Eleanor smiled inquiringly. She was not a little curious to have a glimpse into her cousin's mind just now.
"You remember," pursued Miriam, leaning forward on a table by which she sat, and playing with a twisted piece of paper, "that I once had the silly desire to build a chapel at Bartles."
She reddened in hearing the words upon her own lips—so strange a sound they had after all this time.
"I remember you talked of doing so," replied Eleanor, with her usual quiet good-nature.
"Unfortunately, I did more than talk about it. I made a distinct promise to certain people gravely interested. The promise was registered in a Bartles newspaper. And you know that I went so far as to have my plans made."
"Do you feel bound by this promise, my dear?"
Miriam propped her cheek on one hand, and with the other kept rolling the piece of paper on the table.
"Yes," she answered, "I can't help thinking that I ought to keep my word. How does it strike you, Eleanor?"
"I am not quite clear how you regard the matter. Are you speaking of the promise only as a promise?"
It was no use. Miriam could not tell the truth; she could not confess her position. At once a smile trembled scornfully upon her lips.