A black and towering shadow suddenly appeared at one of the farmhouse windows. Mrs. Lem, with Judge Trent an actuality and the splendid Mr. Dunham a constantly impending possibility, had been helmeted daily from early morn till set of sun. It was her imposing crest that John's storm of hilarity had brought into view.
The judge's fearful scowl relaxed, and he seized his companion's arm.
"I called you some names, didn't I, Boy," he said, when he could make himself heard. "Overlook it, won't you? I didn't know you were such a fool as not to be able to see when a chapter in a man's life is closed. Now let's begin at the beginning again. You who know all there is to know about girls, you for whom the exception proves the rule that you can manage them with one hand tied behind you,—what do you think of the exception? Tell me now. What do you think of Sylvia?"
"No, no, Judge," gasped Dunham. "Let me off. I'm exhausted."
"Brace up. I want to know."
"Well," returned John, wiping his eyes, "I think she made a tardy arrival on this planet. She's too late for her century."
"An old-fashioned girl, eh? I rather like that."
"Older fashioned than you're thinking of. She belongs in legends, and all sorts of stories that begin 'Once upon a time.' Do you catch the idea? She's the exact opposite in every respect of that excellent lady we—no, I mean I have just been talking about,—her aunt."
The judge's face fell, though his eagle glance was sharp.
"Yet, it is the Lacey blood that's done it," he said. "You mean she's erratic, visionary, unpractical."