Mrs. Milo followed them. She was not in the dark as to the nature of her son's tearful admission. But she had no mind to blame him. Resorting to her accustomed tactics, she put Farvel in the wrong. "I never should have trusted my dear boy to you," she cried. "I thought he would be under good influences in a clergyman's house. Only eighteen, and you make him responsible!"

The door opened, and Balcome was there. He looked at Wallace not unkindly. "Pretty tough luck, young man," he observed.

At sight of Balcome, Mrs. Milo remembered the wedding. "Oh!" she gasped. And turning about to Farvel in a wild appeal, "Oh, Hattie! Think of poor Hattie! Won't you forget yourself in this? Won't you help us to keep it all quiet? Oh, we mustn't ruin her life!" She returned to the rocker, her fingers to her eyes, as if she were pressing back the tears.

Balcome had come in, closing the door. He crossed to Farvel, his big, blowzy face comical in its gravity. "Mr. Farvel," he said, "whatever concerns that young man concerns my—little girl." He blinked with emotion. "So—so that's why I ask, who is this young woman?"

Before Farvel could reply, Clare lifted her head, stood suddenly, and stared Balcome from his disheveled hair to his wide, soft, well-worn shoes. "Oh, allow me, Alan!" she cried. "You know, they're just about to burst, both of 'em!"—for Mrs. Milo was peering at her over a handkerchief, the blue eyes bright with expectancy. "If they don't know the worst in five seconds, there'll be an explosion sure!" She laughed harshly. Then with mock ceremony, and impudently, "Mr. Balcome,—and dear Mrs. Milo, permit me to introduce myself. I am your charming clergyman's beloved bride." She curtsied.

No explosion could have brought Mrs. Milo to her feet with more celerity. While Balcome stumbled backward, the red of his countenance taking on an apoplectic greenish tinge.

"Bride?" he cried.

"Wife?" gasped Mrs. Milo, hollowly.

But almost instantly the blue eyes lighted with a smile. She put back her bonneted head to regard Clare from under lowered lashes. "Ah!" she sighed in relief. No longer was there need to fear publicity for her son; here was a situation that insured against it.

"Yes, you feel better, don't you?" commiserated Clare, sarcastically. "—Tuh!"

Balcome was blinking harder than ever. "Well, I'll be damned!" he vowed under his breath.

By now Mrs. Milo's smile had grown into a clear, joyous, well-modulated laugh. "Oh, ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!—Wife!" she exulted. "That is most interesting! Hm!—And it changes everything, doesn't it?"—this to no one in particular. She reseated herself, studying the floor thoughtfully, finding her glasses meanwhile, and tapping a finger with them gently. "Hm!—Ah!—Yes."

Balcome replied to her, and with no idea of sparing her feelings. "Yes, that puts quite a different face on things," he agreed; "—on what Wallace has done. The home of his best friend!"

"Let's not talk about it!" begged Farvel.

"All right, Mr. Farvel," answered Balcome, soothingly. "But my Hattie's happiness—that's what I'm thinking of." He came nearer to Clare now. "And before I go," he said to her, "I'd like to ask you one more question."

"Oh, you would!" she retorted ironically. "Well, I'm not going to answer any more questions. I've got a lot to do. And I want to be let alone." She made as if to go.

"Wait!" commanded Farvel.

She flushed angrily. "Well? Well? Well?" she demanded, her voice rising.

"We shan't trouble you again," assured the clergyman, more kindly.

"Then spit it out!" she cried to Balcome. "I want to know," began Balcome, eyeing her keenly, "just whose child that is?"

It was Farvel's turn to gasp. "Child?" he echoed.

Mrs. Milo straightened against the green velours. "A child?" she said in turn.

"You know who I mean," declared Balcome, not taking his look from Clare. "That little girl who called you Auntie."

She tried to speak naturally. "That—that—she's a friend's child—a friend's child from up-State."

"You told us she was your sister's child," persisted Balcome.

She took refuge in a burst of temper. "Well, what if I did? I'm liable to say anything—to you!"

There was a pause. Farvel watched Clare, but she looked down, not trusting herself to meet his eyes. As for Balcome, he had reached a conclusion that did not augur well for the happiness of his daughter. And his gaze wandered miserably.

Curiously enough, not a hint occurred to Mrs. Milo that this new turn of affairs might have some bearing on her son. She found her voice first. "Ah, Mr. Balcome," she said sadly, nodding as she put away her glasses, "it's just as I told Sue: it's always the same story when a girl drops out of sight!"

"Oh, is that so!" returned the younger woman, wrathfully. "Well, it just happens, madam, that I was married."

"Laura!" entreated Farvel. "You mean—you mean the child is—ours?"

She tossed her head. "Is it bad news?" she asked.

Farvel's shoulders were shaking. "A-a-a-ah!" he murmured. He fumbled for a handkerchief, crumbled it, and held it against his face.

"My dear Mrs. Farvel," began Mrs. Milo, in her best manner, "believe me when I say that I'm very glad to hear all this. I know what the temptations of this great city are, and naturally——" She got up. "A reunited family, Mr. Farvel," she said, smiling graciously. "Oh, Susan will be so pleased!" She fluttered toward the door, "So pleased!"

Clare gave a hissing laugh. "Oh, how that news will scatter!" she exclaimed. And flounced into her chair.

Mrs. Milo was calling into the hall. "Susan! Susan dear!"

"On guard!" Sue was part way up the stairs, seated.

"Just a moment, my daughter." Leaving the door wide, Mrs. Milo came fluttering back. "It really didn't surprise me," she declared, with a wise nod at Balcome. "I half guessed a marriage."

"Hope for the worst!" mocked Clare.

Sue came in, with a quick look around. "Are you ready to go, mother?"

"You bet, mother is not ready to go,"—this Clare, under her breath.

"My dear," said her mother, sweetly, "we have called you in to tell you some good news."

Sue smiled. "I could manage to bear up under quite a supply of good news." Farvel was brushing at his eyes. His face was averted, but she guessed that he had been crying.

"First of all, Susan, Miss Crosby is——"

"Now, mother, does Miss Crosby want——"

"Wa-a-ait! Please! It is something she wishes you to know.—Am I right?" This with that characteristic smile so wholly muscular.

"Right as the mail!" assured Clare, ironically again, and borrowing an expression learned from Hull.

"Ah! Thank you!—Susan, Miss Crosby is not Miss Crosby at all. She is married.—I'm so glad your husband has found you, my dear."

"Found? You—you don't mean——" There was a frightened look in Sue's eyes.

Her mother misunderstood the look. "Yes, lucky Mr. Farvel," she said, beaming. Then with precision, since Sue seemed not to comprehend, "Mrs.—Alan—Farvel."

"I—see."

"Didn't I practically guess that Mr. Farvel was married?"

"Married,"—it was like an echo.

"And I was right!"

"Yes, mother,—yes—you're—you're always right."

"Mr. Farvel, we congratulate you!—Don't we, dear?"

"Congratulations."

Something in Sue's face made Farvel reach out his hand to her. She took it mechanically. Thus they stood, but not looking at each other.

Once more Mrs. Milo was playfully teasing. "Why shouldn't we all know that you had a wife?" she twittered. It was as if she had added, "You bad, bad boy!"

"Yes," said Sue. "Why not? Rectors do have them. There's no canon against it." She laughed tremulously, and dropped his hand.

Clare tossed her head. "There ought to be!" she declared.

At that, Mrs. Milo threw out both arms dramatically. "Oh! Oh, dear!" she cried. "I've just thought of something!"

"I'll bet!" Clare turned, instantly apprehensive.

"Save it, mother!" begged Sue, eager to avert whatever might be impending; "—save it till we get home. Come! Mr. and Mrs. Farvel will have things to talk over." And to the clergyman, "We'll take Mr. Balcome and go on ahead."

"Now wait!" bade Mrs. Milo, gently. "Why are you so impetuous, daughter? Why don't you listen to your mother? Why do you take it for granted that I want to make Mrs. Farvel unhappy?"—this in a chiding aside.

"I don't, mother."

"Indeed, I am greatly concerned about her. She believed her husband dead, poor girl. And now"—with a sudden, disconcerting turn on Clare—"what about your engagement?"

"I'm—I'm not engaged!" As she sprang up, the girl pressed both hands against the wine-colored velveteen of her skirt, hiding them. "I never said I was! Oh, I wish you'd mind your own business!"

"Mother! Mother!" pleaded Sue. "It was you who said it. Not Miss—Mrs. Farvel. Don't you remember?"

"How could I be engaged?" She was emboldened by Sue's help. "I knew he wasn't—dead."

Farvel laughed a little bitterly. "You mean, no such luck, don't you, Laura?" he asked. "Well, then,—I've got some good news for you."

"What? What?"—with a sudden, eager movement toward him.

"When five years had passed, and no word had come from you, though we all felt that you were alive, your brother—in order to settle the estate—had you declared legally dead. And naturally, that—that——"

"I'm free!" She put up both hands, and lifted her face—almost as if in prayerful thanksgiving. "I'm free! I'm free!" Then she gave way to boisterous laughter, and fell to walking to and fro, waving her arms, and turning her head from side to side. "I'm dead, but I'm free! Oh, ha! ha! ha!—Well, that is good news! Free! And you're free!"

"No, I am not free," he said quietly. "But it doesn't matter."

