"
A week later Mrs. Blythe, coming up from the village late in the
afternoon, paused at the gate of Ingleside in an amazement which
temporarily bereft her of the power of motion. An extraordinary sight
met her eyes. Round the end of the kitchen burst Mr. Pryor, running as
stout, pompous Mr. Pryor had not run in years, with terror imprinted on
every lineament--a terror quite justifiable, for behind him, like an
avenging fate, came Susan, with a huge, smoking iron pot grasped in her
hands, and an expression in her eye that boded ill to the object of her
indignation, if she should overtake him. Pursuer and pursued tore across
the lawn. Mr. Pryor reached the gate a few feet ahead of Susan, wrenched
it open, and fled down the road, without a glance at the transfixed lady
of Ingleside.
"Susan," gasped Anne.
Susan halted in her mad career, set down her pot, and shook her fist
after Mr. Pryor, who had not ceased to run, evidently believing that
Susan was still full cry after him.
"Susan, what does this mean?" demanded Anne, a little severely.
"You may well ask that, Mrs. Dr, dear," Susan replied wrathfully. "I
have not been so upset in years. That--that--that pacifist has
actually had the audacity to come up here and, in my own kitchen, to ask
me to marry him. HIM!"
Anne choked back a laugh.
"But--Susan! Couldn't you have found a--well, a less spectacular
method of refusing him? Think what a gossip this would have made if
anyone had been going past and had seen such a performance.
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