A gasping cry came from a door across the room. Mrs. Milo had entered, and was standing staring at the two in amazement and anger. "Susan Milo!" she cried.

"Oh!" Without rising, Sue began to pick up bits of smilax dropped from the florist's basket. "Yes, mother?" she replied inquiringly.

Mrs. Milo hurried forward. "What are you doing on your knees?"

"Mother dear," returned Sue, "did you ever see anything like smilax to get all over the place?" Her voice trembled like the voice of a child caught in wrongdoing. "One little bit here—one little bit there——"

"Get up," ordered her mother, curtly. And as Sue rose, "What's the matter with you, Mr. Farvel? Are you sick?"

"Mother!"—it was a low appeal.

Farvel rose, a trifle wearily. "No," he answered, meeting the angry look of the elder woman calmly. "I am not sick."

Mrs. Milo turned to vent her wrath upon Sue. "I declare I don't know what to think of you," she scolded. "Down on the carpet, making an exhibition of yourself!"

Sue's look beseeched Farvel. "Don't stay for rehearsal," she said. "Find another clergyman."

"That's best," he answered; "yes."

Mrs. Milo broke in upon them, not able to control herself. "Where's your dignity?" she demanded of Sue. "Acting like a romantic schoolgirl—a great, overgrown woman."

Farvel bowed to Sue with formality, ignoring her mother. "You're very kind," he said. "I'm grateful." With Wallace following, he went out by the door leading to the Church.

Instantly Mrs. Milo grew more calm. She seated herself with something of a judicial air. "Now, what's this all about?" she asked. "You know that I don't like a mystery."

Sue came to stand before her mother. And again her attitude was not that of one woman talking to another, but that of a child, anxious to excuse a fault. "Well,—well," she began haltingly, "someone he cared for—disappeared."

"Cared for," repeated Mrs. Milo, instant relief showing in her tone. "Ah, indeed! A girl, I suppose?"

"Y-y-yes."

Still more pleased, her mother leaned back, smiling. "And she disappeared, did she? Well, I don't wonder he's so secret about it. Ha! ha!"—that well-bred, rippling laugh.

Sue stared down at her. "You mean——" she asked; "you mean——"

Mrs. Milo lifted her eyebrows. "My daughter," she answered, "don't you know that there's only one reason why a girl drops out of sight?"

In amazement Sue fell back a step. "Mother!" she cried. Then turned abruptly, and went out into the Close.

Mrs. Milo stood up, on her face conscious guilt for her suspicion and her lack of charity. But she was appalled—almost stunned. Never in all her life before had her daughter left her in such a way. "I declare!" burst forth the elder woman. "I declare!" Then following Sue a few steps, and calling after her through the open door, "Well, what fills that basket out there? And what fills our Orphanage?" And more weakly, but still in an effort to justify herself, "What—what other reason can you suggest, I'd like to know! And—and it's just plain, common sense!" She came back to stand alone, staring before her. Then she sank to a chair.

Wallace returned. "Where's Sue, mother?" he asked.

"What?—Oh, it's you, darling? She—she stepped out."

"Out?"

"Into the Close."

"Oh." He hurried across the room.

Mrs. Milo fluttered to her feet. "I—I can't have that choir in the library any longer," she declared decisively. And left the room.

Sue entered in answer to her brother's call, and came straight to him. She had forgotten her anger by now; her look was anxious.

"Sue, let's go ahead with the rehearsal," he begged.

"Wallace,"—she gripped both of his wrists, as if she were determined to hold him until she had the answers she sought—"you knew her—that girl?"

He averted his eyes. "Why, yes."

She spoke very low. "Was she—sweet?"

"Yes; sweet,"—with a note of impatience.

"Light—or dark?"

"Rather dark." Again he showed irritation.

"Was she—was she pretty?"

"She was beautiful."

Her hands fell. She turned away. "And she dropped right out of his life," she said, as if to herself. Then coming about suddenly, "Why, Wallace? You don't know?"

"I—do—not—know." He dragged at his hair with a nervous hand.

She lowered her voice again. "Wallace,—she—she didn't have to go?"

Her brother made a gesture of angry impatience. "Oh, I'm disappointed in you!" he cried. "I thought you were different from other women. But you're just as quick to think wrong!"

She brought her hands together; and a look, wistful and appealing, gave to her face that curiously childlike expression. "Well, influence of the basket," she admitted ruefully, and hung her head.

He thrust his hands into his pockets sulkily, and turned his back.

Mrs. Balcome came puffing in. "Say, you know dear Babette is getting very tired," she announced pettishly. "And I wish——"

As if in answer to her complaining, there came a burst of song. The library door swung wide. And forward, with serene and uplifted faces, came the choir, singing the wedding-march. Each cotta swayed in time.

Balcome and Hattie followed the procession, the former scolding. "Well, are we rehearsing at last, or what are we doing?" he demanded as he passed Sue.

Mrs. Balcome shook with laughter. "Fancy anybody being such a dolt as to rehearse without a minister!" she scoffed.

The choir filed out, and their song came floating back from the Close. Miss Crosby entered and went to Sue. "Miss Milo, don't I sing before the ceremony?" she asked.

Sue roused herself with a shake of the head and a helpless laugh. "Well, you see how much I know about weddings," she answered. "Now, I'm going to introduce the bridegroom." Wallace was beside Hattie, leaning over her with anxious devotion, and whispering. Sue pulled at his sleeve. "Wallace," she said, "you haven't met Miss Crosby." And to Miss Crosby as he turned, a little annoyed at being interrupted, "This is the lucky man."

Miss Crosby's expression was one of polite interest. Wallace, trying to smile, bowed. Then their eyes met——

"A-a-a-aw!" It was a strange, strangling cry—like the terrified cry of some dumb thing, suddenly cornered. Miss Crosby's mouth opened wide, her eyes bulged. Upon her dead white face in startling contrast stood out the three spots of rouge.

"Laura!" gasped Wallace.

For a moment they stood thus, facing each other. Then with a rush the girl went, her arms thrown out as if to fend off any who might seek to detain her. She pulled the door to the vestibule against herself as if she were half-blinded, stumbled around it, slammed it shut behind her, and was gone.



CHAPTER IV

With Clare Crosby's sudden departure, the group in the Rectory drawing-room stood in complete silence for a moment, astonished and staring. Wallace, with his hands to his face, was like a man half-stunned.

Outside in the Close, the choir, having come to a halt, was rendering the Wedding March with great gusto—proof positive that the choirmaster, at least, made an audience for the twelve. Above the chorus of young voices pealed that one most perfect—the bird-sweet voice of Ikey Einstein, devoid of its accent by some queer miracle of song. It dipped and soared with the melody, as sure and strong and true as a bugle.

"Well!" It was Mrs. Milo who spoke first—Mrs. Milo, who could put so much meaning into a single word. Now she expressed disapproval and amazement; more: that one exclamatory syllable, as successfully as if it had been an extended utterance, not only hinted, but openly avowed her belief in the moral turpitude of the young woman who had just reeled so blindly through the door.

"Wallace!" Sue went to her brother.

"Now, what's the row!" demanded Balcome, irritably, looking around for his hat, which Hattie had taken from him in order to make him more presentable for the rehearsal.

"I suppose I've done something," ventured Mrs. Balcome, plaintively.

Mrs. Milo hastened to the door leading to the lawn, spied the choirmaster, waved a wigwag at him with her handkerchief, and shut the door. The singing stopped.

She came fluttering back. Always, when something unforeseen and unpleasant happened, it was Mrs. Milo's habit to accept the occurrence as aimed purposely at her and her happiness. So now her attitude was one of patient forbearance. "I told you, Hattie," she reminded; "—bad luck if Wallace saw you in your wedding-dress today."

Wallace had slipped to a seat on the sofa, leaning his head on a hand, and shaking like a man with a chill. Now, at mention of Hattie's name, he sprang up, went to her, getting between her and his mother, and putting an arm about the girl as if to protect her. "It has nothing to do with Hattie," he declared, his eyes blazing. "Nothing, I tell you! And you're trying to make trouble!"

"If you please," interrupted Sue, quietly, "you're speaking to your mother."

But Mrs. Milo was amply able to take care of herself—by the usual method of putting any opponent instantly on the defensive. "So it has nothing to do with Hattie?" she returned. "Well, perhaps it has something to do with you."

Wallace's tall figure stiffened, as if from an electric shock. His lips drew back from his clenched teeth in something that was like a grin.

Hattie took a long step, freeing herself from his arm.

"Or perhaps"—Mrs. Milo's glance had traveled to Sue—"perhaps it has something to do with Mr. Farvel."

"I won't discuss Alan behind his back," retorted Wallace, hotly.

"A-a-a-ah!"—this with a gratified nod. She felt that she had forced the knowledge she wanted, namely that the going of the soloist had something to do with the clergyman. "Well,"—smiling—"I think I have an idea." With a beckon to Mrs. Balcome, she made toward the hall.

Mrs. Balcome came rolling after, the dog worn high against the crepe cascade. "Perhaps it's just as well that Miss Crosby went," she observed from the door. "Of course, we could screen her with palms. But I think she'd take away from Hattie tomorrow. She's much too pretty—much."

"Puh!" snorted Balcome. He went to slam the door after her.

Now, Hattie turned upon Wallace with sudden intensity. "What has Miss Crosby to do with Mr. Farvel?" she demanded.

"But does it make any difference, Hattie?" put in Sue, quickly; "—as long as it isn't your Wallace. It doesn't, of course. Mr. Farvel has his own personal affairs, and they're no business of ours—none whatever. Are they? No. And Miss Crosby is charming, and pretty, and—and sweet." Now she in turn faced round upon her brother. "But—but what has Miss Crosby to do with Mr. Farvel?"

"Does it make, any difference to you?" countered Hattie.

"Of course not, Hattie!—Foolish question nine million and nine!—Wallace, she's—she's not—the girl? You know."

