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 "You are Miss Cread, of course. I am Mrs. Eveley. I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting overnight here."

"Your father has been more than hospitable. He delighted me last night with his quaint ideas."

"Oh dear,—about priests and things?" Louise was inclined to deprecate her father's penchant for assailing the church in whatever hearing.

Miss Cread laughed. "Partly. I dote on this little house, and all its things."

"Papa suggests that after he dies I transport it to a quai on the left bank of the Seine in Paris and knock out the front wall. He says it would make a perfect book stall. . . . Papa once won a scholarship to study medicine in Paris. It rather spoiled him for a life in these wilds. I do hope you won't die of boredom with us. I've never been to Paris. Indeed I've never been farther than Winnipeg, and that seemed thousands of miles. Of course you've been abroad."

"A great deal."

"You're not a bit American." Louise was thinking of camping parties that sometimes penetrated the Valley in cars decorated with banners bearing the device "Idaho" or "Montana." She had motioned her new friend to a chair and was leaning forward opposite her. "Do you know," she suddenly confided, "I'm terribly afraid of you."

"Good gracious, why?"