CANDACE paused for a second, surprised and hesitating; then she walked on again.  Georgie had not seemed to observe her.  The other girl was doubtless Berry Joy, with whom she was less at ease than with anybody else.  She felt not the least desire to confront her, and a strange man to boot; besides, Mrs. Joy must not be kept waiting.

“That looks like Berry’s village cart,” exclaimed Mrs. Joy, as they drove past a side street where a little vehicle stood drawn up in the shade under the care of a natty groom.  “Was that James and the cart, Wilkins?”

“Yes, ma’am, I believe it was.”

“I wonder where the girls can be,” continued Mrs. Joy.  “At the Parishes’, most likely, taking afternoon tea.  That’s a very favorite place at sunset with all the young people.  There is such a wide piazza, and a splendid view.”  Having said this, she dismissed the subject from her mind.

They lingered so long in Thames Street, over various errands, that it was nearly dinner-time before Candace reached home.  Georgie was there before her; she still had her bonnet on, and was sitting on the piazza with her mother and Gertrude, giving an account of her afternoon.

“And then we drove down to the Old Point, and called on the Parishes,” she concluded; “and, mamma, as we came away Miss Gisborne saw us from her window, and called out that I was to tell you that Mr. ­somebody ­Card ­Caird ­some Englishman, at all events ­was coming to-morrow, and would you please be sure to lunch with her on Wednesday and meet him?”

“Caird, the artist? yes, I know.  Miss Gisborne was expecting him.”

Georgie seemed to have finished her narrative.  She had not said a word about Fort Greene.

“Now, Candace, what are your adventures?” demanded Gertrude.  “It is quite exciting, after a dull afternoon on the sofa, to have you all come in and tell me what you have been about.  I watched you drive away with a face like a frightened kitten.”

“You would have seen me looking a great deal more frightened if you had been with us at Miss Colishaw’s,” said Candace; and she proceeded to relate what had happened, in a quiet, demure way which was particularly funny, throwing in a little unconscious mimicry which made the scene real to her audience.  Miss Colishaw’s grim indignation, Mrs. Joy’s cool audacity, her own compunctious helplessness, ­all were indicated in turn.  Before she had done, they were in fits of indignant laughter.

“Well, really, I did not think even Mrs. Joy could behave so outrageously as that,” remarked Gertrude.

“It is really too bad,” said Mrs. Gray.  “Miss Colishaw is one of the salt of the earth, always working herself to death for anybody who is sick or in trouble, or poorer than herself.  I am afraid her feelings were really hurt.  She is sensitive about her poverty, and has a great regard for her old family relics.  I feared that there might be some mistake about her wishing to sell her china when Mrs. Joy spoke about it; but it is a long time since I saw the old lady, and I thought it possible that something had occurred to make her glad of the money.  I am really shocked at Mrs. Joy.”

“If only I could have seen her at the cupboard, with the yeast-pitcher in her hand, and Miss Colishaw’s face!” cried Gertrude, with another burst of laughter.  “Well, after this truly awful interview what did you do next, Candace?”

“We drove to Coddington’s Cove, and then we came back to Washington Street, and Mrs. Joy told me about the old houses; and then she stopped the carriage by old Fort Greene, and I went down to the shore to look at it.”

“Did you?” said Georgie with sudden interest; “why ­why, Berry and I were there too.  We ran down for a moment.”

“I thought I saw you,” said Candace, simply.

She was looking straight at Georgie as she spoke, and was surprised to see her flush suddenly, and then turn as suddenly pale.  Her change of color was so marked that her mother could scarcely have failed to notice it, had her attention not been for the moment occupied by Frederic, who just brought out a note which required an answer.  Gertrude was looking another way; only Candace noticed Georgie’s unwonted emotion.  Nothing more was said about Fort Greene at the time; but a little later, when she was in her room smoothing her hair for dinner, Georgie tapped at the door.