"You are free," she protested. "Anyhow, I'm not going to let any of that nonsense stand in my way. And don't you—church or no church. Life's too short." Her manner was hurried. She caught at Farvel's arm. "We're both free, Alan, so there's nothing more to say, is there? Except, good-by. Good-by, Alan,——"

Mrs. Milo interrupted. "But the child," she reminded. "Your daughter?"

"Daughter?" Sue turned to Balcome, questioning him, and half-guessing.

"Yes, my dear. Isn't it lovely? Mr. and Mrs. Farvel have a little girl."

"That's the one," Balcome explained, as if Clare was not within hearing. He jerked his head toward the hall. "The one that called her Auntie."

"Auntie?" Mrs. Milo seized upon the information. "You surely don't mean that the child calls her own mother Auntie?"

Clare broke in. "I'll tell you how that is," she volunteered. "You see"—speaking to Sue—"I've never told her I'm her mother. She thinks her mother's in Africa; her father, too. Because—because I've always planned to give her to some good couple—a married couple. Don't you see, as long as Barbara doesn't know, they could say, 'We are your parents.'"

"But you couldn't give her up like that!" cried Sue, earnestly.

"No," purred Mrs. Milo. "You must keep your baby. And, doubtless"—this with the ingratiating smile, the tip of the head, and the pious inflection—"doubtless you two will wish to re-marry—for the sake of the child."

"No!" cried Clare. "No! No! No!"

"No, Mrs. Milo," added Farvel, quietly. "She shall be free."

"No, for Heaven's sake!" put in Balcome. "Don't raise another girl like Hattie's been raised."

Mrs. Milo showed her dislike of the remark, with its implied criticism of her own judgment. And she was uneasy over the turn that the whole matter had taken. Farvel married, no matter to whom, was one thing: Farvel very insecurely tied, and possessed of a small daughter whose mother repudiated her, that was quite another. She watched Sue narrowly, for Sue was watching Farvel.

"But the little one," said the clergyman, turning to Clare; "I'd like to see her."

"Sure!" She was all eagerness. "Why not?—Yes."

"Where is she?"

"Out of town. At Poughkeepsie. She boards with some people."

"Ah, good little mother!" said Sue, smiling. "Your baby's not in an Institution!"

Clare blushed under the compliment. "No, I—I shouldn't like to have her in an Orphanage."

"Can she come down right away?" asked Farvel.

"Yes! Right away! I'll go after her now."

"I'll go with you," suggested Sue. "May I?"

She tried to catch Farvel's eye, to warn him.

"But, Susan," objected Mrs. Milo; "I can't spare you."

"Oh, I can go alone," protested Clare. "I don't need anybody."

Behind her back, Balcome held up a lead-pencil at Sue.

She understood, "We'll send for the baby. Now, what's the address?" She proffered Clare the pencil and an envelope from one of Balcome's sagging pockets. Then to him, as Clare wrote, "Would you mind going back to the Rectory and sending me Dora?"

"Good idea!" He pulled on the big hat.

"Dora?" cried Mrs. Milo. "That child?"

"Child!" laughed Sue. "Why, I'd send her to Japan. You don't think she'd ever succumb to the snares and pitfalls of this wicked world! She'll set the whole train to memorizing Lamentations!"

Mrs. Milo's eyes narrowed. Sue's sudden interest in Farvel's daughter was irritating and disturbing. "Wait, Brother Balcome," she begged. "Sue, I don't see why the little girl's own mother shouldn't go for her."

"Of course, I can."

Balcome waited no longer. With a meaning glance at Sue, and a scowl for Mrs. Milo, he hurried out.

"Oh, let Dora go, Mrs. Farvel," urged Sue. "And meanwhile, you can be getting settled somewhere."

Clare looked pleased. "Yes. All right."

"Then she will leave here?" inquired Mrs. Milo.

"Oh, she must," declared Sue, "if she's going to have her baby come to her." She indicated the suitcase. "Is there more?"

"A trunk. And it won't take me ten minutes." As she turned to go, Clare's look rested on the bird-cage, and she put out a hand toward it involuntarily—then checked her evident wish to take it with her, and disappeared into her own room.

"Where had she better go?" asked Farvel, appealing to Sue. "You'll know best, I'm sure——"

Mrs. Milo fluttered to join them. "Of course," she began, her voice full of sweet concern, "there are organized Homes for young women who've made mistakes——"

"Sh!" cautioned Farvel, with a nervous look toward the double door.

"There's the little one, mother," reminded Sue.

"Oh, but hear me out," begged the elder woman. "In this case, I'm not advising such an institution. I suggest some very nice family hotel."

Sue lowered her voice. "It won't do," she said. "We want to help her—and we want to help the baby. If she goes alone to a hotel, we'll never see her again. Just before you came——" She went close to the double door. Beyond it, someone was moving quickly about, with much rustling of paper. She came tiptoeing back. "She tried to steal away," she whispered.

"I mustn't lose track of my daughter," declared Farvel. He, too, went to listen for sounds from the back-parlor.

"Then we'd better take her right to the Rectory," advised Sue, "and have Barbara brought there."

Mrs. Milo bristled. "Now if you please!" she exclaimed angrily.

Farvel crossed to her, eyeing her determinedly. "I don't see any serious objection," he observed challengingly. "Your son—will not be there."

"You've lost your senses! Have you no regard for the conventions? This woman is your ex-wife!"

"But if there is no publicity—and for just a few days, mother."

Mrs. Milo attempted to square those slender shoulders. "I won't have that girl at the Rectory," she replied with finality.

Farvel smiled. "But the Rectory is my home, Mrs. Milo."

"Oh, for the sake of the child, mother! For no other reason."

"If she comes, I shall leave—leave for good!"

Farvel bowed an acceptance of her edict. "Well, she is coming," he said firmly; "and so is Barbara."

"Then I shan't sleep under that roof another night!" Mrs. Milo trembled with wrath. "Come, Susan! We shall do some packing." She bustled to the hall door, but paused there to right her bonnet—an excuse for delaying her departure against the capitulation of her opponents. She longed to speak at greater length and more plainly, but she dreaded what Farvel might say against her son.

Sue did not follow. "But, mother!" she whispered. "Mr. Farvel!—Oh, don't let her hear any of this!" She motioned the clergyman toward the rear room. "Sh!—You offer to help her! Go in there! Oh, do!"

He nodded. "And you'll come with us to the Rectory?"

"Indeed, she won't!" cried Mrs. Milo, coming back. "The very idea!"

Farvel ignored her. "You see," he added, with just a touch of humor, "we'll have to have a chaperone." He knocked.

"Oh, come in!" called Clare.

Sue shut the door behind him; then she took her mother with her to the bay-window, halted her there as if she were standing one of the naughty orphans in a corner, and looked at her in sorrowful reproval.

Mrs. Milo drew away from the touch of her daughter's hand irritably. "Now, don't glare at me like that!" she ordered. "The Rectory is not a reformatory."

"Oh, let's not take that old ruined-girl attitude!" replied Sue, impatiently. "Laura Farvel doesn't need reforming. She needs kindness and love."

"Love!" repeated Mrs. Milo, scornfully. "Do you realize that you're talking about a woman who led your own brother astray?"

"I don't know who did the leading," Sue answered quietly. "As a matter of fact, they were both very young——"

"Wallace is a good boy!"

"The less we say about Wallace in this matter the better. Why don't you go to him, mother? He must be very unhappy. He will want advice. And there's Mr. Balcome—shouldn't you and he take all this up with Hattie's mother?"

"Wallace will tell Hattie. We can trust him. But I don't want you to act foolish. Is she going to bring that child to the Rectory?"

"To the home of the child's own father? Why not?"

"Yes! And you'll get attached to her!"

Sue did not guess at the real fear that lay behind her mother's words. "But you want me to, don't you? I'm attached to a hundred others there already. And you'll love Barbara, too."

"There! You see?—Wherever a young one is concerned, you utterly forget your mother!"

"Why—why——" Sue put a helpless hand to her forehead. "Forget you? I don't see how the little one would make any difference——"

Farvel interrupted, opening the double door a few inches to look in. "Miss Susan,—just a minute?"

"Can I help?" Without waiting for the protest to be expected from her mother, Sue hurried out.

Mrs. Milo stayed where she was, staring toward the back-parlor. "O-o-o-oh! To the Rectory!" she stormed. "It's abominable! I won't have it! Such an insult!—The creature!"

Someone entered from the hall—noiselessly. It was Tottie, wearing her best manners, and with a countenance from which, obviously, she had extracted, as it were, some of the rosy color worn at her earlier appearance. She had smoothed her bobbed red tresses, too, and a long motor veil of a lilac tinge made less obtrusive the decollete of the tea-gown.

"Young woman," began Mrs. Milo, speaking low, and with an air of confidence calculated to flatter; "this—this Miss Crosby;" (she gave a jerky nod of her bonnet to indicate the present whereabouts of that person) "you've known her some time?"

A wise smile spread upon Miss St. Clair's derouged face. She dropped her lashes and lifted them again. "Long," she replied significantly, "and intimate."

The blue eyes danced. "My daughter seems interested in her. And I have a mother's anxiety."

Tottie was blessed with a sense of humor, but she conquered her desire to laugh. The daughter in question was a woman older than herself; under the circumstances, a "mother's anxiety" was hardly deserving of sympathy. Nevertheless, the landlady answered in a voice that was deep with condolence. "Oh, I understand how y' feel," she declared.

