarked.

“I’ve heard that before,” said Paul, rubbing his nose, “I’ve observed it, and I know it.”

“I think you’re sort of detestable to-night.”

“It’s your fault, then. I think you’ve ruined my disposition for life. The next thing you’ll be trying to make me be sweet to that fat old dowager with the moustaches!”

“Hush, Paul! That’s Mrs. Deacon.”

“Nobody could hear me in all this noise. She seems in an awful stew about something, doesn’t she?”

Jane did not answer. Paul stared at her.

“What’s the matter with you? You look as if you were going to have a fit.” Still Jane did not answer. There was indeed a frozen look on her face.

“Well,” said Paul, eyeing her, “what have you been up to now?”

“N-nothing,” said Jane.

“That won’t go with me, old salt. What have you done to that poor, defenseless old widow?”

“I—I’m afraid I’ve made rather a mess,” Jane confessed, faintly.

“Oh, I’m quite sure of that. And you won’t catch me coming to the rescue again. Here I am and here I stay until I go home under Uncle Peter’s sheltering wing. Well, what have you done?”

“I—I didn’t mean—”

“Of course not. Your kind never do. They’ll have a revolution in this town, if they keep you here until you’ve grown up—which I doubt very much.” Then, seeing that she was really distressed, he patted her hand, and said, consolingly, “There, tell your Aunt Rebecca what you’ve done—I’ll help you out, if I must.”

“No one can help me,” said Jane, darkly.

“Is it murder this time? Well, tell me anyhow. I’m always prepared for the worst with you.”

“Don’t tease, Paul. I sent her sleigh away,” said Jane, with the calm of deep trouble.

“You—what?”

“I said—I sent Mrs. Deacon’s sleigh away.”

There was a pause, during which Paul made every effort to guess what earthly designs Jane had had in perpetrating such a peculiar deed. Then he gave up.

“You have something against Mrs. Deacon?” he suggested, delicately. “You don’t like her moustaches, perhaps? Or perhaps you think that a five mile walk would be good for her health?”

Jane was not listening.

“I—you see, I thought it would be nice if Mr. Sheridan took Lily home. And a little while ago I was talking to Mr. Buchanan who brought the Deacons here. He was sitting outside, and he seemed awfully tired and sleepy, and kept saying that late hours were bad for young and old; and then I said that—that the Deacons weren’t going back with him. And he didn’t wait a minute. He just got into his sleigh, and went off like Santa Claus. And now, it looks as if Mr. Sheridan and Lily were mad at each other—and if Mrs. Deacon finds out that I told Mr. Buchanan to go—I don’t know what to do!”

“Well!” said Paul, “I suppose you’re about the coolest—rascal I ever met in my life. I don’t think I’ve ever even heard of anyone like you.”

“What shall I do?”

“Do? Why, to be perfectly consistent with your kind, after having gotten everything into a sweet kettle-of-fish, just wash your hands of it. Leave it to Providence—and hike for the tall timber.” Then he began to chuckle, hugging himself, and shaking up and down, in a rapture of mirth.

“Oh, don’t bother about it. They’ll get home all right—”

“I’m not bothering about that. I’m thinking about what’ll happen if Mrs. Deacon finds out that I sent Mr. Buchanan away.”

“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. She hasn’t found out yet.”

“I wonder why Mr. Sheridan and Lily are mad at each other.” Then she jumped up.

“What are you going to do now?” demanded Paul.

“I’m going down.”

“Take my advice and stay where you are.” But Jane was already on her way down the ladder.

The party was beginning to break up. The wild tooting of horns, the shrill notes of whistles, and showers of confetti announced the New Year. Jane made her way through the tangles of colored streamers, and the knots of merry-makers toward the huge chimney-place where a group of older people were standing, watching the picturesque scene.

“Ah-ha, here’s my girl again!” cried Mr. Webster. “Come here and watch the fun with your old god-father.”

With his big hands on her shoulders, Jane leant against him, and looked on as placidly as if there were not a care in the world troubling her peace of mind. When the noise had subsided a little, she looked round and up at Mr. Webster’s face, and raising her voice a little so that it was impossible for Mr. Sheridan not to hear what she said, remarked,

“Mr. Buchanan has gone home, and left the Deacons here.”

“What? What is that?” said Mr. Webster hastily. Jane repeated her remark, glancing furtively at Mr. Sheridan, whose face had suddenly grown rather red. But he stared straight ahead and pretended not to have heard her.