“Cannie,” she said, “I’m going to ask you not to say anything more to anybody about having seen Berry and me on Washington Street to-day.”

“Certainly, I won’t,” replied Candace, making in her surprise one of those hasty promises which are so often repented of afterward; “but why not?”

“Oh, well, there are no very important reasons; it’s just that I would rather you wouldn’t.”

“Very well.”  But Candace felt vaguely dissatisfied with this explanation, and a little curious.

She thought of this promise, and of Georgie’s odd manner of exacting it from her, as she fell asleep that night, and again the next morning; but gradually it faded from her mind, until, about ten days later, something occurred to revive the remembrance.  Mrs. Joy called to ask two of the girls to drive with Berry and herself to see the polo play.  Gertrude happened to be out; so Candace fell heir to her share of the invitation.  Mrs. Gray was glad to have her go.  She herself did not often visit the Polo Ground, and she thought Candace would enjoy seeing a match, and that it would be something pleasant for her to remember.

The Polo Ground is a large enclosure to the south of Spring Street, and well out of the town.  It is shut in by a high paling, built with the intention of excluding every one who does not pay for the pleasure of witnessing the game.  Nature, however, ­that free-handed dame, ­has frustrated this precaution by providing, close to the paling, a little rocky bluff, or rise of land, not owned by the Polo Association, whose top commands a clear view over the fence; and on polo days this point of vantage is usually well filled by on-lookers of an impecunious description.  There was quite a little crowd on the brow of “Deadhead Hill,” as it is called, when Mrs. Joy’s carriage turned in at the gates; and she glanced that way and said, “It is really too bad about that hill!” in a dissatisfied tone, as if the enjoyment of these non-subscribers jarred in some way, or interfered with the pleasure for which she herself was forced to pay a round price.

Inside the gate appeared a large railed enclosure, with a wicket at either end; and about this carriages full of gay people were drawn up in rows, two or three abreast.  The ponies which were to be used in the game were being led up and down on the farther side of the ground, where was a range of out-buildings.  Presently a bell rang.  There was a little confusion of unblanketing and mounting, and eight riders armed with long mallets rode forward.  Four wore red caps, and four blue; and the two colors ranged themselves opposite each other at the wickets.  The umpire tossed a little ball into the middle of the ground, and the game began.

Candace was at first rather inclined to laugh at the riders, who were so much too tall for their little steeds that in some cases their legs seemed in danger of hitting the ground; but before long she had become so interested in the game and the bold riding that she no longer felt inclined to laugh.  The object of each side was to drive the ball through its own wicket; and to effect this a great deal of both courage and skill were required, not only on the part of the horsemen, but of the ponies as well.  More than once all the eight seemed to be collected in a breathless tangle about and above the ball, crowding, pushing, struggling for the chance at a stroke; and in such cases the ponies seemed to divide the excitement with their masters, and fenced and curved and described indescribably short circles, regardless of the danger of getting a hard rap from the cruel mallets on their own poor little hoofs.  Then, when some lucky hit sent the ball spinning across the ground, it was quite beautiful to see the alacrity with which the little creatures, of their own accord, as it were, rushed, after it, obeying the slightest indication from rein or spur, and apparently measuring the distance and the opportunities as accurately as their riders.  The beat of their small hoofs on the smooth ground was so swift and even that it was more like a rustle than a rush.  To and fro flew the ball, now almost at the blue wicket, then reached and sent back in the very nick of time by one of the red champions.  Candace was so fascinated that she had no eyes for any one else till, turning her head by accident, her eye lighted upon a face in the crowd near the carriage; and with a flash of recognition she knew that it was the stranger of whom she had caught that momentary glimpse at Fort Greene.  Involuntarily she glanced at Berry Joy and Georgie, and perceived that the former had seen the man also and was trying to look as if she had not seen him, while the latter was honestly unconscious.  There was something odd about the man’s manner, which kept Candace’s attention fixed.  He seemed to be standing carelessly among other spectators watching the game, and yet by a series of dexterous movements and small shiftings of position he was gradually edging toward the carriage.  Presently a forward step more decided than the rest brought him close to it.  Georgie saw him now.  A deep color flushed her face; she lowered her parasol as if to hide it.