He reddened angrily. "She is not!" he exploded. But as Sue, showing plain distrust in his answer, turned toward the passage as if to go in search of Farvel, he caught at her arm almost fiercely—and fearfully. "Oh, no! Not yet!" he begged. "Please, Sue!"

"I believe he ought to know," she declared.

"Do you want him to give up this Church?" he cried. And as she came back slowly, "Oh, trust me, Sue! It's something I can't tell you. But I'm right about it.—Sh!" For Mrs. Milo had re-entered, on her countenance unmistakable signs of triumphant pleasure.

"Ah-ha!" exclaimed that lady, as she hurried forward. "I thought there was something queer about that Crosby girl!"

"Why, mother dear!" expostulated Sue. "I've heard you say she was such a lady—so refined——"

"Please don't contradict me!"

"I beg your pardon."

Mrs. Milo glanced from one to another of the little group, saving her news, preparing for a good effect. "Mrs. Balcome and I have just solved the Farvel mystery," she announced. "We looked at that photograph in the bureau again, and—it's Miss Crosby's picture."

"Haw-haw!" roared Balcome, with a scornful flop of the hat.

Sue went close to her brother. "Then she is the girl who disappeared," she said under her breath.

"Well—yes."

"And she'll go again! She'll be lost!" She started toward the hall.

"Susan!" cried her mother, peremptorily. And as Sue halted, "We want nothing to do with that girl. Come back."

"What harm could come of my going?" argued Sue.

"That is not the question."

"Mother, I don't like to oppose you, but in this case——"

"I shall not allow it," said her mother, decisively.

"Then I must go against your wishes." Sue opened the door.

"I forbid it, I tell you!" That note of shrillness now appeared in Mrs. Milo's voice.

"Oh, mother!" Sue came back a little way. "Don't treat me like a child!"

Now Mrs. Milo became all gentleness once more. She put a hand on Sue's arm. "Your mother is the best judge of your actions," she reminded. "And she wants you to stay."

Sue backed. "No; I'm sorry," she answered. "In all my life I can't remember disobeying you once. But today I must." Again she started.

"My daughter!" Mrs. Milo's voice broke pathetically. "You—you mean you won't respect my wishes?"

Checked by that sign of tears so near, again Sue halted, but without turning. "I want to help her," she urged, a little doggedly.

"But your mother," went on Mrs. Milo, "—my feelings—my love—are you going to trample them under foot?"

"Oh, not that!"

Mrs. Milo fell to weeping. "Oh, what do you care for my peace of mind!" she mourned. "For my heartache!"

It brought Sue to her mother's side. "Why! Why!" She put an arm about the elder woman tenderly.

Mrs. Milo dropped to a chair. "This is the child I bore!" she sobbed. "I've devoted my whole life to her! And now—oh, if your dear father knew! If he could only see——" Words failed her. She buried her face in her handkerchief.

Sue knelt at her side. "Oh, mother! Mother!" she comforted. "Hush, dear! Hush!"

"I'm going to be ill," wept Mrs. Milo. "I know I am! My nerves can't stand it! But it's just as well"—mournfully. "I'm in your way. I can see that. And it's t-t-t-time that I died!" She shook convulsively.

Commands, arguments, appeals, tears—how often Mrs. Milo and her daughter went through the several steps of just such a scene as this. Exactly that often, Sue capitulated, as she capitulated now, with eyes brimming.

"Ah, don't say that, mother," she pleaded. "You'll break my heart! You're my whole life—with Wallace away, why I've got nobody else in the whole world!" And looking up, "Wallace, you go."

Instantly Mrs. Milo's weeping quieted.

"Today?" asked her brother, impatiently.

"Yes, now! Right away!" Sue got to her feet.

"Oh, Sue, there's no rush!"

Mrs. Milo, suddenly dry-eyed, came to her son's rescue. "And why should Wallace go?" she asked. "Mr. Farvel is the one."

"No! No!" he cried, scowling at her. "I won't have Alan worried."

"Mm!" commented Mrs. Milo, ruffled at having her good offices so little appreciated. "You're very considerate."

"I understand the matter better than anyone else," he explained, trying to speak more politely. "Alan can't even bear to talk about it. So—I'll go."

Sue turned to Balcome. "And you go with him," she suggested.

"But why?"—again it was a nervous, frightened protest.

Sue nodded toward Hattie, standing so slim and still beside her father. "So my little sister will feel all right about it," she explained. "Because nothing, Wallace, must worry her. It's her happiness we want to think of, isn't it?—dear Hattie's."

"Oh, yes! Yes!"

"The address—I'll write it down." She bent over the desk.

Wallace went to Hattie. "Good-by," he said, tremulously. "I'll be right back." He leaned to kiss her, but she turned her face away. His lips brushed only her cheek.

Sue thrust the address into his hand. "Here. And, oh, Wallace, be very kind to her!"

"Of course. Yes. I'll do what I can." But he seemed scarcely to know what he was saying. He fingered the card Sue had given him, and watched Hattie.

Urging him toward the vestibule, Sue glanced down at her bridesmaid's dress, then searchingly about the room—for a hat, a wrap. "And bring them together—won't you?" she went on, taking Balcome's arm. At the door, she crowded in front of him.

"Susan," challenged her mother.

"Yes, mother,"—coming short, with a whimsically comical look that acknowledged discovery and defeat.

"They can find their way out. Come back."

Sue came. "But I could go with them, and not see Miss Crosby." Once more that note of childlike pleading. "I could just wait near by."

"Wait here, Susan.—Oh, I realize that you could be there and back before I'd know it."

Sue laughed. "Oh, she's a smart little mother!" she said fondly. "Yes, she is!"

"She knows your tricks," retorted Mrs. Milo, wisely. "You'd even trapse out in that get-up.—Please don't fidget while I'm talking."

Seeing that it was impossible for her to get away, Sue sat down resignedly. "Well, as Ikey says," she observed, "'sometimes t'ings go awful fine, und sometimes she don't.'"

Now, Farvel came breezing in. "I've found a minister, Miss Milo," he announced. Then realizing that something untoward had happened, "Why,—where's Wallace?"

"He has followed Miss Crosby," answered Mrs. Milo, speaking the name with exaggerated distinctness.

"Miss Crosby?" Farvel was puzzled.

"Miss—Clare—Crosby."

He turned to Sue, and she rose and came to him—smiling, and with a certain confidential air that was calculated either to rescue him from a catechism or to result in her own banishment from the room. "Do you know that you haven't dictated this morning's letters?" she asked. And touching him on the arm, "Shan't we go into the library now?"

"Susan," purred Mrs. Milo.

"Yes, mother." But Sue, halting beside Farvel, continued to talk to him animatedly, in an undertone.

"Will you kindly see that Dora understands about dinner preparations?"

"Hattie, do you mind ringing?"

Mrs. Milo held up a slender hand to check Hattie. "Susan," she went on, patiently, "do you want your mother to do the trotting after the servants?"

"No, mother. But Mr. Farvel's letters——"

Now that quick, mechanical smile, and Mrs. Milo tipped her head to one side as she regarded the clergyman in pretty concern. "Mr. Farvel is in no mood for dictation," she declared gently; "and—I am quite exhausted, as you know." But as Sue hurried away, not lifting her eyes, lest she betray how glad she was to be dismissed, her mother rose—and there was no appearance of the complained-of exhaustion. Her eyes shone with eagerness. They fastened themselves on Farvel's face. "That Miss Crosby," she began; "—she came, recognized Wallace, gave a cry—and ran."

Farvel listened politely. Mrs. Milo was so prone to be dramatic. There was scarcely a day that some warning of Wolf! Wolf! did not ring through the Rectory. "Well, what seemed to be the matter?" he asked.

"I thought you might know,"—with just a trace of emphasis on the You.

"I don't," he assured her, quietly.

"Then why not go yourself—and get the facts?"

"Wallace didn't ask me."

There was something in the tone of his reply that brought the blood to her cheeks. She replied to it by making her own tone a little chiding. "But as my boy's oldest friend," she reminded.

Farvel laughed. "Friend?" he repeated. "He's more like a younger brother to me. But that doesn't warrant my intruding on him, does it?"

Mrs. Milo lifted her eyebrows. "I hope," she commented, with something of that same sorrowful intonation which characterized the speech of Dora, "—I hope there's no reason why you shouldn't meet this Crosby girl."

Farvel stared at her. "I?" he demanded, too astonished by her daring to be angry. "Why—why——"

At this juncture the library door opened and Dora entered, to set the room to rights apparently, for she gave a critical look about, arranged the writing-desk, and put a chair in place.

"Dora," said Mrs. Milo, "you saw Miss Susan?"

Dora lifted pale eyes. "Oh, yes," she answered, "but only a fleeting glimpse."

"Glimpse?" repeated Mrs. Milo, startled.

"From the rear portal"—with an indefinite wave of the hand—"she turned that way."

"Oh! She went! To that Crosby girl! And I forbade her!—Mr. Farvel, come!"

"But I'm not wanted," urged the clergyman.

"Why do you hold back? Don't I want you?"

Farvel pondered a moment, his look on Hattie, standing in the bay-window, now, alert but motionless. "Well, I'll come," he said at last.

"Dora!" cried Mrs. Milo, as she fluttered hallward; "my bonnet!"

Dora had gone by the same door through which she had come. Hattie and Farvel were alone. She turned and came to stand beside him. "Why do you suppose——" she commenced; and then, more bluntly, "What was the matter with Miss Crosby?"

Farvel studied her face for a moment, his own full of anxious sympathy. "I can't imagine," he said, finally; "but whatever it is you may be sure of one thing—Wallace isn't to blame."

Hattie's look met his. "It's queer, isn't it?" she said; "but that—well, that doesn't seem to be troubling me at all." Then for no reason whatever, she put out her hand. He took it, instantly touched. Her eyes were glistening with tears. She turned and went out into the Close.

Farvel stood for a moment gazing after her. Then remembering his promise to Mrs. Milo, he hastened in the direction of his study.

As the hall door shut after him, the library door swung wide, and Dora came bouncing in, waving an arm joyously. "Your path is clear!" she announced.

