"MAGGIE CORBETT."

The writing of the letter took Mrs. Corbett the greater part of the
afternoon, but when it was done she felt a great weight had been lifted
from her heart. She set about her preparations for the evening meal
with more than usual speed.

Going to the door to call Peter Rockett, she was surprised to see Rance
Belmont, with his splendid sorrel pacer, drive into the yard. He came
into the house a few minutes afterwards and seemed to be making
preparations to stay for supper.

A sudden resolve was formed in Mrs. Corbett's mind as she watched him
hanging up his coat and making a careful toilet at the square looking-
glass which hung over the oilcloth-covered soap box on which stood the
wash-basin and soap saucer. She called to him to come into the pantry,
and while she hurriedly peeled the potatoes she plunged at once into
the subject.

"Rance," she began, "you go to see Mrs. Brydon far too often, and
people are talking about it."

Rance shrugged his shoulders.

"Now, don't tell me you don't care, or that it's none of my business,
though that may be true."

"I would never be so lacking in politeness, however true it might be!"
he answered, rolling a cigarette.