“I believe you dropped this, madam,” said the man, stooping suddenly as if to pick something up from the ground, and handing to Berry what seemed to be a note.

“Oh, thanks!” said Berry, in a confused voice, quite different from her ordinary voice.

The stranger raised his hat formally, and moved aside.

“What was that?” asked Mrs. Joy, who had been watching the game and had seen nothing of this by-play.  “Did you drop something, Berry?”

“Only a note from Julia Prime,” answered Berry, slipping the paper in her pocket.

“It was very civil of that person, whoever he was,” said Mrs. Joy, unsuspiciously.

Berry and Georgie exchanged looks.  Candace was at a loss what to think.

There are few better keepers of secrets than shy people.  They do not let things out by accident, as talkative persons do; it is easier for them to be silent than to talk, to keep counsel than to betray it.  But apart from being shy, Candace’s instincts were honorable.  She had a lady-like distaste of interfering with other people’s affairs or seeming to pry into them.  She said not a word to any one about this matter of the Polo Ground, and she tried not to think about it; although it was not in human nature not to feel a little curiosity, and she caught herself observing Georgie rather more than usual, though without intending it.

This quickened observation showed her two things:  first, that Georgie had something on her mind; and secondly, that she was determined not to show it.  She laughed and talked rather more than was her custom; and if the laughter was a little forced, no one else seemed to find it out.  There were times when Candace almost persuaded herself that the whole thing was the effect of her own imagination, which had exaggerated something that was perfectly commonplace into importance simply because she did not understand it; and then again she doubted, and was sure that Georgie was not like her usual self.

So another week went by, and brought them to September.  There was no sign of autumn as yet.  Every leaf was as green and fresh on its bough, every geranium as bright on its stalk, as if summer were just beginning instead of just ended.  But with the presage which sends the bird southward long before the cold is felt, and teaches the caterpillar to roll its cocoon and the squirrel to make ready its winter’s nest and store of nuts, the gay summer crowd began to melt away.  Every day brought a lessened list of arrivals at the hotels; and already there was that sense of a season over and done with and about to be laid up and shelved for the winter, which all watering-places know so well, and which is as a nipping frost to the hopes of landlords and letters of lodgings.  Just why “Finis” should be written so early on the fair page of the Newport season, it is hard to explain; for, charming as is the summer, September and October are more charming still, and nowhere does the later autumn exhibit a more indulgent mood, holding back the winter till the last possible moment, and sometimes coaxing summer to aid and abet with supplies of greenery and flowers, till the New Year comes to put an end to the merry game.

Mr. Gray began to go to town in the Sunday-night boat for two or three days of business, though he still spent the larger half of the week in Newport.  Marian was sent to Lenox for a week’s visit to an aunt.  The family seemed very small now; and when Mrs. Gray one Monday morning announced her intention of running up to Boston next day for the night and taking Gertrude with her, Georgie loudly protested.

“It is really cruel of you, mamma.  Cannie and I will feel like two deserted little scraps, all alone in this big house.  I do think you might wait till papa is at home.  And there’s Marian coming back to-morrow night.  What on earth shall we do with her all day?  She will feel dreadfully to find you gone.”

“I am sorry about Marian,” confessed Mrs. Gray; “but Tuesday happens to be the best day for us on several accounts.  You and Candace must be particularly good to her, and not let her feel aggrieved or forlorn.  I have ordered the breakfasts and luncheons and dinner for to-morrow and Wednesday, so you will have no housekeeping to trouble you, and we shall be back at six o’clock, you know.  Two days are but a short time, after all.  You might ask a couple of girls to dine with you to-morrow, ­any one you like.”