"We know very little about her. I wonder—can you—tell me—something."

Tottie let her eyes fall—to the modish dress, with its touches of lace; to a pearl-and-amethyst brooch that held Mrs. Milo's collar; to the fresh gloves and the smart shoes. She recognized good taste even though she did not choose to subscribe to it; also, she recognized cost values. She looked up with a mysterious smile. "Well," she said slowly, "I don't like to—knock anybody."

"A-a-ah!" triumphed the elder woman; "I thought so!—Now, you won't let me be imposed upon! Please! Quick!" A white glove was laid on a chiffon sleeve.

"Sh!—Later! Later!" The landlady drew away, pointing toward the back-parlor warningly. The situation was to her taste. She seemed to be a part of one of those very scenes for which her soul yearned—melodramatic scenes such as she had witnessed across footlights, with her husky-voiced favorite in the principal role.

"I'll come back," whispered Mrs. Milo.

"No. I'll 'phone you." With measured tread, Tottie stalked to the double door, her eyes shifting, and one hand outstretched with spraddling fingers to indicate caution.

Mrs. Milo trotted after her. "But I think I'd better come back."

Tottie whirled. "What's your 'phone number?"

"Stuyvesant—three, nine, seven,"—this before she could remember that she was not planning to sleep under the Rectory roof again.

"Don't I git more'n a number?" persisted Tottie. "Whom 'm I to ask for?"

"Just say 'Mrs. Milo.'"

"Stuyvesant—three, nine, seven, Mrs. Milo," repeated Tottie, leaning down at the table to note the data. Then with the information safely registered, "Of course, it'll be worth somethin' to you."

Mrs. Milo almost reeled. She opened her mouth for breath. "Why—why—you mean——" All her boasted poise was gone.

Tottie grinned—with a slanting look from between half-lowered lashes. "I mean—money," she said softly; and gave Mrs. Milo a playful little poke.

"Money!"—too frightened, now, even to resent familiarity. "Money! Oh, you wouldn't——! You don't——!"

"Yes, ma'am! You want somethin' from me, and I can give it to y', but you're goin' to pay for it!"

The double door opened. Sue entered, her look startled and inquiring. It was plain that she had overheard.

Mrs. Milo pretended not to have noted Sue's coming. "Yes, very well," she said to Tottie, as if continuing a conversation that was casual; but the blue eyes were frightened. "Thank you so much!"—warmly. "And isn't that a bell I hear ringing?" She gave the landlady a glance full of meaning.

"Ha-ha!" With a nod and a saucy backward grin, Tottie went out.

For a moment neither mother nor daughter spoke. Sue waited, trying to puzzle out the significance of what she had caught; and scarcely daring to charge an indiscretion. Mrs. Milo waited, forcing Sue to speak first, and thus betray how much she had heard.

"I thought you'd gone," ventured Sue.

"Gone, darling? Without you?"

"That woman;"—Sue came closer—"I hope you were very careful."

"Why, I was!"—this not without the note of injured innocence always so effective.

But Sue was not to be blocked so easily. "You're going to pay her for what?"

"Pay?"

"What was she saying?"

Now Mrs. Milo realized that she had been heard: that she must save herself from a mortifying situation by some other method than simple justification. She took refuge in tears. "I can see that you're trying to blame me for something!" she complained, and sank, weeping, to the settee.

"I don't like to, mother," answered Sue, "but——"

That good angel who watches over those who see no other way out of an embarrassing predicament save the unlikely arrival of an earthquake or an aeroplane now intervened in Mrs. Milo's behalf. Dora came in, showing that the bell had, indeed, been summoning the mistress of the house. Behind Dora was Tottie, and the attitude of each to the other was plainly belligerent.

"As you don't know your Scriptures," Dora was saying, with a sad intonation which marked Tottie as one of those past redemption, "I'll repeat the reference for you: 'Curiosity was given to man as a scourge.'" Then in anything but a spirit proper to a biblical quotation, she slammed the door in Tottie's face.

Mrs. Milo, dry-eyed, was on her feet to receive Dora. "Oh, you impudent!" she charged. "That's the reference you gave me—when I asked you who was telephoning my daughter! I looked it up!"

"Ah, Mrs. Milo!" Dora put finger-tips together and cast mournful eyes up to Tottie's chandelier. "'The tongue is a world of iniquity.'"

Sue took her by a shoulder, shaking her a little. "Dora, I'm sending you out of town."

"Oh, Miss Susan!" All nonsense was frightened out of her. "Don't send me away! I tried to do my best—to keep her from coming here! But, oh, Deuteronomy, nine, thirteen!"

"Deuteronomy, nine, thirteen," repeated Mrs. Milo, wrinkling her brows. Her eyes moved as she cudgeled her brain. "Deuteronomy——"

Sue gave Dora another shake. "Listen, my dear! I'm sending you after a little girl. Here! Twenty dollars, and it's Mr. Farvel's."

"Oh, Miss Susan!"—with abject relief. "Gladly do I devote my gifts, poor as they are, to your service." And in her best ministerial manner, "Where is the child?" She tucked the paper bill into a glove.

"Poughkeepsie,"—Sue gave her the address. "Go up this afternoon—right away. And return the first thing in the morning. Bring her straight to the Rectory. Now, you'll have quite a ride with that baby, Dora. And I want you to get her ready for the happiest moment in all her little life! Do you hear?—the happiest, Dora! And, oh, here's where you must be eloquent!"

"Oh, Miss Susan, 'I am of slow speech, and of a slow tongue.'"

"I'll tell you what to say," reassured Sue. "You say to her that you're bringing her to her mother; and that she's going to live with her mother, in a little cottage somewhere—a cottage running over with roses."

"Roses," echoed Dora, and counting on her fingers, "—mother, cottage, garden——"

"And tell her that she's got a dear mother—so brave, and good, and sweet, and pretty. And her mother loves her—don't forget that!—loves her better than anything else in the whole world——"

"Loves her," checked off Dora, pulling aside another finger; "—brave, good, sweet, pretty——"

"Yes, and there's going to be no more boarding out—no more forever! Oh, the lonely little heart!" Sue took Dora by both shoulders. "Her mother's waiting for her! Her mother! Her own mother!"

"Boarding out,"—checking again; "—waiting mother. Miss Susan, I shall return by the first train tomorrow, Providence permitting." This last was accompanied by a solemn look at Mrs. Milo, and a roguish hop-skip that freed her from Sue's hold.

"Oh, the very first!" urged Sue. "Dora!"

Dora swung herself out.

Now Mrs. Milo seemed her usual self once more. "Then Mrs. Farvel will not remain at the Rectory?" she inquired.

"Oh, how could she? Of course not! They called me in to tell me: Mrs. Farvel and Barbara will leave New York in two or three days."

"Good! Meanwhile, we shall stay at the hotel with Mrs. Balcome."

"But I must go to the Rectory."

"I see no necessity."

"Why, mother! Mrs. Farvel couldn't possibly go there without someone. Surely you see how it is. Besides, there's the house—Dora's gone, and I must go back."

"You'll do nothing of the kind," returned Mrs. Milo, tartly.

"Just for one night?"

"Not for one hour. They will get someone else."

"A stranger?—Now, mother! Mrs. Farvel needs me."

"Oh, she needs you, does she?"—resentfully. "And I suppose your own mother doesn't need you."

"You'll be with Wallace."

"So!" And with a taunting smile, "Perhaps Mr. Farvel also needs you."

"No." But now a curious look came into Sue's eyes—a look of comprehension. Jealousy! It was patent to her, as it had never been before. Her mother was jealous of Farvel; fearful that even at so late a date happiness might come to the middle-aged woman who was her daughter. "No," she said again. "He doesn't need me."

"Indeed!"

"No—I need him."

Mrs. Milo was appalled. "A-a-a-ah! So that's it! You need him! Now, we're coming to the truth!"

"Yes—the truth."

"That's why you couldn't rest till you'd followed this woman!" Mrs. Milo pointed a trembling hand toward the double door. "You were sure it was some love-affair. And you were jealous!"

Sue laughed. "Jealous," she repeated, bitterly.

"Yes, jealous! The fact of the matter is, you're crazy about Alan Farvel!" She was panting.

"And if—I am?" asked Sue.

"Oh!" It was a cry of fury. With a swift movement, Mrs. Milo passed Sue, pulled at the double door, and stood, bracing herself, as she almost shrieked down at Clare, kneeling before an open suitcase. "You've done this! You! You dragged my son down, and now you're coming between me and my daughter!"

Clare rose, throwing a garment aside.

"Mother! Mother!" Sue tried to draw her mother away.

Mrs. Milo retreated, but only to let Clare enter, followed by Farvel.

"Go back!" begged Sue. "Go back!—Mr. Farvel, take her!"

"Come, Laura! Come!"

But Clare would not go. "Yes, come—and let her wreak her meanness on Miss Milo! No! Here's a sample of what you're going to get, Alan, for insisting on my going to that Rectory. So you'd better hear it. I told you the plan is a mistake." And to Mrs. Milo, "Let's hear what you've got to say."

Righteous virtue glittered in the blue eyes. "I've got this to say!" she cried. "You've been missing ten years—ten years of running around loose. What've you been up to? Are you fit to be a friend of my daughter?"

Sue flung an arm about Clare. "I am her friend!" she declared. "I won't judge her!—Oh, mother!"