At her back was Sue, looking properly guilty, and scrambling into a coat that would hide the bridesmaid's dress. "Just what did you tell mother?" she inquired.

"I said you went that way,"—with a jerk of the head that set the tight braids to bobbing.

"Oh, what did you tell her that for!" mourned Sue. "It's the way I must go!"

"It is the truth," said Dora, solemnly, "and, oh, Miss Susan,"—chanting—"'a lying tongue is but for a moment.'"

"I know," answered Sue, exasperated; "'a lying tongue is but for a moment,' and 'deceitful men shall not live out half their days,' but, Dora, this is a desperate case. So you find my mother and tell her that—that I'm probably downstairs in the basement,—er—er—well, I might be setting the mouse-trap." And giving Dora an encouraging push in the direction of the hall, Sue disappeared on swift foot into the vestibule.



CHAPTER V

Miss Mignon St. Clair was affectionately, and familiarly, known as Tottie. About thirty, and thus well past the first freshness of youth, she was one of that great host of women who inadvertently and pathetically increase the look of bodily and nervous wear and tear by the exaggerated use of cosmetics—under the comforting delusion that these have just the opposite effect. With her applications of liquid-white and liquid-red, Tottie invariably achieved the almost grotesque appearance of having dressed in the dark.

In taking as it were a final stand against the passing of her girlhood, Miss St. Clair had gone further than most. First, in very desperation, she had colored her graying mouse-tinted hair a glowing red; and then, as a last resort, had heroically, but with mistaken art, bobbed it.

The effect, if weird, added to the lady's striking appearance. With glasses, and an unbelted Mother Hubbard gown made out of antiqued gold cloth, she might have passed for a habitue of the pseudo-artistic colony that made its headquarters not far away from her domicile. But such was her liking for jewelry, and plenty of it, and for gowns not loose but clinging, that, invariably equipped with an abundant supply of toothsome gum, she looked less the blue-stocking, or the anarchistic reformer, than what she aimed to resemble—a flaming-tressed actress (preferably of the vampire type), a shining "star."

But such are the tricks of Fate, that Tottie, outwardly and in spirit the true "artiste," was—as a plain matter of fact—a landlady, who kept "roomers" at so much per week.

Her rooming-house was one of those four-story-and-basement brownstone-front affairs with brownstone steps (and a service-entrance under the steps) that New York put up by the thousands several decades ago, and considered fashionable.

The house, therefore, was like every other house on the block. But to the observant passerby, one thing identified it. The basements of its neighbors were given over to various activities—commercial and otherwise. There were basements that were bakeries, or delicatessen shops, or dusty second-hand-book stores, or flower stalls. And not a few were used still for their primary purpose—the housing, more or less comfortably, of humans. The St. Clair house was distinguished by the fact that its front room on the basement level (the servants' living-room of better days) was rented for the accommodation of a "hand" laundry.

Often Miss St. Clair felt called upon to apologize for that laundry—at least to explain its presence. "Some of my friends say, 'Oh, my dear, a laundry!' But as I say, 'You can't put high-class people in the basement; and high-class people is the only people I'll have around. Furthermore, I can't leave the basement empty. And ain't cleanyness next to goodness? And what's cleaner'n a laundry? Besides, it's handy to have one so close.'"

The interior of the building was typical. Its front-parlor, the only room not "let," was high-ceilinged and of itself marked the house as one that had been pretentious in its day. It boasted the usual bay-window, a marble fireplace and a fine old chandelier with drop-crystal ornaments—all these eloquent of the splendor that was past. Double doors led to the back-parlor, which was the dining-room of earlier times.

There was the characteristic hall, with stairs leading down under stairs that led up, these last to rooms shorn of their former glory, and now graduated in price, and therefore in importance, first, by virtue of their outlook—their position as to front or rear; and, second, in reference to their distance above the street. The front stairs ended in a newel post that supported a bronze figure holding aloft a light—a figure grotesquely in contrast to the "hall stand," with its mirror and its hat hooks and its Japanese umbrella receptacle.

The pride of Miss St. Clair's heart was that "front-parlor." And upon it she had "slathered" a goodly sum—with a fond generosity that was wholly mistaken, since her purchases utterly ruined the artistic value of whatever the room possessed of good. She had papered its walls in red (one might have said with the idea of matching the background with her hair); but the paper bore a conventional pattern—in the same tone—which was so wrought with circles and letter S's that at a quick glance the wall seemed fairly to be a-crawl. And she had hung the bay-window with cheap lace curtains, flanked at either side by other curtains of a heavy material and a flashy pattern.

The fireplace had suffered no less than the window. On its mantel was the desecrating plaster statuette of a diving-girl—tinted in various pastel shades; this between two vases of paper flowers. And above the fireplace, against the writhing wall paper, hung a chromo entitled "The Lorelei"—three maidens divested of apparel as completely as was the diving-girl, but hedged about by a garish gold frame.

However, it was in the matter of furniture that Miss St. Clair had sinned the most. This furniture consisted of one of those perpetrations, one of those crimes against beauty and comfort, that is known as a "set." It comprised a "settee," a "rocker," an armchair, and a chair without arms—all overlaid with a bright green, silky velour that fiercely fought the red wall paper and the landlady's hair.

At this hour of the morning, the room was empty, save for a bird and a rag doll in long dresses. A sash of the bay-window was raised, and the cheap lace curtains were blowing back before a light breeze. Against the curtains, swinging high out of the way of the breeze, was a gilded cage of generous size, holding a green-and-yellow canary.

The other occupant of the room was propped up carefully on the chair without arms. To its right, hanging from the chair back, was a little girl's well-worn coat; to its left, suspended from an elastic, was an equally shabby hat. And the pitiful condition of doll, coat, and hat was sharply accentuated by the background of the chair's verdant nap.

The doll's eyes were shoe buttons, of an ox-blood shade. They stared redly at the chirping canary.

The stairs creaked, and a woman came bustling down—a youngish woman with "rural" written in her over-long, over-full skirt, her bewreathed straw hat, and her three-quarters coat that testified to faithful service. Her face showed glad excitement. She pulled on cotton gloves as she came, and glanced upward over a shoulder.

"Tottie!—Tottie!"

"Hoo-hoo!" Miss St. Clair was in a jovial mood.

"Somebody's at the front door." The velour rocker held a half-dozen freshly wrapped packages, spoil of an earlier shopping expedition. Mrs. Colter gathered the packages together.

The bell began to ring more insistently, and with a certain rhythm. Tottie came down, in a tea-gown that was well past its prime, and that held the same relation to her abundant jewelry that marble fireplace and crystal chandelier sustained to her ornate furniture. "Don't go for just a minute, Mrs. Colter," she suggested, rotating her chewing-gum, and adjusting a flowered silk shawl.

There was a boy at the front door, a capped and uniformed urchin with a special delivery letter. "Miss Clare Crosby live here?" he inquired. Behind his back, in his other hand, the butt of a cigarette sent up a fragrant thread of smoke.

"You bet,"—and Miss St. Clair relieved him of the letter he proffered. He went down the steps at an alarming gait, and she came slowly into the parlor, studying the letter, feeling it inquiringly.

"I'm goin' to finish my tradin'," informed Mrs. Colter. "It'll be six months likely before I git down to N'York again."

"You oughta let Clare know when you're comin'," declared Tottie, holding the letter up to the light.

"Oh, well, I won't start home till she gits in. You know there's trains every hour to Poughkeepsie." Having gathered her bundles together, Mrs. Colter carried them into the back-parlor.

Left alone, Tottie lost no further time. To pry the letter open and unfold it was the swift work of a thumb and finger made dexterous by long use of the cigarette. "'Great news, my darling!'" she read. "'The firm says——'"

But Mrs. Colter was returning. "I'll be back from the store in no time," she announced as she came; "only want to git a bon-bon spoon and a pickle fork." Then calling through the double doors, "Come, Barbara!"

Tottie, having returned the letter to its envelope and resealed it, now set it against the diving-girl on the mantelpiece. "What you doin'?" she inquired; "blowin' the kid's board money?"

"Board money!" cried Mrs. Colter. "Why, Miss Crosby ain't paid me for two weeks.—Barbara!"

"Yes," answered a child's voice.

"Well, she's behind with me a whole month," returned Tottie, "and you know I let her have a room here just to be accommodatin'. The stage is my perfession, Mrs. Colter. Oh, yes, I've played with most all of the big ones. And as I say, I don't have to take roomers. Why, I rented this house just so's I could entertain my theatrical friends."

Mrs. Colter took out and put back her hatpins. "It must be grand to be a' actress!" she observed longingly.

"Well, it ain't so bad. For one thing, you can pick a name you like. Now, I think mine is real swell. 'What'll we call y'?' says my first manager. Y' see, my own name wouldn't do, specially as I'm a dancer—Hopwell; ain't that fierce? Tottie Hopwell! I never could live that down. So I says to him, 'Well, call me Mignon—Mignon St. Clair.'"

Mrs. Colter gazed at her hostess wide-eyed. "Oh, it's grand!" she breathed. "—Barbara, come!"

"I'm coming."

On flagging feet, the child came out. She was small—not over nine at the most—with thin little legs, and a figure too slender for her years. Her dress was a gingham, very much faded. One untied lace of her patched shoes whipped from side to side as she walked.

But it was not the poorness of her dress that made her a pathetic picture as she halted, looking at Mrs. Colter. It was her face—a grave, little face, thin, and lacking childish color. Upon it were a few stray, pale freckles.

Yet it was not a plain face, and about it fell her hair, brown and abundant, in gleaming curls and waves. Her eyes were lovely—large, and a dark, almost a purplish, blue. They were wise beyond the age of their owner, and sad. They told of tears shed, of wordless appeal, but also of patient endurance of little troubles. Her brows had an upward turn at the center which gave her a quaint, questioning look. Her mouth was tucked in at either corner, lending a wistful expression that was habitual.

"Barbara, come, hurry," urged Mrs. Colter, holding out the child's hat.

