"Who is Miss Lily?" inquired Mr. Sheridan, forgetting that he was not in the least interested in hearing about his fellow creatures-especially the feminine ones.

"Why, Miss Lily Deacon. She lives up there," Jane jerked her head casually in the direction, "in the first house on the left hand side just as you turn into Sheridan Lane. The one with iron deers on each side of the gate. She's _very_ pretty. Mrs. Deacon is very fat, but she certainly is what you'd called impressive looking, and she does a lot of good. I mean she's on committees and things, and _always_ president."

"Um," said Mr. Sheridan. Then, boring the end of his cane through a dead leaf, he asked carelessly,

"But when did Miss Lily see me? I've never been here before."

"Yesterday morning she said. She said she couldn't tell exactly what you were like, because she only saw you in her handmirror while she was brushing her hair, but _I_ think she got a pretty good idea."

Poor Miss Lily. If she had ever dreamed that Jane would be placidly repeating her indiscreet little confidences, she would have died of mortification. But Jane, who, in her own peculiar way, was immeasurably more astute than Miss Lily, saw very plainly that Mr. Sheridan was trying to suppress a complacent smile.

"And how did _she_ know who I was?"

"Why, in the first place, she'd heard that one of the family was going to live in this house again, and then she saw you drive in here, so she just used her common sense, I suppose."

"Ah-of course."

After a moment, he said, with the most engaging friendliness,

"I think you might tell me _your_ name."

"My name? Jane."

"Jane what?"

"Lambert. Are you going to live here a long time?"

Mr. Sheridan sighed.

"I think so."

"What are you going to do?"

"Do? Well,-that would be a little difficult to explain. I came here primarily for-solitude." The melancholy tone of his voice prompted a dozen inquisitive questions to the tip of Jane's tongue.

"Oh. Are you sick?"

"There are different kinds of illness," said Mr. Sheridan gloomily and mysteriously. Jane's grave eyes considered him attentively. Perhaps he was suffering from a guilty conscience. He might have embezzled money from a bank. He might even have killed someone. She felt very sorry for him.

"Don't you ever want to see anybody? I can't understand that."

"My dear child," said Mr. Sheridan in a patronizing tone, "there are probably several things that you don't understand yet. How old are you, may I ask?"

"Fourteen. Fifteen really. My birthday comes next month. But don't you remember that it says in the Bible that it isn't good for people to be alone. That was the text just last Sunday, and I remember thinking that that was why we are all crowded together into this town, instead of scattering out over there-" she waved in the direction of the country, "where it seems much nicer."

Mr. Sheridan made no reply, for a moment. Then as Jane made a motion to depart, he said hastily,

"What do _you_ do?"

"Oh, _I_ go to school, and help mother, and go on adventures-"

"Go on adventures?"

"Yes. Long, long walks. Sometimes with the twins, and sometimes with Carl, though he never wants to go where I want to go, and often by myself. I take a package of bread and cheese because I get hungry very easily, or sometimes some Raisin Delights, and I pretend that I'm going out into the world to seek my fortune. And I walk and walk, sometimes taking this road and sometimes that-until it's time to turn around and come home."

"Don't you ever get lost?"

"Oh, often. That makes it more exciting than ever."

"What are Raisin Delights?"

"Oh, just sort of cookies, with raisins and cinnamon and orange peel. No one knows how to make them but mother, because you see, she's the only real Winkler-except Granny, and Granny's too old to do much in the Bakery any more. When Paul comes of course he'll learn how, because he's a real Winkler too."

"Who is Paul?"

Jane, at this, launched into the complete history of her family, charmed to find her listener who was far more interested than he himself was aware of being.

"And-and is this Miss Lily a cousin or something of yours?" inquired Mr.

Sheridan, artfully bringing the topic around to the subject that for some reason he found particularly agreeable.

"No. She's just Elise's best friend."

"And what does _she_ do?"

"Oh, she practises on the piano, and sings, and embroiders, and goes to committees with her mother-though I don't think she likes that much. And then she makes up bundles of things to send to people in China, and goes to see sick people."

"Does she like that?"

"I guess so. She takes things to poor people-there are a whole lot of them who live along the creek, and she's awfully good to them."

"I see," said Mr. Sheridan. He could not think of anything more to say just then, and after a pause, Jane began to think that she ought to be going.

"Well, good-bye. I hope you'll feel better after a while," she said, catching hold of a low hanging branch, preparatory to swinging herself down to earth.

"Thank you." Mr. Sheridan did not understand why he felt just a trifle foolish. "I hope you will pay me another visit."

"Oh, but I thought you wanted to be alone," said Jane, innocently.

Mr. Sheridan hesitated.

"People in general are terrible nuisances," he said, at length. "I came here to avoid the boredom-that is, at present I am very little in the mood for being bothered by the curiosity of a host of friends and acquaintances. But on the other hand, it would be a pleasure to chat with you now and then."

Jane was tremendously flattered.

"Oh, I can understand that perfectly," she said, nodding her curly head with a great air of wisdom. "Well, I'll come and see you again. Aren't you really going to eat that apple?"

Mr. Sheridan laughed, and tossed it back to her.