if you can get it. The trouble is Miss Carrington won’t listen to any of my suggestions. As a matter of fact she has turned down a lot of the best imitators of a country fellow already, and she says she won’t set foot on the stage unless her part ner is the best that can be found. She was brought up in a vil lage, you know, she won’t be deceived when a Broadway fellow goes on the stage with a straw in his hair and calls himself a village boy. So, young man, if you want to play the part, you’!! hate to convince Miss Carrington. Would you like to try?” “I would with your permission,” answered the young man. “But I would prefer to keep my plans secret for a while.”
Next day Highsmith took the train for Cranberry Cor ners. He stayed three days in that small and distant village. Having found out all he could about the Boggs and their ne ighbours, Highsmith returned to the city....
Miss Posie Carrington used to spend her evenings at a small restaurant where actors gathered after performances.
One night when Miss Posie was enjoying a iate supper in the company of her fellow-actors, a shy, awkward young man entered the restaurant. It ms dear (hit ifie frghfe and the people made him uncomfortable. He upset one chair, sat in another one, and turned red at the approach of a waiter.
“You may fetch me a glass of beer’, he said, in answer to the waiter’s question. He looked around the place and then seeing Miss Carrington, rose and went to her table with a shining smile.
"How’re you. Miss Posie?” he said. “Don’t you remember me — Bill Summers — the Summerses that used to live next door to you? I’ve grown up since you left Cranberry Corners. They still remember you there. Eliza Perry told me to see you in the city while I was here. You know Eliza married Benny Stanfield, and she says —”
“1 say”, interrupted Miss Carrington brightly, “Eliza Perry married. She used to be so stout and plain.” “Married in June,” smiled the gossip. “Old Mrs Blithers sold her place to Captain Spooner; the youngest Waters girl'ran away with a music teacher."
“Oh!” Miss Carrington cried out. "Why, you people,1 excuse me a while — this is an old friend of mine — Mr — what was it? Yes, Mr Summers — Mr Goldstein, Mr Ric ketts. Now, Bill, come over here and tell me some more.”
She took him to a vacant table in a corner.
“I don’t seem to remember2 any Bill Summers,” she said thoughtfully, looking straight into the innocent blue eyes