“But I was,” I said ruefully. “It wasn’t right
of me to tell such a story — and it was very silly,
too. But who would ever have supposed that there
could be a real Cecil Fenwick who had lived in
Blakely? I never heard of such a coincidence.”
“It’s more than a coincidence,” said Mr. Fenwick decidedly. “It’s predestination; that is what it is. And now let’s forget it and talk of something else.”
We talked of something else — or at least Mr. Fenwick did, for I was too ashamed to say much — so long that Nancy got restive and clumped through the hall every five minutes; but Mr. Fenwick never took the hint. When he finally went away he asked if he might come again.
“It’s time we made up that old quarrel, you know,” he said, laughing.
And I, an old maid of forty, caught myself blushing like a girl. But I felt like a girl, for it was such a relief to have that explanation all over. I couldn’t even feel angry with Adella Gilbert. She was always a mischief maker, and when a woman is born that way she is more to be pitied than blamed. I wrote a poem in the blank book before I went to sleep; I hadn’t written anything for a month, and it was lovely to be at it once more.
Mr. Fenwick did come again — the very next evening, but one. And he came so often after that that even Nancy got resigned to him. One day I had to
