" The agent stared
after him as if he were looking at a maniac. Mr. Hooker set off in the
direction of old Mr. Grover's house, which had been pointed out to him
by a gaping small boy. "I'll go up and see about it," he remarked, as
he stepped across a wide rivulet in the middle of the main street. The
Somerset Hotel was situated on the most beautiful point of land
touching that trim little lake which attracted hundreds of city people
annually by its summer wiles. It was too sedate and quiet to be
fashionable; the select few who went there sought rest from the
frivolities of the world. Eleanor Thursdale had spent one tiresome but
proper season there immediately after the death of her father. She
hated everything in connection with the place except the little old-
fashioned church at the extreme end of the village street, fully half
a mile from the hotel. She had chosen it, after romantic reflection,
as the sanctuary in which she should become the wife of the man she
loved, spurning the great church in town and one of its loveless
matches.
The forenoon is left to the imagination of the reader,--with all of
its unsettled plans, its doubts and misgivings, its despairs and its
failures, its subterfuges and its strategies, its aggravations and
complaints.
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