But Barbara hung back. "Where's Aunt Clare?" she asked.

"I tell you, Aunt Clare ain't home yet."

Now, Barbara retreated. "Oh, I want to stay here, to see her. Please, please."

"Look how you act!" complained Mrs. Colter, helplessly.

Tottie came to the rescue. "Say, I'll keep a' eye on the kid."

"Oh, will you?" cried Mrs. Colter, gratefully.

"Sure. Leave her."

"That's mighty nice of you.—And you be a good girl, Barbara."

"I will," promised the child, settling herself upon the settee with a happy smile.

A bell rang. "Ah, there she is now!" exclaimed Mrs. Colter, and as Barbara sprang up, she ran to her and hastily tidied the gingham dress.

But Tottie was giving a touch to her appearance at the hall mirror. "Nope," she declared over a shoulder. "She's got a key."

Though she heard the bell again, and it was now ringing impatiently, Mrs. Colter was not convinced. She knelt before Barbara, straightening a washed-out ribbon that stood up limply above the brown curls. "Now, come! Quiet!" she admonished.

Out of the pocket of the gingham, Barbara had brought a small and withered nosegay. There were asters in it, and a torn and woeful carnation. "See!" she cried. "I'm going to give Aunt Clare all these."

Tottie was gone to admit the visitor. Mrs. Colter lowered her voice. "Yes, honey," she agreed. "And you're goin' to tell your Aunt Clare what a nice place we've got in Poughkeepsie, and how much you like it, and——" The outer door had opened. She whispered an added suggestion.

There was a young man at the front door—a man with a quick, nervous manner. He wore clothes that were unmistakably English, and pince-nez from which hung a narrow black ribbon. And he carried a cane. As he took off his derby to greet the landlady with studied courtesy, his hair showed sparse across the top of his head. His mustache worn short, was touched with gray.

"She's out yodelin' somewheres, Mr. Hull," informed Tottie, filling the doorway inhospitably, but unconsciously.

Hull's face fell. "Well,—well, do you mind if I wait for her?" he asked.

"Oh, come in. Come in."

He came, with a stride that was plainly acquired in uniform. His cane hung smartly on his left arm. He carried his head high.

It was Tottie's conviction that he was the son of a nobleman—perhaps even of a duke; and that he was undoubtedly an erstwhile officer in the King's service. She was respectful to Hull, even a little awe-struck in his presence. He had a way of looking past her when he spoke, of treating her as he might an orderly who was making a report. With him, she always adopted a certain throaty manner of speaking,—a deep, honey huskiness for which a well-known actress, who was a favorite of hers, was renowned, and which she had carefully practiced. How many times of a Sunday, cane in hand, had she seen him come down that street to her steps, wearing a silk hat. Sometimes for his sake alone she wished that she could dispense with that laundry.

"Then she didn't get my letter," said Hull.

"Can't say," answered Tottie, taking her eyes from the mantelpiece.

Hull spied the envelope. "No; here it is. You see, I didn't think I could follow it so soon."

Mrs. Colter had risen, and was struggling with her veil.

"Mrs. Colter, this is Miss Crosby's fy-an-see," introduced Tottie. "And, Barbara, this is goin' to be your Uncle Felix."

Hull sat, and Barbara came to him, putting out a shy hand. "Ah! So this is the little niece!" he exclaimed. "Well! Well!—When did you come down, Mrs. Colter?"

"Left Poughkeepsie at six-thirty this mornin'. And now I must be runnin' along—to see if I can find that pickle fork."

Barbara had been studying the newcomer more frankly. Emboldened by his smile, she brought forward the nosegay. "See what I've got for Aunt Clare," she whispered.

Hull patted the crumpled blossoms. "You're a thoughtful little body," he declared. And as Mrs. Colter started out, "Could I trouble you, I wonder?" He got up. "I mean to say, will you buy something for the little niece?"

"Oh, ain't that nice of him!" cried Mrs. Colter, appealing to Tottie.

Hull was going into a pocket to cover his confusion at being praised. "A—a pinafore, for instance," he suggested, "or a—a——"

"A coat," pronounced Tottie. "Look at that one! It's fierce!"

With the grave air of a little old lady, Barbara interposed. "I need shoes worse," she declared. "See." She put out a foot.

"Yes, shoes," agreed Hull. He pressed a bill into Mrs. Colter's hand. There were tears in her mild eyes. She did not trust herself to speak, but nodded, smiling, and hurried away. He sat again, and drew the child to him.

Tottie, leaned against the mantelpiece once more, observed the two with languid, but not unkindly, interest. "I wonder why the kid's father and mother don't do more for her," she hazarded.

Hull frowned. "It makes my blood boil when I think how that precious pair have loaded the child onto Miss Crosby," he answered.

"Pretty bony," agreed Tottie.

"And she's so brave about it—so uncomplaining. Why, any other girl would have put her niece into an orphanage."

The rooming-house keeper grinned. "Well, she did think of it," she said slyly. "But they turned her down. Y' see, Barbara—ain't a' orphan."

Now Barbara lifted an eager face. "My mother's in Africa, and my father's in Africa," she boasted.

"Out o' sight, pettie, out o' mind."

Hull took one of the child's hands in both of his. "You've got a mighty fine auntie, little girl," he said with feeling. "Just the best auntie in the whole world."

Barbara nodded. "And I love her," she answered, "best of everybody 'cept my mother."

Tottie threw up both well-powdered arms. "Hear that!" she cried. "Except her mother! And Clare says the kid ain't seen the mother since she was weaned!"

Hull shook his head. "Isn't it strange!" he mused; "—the difference between members of the same family! There's one sister, neglecting her own child—and a sweet child. And here's another sister, bearing the burden."

But Barbara was quick to the rescue of the absent parent under criticism. "Aunt Clare says that some day my mother's coming back from Africa," she protested. "And then I'm going to be with her all the time—every day."

"I s'pose the kid'll live with you and Clare when you marry," ventured Tottie.

"No. Clare doesn't want me to have the expense. Says it isn't fair. But—I'll get in touch with that father."

Again the child interposed, recognizing the note of threatening. "Maybe my father won't come with my mother," she declared. "Because he hunts lions."

Tottie laughed. "Well, he'd better cut out huntin' lions," she retorted, "and hunt you some duds." Then to Hull, "I wonder what they're up to, 'way out there. What is it about 'em that's so secret?"

"That's not my affair," reminded Hull, bluntly. He got up, dropping the child's hand.

Feeling herself dismissed, but scarcely knowing at what or whom this stranger was directing his ill-temper, Barbara retreated, and to the doll, sitting starkly upon the green chair. "Come on, Lolly-Poppins," she whispered tenderly, and taking the doll up in her arms, went back to the corner of the settee to rock and kiss it, to smooth and caress it with restless little hands.

Tottie sidled over to Hull, lowering her voice against the child's overhearing her. "Y' know what I think?" she demanded.

"What?"

"I think the pair of 'em is in j-a-l-e,"—she spelled the word behind a guarding hand.

Hull ignored the assertion. "Where is Miss Crosby singing today?" he asked curtly.

Tottie went back to the hearth. "Search me," she declared. "It looks like your future bride, Mr. Hull, don't tell nobody nothin'. What's your news?"

Barbara had settled down, Lolly-Poppins in the clasp of both arms. She crooned to the doll, her eyes closed.

"Oh, I haven't any," answered Hull. Then more cordially, "But I got a raise today."

"Grand! The Northrups, ain't it?"

"Chemists," said Hull, going to look out of the window.

"Well, money's your friend," declared Tottie, philosophically. "Me for it!"

A door-latch clicked. Someone had entered the hall.

"That's her!"

"Don't tell her Barbara's here. It'll be a jolly surprise."

Tottie agreed, and with a quick movement caught the silk shawl from her own shoulders and covered the child.



CHAPTER VI

Clare ran all the way, with scared eyes, and heaving breast, and a hand clutching the rim of the tilted hat. And only when she reached the corner nearest home did she slow a little, to look behind her as if she feared pursuit. Then finding herself breathless, she stepped aside for a moment into the entrance of an apartment house, and there, under the suspicious watch of a negro elevator boy, pretended to hunt for something in her music-roll.

As she waited, she remembered that there was some laundry due her in the basement. That must be collected. She walked on, having taken a second look around, and darted under the front steps to make her inquiry. She promised to call for the articles in ten minutes by way of the back stairs; then slowly ascended the brownstone steps, glancing up the street as she climbed, but as indifferently as possible.

Once inside the storm door, she listened. Someone might be telephoning—they knew her number at the Rectory. Or Tottie might have a visitor, which would interfere with plans.

She heard no sound. Letting herself in noiselessly, she tiptoed to the parlor door and opened it softly.

"Hello-o-o-o!" It was Hull, laughing at the surprise they had for her.

"Felix!" She halted, aghast.

"Well, aren't you glad to see me?"

"Oh, yes! Yes!"—but her face belied her. She tugged at her hat, seeking, even in her nervousness, to adjust it becomingly.

"What're y' pussy-footin' around here for?" questioned Tottie, sharply.

"I'm not.—Tottie, can I see Mr. Hull alone?"

"Sure, dearie. As I say, don't never git your ear full of other folks's troubles—and secrets." She went out, with a backward look at once crafty and resentful.

With a quick warning sign to Hull, Clare ran to the door, bent to listen a moment, holding her breath, then ran to him, leading him toward the window. "Felix," she began, "go back to Northrups. I'll 'phone you in an hour."

He had been watching her anxiously. "What is it? Something wrong?"

"Yes! Yes! My—my brother and sister—in Africa." She got his hat from where he had laid it on the rocker.

"In trouble?" he persisted, studying her narrowly.

"Yes,—in trouble. And I don't want to see any reporters—not one!"

"That's all right"—he spoke very gently—"I'll see them."

Her face whitened. "Oh, no! There isn't anything to say. Felix, I'll just leave here, and they won't be able to find me. And you go now——" She urged him toward the door.

He stood his ground. "You're not giving me the straight of this," he asserted, suddenly severe.

