There was another garden on the other side of the hedge; not so large, nor
so beautifully kept perhaps, but a pleasant garden, for all that. The red
brick house to which it belonged was by no means so stately as the one
whose doorstep the griffins guarded, yet it had an importance all its own.
On week days, when the heavy shutters on the lower front windows were
open, _The National Bank of Friendship_ was to be seen in gilt letters on
the glass; on Sundays, however, when they were closed, there was little to
suggest that it was anything more than a private dwelling. It was a
square, roomy house, and the part not in use for bank purposes was
occupied by the cashier, Mr. Milton Roberts, and his family.

While Rosalind, curled up on the garden seat, was thinking of home,
Maurice Roberts lay in the hammock under the big maple near the side
porch, where his mother and Miss Betty Bishop sat talking. He held a book,
but instead of reading was allowing himself the lazy entertainment of
listening to their conversation.

From his position, a little behind the visitor, he had an excellent view
of her as she sat erect in the wicker chair, her parasol across her lap.
Miss Betty was plump and short, and had a dimple in her chin. Her hair,
which was turning gray, waved prettily back from her forehead into the
thickest of braids, and altogether there was a pleasant air of crispness
about her; though something in the keenness of her glance, or the firmness
with which her lips met, suggested that on occasion she might be
unyielding. "The Barnwell stubbornness," she herself would have explained,
with the same complacency she manifested when displaying her grandmother's
tea-set.

Mrs. Roberts, Maurice's mother, was a gentle person, with large, soft eyes