CHAPTER IV.
Nan's picnic on the lake was not concluded much before ten o'clock.
She ran home through the moonlight, bareheaded, whistling as carelessly as a boy.

Night and day were the same thing to her in the place in which she had lived all her life.

There was not one of the village folk whom she did not know, not one for whom the doings of the wild Everards did not provide food for discussion.

For Nan undoubtedly was an Everard still, her grand wedding notwithstanding.

No one ever dreamed of applying any other title to her than the familiar "Miss Nan" that she had borne from her babyhood.