was served. For Melicent was competent and employed skilled help. "I look in unfailingly every morning and usually in the afternoon," she said, and since it was plain that she expected commendation for this, he gave it, while wondering what the Royle girl would expect for looking in twice a day upon others working. He gazed at Melicent's large, competent hands and thought of slender, white, strong ones. Glancing at Melicent's sturdy ankles, he thought of very slim ones and slim white heels.
Once during the afternoon he shared with Melicent an emotional experience.
They tramped from the tea-house by an old road which led by the Barlow place, which had been closed since Eben Barlow died last winter and now was being repaired and repainted.
"Who's come back?" asked Calvin, interestedly, as he saw the agreeable evidences of life about the old house.
"Nobody has come back, Calvin," said Melicent, soberly. "There was nobody to come back, you see."
"Somebody must be coming back," Calvin insisted. "There are carpenters and men painting."
"There is nobody to come back," Melicent repeated. "A Greek has purchased the place. He is having the repairing and painting done. His name is Polos; he made money in the fruit and confectionery business in Boston; he has seven children they say. The children speak good English."
"I suppose so," said Calvin, twinging with repugnance at the idea of Levantine immigrants in the Barlow home. Why, it was a hundred and fifty years old, and an Eben Barlow had been with Knox and Calvin Clarke in the Revolution. He drew a little closer to Melicent in their common resistance; he flushed and saw a flush warm her cheek, as her eyes met his.
