"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 tell her something. I shrank from doing it, for
I feared it would make her feel badly.

"Oh, I've been expecting to hear it," she said grimly. "I felt
the minute that man came into the house he brought trouble with
him. Well, Miss Charlotte, I wish you happiness. I don't know
how the climate of California will agree with me, but I suppose
I'll have to put up with it."