It only served to rouse Mrs. Milo further. "Ah, she knows I'm right!—You're going to lie, are you? You're going to palm yourself off on a decent man! Ha! You won't fool anybody! You're marked! Look in this glass!" She caught up the hand-mirror lying on the table and thrust it before Clare's face. "Look at yourself! It's as easy to read as paper written over with nasty things! Your paint and powder won't cover it! The badness sticks out like a scab!" Then as Clare, with a sudden twist of the body, and a sob, hid her face against Sue, Mrs. Milo tossed the mirror to the table. "There!" she cried. "I've had my say! Now take your bleached fallen woman to the Rectory!" And with a look of defiance, she went back to the rocking-chair and sat.

No one spoke for a moment. Sue, holding the weeping girl in her arms, and soothing her with gentle pats on the heaving shoulders, looked at her mother, answering the other's defiant stare angrily. "Ah, cruel! Cruel!" she said, presently. "And I know why. Oh, don't you feel that we should do everything in our power for Mr. Farvel, and not act like this? Haven't we Milos done enough to give him sorrow?" (It was characteristic that she did not say "Wallace," but charged his wrong-doing against the family.) "Here's our chance to be a little bit decent. And now you attack her. But—it's not because you think she's sinned: it's because you think I'm going—to the Rectory."

Now Clare freed herself gently from Sue's embrace, lifting her head wearily. "Oh, I might as well tell you both"—she looked at Farvel, too—"that she's right about me. There have been—other things."

Sue caught her hands. "Oh, then forget them!" she cried. "And remember only that you're going to be happy again!"

Clare hung her head. "But the lies," she reminded, under her breath. "The lies. Felix, he won't forgive me. I am engaged to him. And he doesn't know that I've ever been married before. That's why I was so scared when I saw—when I guessed Alan was at the Rectory. And why I wanted to—to sneak a little while ago. Oh, I can't ever face Felix! I—I've never even told him that Barbara is mine."

"Let me tell him.—And surely marriage and a daughter aren't crimes. And he'll respect you for clinging to the child."

"He knows I meant to desert her," Clare whispered back. "Oh, Miss Milo, there's something wrong about me! I bore her. But I'm not her mother. I never can be. Some women are mothers just naturally. Look how those choir-boys love you! 'Momsey' they call you—'Momsey.' Ha! They know a mother when they see one!"

Mrs. Milo rocked violently, darting a scornful look at the little group. "Disgusting!" she observed.

The three gave her no notice. "You'll grow to love your baby," declared Sue. "You can't help it. Just wait till you've got a home—instead of a boarding-house. And trust us, and let us help you."

A wan smile. "Ah, how dear and good you are!" breathed the girl. "Will you kiss me?"

"God love you!" Once more Sue caught the slender figure to her.

"So good! So good!"—weeping.

"Now no more tears! Let me see a smile!" Sue lifted the wet face.

Clare smiled and turned away. "I'll finish in here," she said, and went into the other room.

Farvel made as if to follow, but turned back. "Ah, Sue Milo, you are dear and good!" he faltered. Then coming to take her hand, "Your tenderness to Laura—your thought of the child! Ah, you're a woman in a million! How can I ever get on without you!" He raised her hand to his lips, held it a moment tightly between both of his, and went out.

Mrs. Milo had risen. Now she watched her daughter—the look Sue gave Farvel, and the glance down at the hand just caressed. To the jealous eyes of the elder woman, the clergyman's action, so full of tender admiration, conveyed but one thing—such an attachment as she had charged against Sue, and which now seemed fully reciprocated. With a burst of her ever available tears, she dropped back into her chair.

But the tears did not avail. For Sue stayed where she was. And her face was grave with understanding. "Ah, mother," she said, with a touch of bitterness. "I knew my happiness would make you happy!"

"Laura!" It was Farvel, calling from the back-parlor. "Laura! Laura! Where are you?"

Sue met him as he rushed in. "What——?"

"She's not there!" He ran to the hall door, calling as before.

"She's gone?" Sue went the opposite way, to look from the rear back-parlor window that commanded a small square of yard.

Mrs. Milo ceased to weep.

"Laura! Laura!" Farvel called up the stairs.

"Hello-o-o-o!" sang back Tottie.

"Laura! Laura!" Now Farvel was on the steps outside. He descended to the sidewalk, turned homeward, halted, reconsidering, then hurried the opposite way.



CHAPTER VIII

Hat in hand, and on tiptoe, Clare slipped from her room to the hall, and down the stairs leading to the service-entrance beneath the front steps. Her coat was over an arm, and a Japanese wrist-bag hung beside it. As noiselessly as possible, she let herself out. Then bareheaded still, but not too hurriedly, and forcing a pleasant, unconcerned expression, she turned away from the brownstone house—going toward the Rectory.

Across the street, waiting under steps that offered him the right concealment, a man was loitering. In the last hour he had seen a number of people enter Tottie's, and five had left—the child and Mrs. Colter, a fat man and a slim, and a quaint-looking girl with her hair in pig-tails. He had stayed on till Clare came out; then as she fled, but without a single look back, he prepared to follow.

But he did not forsake his hiding-place until she had turned the first corner. Then he raced forward, peered around the corner cautiously, located her by the bobbing of her yellow head among other heads all hatted, and fell in behind her at a discreet distance.

Now she put on her hat—but without stopping. She adjusted her coat, too. At the end of the block, she crossed the street and made a second turn.

Once more the man ran at top speed, and was successful in locating the hat tilted so smartly. And again he settled down to the pace no faster than hers. Thus the flight and the pursuit began.

At first, Clare walked at a good rate, with her head held high. But gradually she went more slowly, and with head lowered, as if she were thinking.

She did not travel at random. Her course was a northern one, though she turned to right and left alternately, so that she traced a Greek pattern. Presently, rounding a corner, she turned up the steps of a house exteriorally no different from Tottie's, save for the changed number on the tympanum of colored glass above its front door, and the white card lettered in black in a front window—a card that marked the residence as the headquarters of the Gramercy Club for Girls.

Clare rang.

The man came very near to missing her as she waited for the answering of the bell. And it seemed as if she could not fail to see him, for she looked about her from the top of the steps. When she was admitted, he sat down on a coping to consider his next move.

Twice he got up and went forward as it to mount the steps of the Club; but both times he changed his mind. Then, near at hand, occupying a neighboring basement, he spied a small shop. In the low window of the shop, among hats and articles of handiwork, there swung a bird-cage. He hurried across the street, entered the store, still without losing sight of the steps of the Club, and called forward the brown-cheeked, foreign-looking girl busily engaged with some embroidery in the rear of the place. A question, an eager reply, a taking down of the canary, and he went out, carrying the cage.

Very erect he was as he strode back to the Club. Here was a person about to go through with an unpleasant program, but virtuously determined on his course. His jaw was set grimly. He climbed to the storm-door, and rang twice, keeping his finger on the bell longer than was necessary. Then, very deliberately, he adjusted his pince-nez.

A maid answered his ring—a maid well past middle-age, with gray hair, and an air of authority. She looked her displeasure at his prolonged summoning.

"Miss Crosby is here," he began; "I mean the young woman who just came in." He was very curt, very military; and ignored the reproof in her manner. "Please say that Mr. Hull has come."

The maid promptly admitted him.

But to make sure that he would not fail in his purpose to see Clare—that she would not escape from the Club as quietly as she had left Tottie's, he now lifted the bird-cage into view. "Tell Miss Crosby that Mr. Hull has brought the canary," he added.

"Very well,"—the servant went up the stairs at a leisurely pace that was irritating.

She did not return. Instead, Clare herself appeared at the top of the staircase, and descended slowly, looking calmly at him as she came. Her hat was off, and she had tidied her hair. Something in her manner caused him to move his right arm, as if he would have liked to screen the cage. She glanced at the bird, then at him. Her look disconcerted him. His pince-nez dropped to the end of its ribbon, and clinked musically against a button.

She did not speak until she reached his side. "I just called the Northrups on the 'phone and asked for you," she began.

"Oh?" He made as if to set the cage down.

"You'd better bring it into the sitting-room," she said.

"Yes." He reddened.

The sitting-room of the Club was a full sister to that garish front-parlor of Tottie's, but a sister tastefully dressed. The woodwork was ivory. The walls were covered with silk tapestry in which an old-blue shade predominated. The curtains of velvet, and the chairs upholstered in the same material, were of a darker blue that toned in charmingly with the walls. Oriental rugs covered the floor.

"You need not have brought an—excuse," Clare observed, as she closed the door to the hall.

"Well, I thought," he explained, smiling a little sheepishly, "that perhaps——"

"Particularly," she interrupted, cuttingly, "as I remember how you said a little while ago that you hate a liar." She lifted her brows.

She had caught him squarely. The cage was a lie. He put it behind a chair, where it would be out of sight.

"Well, you see," he went on lamely, "if you hadn't wanted to see me, why—why——" (Here he was, apologetic!)

"Oh, I quite understand. It's always legitimate for a man to cheat a woman, isn't it? It's not legitimate for a woman to cheat a man." She seated herself.

He winced. He had expected something so different—weeping, pleading, the wringing of hands; or, a hidden face and heaving shoulders, and, of course, more lies. Instead, here was only quiet composure, more dignity of carriage than he had ever noted in her before, and a firmly shut mouth. He had anticipated being hurt by the sobbing confessions he would force from her. But her cool indifference, her self-possession, were hurting him far more. Their positions were unpleasantly reversed. And he was standing before her, as if he, and not she, was the culprit!