"I am, I tell you! I am!" Her face drew into lines of suffering. She entreated him, clasping his arm with her trembling hands.

He freed himself from her hold. "If I thought you were lying——" Then, roughly, "I hate a liar!"

"Oh, but I'm not lying! Honest I'm not! Oh, believe me, and go!—Felix!"

He forbore looking at her. "Very well," he said coldly, and started out.

She followed him to the door. "And don't come back here, will you? Promise you won't!"

"I shan't come back," he promised.

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" Then in tearful appeal, seeing his displeasure, "Oh, Felix, I love you!" The poignancy of her cry made him relent suddenly, and turn. He put an arm about her, and she clung to him wildly. "Oh, Felix, trust me! Oh, you're all I've got!"

"But there's something I don't understand about this," he reminded more kindly.

"I'll explain later. I will! You'll hear from me soon."

Again he drew away from her. "Just as you say,"—resentfully.

The front door shut behind him, Clare called up the stairs. "Tottie! Tottie!" She listened, a hand pressing her bosom.

"A-a-a-all right!"

Clare did not wait. Running back into the front-parlor, she stood on a chair in the bay-window, and worked at the hook holding the bird-cage. "Well, precious!" she crooned. "Missy's little friend! Her darling pet! Her love-bird! How's the sweet baby?" The cage released, she stepped down and hurried across the room.'

"Aunt Clare!"—first the clear, glad cry; next, a head all tumbled curls.

"Barbara!" Clare came short. Then, as Tottie sauntered in, "Oh, what's this young one doing here?"

Barbara had risen, discarding the doll and the shawl, and gone to Clare. Now, feeling herself rebuffed, she went back to the settee, watching Clare anxiously.

"Waitin' for you," answered Tottie, taking up her shawl.

"Aunt Clare!" pleaded the child, softly.

"Oh! Oh!" mourned Clare. She set the cage on the table.

Barbara bethought herself of the gift. Out of the sagging pocket of the gingham, she produced the tightly-made bouquet. "See!" she cried, holding out the flowers with a smile. "For you, Aunt Clare!"

But Clare brushed them aside, and fetched the child's hat. "Where's that Colter woman?" she demanded angrily.

Tottie lolled against the mantel, studying Clare and enjoying her gum. "Huntin' pickle forks," she replied.

"Aunt Clare!" insisted Barbara, again proffering the drooping nosegay.

"Here! Put this on!"—it was the coat. Clare took one small arm and directed it into a sleeve.

"Do I have to go?" asked Barbara, plaintively.

"Now don't make a fuss!"—crossly. "Stand still!" Then taking the bouquet away and letting it drop to the floor, "Here! Here's the other sleeve." The coat went on.

"Are you coming with me?" persisted Barbara, brightened by the thought.

But Clare did not heed. "When'll she be back?" She avoided looking at Tottie. "—Let me button you, will you?"—this with an impatient tug at the coat.

"Can't say," answered Tottie, with exasperating indifference.

"Tottie, I'm going to move."

At that, the landlady started, suddenly concerned. "Move?" she echoed incredulously.

Clare ran to a sewing-machine that stood against the wall behind the settee. "Today," she added; "—now."

"Where you goin'?"

"To—to Jersey."

Barbara, coated and hatted, and with Lolly-Poppins firmly clasped in her arms, followed the younger woman. "Aunt Clare——"

"Jersey!" scoffed Tottie. "You sure don't mean Jersey City."

Clare covered her confusion by hunting among the unfinished work on the machine. "Yes,—Jersey City," she challenged.

Tottie's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Must be pretty bad," she observed. "Pretty bad."

Barbara, planted squarely in Clare's path, again importuned. "Am I going too, Aunt Clare?"

"No! Sit down! And keep quiet!"

The child obeyed. There was comfort in Lolly-Poppins. She lifted the doll to her breast, mothering it.

"What's happened, pettie?" inquired Tottie.

"Nothing—nothing." Clare folded a garment.

"Nothin'—but you're movin' to Jersey City.—Ha!"

"Well, most of my singing is across the River now, so it's more convenient."

"Mm!"—it implied satisfaction. Then carelessly, "Say, here's a letter for you." And as Clare took it, tearing it open, "Glad nothin' 's gone wrong.—Is that good news?"

Clare thrust the letter into her dress. "Oh, just another singing engagement," she answered. And went back to the heap of muslin on the sewing-machine.

Tottie's face reddened beyond the circumference of her rouge spots. She took a long step in Clare's direction, and laid a hand on her arm. "Now, look here!" she said threateningly. "You're lyin' about this move!"

"I'm not! I'm not!"

"Somebody's been knockin' me."

"No. Nonsense!" Clare tried to free her arm.

But Tottie only held her the tighter. "Then why are you goin'?"

"I've told you.—Please, Tottie!" Again she strove to loosen the other's grip, seeing which Barbara, fearing for her Aunt Clare, cast aside her doll and ran to stand beside the younger woman, trembling a little, and ready to burst into tears.

"Aw, you can't fool me!" declared Tottie.

"I don't want to!"

Tottie thrust her face close to Clare's. "You've got your marchin' orders!"

"What do you—you mean?" The other choked; her look wavered.

"You're on the run."

"I am not! No!"

Tottie's voice lowered, losing its harshness, and took on a wheedling tone. "But you never have to run," she informed slyly, "if you've got the goods on somebody." She winked.

"I—I haven't."

"Stick—and fight—and cash in."

"Tottie!" Clare stared, appalled.

"O-o-o-oh!"—sneeringly. "Pullin' the goody-goody stuff, eh?"

"Let me go! Let me go!"

"Auntie Clare!" With the cry of fear, Barbara came between them, catching at the elder woman's arm.

Tottie loosed her hold and went back to the mantel to lean and look. Clare drew out a drawer of the small center-table, searched it, and laid a hand-mirror beside the cage.

"What'll be your new address?"

"I'll send it to you."

The landlady began to whine. "Ain't that just my rotten luck! Another room empty!—you know you oughta give me a week's notice."

"Oh, I'll pay you for it," answered Clare, bitterly.

"Well, I don't want to gouge you, dearie. And I don't know what I'll do when you're gone. I've just learned to love you.—And with summer comin' on, goodness knows how I'm goin' to rent that back-parlor. It's hard to run a respectable house and keep it full. Now as I say, if I was careless, I——"

But what Miss St. Clair might have been moved to do under such conditions was not forthcoming, for now steps were heard, climbing to the front door. Next, a man's voice spoke. Then the bell rang.

"Wait! Wait!" As she warned Tottie, Clare crossed to the bay-window at a run.

"Maybe here's a new roomer," suggested the hopeful landlady.

But Clare had pressed aside the heavy curtain framing the window until she could command the stoop. Two men were waiting there. "Oh!" she breathed, almost reeling back upon Tottie. "Oh, don't let 'em in! Don't! I can't see anybody! Say I'm gone! Oh, please, Tottie! I'm gone for good." She was beside Barbara again, and was almost lifting the child from the floor by an arm. Then she reached for the bird-cage.

"Friends of yours?" questioned Tottie. She also peeked out.

"No! No!"—and to Barbara, "Come! Don't you speak! Don't open your mouth! Not a word!" Taking the child with her, she fled into her own room, closing the door.

The bell rang again, but Tottie took her time. Going to the fireplace, she turned "The Lorelei" to the wall; then slipping the shawl from her shoulders, she draped it carelessly over the plaster statuette of the diving-girl. After which she stepped back, appraised the effect, and went to open the front door to a large, ill-tempered man in a loose sack suit, and a young man, tall and white to ghastliness, whose nostrils quivered and whose mouth was scarcely more than a blue line.

"Good-morning," began Balcome, entering without being asked.

"Won't you step in?" begged Tottie, pointedly.

The door to the back-parlor had opened to a crack. And a face distorted with fear looked through the narrow opening. Clare heard the invitation, and the entering men. She shut the door softly.

Tottie followed her visitors. This was a transformed Tottie—all airs and graces, with just the touch of the dramatic that might be expected from a great "star." Indeed, she paused a moment, framed by the doorway, and waited before delivering her accustomed preamble. She smiled at the elder man, who returned a scowl. She bestowed a brighter smile on Wallace, who failed to see it, but licked at his lips, and smoothed his throat, like a man suddenly gone dry. Then she entered, slowly, gracefully, allowing the teagown to trail.

"As I say," she began, turning her head from side to side with what was intended to be a pretty movement, "—as I say, it's a real joy to room your theatrical friends. Because they fetch y' such swell callers."

Balcome, with no interest in this information, aimed toward Wallace a gesture that was meant to start the matter in hand.

Wallace rallied his wits. "Is Miss—er—Crosby at home?" he asked.

"Miss Crosby," repeated Tottie, with her very best honey-huskiness; "oh, she don't rent here no more."

He reddened in an excess of relief.

"She don't?" mocked Balcome, glaring at the teagown.

"Nope," went on the landlady, mistaking his attention for a compliment, and simpering a little, with a quick fluttering of her lids; "took all her stuff.—Hm!" Now she let her eyes play side-wise, toward that double door behind Balcome.

He took the hint. "I see."

"And, oh, I'm goin' to miss her! Her first name bein' Clare, and my last name bein' St. Clair, I always feel, somehow, that she's a sorta relation."

Balcome went nearer to the double door. "And you don't know where she's living now?" He raised his voice a little. Then with Wallace gaping in amazement, he put a hand into a pocket and brought out several bills. He gave these a flirtatious wave before Tottie's eyes. "You don't know?"

"Say, y' don't expect me to tell y', do y'?" she inquired, also raising her voice. Those eyes sparkled with greed.

"Of course I expect you to tell me," Balcome mocked again, sliding the bills into a coat pocket.

"Well, she didn't leave her new address." Out came a beringed hand.

"Didn't she?" Once more Balcome displayed the money.

"No, she said she'd send it." Then pointing toward the double door, her fingers closed on the bribe.

Wallace gulped, looking about him at the carpet, like a creature in misery that would lie down.

