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 and that is such a mistake with these young, sensitive souls.' "Who was the one senior who didn't appear?"

"Elise Benedotti."

Of course he had known it was she.

On Saturday morning Mr. Johns's accountant was to arrive. Austin was no expert, but when Miss Curtis brought him the books he saw that they were in sad disorder. Perhaps the tragedy of Miss Curtis's life was mitigated by the ease with which one sorrow drove out another. She had now ceased entirely to mourn over the perfidy of the seniors in order to give herself up more completely to remorse at the condition to which, in a few weeks, she had reduced the books. "Only, of course, I'm not a book-keeper," she said, as if this were in some way immensely to her credit. Austin, who didn't consider any disability a matter of pride, had to confess that he wasn't, either.

"I'll look at them," he said; "and send that bookkeeper down to the cottage the very instant he arrives, and see that we're not interrupted."

"No, indeed," said Miss Curtis, who would have promised anything, possible or impossible.