"Sit down, please," she bade, courteously.

He sat, pulling at his mustache. Now he was getting angry. His look roved beyond her, as he sought for the right beginning.

"What I'd like to ask," he commenced, "is, are you prepared to tell me all I ought to know—about yourself?" ("Tell me the truth" was what he would have liked to say, but the confounded cage made impossible any allusion to truth!)

She smiled. "And I'd like to know, are you prepared to tell me all—all I ought to know—about yourself?"

"Oh, now come!" he returned—and could go no further. Here was more of the unexpected: he was being put on the defensive!

"You've been a soldier," she went on; "you've seen a lot of the world before you met me. But you didn't recite anything you'd done. You expected me to take you 'as is,' and I thought, naturally enough, that that was the way you meant to take me."

"But I don't see why a girl should know about matters in which she is not concerned—which were a part of a man's past."

"Exactly. And that's just the way I felt about matters in which you were not concerned. But—I was wrong, wasn't I? You're not an American. You're a European. And you have the Continental attitude toward women—proprietorship, and so on."

He stared. He had never heard her talk like this before. "Ah, um," he murmured, still worrying the mustache. She was using no slang, and that "Continental attitude"—his glance said, "Where did you come by that?"

"I've known all along that you had the Old World bias—the idea that it is justice for the Pot to call the Kettle black—the idea that a man can do anything, but that a woman is lost forever if she happens to make one mistake. That all belongs, of course, right back where you came from. No doubt your mother taught——"

"Please leave my mother out of this discussion!" Here was something he could say with great severity and dignity—something that would imply the contrast between what Clare Crosby stood for and the high standards of his mother, whose fame might not be tarnished even through the mention of her name by a culpable woman.

Clare laughed. "Early Victorian," she commented, cheerfully; "that do-not-sully-the-fair-name-of-mother business. It's in your blood, Felix,—along with the determination you feel never to change when once you've made up your mind, as if your mind were something that has set itself solid, as metal does when it's run into a mold."

"Oh, indeed! Just like that!"

She nodded. "Precisely. And when you make up your mind that someone is wrong, or has hurt your vanity (which is worse), you are just middle-class enough to love to swing a whip."

He got up. "Pardon me if I don't care to listen to your opinion of me any longer," he said. "It just happens that I've caught you at your tricks today."

"It just happens that you think you've caught me—you've dropped to that conclusion. But—do you know anything?"

"Well—well,——"

"You shall. Please sit down again. And feel that you were justified—that I am really a culprit of some kind—just as you are."

He sat, too astonished to retort—but too curious to take himself away.

"Because I really want to tell you quite a little about myself." There was a glint of real humor in her eyes. "And first of all, I want to tell the real truth, and it'll make you feel a lot better—it'll soothe your vanity."

"You seem to have a rather sudden change in your opinion of me." He tried to be sarcastic. And he leaned back, folding his arms.

"Oh, no. I've always known that you were vain, and hard. But I didn't expect perfection."

"Ah."

"But, first, let me tell you—when I left Tottie's just now, I thought of the river. Suicide—that's what first came to my mind."

"I'm very glad you changed it,"—this with almost a parental note. Her mention of the river had soothed his vanity!

"Oh, are you?" She laughed merrily.

"And what brought about the—the——"

"Sue Milo."

"Er—who do you say?" He had expected a compliment.

"A woman you don't know—a woman that you must have seen go into Tottie's just after Barbara left—as you stood sentry."

"Ah, yes." He had the grace to blush again.

"She is the secretary at the Church near by—you know, St. Giles. She keeps books, and answers telephones, and types sermons, and does all the letters for the Rector—formerly my husband."

An involuntary start—which he adroitly made the beginning of an assent.

"I've met her only a few times. But I feel as if I'd known her all my life. Oh, how dear her attitude was!" Sudden tears trembled in her eyes.

"Different from mine, eh?"

"Absolutely! It was the contrast between you and her that made me see things as they are—twenty blocks, I walked—and such a change!"

"Fancy!"

"When I was thinking I might as well die, I said, 'If he were in trouble today, I'd be tender and kind to him. But when I cried out to him, what I got was no faith—no help—only suspicion.' All my devotion since I've known you—it counted for nothing the moment you knew something was wrong. And I was half-crazy with fear just at the thought of losing you." Her look said that she had no such fear now.

He shifted his feet uneasily.

"Then I said to myself, 'Why, you poor thing, it's only a question of time when you'd lose him anyhow.' Even if we married, Felix, we wouldn't be happy long. It would be like living over a charge of dynamite. Any minute our home might blow up."

He smiled loftily. "And Miss—er—What's-her-name, she fixed everything?"

"She helped me! I've never met anyone just like her before. I've met plenty of the holier-than-thou variety. That's the only sort I knew before I ran away from my husband." She was finding relief in talking so frankly. "Then there's Tottie's kind—ugh! But Miss Milo is the new kind—a woman with a fair attitude toward other women; with a generous attitude toward mistakes even. That old lady you saw go in—she's so good that she'd send me to the stake." She laughed. "But her daughter—if she knew that I had sinned as much as you have, she'd treat me even better than she'd treat you."

"You'll be a militant next," he observed sneeringly.

"Oh, I'm one already! But I'm not blaming anything on anybody else. For whatever's gone wrong, I can just thank myself. All these ten years, I've taken the attitude that I mustn't be discovered—that I must hide, hide, hide. I have been living over a charge of dynamite, and I set it myself. I've been afraid of a scarecrow that I dressed myself.

"I don't know why I did it. Because if they'd ever traced me, what harm would it have done?—I wouldn't have gone back unless I was carried by main force. But the papers said I was dead. So I just set myself to keep the idea up. Next thing, I met you. Then I wasn't afraid of a shadow—I had something real to fear: losing you.

"But now I don't care what you think, or what you're going to do, or what you say. I'm not even going to let Alan Farvel think that Barbara's his—when she isn't."

He shot a swift look at her. So! The child was her own, after all! His lip curled.

She understood. "Oh, get the whole thing clear while you're about it," she said indifferently. "I'm not trying to cover. At least I didn't lose sight of the child. Miss Milo praised me for that.—But—the truth is, I'm not like most other women. I'm not domestic. I never can be. Why worry about it."

"You take it all very cool, I must say! And you're jolly sure of yourself. Don't need help, eh? Highty-tighty all at once." But there was a note of respect in his voice.

"I've got friends," she said proudly. "And if I need help I know where to get it."

The maid entered. "Your tea is ready, Miss."

Clare stood up and put out a hand. "We'll run across each other again, I suppose," she said cordially.

He could scarcely believe his ears—which were burning. "Oh, then you're not lighting out?"

"When I love little old New York so much? Not a chance! No, you can go and get your supper without a fear." She laughed saucily. Then as he turned, "Oh, don't forget the bird."

He leaned down, hating her for the ridiculousness of his situation. He did not glance round again. The gray-haired maid showed him out.



CHAPTER IX

With a sigh of relief, Mrs. Milo rose, adjusted her bonnet, and, to make sure that her appearance justified her going out upon the street, took up from the table that same hand-mirror which she had thrust before Clare's face. "So she's gone," she observed. She turned her head from side to side, delicately touching hair and bonnet, and the lace at her throat. "Well, it's for the best, I've no doubt.—And now we can go home."

Sue did not move. She had come back from her quick survey of the rear yard to stand at the center of the front room—to stand very straight, her head up, her eyes wide and fixed on space, her face strangely white and stern.

"Susan?" Mrs. Milo took out and replaced a hairpin.

Sue Stirred. "Do you mean to his home?" she asked slowly.

"I mean to the Rectory." The glass was laid back upon the table.

"After what you've said?"

"What I said was true."

"Ah!—You believe in speaking—the truth?"

"What a question, my daughter!"—fondly.

"Even when the truth is bitter—and hard!" She trembled, and drew in her breath at the remembrance of that scathing arraignment.

"Shall we start?"

"But he has asked you not to return. And it's you who have sent her away. And the little one is coming. You can't go to the Rectory."

"Oh, indeed?" queried Mrs. Milo, sarcastically. "And are you going?"

Sue waited a moment. Then, "My work is there."

Mrs. Milo started. "Now let me tell you something!" she cried, throwing up her head. "You've disobeyed me once today——"

Sue smiled. "Disobeyed!" she repeated.

"—If you disobey me again—if you go back to the Rectory without me——"

"I shall certainly go back."

"—You shan't have one penny of your father's life insurance! Not one! I'll leave every cent of it to Wallace!"

Again Sue smiled. "Ah, you're independent of me, aren't you?"

"Quite—thank Providence!"

"No. Thank me. All these years you've had that insurance money out earning interest. You haven't had to use any of it, or even any of its earnings——"

"It has grown, I'm happy to say."

"Until you have plenty. Meanwhile, I've paid all of your expenses, and educated my brother. Now—you can dispense with—your meal-ticket."

"Meal-ticket!" It was not the implied charge, but the slang, that shocked.

"Yes, meal-ticket."

"So you throw it up! You've been supporting me! And helping Wallace!"

"I've been glad to. Every hour at my machine has been a happy one. I've never begrudged what I've done."

"Well, anyhow, I shan't need to take any more support from you, nor will my son."