Balcome was taking a turn about the room. "So she's gone," he said. "Too bad! Too bad! And no address." Presently, as he came close to the door again, he gave one half of it a sudden, wrenching pull. It opened, and disclosed Clare, crouched to listen, one knee on the floor.

"No! Don't!" It was Tottie, pretending to interfere.

"O-o-oh!" Clare scrambled to her feet. But contrary to what might have been expected, she almost hurled herself into the room, shut the door at her back, and stood against it.

Tottie addressed herself angrily to Balcome. "Say, look-a here! This ain't the way out!"

"My mistake," apologized Balcome. Then with a look at Wallace that was full of meaning, he retired to the hearth, planted his shoulders against the mantel at Tottie's favorite vantage point, and surveyed Clare. "We thought you were gone," he remarked good-naturedly. He bobbed at her, with a flop of the big hat against his leg.

She made no reply, only waited, breathing hard, her eyes now on Wallace, now on Tottie. To the former, her glance was a warning.

He understood. "We'd—we'd like to see Miss Crosby alone," he said curtly, for by another wave of the hat Balcome had given him the initiative.

"Yes—go, Tottie."

Miss St. Clair turned, her gown trailing luxuriously. "I seem to be in the way today," she laughed, with an attempt at coquetry. Then to Clare, "I'm your friend, pettie. If you need me——"

The younger man could no longer contain himself. "Oh, she told us you were here!" he cried.

"Tottie!"

"It's a lie!—a lie!" She swept past him, her face ugly with resentment. And to Clare, "Don't you let this feller put anything over on you, kid."

"All right, madam! All right!" Wallace's fingers twitched. He was ready to thrust her from the room.

She went, with a backward look intended to reduce him; and shut the door. As he followed, opening the door to find that she was actually gone, and leaning out to see her whereabouts farther along the hall, she broke into a raucous laugh.

"Rubber!" she taunted. "Rubber!"

When he had shut the door again, and faced about, he kept hold of the knob, as if supported by it. "I—I felt you'd like to know, Miss Crosby," he commenced, forcing himself to speak evenly, "that Mr. Farvel is over there at the Rectory."

"Oh!" She put a hand to her head, waited a moment, then—"I—I thought—maybe when—I saw you."

"I knew that was why you left." He was more at ease now, and came toward her. "Do you want to see him?"

"No! No!" She put out both hands, pleadingly. "I don't want anything to do with him! I don't want him to know I'm in New York. Promise me! Promise!"

Wallace looked down. "Well,—it isn't my affair," he said slowly.

Mrs. Colter bustled in, a package swinging from one hand by a holder. "Oh, excuse me!" she begged, coming short.

Clare ran to her in a panic. "Oh, go! Go!" she ordered almost fiercely. "Go home! Don't wait! Hurry!" Then as Mrs. Colter, scared and bewildered, attempted to pass, "No! Go 'round! Go 'round!"

"Yes," faltered the other, dropping and picking up her bundle as Clare shoved her hallward; "yes." She fled.

"Close the door!" cried Clare. And as Wallace obeyed, she again went to stand against the panels of the double door. She seemed in a very fever of anxiety. "Please go now, Wallace," she begged. "Please! I'm much obliged to you for coming. It was kind. But if you'll go——" Her voice broke hysterically.

He glanced at Balcome, and the elder man nodded in acquiescence. "We'll go," said Wallace. "I'm glad to have seen you again." He moved away, and Balcome went with him. "But I hoped I could do something for you——"

"There's nothing,"—eagerly. "If you'll just go."

"Well, good-by, then."

"Good-by. Good-by, Mr. Balcome."

"Good-by," grumbled Balcome.

Wallace's hand was on the knob when a child's voice piped up from beyond the door—a voice ready to tremble into tears, and full of pleading. "But I want to kiss her," it cried.

Clare fairly threw herself forward to keep the two men from leaving. "Wait! Wait!" she implored in a whisper.

"She's busy, I tell you!"—it was Mrs. Colter. "Now come along."

Something brushed the outer panels; then, "Good-by, Aunt Clare!" piped the little voice again.

"Come! Come!" scolded Mrs. Colter.

Now a sound of weeping, and whispers—Mrs. Colter entreating obedience, and making promises; next, a choking final farewell—"Good-by, Aunt Clare!"

"Good-by," answered Clare, hollowly.

As the weeping grew louder, and the outer door shut, Wallace went toward the bay-window, slowly, as if drawn by a force he could not master. He put a shaking hand to a curtain and moved it aside a space. Then leaning, he stared out at the sobbing child descending the steps.

When he turned his face was a dead white. His look questioned Clare in agony. "Who—— That—that—your niece?" he stammered.

"She's my sister's little girl," answered Clare, almost glibly. She was recovering her composure, now that Barbara was out of the house.

"A-a-ah!" Wallace took out a handkerchief and wiped at his face. Then without looking at Clare, "Isn't there something I can do for you?"

"No. No, thank you. I've got relatives here with me. I'm all right." She took a chair by the table, and began to play with the mirror, by turns blowing on it, and polishing it against the folds of her dress.

He watched her in silence for a moment. It was plain that she was anxious to detain them until she felt certain that the child had left the block and was out of sight. He helped her plan. Standing between them, Balcome vaguely sensed that they had an understanding and resented it. His under lip pushed out belligerently.

"I wish you'd let me know if there is anything," said the younger man, his tone conventionally polite.

"Yes. I'll—I'll write." She controlled a sarcastic smile.

"In care of the Rectory," he directed. "Will you? I want to help you in any way I can. I mean it."

Now Clare rose. "Good-by," she said pleasantly. "I'm sorry I rushed out the way I did today. But—you understand." She extended a hand.

"Of course," he answered, scarcely touching the tips of her fingers. "Yes."

"I wish you the best of luck." She bowed, and again to Balcome.

Balcome returned the bow sulkily. And turning his back as if to leave, gave a quick glance round in time to see her make the other a warning sign.

At this juncture, the hall door swung wide, and Tottie appeared, head high with suppressed excitement, and face alive with curiosity. "Here's another caller, Miss Crosby," she announced. At her back was Sue.

Clare retreated, frowning.

Sue, breathless from hurrying, and embarrassed, halted, panting and smiling, in the doorway. "Oh, dear! This dress never was meant for anything faster than a wedding-march!"—this with that characteristic look—the look of a child discovered in naughtiness, and entreating forgiveness.

"Say, ain't you pop'lar!" broke in Tottie, shaking her head at Clare in playful envy. And to Sue, "Y' know, all my theatrical friends 're just crazy about her. They'll hate to see her go."

"Go?" repeated Sue, sobering.

"Tottie!" cried Clare, angrily. "Please! Never mind!" Peremptorily she pointed her to leave.

Tottie, having accomplished her purpose, grinned a good-natured assent. "All right, dearie,"—once more she was playing the fine lady, for the edification of this new arrival so well worth impressing. "I call this my rehearsal room," she informed, with a polite titter. "Pretty idea, ain't it? Well,"—with a sweeping bow all around—"make yourselves to home." She went out, one jeweled hand raised ostentatiously to her back hair.

There was a moment's pause; then Sue held out an impulsive hand to the younger woman. "Oh, you're not going to leave without seeing him," she implored.

"Who do you mean?"—sullenly.

"Alan Farvel."

Clare's eyes flashed. "Does he know you came?"

"No."

Clare turned to Wallace. "Does your sister know my real name?" she asked.

His pale face worked in a spasm. He coughed and swallowed. "N-n-no," he stammered.

"Now—just—wait—a—minute!" It was Balcome. He approached near enough to Wallace to slap him smartly on the shoulder with the hat. "You—told—me——"

"What does it matter?" argued the other. "One name's as good as another."

Balcome said no more. But he exchanged a look with Sue.

She glanced from Clare to Wallace, puzzled and troubled. Then, "I—I—don't know what this is all about," she ventured, "and I don't want to know. I just want to tell you, Miss Crosby, that—that he grieves for you—terribly. Oh, see him again! Forgive him if he's done anything! Give him another chance!"

"You're talking about something you don't understand," answered Clare, rudely.

Sue shook her head. "Well, I think I know a broken heart when I see one," she returned simply.

To that, Clare made no reply. "These gentlemen are going," she said. "And I wish you'd go too."

"Then I can't help him—and you?"

In sudden rage, Clare came toward her, voice raised almost to a shout. "Help! Help! Help!" she mocked. "I don't want help! I want to be let alone!—And I can't waste any more time. You'll have to excuse me!" She faced about abruptly and disappeared into her own room, banging the door.

Sue lowered her head, and knitted her brows in a look of defeat that was almost comical. "Well," she observed presently, "as Ikey says, 'Always you can't do it.'"

Seeing the way clear for himself, her brother's attitude became more sure. "I'm afraid you've only made things worse," he declared.

Balcome flapped his hat. "We had her in pretty good temper—for a woman."

Thus championed, the younger man grew even bolder. "And I thought you were going to keep out of this," he went on; "you promised mother——"

Now of a sudden, Sue lost that manner at once apologetic and childlike. "When did you know Miss Crosby?" she demanded of Wallace, sharply. "How long ago?"

"The year I met Alan.—I was eighteen."

"And you didn't have anything to do with this trouble? You're not responsible in any way?"

"Now why are you coming at me?" expostulated her brother. There was an unpleasant whine in his voice.

But Balcome failed to note it. "By golly!" he complained. "Women are all alike!"

"I'm coming at you," explained Sue, "because I know Alan Farvel. And I don't believe he could do any woman such a hurt that she wouldn't want to see him again, or forgive him. That's why."

"But you think I could! I must say, you're a nice sister!"

"I must say that your whole attitude today has been curious, to put it mildly."

"If I don't satisfy your woman's curiosity, you get even by putting me in the wrong." Again there was that unpleasant whine.

"No. But Mr. Farvel was relieved when he thought you had told me about this matter. And the fact is, you haven't told me at all."

He was cornered. His tall figure sagged. And his eyes fell before his sister's. "I—I," he began. Then in an outburst, "It's Hattie I'm thinking of! Hattie!"

