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 no traffic policemen in these remote highways and he drove fast. But the village of Fairweather was not so easily discovered. There was East Fairweather and South Fairweather, to say nothing of Fairweather Corners, which led him quite fifteen miles out of his way. About six o'clock in the afternoon he was informed that the place he was looking for was probably Fairweather Post Office.

Fairweather Post Office was a very small village strung along a wide village street, and he soon found the Hayes house—a thin, high-shouldered little house, backed by solid square barns and wood-sheds—all painted freshly white to welcome the spring. The geranium-colored car looked very exotic standing before that chaste New England domicile in the twilight.

An old servant with sleek hair and spectacles came to the door, not hostile, but indicating by her observing eye that she was more interested in truth than cordiality. Could he see Mrs. Hayes? She would ask Miss Mary. He was shown into the bleak little parlor and waited. This was to him the most trying period of the day. If Elise wasn't there, he had lost her. Now and then he heard voices in the distance—not hers. What were they doing, all these