But Georgie seemed out of spirits.  She was dull and dreamy, and said she didn’t care to invite anybody, ­she would rather have a nice lazy time by themselves, if Candace liked it just as well.  Candace, who had made up her mind to the inevitable Berry Joy, was glad to be let off; so she spent a very quiet day, for Georgie went to her room as soon as lunch was over, to lie down, as she said, and sleep off a little headache, and Candace was left alone till nearly dinner-time.

Marian’s arrival from the train brought a little stir and variety; but it was not of the most pleasurable kind, for she was so disappointed and indignant at finding her mother absent, that till the first sharp sting of vexation had abated, nothing could be got out of her but sobs and broken words of complaint.  Even when she grew calmer, things were still rather melancholy; for she was too tired and depressed for speech, and just sat in silence, leaning her head against Candace’s shoulder until bedtime.  Nor did Georgie and Candace find much to say to each other after she had departed.  Georgie remarked, rather peevishly, that Marian was a most cross, tiresome child sometimes, and Candace said, “Yes, poor little thing! but she was really very tired this time, as well as cross;” then each took a book and read to herself till ten o’clock, when they separated with a brief good-night.  It was a great contrast to the usual bright, cheerful evenings of the household; and Cannie, as she undressed, was conscious of being low-spirited.  “Homesick” she would have called it; but the phrase did not justly express her mood, for even on that dull evening I am very sure that she did not pine for Aunt Myra, or for the North Tolland farm-house, which was the only place she had ever called by the name of home.

The next day opened more brightly.  Marian was asked to lunch with the Frewens, who were her favorite friends; and her absence was something of a relief to the others.  Georgie and Candace did their little morning tasks, not forgetting the arrangement of the fresh flowers, which usually fell to Gertrude’s share; then Georgie sat down to practise, and Candace settled herself in a deep cushioned chair in the library with Motley’s “Dutch Republic,” which she was reading for the first time.  It was the chapter on the siege of Leyden; and the wild, fantastic nocturne by Chopin which Georgie was playing, seemed to blend and mix itself with the tragic narrative.  Candace did not know how long the reading and the music had been going on, each complementing the other.  She was so absorbed in her book as not to heed the sound of the bell or Frederic’s noiseless tread as he crossed the hall to answer it; but she roused from her absorption as the nocturne came suddenly to an end with a crash of startled chords, and Georgie’s hands fell from the keys, at the sight of Berry Joy, who came hurriedly in at the door.  Candace in her corner was invisible.

“Oh, Georgie, that dreadful creature is here again,” she heard Berry say, while Georgie answered with a little despairing cry, “Not really! oh, Berry, what shall we do?” Then came a long whispered confabulation; then another tinkle at the door-bell.

“Frederic, I am engaged,” Georgie called out. ­“Come upstairs, Berry.  If we stay here, some one is certain to break in.”  The two rushed across the hall.  Candace heard their rapid steps on the stairs; then Georgie’s door shut with a bang, and all was still.

Her book dropped into her lap unheeded.  Her mind was full of puzzled amazement.  Who was the “dreadful creature,” and what did it all mean?

The silence in the house was unbroken except by the tick-tick of the tall clock.  It made her nervous at last, and she went out on the lawn to get rid of the sensation.  She picked a few flowers, pulled the seed-pods from one of the geraniums under her care, and spent some minutes in petting and fondling Marian’s pretty colly, who lay stretched out luxuriously in the full rays of the mild September sunshine.  Then she caught a glimpse of Berry’s figure passing out of the gate, and went back to the house.  The drawing-room was empty.  Motley lay on the floor where she had dropped him.  She picked up the volume, and slowly mounted the stairs.  As she passed through the upper entry she heard a sound from the morning-room; was it a sob?  Candace gently approached the door.  Again the sound came, an unmistakable sob; and looking in she saw Georgie, lying on her mother’s sofa with her face hidden, sobbing as if her heart would break, and saying over and over to herself in a voice which was like a moan, “What shall I do? oh, what shall I do?”