he read it; as many times he started up, as if with a purpose, only to falter.
At last, however, he literally tore the blue-serge suit off the hangers in the wardrobe, and lost no time in donning it, save that wasted through the fumbling produced by his almost frantic haste.
"After all," he told himself, rejoicing, "she wasn't to blame. King did it with that photograph. It's no wonder she thought me untruthful. Will I call at eight this evening; will I please call at eight? Will I! It's almost half past seven now. I'm afraid I never can wait for eight o'clock."
It was Janet herself who let him in when he rang at the parsonage door.
"Mr. Locke—I mean Hazelton," she said, "I want to offer you a humble apology. It was simply dreadful of me. Can you pardon me?"
He did not leave her long in doubt, and the pleasure of that Sunday meeting in the woods paled in comparison with the delight of the ensuing hour. Henry Cope had improved the first opportunity to tell her all that had taken place at the meeting in Bancroft.
"Oh," she cried, when she thought of it, as they sat close together in the parlor, "I have a surprise for you. I told my father all about it,