"Ah, as if I don't think of Hattie!" Sue's voice trembled. "I want to think you've had nothing to do with this. I couldn't bear it if anything hurt her—her happiness—with you."

Outside, the stairs creaked heavily. Then sounded a bang, bang, as of some heavy thing falling. Next came Tottie's voice, shrill, and strangely triumphant: "Hey there! You're tryin' to sneak! Yes, you are! And you haven't paid me!"

Sue understood. She opened the hall door, and took her place beside Clare as if to defend her. The latter could not speak, but stood, a pathetic figure, holding to a suitcase with one hand, and with the other carrying the bird-cage.

"Get back in there!" ordered Tottie, beginning to descend from the upper landing.

Clare obeyed, Sue helping her with the suitcase. "I'll send the money," she pleaded. "I—I meant to. Oh, Tottie!"

Tottie was down by now, scowling and nursing a foot, for she had slipped. She made "shooing" gestures at Clare.

"How much does Miss Crosby owe you?" asked Sue, getting between Clare and the landlady.

"Sixteen dollars—and some telephone calls."

"Let me——" It was Wallace. He ran a hand into a pocket.

Sue warned him with a look. "Mr. Balcome will lend it," she said.

Balcome did not wait to be asked. From an inside coat pocket he produced a black wallet fat with bills, and pulled away the rubber band that circled it.

Tottie viewed the wallet with greedy eyes. "And there's some laundry," she supplemented; "and Mrs. Colter's lunch today—just before you come in, Clare,—and Barbara's."

Clare implored her to stop by a gesture. "Twenty," she said to Balcome. "I'll pay it back."

Sue took the bills that Balcome held out, and gave them to Tottie. "Keep the change," she suggested, anxious to get the woman away.

Tottie recovered her best air. "Wouldn't mention such small items," she explained, "but it's been a bad season, and I haven't had one engagement—not one. As I say,——"

"Don't apologize. I can tell a generous woman when I see one." This with a hearty smile.

Tottie simpered, shoved the money under the lace of her bodice, and backed out—as a bell began to ring somewhere persistently.

Clare had set down the suitcase and the cage. As Sue closed the door and turned to her, the sight of that lowered head and bent shoulders brought the tears to her eyes. "You want to get away?" she asked gently; "you want to be lost again?"

The other straightened. "What if I do!" she cried, angrily. "It's my own business, isn't it? Why don't you mind yours?"

"Now look here!" put in Balcome, advancing to stand between the two. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Miss Milo came with the kindest intentions in the world——"

"No, no," pleaded Sue. And to Clare, "I'm going. I haven't wanted to make you unhappy. And, oh, if you're alone——"

"Rot!" interrupted Balcome, impatiently. "She's got relatives right here in the house." He shuffled his feet and swung his hat.

"I have not!"

Balcome puffed his cheeks with astonishment and anger, and appealed to Wallace. "Didn't she say so?" he demanded. "And that child called her Aunt Clare."

"A—child," repeated Sue, slowly. "A—child?"

"My—my brother's little girl."

"A-a-a-ah!" taunted Balcome. "And ten minutes ago, it was her sister's little girl." He laughed.

"My sister-in-law!"—she fairly screamed at him. "Oh, I wish you'd go—all of you! How dare you shove your way in here! Haven't I suffered enough? And you hunt me down! And torture me! Torture me!" Wildly, she made as if to drive them out, pushing Sue from her; gasping and sobbing.

"Wallace!—Mr. Balcome!" Backing out of Clare's reach, Sue took the two men with her.

"Go!—Go!—Go!" It was hysteria, or a very fair imitation of it.

Then of a sudden, while her arms were yet upraised, she looked past the three who were retreating and through the door now opening at their back. Another trio was in the hall—Tottie, important and smiling; Mrs. Milo, elbowing her way ahead of the landlady to hear and see; and with her, Farvel, grave, concerned, wondering.

"More visitors!" hailed Tottie.

"Susan, I distinctly told you——"

Clare's look fastened on Farvel. She went back a few steps unsteadily, until the door to her own room stopped her. There she hung, as it were, pallid and open-mouthed.

And Farvel made no sound. He came past the others until he stood directly in front of the drooping, suffering creature against the panels. His look was the look of a man who sees a ghost.

Wallace, with quick foresight, had closed the hall door against Tottie. But the others had no thought except for the meeting between Farvel and Clare. Mrs. Milo, quite within the embrasure of the bay-window, looked on like a person at an entertainment. Her glance, plainly one of delight, now darted from Farvel to Clare, from Clare to Sue.

With Balcome it was curiosity mixed with hope—the hope that here was what would completely absolve Wallace, who was waiting, all bent and shaken.

Sue stood with averted eyes, as if she felt she should not see. Her face was composed. There was something very like resignation in the straight hanging down of her arms, in the bowed attitude of her figure.

Thus the six for a moment. Then Farvel crumpled and dropped to the settee. "Laura!" he said, as if to himself; "Laura!"

"Oh, it's all over! It's all over!" she quavered.



CHAPTER VII

On those rare occasions of stress when Mrs. Milo did not choose to feel that the unforeseen and unpleasant was aimed purposely at herself and her happiness, she could assume another attitude. It was then her special boast that she was able invariably to summon the proper word that could smooth away embarrassments, lessen strain, and in general relieve any situation: she knew how to be tactful; how to make peace: she had, she explained, that rare quality known as "poise."

Now with Clare Crosby swagging against the double door of Tottie's back-parlor, watching Farvel through despairing eyes, and admitting with trembling lips her own defeat; with Farvel seemingly overcome by being brought thus suddenly face to face with the soloist, Mrs. Milo experienced such complete satisfaction that she seized upon this opportunity as one well calculated to exhibit strikingly her judgment, balance, and sagacity; her good taste and pious gentleness.

"Ah, Mr. Farvel!" she cried, in that playfully teasing tone she was often pleased to affect. "Aren't you glad you came?—Oh, I guessed your little secret! I guessed you were interested in Miss Crosby!"

At the sound of her own name, Clare took her eyes from Farvel and turned them upon Mrs. Milo—turned them slowly, as a sick person might—with effort, and an almost feeble lifting of the head. Her look once focused, she began, little by little, to straighten, to stand more firmly on her feet; she even reached to flatten the starched collar, which had upreared behind her slender throat.

Mrs. Milo went twittering on: "Where you're concerned, trust us to be anxious, dear Mr. Farvel. That's how we came to guess. Isn't it, my daughter?"

Sue did not move. "Yes, mother," she answered obediently; "yes."

Farvel got up. "Mrs. Milo," he began, "I intend to be quite frank with you all. And I feel I ought to tell you that this young woman——"

"Alan!"

It was Clare who protested, almost in a scream, and with a forward start which Wallace also made—involuntarily.

Farvel shook his head and threw out both hands in a helpless gesture. "They'd better hear all about it," he said.

"You listen to me!" she returned. "This is nobody's business but ours. Do you understand? Just ours."

Mrs. Milo interrupted, with an ingratiating smile. "Still, Mr. Farvel is the Rector of our Church. Naturally, he wishes to be quite above-board"—she laid emphasis on the words—"even in his personal affairs."

"No!" Clare came past Farvel, taking her stand between him and Mrs. Milo almost defensively. "No, I tell you! No! No! No!"

Sue went to her mother. "Miss Crosby is right," she urged quietly. "This is a private matter between her and Mr. Farvel. It goes back quite a way in their lives, doesn't it?" She turned to the clergyman. "Before you came to the Rectory, and before mother and I knew you? So it can't be anything that concerns us, and we haven't any right to know"—this as Mrs. Milo seemed about to protest again. "I'm right, mother. And we're going—both of us."

"We-e-e-ll,"—it was Farvel, uncertain, and troubled.

"Alan, not now," broke in Wallace; "—later."

"May I have another word?" inquired Mrs. Milo, with an inflection that said she had so far been utterly excluded from voicing her opinions. "Mr. Farvel,——"

But Clare did not wait for the clergyman to give his permission. "I say no," she repeated defiantly. And to Farvel, "Please consider me, will you? I'm not going to have a lot of hypocrites gossiping about me!"—this with a pointed stare at the elder woman.

"And, Alan, you said yourself,"—it was Wallace again—"there'll be talk. You don't want that."

Balcome, standing behind Wallace, suddenly laid a hand on his arm. "Say, what's your part in this trouble?" he demanded. "You seem excited."

"Why—why—I haven't any part."

Balcome shrugged, and flopped the big hat. "Not any, eh?" he said. "Hm!" By a lift of his eyebrows, and a jerk of the head, he invited Farvel to take a good look at Wallace.

Farvel seemed suddenly to waken. He shook a pointed finger. "You knew she was alive!" he declared.

"He didn't! He did not!" Again Clare was fiercely on the defense.

"No! On my honor!" vowed Wallace.

Sue made a warning gesture. "Listen, everybody," she cautioned. "Suppose we go back to the Rectory." And to Clare, "You and Mr. Farvel can talk with more privacy there."

A quick hand touched her. "Susan," whispered Mrs. Milo.

She had support in her protest. "I'm not going back to any Rectory," Clare asserted.

"Back?" repeated Farvel, astonished. "Back? Then you—you were the soloist?"

"Yes.—Oh, why did I go! Why didn't I ever find out! Milo—it isn't a common name. And I might have known! I'm a fool! A fool! But I needed the engagement. And I'd been there before, and I thought it was all right."

"What has 'Milo' to do with it?" asked Sue.

"This—this: I knew that Wallace knew Alan. So—so when I saw Wallace there, I was sure Alan was there. And I left. That's all." She went back to the chair by the table and sat.

"You walked right into my house!" marveled Farvel; "—after all the years I've searched for you!"

"Ha! ha!—Just my luck!" She crossed her feet and folded her arms.

There was a pause.

Wallace was plainly in misery, at times holding his breath, again almost blowing, like a man after a run. He shifted uneasily. The sweat stood out on his white temples, and he brushed the drops into his hair.

