that she was merely envious. When she passed them she felt quite sure they were laughing at her — pitying her — ”there’s that queer little old maid, Valancy Stirling. They say she never had a beau in her whole life” — Valancy fairly ran to get out of Lover’s Lane. Never had she felt so utterly colourless and skinny and insignificant.

Just where Lover’s Lane debouched on the street, an old car was parked. Valancy knew that car well — by sound, at least — and everybody in Deerwood knew it. This was before the phrase “tin Lizzie” had come into circulation — in Deerwood, at least; but if it had been known, this car was the tinniest of Lizzies — though it was not a Ford but an old Grey Slosson. Nothing more battered and disreputable could be imagined.