Sue laughed grimly. "I don't know about that, mother. I'm afraid he's going to miss his chance to marry a rich girl. And he's never been very successful in making his own way."

Mrs. Milo would not be diverted from the main issue. "I repeat, Susan: You disobey me, as you've threatened to, and I'm done with you. Understand that. You'll go your way, and I will go mine."

Sue nodded. She understood. Her mother had announced her ultimatum to Farvel, and he had accepted it. Mrs. Milo could not return to the Rectory. But if Sue continued her work there, it meant that she would enjoy a happy companionship with the clergyman—a companionship unhindered by the presence of the elder woman. Such a state of affairs might even end in marriage. And now Sue knew it was marriage that her mother feared.

"Very well, mother."

"Ah, you like the separation plan!"

"We're as wide apart in our ideas as the poles."

"I have certainly been very much mistaken in you. Though I thought I knew my own daughter! But—you belong with the Farvels, and it's a pity she has run away. Perhaps she'll turn up later on." She spoke quietly, but she was livid with anger. "I shall not be there to interfere with your friendship. I am going to the hotel now. You can direct my poor boy to me, if it isn't too much trouble."

"So you are going." Then smiling wistfully, "But who will fuss over you when you're not sick? And coax you out of your nerves? And wait on you like a lady's maid? And how will you be able to keep an eye on me, mother? 'Who's telephoning you, Susan?' And 'Who's your letter from, darling?'" Then with sarcasm, "Oh, hen-pecked Susan, is it possible that you'll be able to go to Church without a chaperone? That you can go down town without having to report home at half-hour intervals?"

"Well! Well! Well!" marveled Mrs. Milo. She walked to the window before retorting further. Then, with a return to the old methods of playing for sympathy, "And here I've thought that you were contented and happy with me! But—it seems that your mother isn't enough."

The attempt failed. "Was your mother enough?" demanded Sue.

Mrs. Milo came strolling back. Was it possible that tactics invariably efficacious in the past would utterly fail her today? She made a second attempt. "But—but do you realize," she faltered, with what seemed deep feeling; "—your father died when Wallace was so little. If you hadn't helped me, how would I have gotten on? If you'd married——"

"Couldn't I have helped you?"

"But I had Wallace so late. And I'd have been alone. What would I have done without my daughter?"

Sue was regarding her steadily. "What did your mother do without you? And when you die, where shall I be?—Alone! Ah, you've seen the pathos of your own situation!—But how about mine?" For a second time in a single day, this was a changed Sue, unaccountably clear-visioned, and plain of speech.

"Dear me!" cried her mother, mockingly. "Our eyes are open all of a sudden!"

"Yes,—my eyes are open."

"Why not open your mouth?"

"Thank you for the suggestion. I shall. For twenty-five years, my eyes have been shut. I've always said, 'My mother is sweet, and pious, and kind. She's one of that lovely type that's passing.' (Thank Heaven, the type is passing!) If now and then you were a little severe with me—oh, I've noticed it because people have sometimes interfered, as Hattie did this morning—I've never minded at all. I've said, 'Whatever I am, I owe to my mother. And what she does is right.' Anything you said or did to me never made any difference in the wonderful feeling I had about you—the feeling of love and belief. All this time I've never once thought of rebelling. But what you said and did to another—to her, a girl who needs kindness and sympathy, who's never done you an intentional wrong——! Oh, you're not really gentle and charitable! You're cruel, mother!"

"I am just."

"The right kind of a woman today gives other women a chance for their lives—their happiness. That is real piety. She makes allowances. She's slow to condemn."

"You don't have to tell me that loose standards prevail."

Sue did not seem to hear. "All these years you've talked to me about the home—the home with a capital H. Your home—which you'd 'kept together'—the American home—wave the flag! And I've always believed that you meant what you said. But today I understand your real attitude. First, because you weren't willing to give that poor cornered girl a chance at one. You intruded into her room and deliberately drove her away."

"She ran away once from a good home with a good man." She paid Farvel the compliment unconsciously—and unintentionally.

"Then consider my case,"—it was as if Sue were speaking to herself. "Why haven't you given me a chance? For all these years, if a man looked cross-eyed at me, was he ever asked to call on us?"

"Such nonsense!"

"If he did, somehow or other there was trouble. You would cry, and say I didn't love you—or you pretended to find something wrong with him, and he didn't come again. And once—once I remember that you claimed that you were ill—though I think I guessed that you weren't—and away we went for a change of air. Oh, peace at any price!"

Mrs. Milo grew scarlet. "Ha!" she scoffed. "So I'm to blame for your not being married! I've stood in your way!"

"Just think how you've acted today—the way you acted over this dress—you can't bear to see me look well? Why?—Yes, you've stood in my way from the very first."

"I deny it! You'd better look in the mirror." She picked it up and held it out to Sue. "You know, you're not a sweet young thing."

Sue took the glass, and held it before her, gazing sadly at her reflection. "No," she answered. "But I can remember when I was sweet—and young." She laid the mirror down.

Mrs. Milo felt the necessity of toning her remarks. She spoke now with no rancor—but firmly. "Your lack of judgment was excusable then," she declared. "But now—this interest in any and every child—in Farvel, a man younger than yourself—it's silly, Sue. It's disgusting—in an old maid."

"Any and every child," repeated Sue. "Oh, selfish! Selfish! Selfish!"

"No one can accuse me of that! I've been trying to save you from making yourself ridiculous."

"To save me! Why, mother, you can't bear to see me give one hour to those poor, deserted orphans. If I go over to see them, you go along. And how many friends have I? Every thought I have must be for you! you! you!"

"I have exacted the attention that a mother should have."

"And no more? But what about Wallace? Have you exacted the attention from him that you should have? Does he owe you nothing? Why shouldn't he spend what he earns in caring for his mother, instead of spending every penny as he pleases? Is there one set of rules for daughters, and another for sons? Why haven't you tied him up? Are you sure he's capable, when he reaches Peru, of supporting a wife? Or will he simply draw on Mr. Balcome—the way he's lived on me."

"You ought to be ashamed to speak of your brother in such a way!"

"How much more ashamed he ought to be to think that he's deserving of such criticism."

"I can't think what has come over you!"

"It's what you said a moment ago: My eyes are opened. At eighteen years of age, you planned your future for yourself. But you needed me—so you claimed me, body and soul! And you've let me give you my whole girlhood—my young womanhood. You've kept me single—and very busy. And now,—I'm an old maid!"

The blue eyes glinted with satisfaction. "Well, you are an old maid."

"An old maid! In other words, my purity's a joke!"

"Now, we're getting vulgar."

"Vulgar? Have you forgotten what you said to Laura Farvel? You taunted her because she's not 'good' as you call it. And you taunt me because I am! But who is farther in the scheme of things—she or I? I envy her because she's borne a child. At least she's a woman. Nature means us to marry and have our little ones. The women who don't obey—what happens to them? The years go"—she looked away now, beyond the walls of Tottie's front-parlor, at a picture her imagining called up—"the light fades from their eyes, the gloss from their hair; they get 'peculiar.' And people laugh at them—and I don't wonder!" Then passionately, "Look at me! Mature! Unmarried! Childless! Where in Nature do I belong? Nowhere! I'm a freak!"

"No, my dear." Mrs. Milo smiled derisively. "You're a martyr."

"Yes! To my mother."

"Don't forget"—the well-bred voice grew shrill—"that I am your mother."

"You gave me birth. But—reproduction isn't motherhood."

"Ah!"—mockingly. "So I haven't loved you!"

"Oh, you've loved me," granted Sue. "You've loved me too much—in the wrong way. It's a mistaken love that makes a mother stand between her daughter and happiness."

"I deny——"

"Wait!—I got the proof today! I repeat—you forgot everything you've ever stood for at the mere thought that happiness was threatening to come my way."

Mrs. Milo's eyes widened with apprehension. Involuntarily she glanced at the hand which Farvel had lifted to kiss.

"I ought to have known that my first duty was to myself," Sue went on bitterly; "—to my children. But—I put away my dreams. And now! My eyes are open too late! I've found out my mistake—too late! No son—no daughter—'Momsey,' but never 'Mother.' And, oh, how my heart has craved it all—a home of my own, and someone to care for me. And my arms have ached for a baby!"

"Ha! Ha!"—Mrs. Milo found it all so ridiculous. "A baby! Well,—why don't you have one?"

For a long moment, Sue looked at her mother without speaking. "Oh, I know why you laugh," she said, finally. "I'm—I'm forty-five. But—after today, I'm going to do some laughing! I'm going to do what I please, and go where I please! I'm free! I'm free at last!" She cried it up to the chandelier. "From today, I'm free! This is the Emancipation Proclamation! This is the Declaration of Independence!"

Mrs. Milo moved away, smiling. At the door she turned. "What can you do?" she asked, teasingly; "—at your age!"

Sue buttoned her coat over the bridesmaid's dress. "What can I do?" she repeated. "Well, mother dear, just watch me!"



CHAPTER X

The Close was the favorite retreat of the Rectory household. In the wintertime, it was a windless, sunny spot, never without bird-life, for to it fared every sparrow of the neighborhood, knowing that the two long stone benches in the yard would be plentifully strewn with crumbs, and that no prowling cat would threaten a feathered feaster.