Of a sudden, Farvel turned to him. "Why didn't you tell me it was Laura?" he demanded. "You saw her there—you came here—why didn't you ask me to come?"

"Well," faltered Wallace, "I—I don't know why I didn't. I'm sorry. It was just—just——" His voice seemed to go from him. He swallowed.

Now, Farvel's manner changed. His face darkened, and grew stern. "There's something here that I don't understand," he said, angrily.

Clare sprang up. "Oh, drop it, will you?" she asked rudely; "—before all this crowd."

Farvel turned on her fiercely. "No, I won't drop it! I want this thing cleared up!" And to Wallace again, "For ten years you know how I've searched. And in the beginning, you know better than anyone else in the whole world how I suffered. And yet today, when you found Laura, you failed to tell me—me, of all persons!" His voice rose to a shout. "Why, it's monstrous!"

"And I want this thing cleared up, too," put in Balcome. "Wallace, you're going to marry my daughter. Why did you lie to me about this young woman's name?"

Mrs. Milo went to take her place beside her son. "Do you mean," she demanded, "that you're both trying to find my dear boy at fault?—to cover someone else's wrongdoing." She stared at Farvel defiantly.

"Please, mother!" Wallace pushed her not too gently aside. Then he faced the other men, his features working with the effort of control. "Well, it—it was for—for Miss Crosby's sake," he explained. "I knew she didn't want to be found—I knew it because she was so scared when she saw me, and ran. And—and then Hattie; you know Hattie's never cared an awful lot for me. And I was afraid—I was afraid she might—she might wonder——" He choked.

"Hattie," repeated Balcome.

A strange look came into Farvel's eyes. "What has Miss Balcome to do with it?" he asked.

"Nothing! Nothing!"—it was Clare. She gave Wallace a warning glance.

"I thought it might worry her," he added, weakly.

Farvel seemed to sense a falsehood. "You can't convince me," he said. "You've known the truth all along—ever since she went away. And you know why she went.—Don't you? Don't you?" Again his voice rose. He advanced almost threateningly.

"No! No! I swear it!"

"No!" echoed Clare.

"This is disgraceful!" cried Mrs. Milo, appealing to Balcome.

"Oh, go home, mother!" entreated her son, ungratefully.

Sue added her plea. "Yes, let's all go. Because you're all speaking pretty loud, and our hostess is a lady of considerable curiosity. Come—let's return to the Rectory."

"Susan!" stormed Mrs. Milo. Then, more quietly, "Please think of your mother's wishes. Mr. Farvel and Mr. Balcome are right. Let us clear up this matter before we return."

Clare burst into a loud laugh. "Ha-a-a! Talk about curiosity!" she mocked. And went back to her chair.

Sue reddened under the taunt. "Well, I, for one, don't wish to know your private affairs," she declared. "So I'm going."

"Susan!—You may leave the room if you desire to do so. But you will remain within call."

"I'd rather go home, mother."

"You will obey me."

"Very well."

"Mm!" Mrs. Milo, plainly gratified, seated herself in the rocker.

"If there's anything I can do for you, Miss Crosby, just ask me." Sue forbore looking at Farvel. She was pale again now, as if with weariness. But she smiled.

Clare did not even look round. Beside her was the canary, his shining black eyes keeping watch on the group of strangers as he darted from cage bottom to perch, or hung, fluttering and apprehensive, against the wires of his home. Clare lifted the cage to her knee and encircled it with an arm.

Balcome caught Sue's eye, made a comical grimace, and patted her on the arm. "As this seems to concern my girl," he explained, "I'm here to stay." He dropped into a chair by the hearth.

Sue went out.

Clare was quite herself by now. She disdained to look at anyone save Farvel, and the smile she gave him over a shoulder was scornful. "Well, shoot!" she challenged. "Let's not take all day."

"Why did you leave without a word?" he asked.

"You mean today?—I told you."

"I mean ten years ago."

"Well, if you want to know, I was tired of being cooped up, so I dug out."

"Cooped up!" exclaimed Farvel, bitterly.

"I guess you know it! And Church! Church! Church! And prayers three times a day! And a small town! Oh, it was deadly!"

"No other reason?" asked Farvel, coldly.

She got up, suddenly impatient. "I've told you the truth!" she cried. Then more quietly, seeing how white and drawn he looked, "I'm sorry it worried you." She set the cage on a chair near the double door.

"Worried!" echoed Farvel, bitterly. "Ha! ha!" And with significance, "And who was concerned in your going?"

"That's a nice thing for you to insinuate!" she returned hotly.

"I beg your pardon."

Mrs. Milo fell to rocking nervously. She was enjoying the situation to the full; still—the attitude of Farvel toward this young woman was far from lover-like; while her attitude toward him was marked by hatred badly disguised. Hence an unpleasant and unwelcome thought: What if this "Laura" turned out to be only a relative of the clergyman's!

Farvel's apology moved Clare to laughter. "Oh, that's all right," she assured him, impudently; "I understand. The more religious people are, you know, the more vile are their suspicions"—this with a mocking glance at Mrs. Milo.

The green velour rocker suddenly stood still, and Mrs. Milo fairly glared at the girl. Clare, seeing that she had gained the result she sought, grinned with satisfaction, and resumed her chair.

Farvel had not noticed what passed between the two women. He was watching Wallace. "And you——" he began presently.

The younger man straightened, writhed within his clothes as if he were in pain, and went back to his stooping position once more—all with that swiftness which was so like the effect of an electrical current. "Alan," he whispered.

"—What had you to do with it?" went on the clergyman.

Clare scoffed. "Wallace had nothing to do with it," she declared. "What in the dickens is the matter with you?"

"Nothing to do with it?" repeated Farvel. Then, with sudden fury, "Look at him!" He made for Wallace, pushing aside a chair that was not in his way.

"Alan! Stop!" Clare rose, and Mrs. Milo rose, too.

"Come now, Wallace," Farvel said more quietly. "I want the truth."

Mrs. Milo hastened to her son. "Darling, I know you haven't done anything wrong," she said, tenderly. "This 'friend' is trying to shift the blame. Stand up for yourself, my boy. Mother believes in you."

Wallace's chin sank to his breast. At the end of his long arms, his hands knotted and unknotted like the hands of a man in agony.

"My dearest!" comforted his mother. His suffering was evidence of guilt to Balcome and Farvel; to her it was grief, at having been put under unjust suspicion.

He lifted a white face. His eyes were streaming now, his whole body trembling pitifully. "Oh, what'll I do!" he cried. "What'll I do!" He tottered to the chair that Farvel had shoved aside, dropped into it, and covered his face with both hands.

"My boy! My boy!"

"Don't act like a baby!" Clare came to him, and gave him a smart slap on the shoulder. "Cut it out! You haven't done anything."

"Just a moment," interrupted Farvel. He shoved her out of the way as impersonally as he had the chair. Then, "What do you mean by 'What'll do'?" he demanded. And to Clare, pulling at his arm, "Let me alone, I tell you. I'm going to know what's back of this!—Wallace Milo!"

Slowly Wallace got up. His cheeks were wet. His mouth was distorted, like the mouth of a woeful small boy. His throat worked spasmodically, so that the cords stood out above his collar.

Clare defended him fiercely. "What've you got into your head?" she asked Farvel. "You're wrong! You're dead wrong!—Wallace, tell him he's wrong!"

Wallace shook his head. "No," he said, striving to speak evenly; "no, I won't. All these years I've suffered, too. I've wanted to make a clean breast of it a million times—to get it off my conscience. Now, I can. I"—he braced himself to go on—"I was at the Rectory so much, Alan. I think that's how—it started. And—and she was nice to me, and I—I liked her. And we were almost the same age. So——" He could go no further. With a gesture of agonized appeal, he sank to his knees. "Oh, Alan, forgive me!" he sobbed. "Forgive——"

There could be no doubt of his meaning—of the character of his confession. Farvel bent over him, seizing an arm. "Get on your feet!" he shouted. "Get up! Get up, I tell you! I'm going to knock you down!"

"Oh, help! Help!" wept Mrs. Milo, appealing to Balcome, who came forward promptly.

"Farvel!" he admonished. He got between the two men.

Clare was dragging at Farvel. "Blame me!" she cried. "I was older! Blame me!"

Farvel pushed her aside. "Don't try to shield him!" he answered. "He's a dog! A dog!"

A loud voice sounded from the hall. It was Tottie, storming virtuously. "I won't have it!" she cried. "This is my house, and I won't have it!"

Another voice pleaded with her—"Now wait! Please!"

"I'm goin' in there," asserted the landlady. She came pounding against the hall door, opened it, and entered, her bobbed hair lifting and falling with the rush of her coming. "Say! What do you call this, anyhow?" she demanded, shaking off the hand with which Sue was attempting to restrain her.

"Keep out of here," ordered Balcome, advancing upon her boldly.

She met him without flinching. "I won't have no knock-down and drag-out in my house!" she declared. "This is a respectable——"

"Oh, I'm used to tantrums," he retorted. And without more ado, he forced Miss St. Clair backward into the hall, followed her, and shut himself as well as her out of the room.

"I'll have you arrested for this!" she shrilled.

"Oh, shut up!"

Their voices mingled, and became less audible.

"You can't blame her," said Sue. "Really, from out there, it sounded suspiciously like murder." She stared at her brother. He was not kneeling now, but half-sitting, half-lying, in an awkward sprawl, at Farvel's feet, much as if he had thrown himself down in a fit of temper.

Farvel turned to her. His face was set. His eyes were dull, as if a glaze was spread upon them. His hands twitched. But he spoke quietly. "Get this man out of here," he directed, "or I shall kill him."

"Oh, go! Go!" pleaded Mrs. Milo.

"Go!" added Clare. She threw herself into the chair at the table, put her arms on the cloth, and her face in her arms.

Sue ran to Wallace, took his arm and tugged at it, lifting him. He stumbled up, still weeping a little, but weakly. As she turned him toward the hall, he put an arm across her shoulders for support.