“Ah, well, Sam can hitch up our sleigh in a moment,” said Mr. Webster. “I daresay he’ll be only too glad to take Lily home.” And he chuckled slyly.

For some reason, Mr. Sheridan was able to hear this remark quite distinctly. He looked around, and after a momentary hesitation said,

“There is no reason for that. Mrs. Deacon and her daughter are near neighbors of mine, and I—I’d be delighted to take them home.” And without giving his host a chance to argue the point, strode off hastily in the direction of the majestic dowager.

By this time the old lady, undergoing the process of being wrapped up in a dense cocoon of furs and mantles, while the two Webster boys clamored for the pleasure of putting on her carriage boots, was quite besieged by young men begging to be allowed to drive her home. Lily stood behind her chair, smiling, but a little tired-looking.

Mr. Sheridan worked his way deftly and determinedly through the group.

“Will you let me drive you home, Mrs. Deacon?” He did not look at Lily, and Lily dropped her eyes.

“I am taking Miss—Mrs. Deacon home,” said Sam Webster firmly, unconsciously grasping that dignified lady’s plump foot more tightly, as if he intended to hold her by it, should she attempt to evade him.

Now Mr. Sheridan did look, at Lily. Would she or would she not prefer to go with him?

“Why, if Mr. Sheridan has—has room for us, we needn’t trouble Sam, mamma,” said Lily, demurely. “That is—”

“It’s no trouble,” interrupted Sam,—which was quite true—“and I’ve got the sleigh already hitched up”—which was not true. He sent an almost belligerent glance at Mr. Sheridan, who ignored it.

Mr. Sheridan felt extraordinarily jubilant. Nothing should prevent his taking Lily home—not if he had to slaughter this mob of impertinent young men in cold blood.

Then Mrs. Deacon, extricating her foot from Sam’s convulsive grip, rose up. There was a warm light in her eye, the peculiar, benevolent beam which enlivens the glance of the far-sighted mamma as it rests upon an eligible young man.

“Mr. Sheridan, I thank you. I accept your pusillanimous offer,” she said, in the full, bell-like tone of a public official. “Samuel, we shall not emburden you.”

In vain did Sam assure her that he would be only too happy, that there was nothing he would like to do more; meanwhile sending at Lily reproachful looks fit to melt a heart of stone. Lily simply did not see them. In cool triumph, Mr. Sheridan escorted the two ladies to his sleigh.

An hour later,—it was after one o’clock—he entered his library, where Peterson had kept the fire burning, threw off his coat, and sat down to try to work out the puzzle of Lily’s conduct. On the way home, they had exchanged hardly six words. But if Lily had been silent, the same could not be said for her mamma. Even now he seemed to hear the incessant, rich tones of Mrs. Deacon’s voice ringing in his ear, as they say the booming of the sea echoes in certain shells. He could not remember whether he had ever answered her or not. But Lily? It seemed evident to him that she had not wanted to talk with him or to dance with him during the party. It seemed equally evident that she had wanted to drive home in his sleigh. Now what was the meaning of behavior like that?

By two o’clock he had come to the conclusion that she was a coquette, that he was a donkey, and that the best thing he could do was to tell Peterson to pack up and be ready to pull up their stakes the day after to-morrow. He had been acting like an awful fool anyway. He was twenty-five years old; too old to be acting like a schoolboy. How in the world had Mary Abbott been able to—

By three o’clock he had come to another conclusion. He wasn’t going to go away at all. He’d be hanged if he’d be chased around the earth by women. He was going to stay where he was. He was going to go in for farming. He liked the quaint old town, he liked the solid, intelligent, industrious, practical people. He liked Mr. Webster for instance, and Mrs. Webster, and Dolly, and old Mr. Pyncheon, and he quite loved that little Janey Lambert, and he liked—well, already the list had grown to a fairly respectable length for a confirmed misanthrope.

At half past six, Peterson coming into the library to see that everything was in order, discovered his master sleeping placidly in the huge armchair, surrounded by, almost buried under books, pamphlets and almanacs which had never been taken down from their shelves since the late Major had been a young and hopeful devotee of farming. He picked one up, and holding it at arm’s length read the title, “Fertilizers and Fertilization.” The old man drew a deep, long-suffering sigh.

“Lord, it was bad enough before,” he thought despondently, looking down at Mr. Tim, and shaking his head slowly. “It can’t be that he’s goin’ in to be a useful citizen. Whatever would the Major say to that?”

Then he suddenly remembered the old Major’s invariable reply to such propositions. Quite undisturbed, and in the most astounding French, he used to say, “Searchez le Femme.”