With the coming of spring, the small inclosure was like a chalice into which the sun poured a living stream. Here the lawn early achieved a startling greenness as well as a cutable height; here a pair of peach trees dared to put out leaves despite any pronouncement of the calendar; and in the Close, even before open cars began their run along the near-by avenue, a swinging-couch with a shady awning was installed at one side; while opposite, beyond the sun-dial, and nearer to the drawing-room, a lawn marquee went up, to which Dora brought both breakfast and luncheon trays.

The Close, shut in on its four sides, afforded its visitors perfect privacy. The high blank wall of an office building, which had conformed its architecture to that of the Church and the other structures related to the Church, lifted on one hand to what—from the velvet square of the little yard—seemed the very sky. Directly across from the office building was the Rectory; and two windows of the drawing-room, as well as two upper windows (the window of a guest-room and the window of "the study") opened upon it.

One face of the Church, ivy-grown and beautified with glowing eyes of stained-glass, looked across the stretch of green to a high brick wall which shut off the sights and sounds of the somewhat narrow and fairly quiet street. It was over this wall that the peach trees waved their branches, and in the late summer dropped a portion of their fruit. And it was in this wall that there opened a certain door to the Close which was never locked—a little door, painted a gleaming white, through which the Orphanage babies came, to be laid in the great soft-quilted basket that stood on a stone block beneath a low gable-roof of stone.

On this perfect spring morning, the Close was transformed, for the swinging-couch and the lawn marquee were gone, and a great wedding-bell of hoary blossoms was in its place, hung above the wide flagstone which lay before this side entrance to the Church. Flanking the bell on either hand, flowers and greenery had been massed by the decorators to achieve an altar-like effect. And above the bell, roofing the improvised altar, was a canopy of smilax, as Gothic in design as the vari-tinted windows to right and left.

Discussing the unwonted appearance of their haunt and home, the bird-dwellers of the Close flew about in some excitement, or alighted on wall and ledge to look and scold. And fully as noisy as the sparrows, and laboring like Brownies to set the yard to rights following the departure of the florist and his assistant, a trio of boys from the choir raked and clipped and garnered into a sack.

Ikey was in command, and wielded the lawn mower. Henry, a tall mild-eyed lad, selected for the morning's pleasant duty in the Close in order to reward him for irreproachable conduct during the week previous, snipped at the uneven blades about the base of the sun-dial. The third worker was Peter, a pale boy, chosen because an hour in the open air would be of more value to him than an hour at his books.

"I tell you she iss not a Gentile!" denied Ikey, who was arrogant over being armed with authority as well as lawn mower.

"She is so!" protested Henry, with more than his usual warmth.

"I know she ain't!"

"Aw, she is, too!"

"I asks her, 'Momsey, are you a Gentile?'" went on Ikey. "Und she answers to me, 'Ikey, I am all kinds of religions.'—Now!"

"Ain't her mother a Gentile?" demanded Henry.

"I'm glat to say it!"

"And her father was."

"Sure! Just go in und look at him!"

"Then what's the matter with you! She's got to be a Gentile!"

Ikey recognized the unanswerableness of the argument. "Vell," he declared stoutly, "I lof her anyhow!"

A fourth boy leaned from a drawing-room window. "Telephone!" he called down.

"Ach! Dat telephone!" Ikey propped himself against the sun-dial. "Since yesterday afternoon alretty, she rings und nefer stops! 'Vere iss Miss Hattie?'—dat Wallace, he iss awful lofsick! 'I don't know.' 'Vere iss Miss Susan?' 'I don't know.' 'Vere iss my daughter?'—de olt lady! 'I don't know.'—All night by dat telephone, I sit und lie!"

"Ha! Ha!" Peter, the pale, seized the excuse to drop back upon the cool grass. "How can you sit and lie?"

"Smarty, you're too fresh!" charged Ikey. "How can you sit und be lazy? Look vat stands on dis sun-dial!—Tempus Fugits. Dat means, 'De morning iss going.' So you pick up fast all de grass bits by de benches.—Und if somebody asks, 'Vere iss Mr. Farvel,' I says, 'I don't know,' und dat iss de truth. Because he iss gone oudt all night, und dat iss not nice for ministers." He shook his head at the lawn mower.

"Say, a woman wants to talk with Mrs. Milo," reminded the boy who was hanging out of the window.

"She can vant so much as she likes," returned Ikey, mowing calmly.

"Oo! You oughta heard her!—Shall I say she's gone?"

"Say she's gone, t'ank gootness," instructed Ikey. And as the boy precipitated himself backward out of sight, "Ach, dat's vat's wrong mit dis world!—de mutter business. Mrs. Milo, Mrs. Bunkum, und your mutter, und your mutter——"

"Aw, my mother's as good as your mother!" boasted Henry, chivalrously.

"Dat can't be. Because you nefer hat a mutter—you vas left in dat basket." He pointed. "Vasn't you? Und my mutter"—proudly—"she iss dead."

Peter lifted longing eyes. "Gee, I wish I had a mother."

"A-a-a-ah!" Ikey waggled a wise head. "You kids, you vould like goot mutters—und you git left in baskets. Und Momsey says dat lots of times mutters dat iss goot mutters, dey don't haf no children." Then to Henry, who, like Peter, had seized upon an excuse for pausing in his work, "Here! Git busy mit de shears! Ofer by de vall iss plenty schnippin'."

Henry tried flattery. "I like to hear y' talk," he confessed.

"Ve-e-e-ell,—" Ikey was touched by this appreciation of his philosophizing.

"And I'm kinda tired."

Now Ikey's virtuous wrath burst forth. He fixed the tall boy with a scornful eye. "Oh, you kicker!" he cried. "You talk tired—und you do like you please! Und you say Momsey so much as you vant to! Momsey! Momsey! Momsey! Momsey!" Each time the lawn mower squeaked and rattled its emphasis. "Und de olt lady, she iss gone!"

All the sparrows watching the laboring trio from safe vantage points now rose with a soft whirr of wings and a quick chorus of twitters as Farvel opened the door from the Church and came out. A long black gown hung to his feet, but this only served to accentuate the paleness of his newly-shaven cheeks. "Ah, fine!" he greeted kindly; "the yard is beginning to look first-class." Then as the bearer of the telephone message now projected himself once more between the curtains of the drawing-room, this time to proffer a package, "Not for me, is it, my boy?—Get it, Ikey, please." He sat down wearily.

Ikey moved to obey, squinting back over a shoulder at the clergyman in some concern. But the package in hand, he puzzled over that instead as he came back. "It says on it 'Mr. Farvel,'" he declared. "Ain't it so?"

"Open it, old chap," bade Farvel, without looking up.

Ikey needed no urging; and, his companions, once again welcoming an interruption, gathered to watch. Off came a paper wrapping, disclosing a box. Out came the cover of the box, disclosing—in a gorgeous confection of silk, lace, and tulle, with flowers in her flaxen hair, and blue eyes that were alternately opening and shutting with almost human effect as Ikey moved the box—a large and remarkably handsome lady doll.

"Oy, ich chalesh!" cried Ikey, thrown back upon his Yiddish in the amazement of discovery.

Farvel sprang up, manifestly embarrassed, reached for the box, and put it out of sight behind him as he sat again. "Oh!—Oh, that's all right," he stammered. "It's for Barbara."

"Bar-bar-a?" drawled the boy. Then following a pause, during which the trio exchanged glances, "A little girl, she comes here?"

"Yes, Ikey; yes.—Have you boys dusted the drawing-room? You know Dora's not here today."

"No, sir." Peter and Henry backed dutifully toward the door of the Rectory.

But Ikey stood his ground. "Does de little girl come by de basket?" he inquired.

"No, son; no. Dora will bring her.—Now run along like a good chap."

Ikey backed a few steps. "Does—does she come to de Orphanage?" he persisted.

"No. She's not an orphan.—You see that Peter and Henry put everything in shape, won't you?"

At this, Peter and Henry disappeared promptly. But Ikey only backed another step or two. "Den she's got a mutter?" he ventured.

"Oh, yes—yes.—Be sure and dust the library."

Ikey gave way another foot. "Und also a fader?"

"Er—why—yes."

Now Ikey nodded, and turned away. "He ain't so sure," he observed sagely, "aboudt de fader."

At this moment, loud voices sounded from the drawing-room—Henry's, expostulating; next, the thin soprano of Peter; then a woman's, "Where is he, I say? I want to see him!" And she came bursting from the house, almost upsetting Ikey.

It was Mrs. Balcome, looking exceedingly wrathful. She puffed her way across the grass, clutching to her the unfortunate Babette, and dragging (though she had just arrived) at the crumpled upper of a long kid glove, much as if she were pulling it on preparatory to a fight. "Mr. Farvel,"—he had risen politely—"I have come to take away the presents and other things belonging to us. Since you have seen fit to turn my best friend out of her home, naturally the wedding cannot be solemnized here."

Farvel bowed, reddening with anger. "Wallace Milo's wedding cannot be solemnized here," he said quietly.

"In-deed!"

Ikey had entered with another box. She received it, scolding as she put down the dog and pulled at the fastening of the package. "Oh, such lack of charity! Such shameless lack of ordinary consideration! What do you care that the wedding must take place at some hotel! And you know these decorations won't keep! And it's a clergyman who's showing such a spirit! That's what makes it more terrible! A man who pretends——" Busy with the box, she had failed to see that Farvel was no longer present. Now she whirled about, looking for him. "Oh, such impudence! Such impudence!" she stormed.

Ikey indicated the package. "De man, he said, 'Put it on ice,'" he cautioned.

"Ice?" Mrs. Balcome stared. "What's in it?"

"It felt like somet'ing for a little girl."

With a muttered exclamation, she threw the box upon the grass. "Is Miss Susan here?" she demanded.

"I don't know." Ikey's eyes were clear pools of truth.

"Have my daughter and her father arrived yet?"

"I don't know."

"Well, have they telephoned?" Mrs. Balcome strove to curb her rising irritation.

"I don't know."

Patience could bear no more. "What's the matter with you?" she cried. "Don't you know anything?"

"Not'ing," boasted Ikey. "I promised, now, dat I vouldn't, und I keep my vord!"

Mrs. Balcome seized him by a sleeve of his faded blue waist. "You promised who?" she screeched, forgetting grammar in her anger. "I'll report you to Mrs. Milo, that's what I'll do! How dare——"

A hearty voice interrupted. "Good-morning, my boy! Good-morning!" Balcome grinned broadly, pleased at this opportunity of contrasting his cordiality with the harshness of his better half.

Ikey was not slow in recognizing opportunity either. "Goot-mornin'," he returned, ostentatiously rubbing an arm.

"Is Miss Milo at home?" inquired Balcome, with exaggerated politeness, enjoying the evident embarrassment of the lady present, who—not unlike Lot's wife—had suddenly turned, as it were, into a frozen pillar.

"I don't know," chanted Ikey.

"Well, is Mr. Farvel at home?"

Now, Ikey stretched out weary hand. "Oh, please," he begged, "don't make me lie no more!"

"Ha-a-a-a?" cried Balcome.

"What?" exclaimed Mrs. Balcome.

Ikey nodded, shaking that injured finger. "To lie ain't Christian," he reminded slyly.

Balcome guffawed. But Mrs. Balcome, visited with a dire thought, looked suddenly concerned.

"Tell me:"—she came heaving toward Ikey once more; "did my daughter stay last night with her father?" And as Ikey stared, not understanding the system of family telephoning, "Did—my—daughter—stay—last—night—with—her—father?"

"But vy ask me?" complained Ikey. "Let him lie! Let him!" And he started churchward.

"Wait!" Balcome was bellowing now. "Where is my daughter?"

"Didn't she stay with her father?" repeated Mrs. Balcome.

"Didn't she stay with her mother?" cried Balcome.

Ikey did not need to reply. For one question had answered the other. With an "Oh! Oh!" of apprehension, Mrs. Balcome sank, a dead weight, to a bench.

"Where is she, I say? Where is she?" Now Balcome had the unfortunate Ikey by a faded blue sleeve. He shook him so that all the curls on his head bobbed madly. "Open your mouth!"

"I don't know!" denied Ikey, desperately.

"Good Heavens!" Balcome let him go, and paced the grass, clutching off his hat and pounding at a knee with it.

"Oh, what has happened! What has happened!" Mrs. Balcome rocked in her misery. "Oh, and we had words last night—bitter words! Oh!"

At this juncture, out from between the drawing-room curtains Henry appeared, balancing himself on his middle, and handed down still another package. Ikey ran to receive it, and as if to silence the mourning with which the Close resounded, hastened to thrust the package into the lap of the unhappy lady on the bench.

The result was to increase Mrs. Balcome's sorrow. "Oh, my poor Hattie!" she wept. "My poor child!" She pulled at the cord about the bundle, and Balcome halted behind her to look on. "Here is another gift for her wedding! Oh, how pitiful! How pitiful! A present from someone who loves her! Who thought the dear child would be happy! Something sweet and dainty"—the wrapping paper was torn off by now—"to brighten her new home! Something——"

A cover came off. And there, full in Mrs. Balcome's sight, lay a good-sized, and very rosy Kewpie—blessed with little raiment but many charms.

"Baa-a-a-ah!"—a gesture of disgust, and the Kewpie was cast upon the lawn.

Wallace came hurrying from the house. He looked more bent than usual, and if possible more pale. His clothes indicated that he had slept in them.

Balcome charged toward him. "Where's my daughter?" he asked, with a head-to-foot look, much as if he suspicioned the younger man with having Hattie concealed somewhere about him.

"Wallace!" Mrs. Balcome held out stout arms to the newcomer.

Wallace went to her. "I tried and tried to telephone her," he answered. "And they told me they don't know where she is. So I've come.—Oh, is it all right? What does she say? I want to see her!"

"She's gone!" informed Balcome, his voice hollow.

"She's gone! She's gone!" echoed Mrs. Balcome. She shook the stone bench.

"Gone?" Wallace clapped a hand to his forehead.

"She's wandered away!" sobbed Mrs. Balcome. "Half-crazed with it all! Heart-broken! Heart-broken!"

With a muffled growl, Balcome once more fell upon Ikey, who had been watching and listening from a discreet distance. "Where is Miss Milo, I say!" he demanded as he swooped.

But Ikey's determination did not fail him, though his teeth chattered. "I—I—d-d-don't know!" he protested for the tenth time.

"Oh, terrible! Terrible!"—this in a fresh burst from Mrs. Balcome. "Oh, what did I say what I did for!"

"Don't cry! Don't cry!" comforted Wallace. "We'll hunt for her. Police, and detectives——"

A crash of piano notes interrupted from the drawing-room. Then through open door and windows floated the first bars of "Comin' Thro' the Rye"—with an accompaniment in rag-time. As one the group in the Close turned toward the house.

"Hattie?" exclaimed Mrs. Balcome.

"Hattie!" faltered Wallace.

"Hattie!"—it was a crisp bass summons from Hattie's father.

Hattie put her head out at the door. "Good-morning, mother!" she called cheerily. "Good-morning, dad! Good-morning,—Wallace."

"Where did you spend last night?" asked Mrs. Balcome, rising. Anger took the place of grief, for Hattie was wearing an adorable house frock culled from her trousseau—a frock combined of rose voile and French gingham. And such a selection on this particular morning——

Hattie sauntered to the sun-dial. "Last night?" She pointed to that upper guest-room window.

Her mother was shocked. "You don't mean to tell me that you slept here!"

"When the telephone wasn't ringing,"—whereat Ikey grinned.

"You slept here unchaperoned?"

"Oh, Sue was home."

"Oh, what's the matter with you, Hattie? You're not like other girls!"

"Well, have I been raised like other girls?"

At this, Mrs. Balcome became fully roused. "You'll pack your things and come right out of that house!" she cried. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes, mother.—Ikey dear, find Mr. Farvel and tell him his breakfast is ready." Then with a proprietary air, "And Miss Balcome says he must eat it while it's hot."

Wallace straightened, his face suddenly flushing.

"Dear me, aren't we concerned about Mr. Farvel's breakfast!" exclaimed Mrs. Balcome, mockingly.

"We are."

"But not a word for this poor boy. One would think you were going to marry Farvel instead of Wallace."

"But—am I going to marry Wallace?"

Wallace swayed toward her. "Oh, you can't—you can't turn me down!"

"Ah, Wallace!" she said sadly.

"Mrs. Balcome, you don't think I deserve this?"

"Now don't be hasty, Hattie," advised her mother. "Everything's ready. Our friends are coming. Are you going to send them away?"

"Messages have gone—to tell everyone not to come."

"Oh!" Wallace turned away, his head sunk between his shoulders.

"What will Buffalo think of you!" cried Mrs. Balcome.

"Buffalo," answered Hattie, "will have a chance to chatter about me, and that will give you and dad a rest."

"Are you going to send back all those beautiful wedding presents?"

Balcome, relieved of his worry over Hattie, had been strolling about, pulling at a cigar. Now he greeted this last question with a roar of laughter. "Oh, Hattie, can you beat it! Oh, that's a good one!"

Mrs. Balcome fixed him with an angry eye. "Doesn't he show what he is?" she inquired. "To laugh at such a time!"

"Beautiful wedding presents!" went on Balcome. "Oh, ha! ha! ha!"

"No sentiment!" added his wife. "No feeling!"

Hattie appealed to Wallace. "Oh, haven't I had my share of quarreling?" she asked plaintively.

"But we wouldn't quarrel!"

"Oh, yes, we would. I'd remember—and then trouble. I'd always feel that you and——"

"Hattie!" warned her mother. "You can't discuss that matter."

"Why not?"

"You ask that! Doesn't your good taste—your modesty—tell you that it's not proper?"

"Oh!—I mustn't discuss it. But if Wallace and I were to marry at twelve o'clock today, we could discuss it at one o'clock—and quarrel!"

"Mr. Balcome!" entreated Wallace.

Balcome deposited his cigar ashes on the sun-dial. "My boy," he said, "if a man has to dodge crockery because his wife's jealous about nothing, what'll it be like if she's got the goods on him?"

"There he goes!" triumphed Mrs. Balcome. "It's just what I expected!" And to Hattie, who was admiring the Kewpie, "Put that down!" Then to Wallace, "Oh, she gets more like her father every day! Now drop that!"—for Hattie, having let fall the Kewpie, had picked up the flaxen-haired doll. "Wallace, she never came to this decision alone!"

"Alan Farvel!" accused Wallace, hotly.

Hattie turned on him. "You—you dare to say that!"

"Oh, I knew you'd stick up for him! You like him."

"He's good! He's fine, and big! He's a man!—and a clean man."

"I meant Sue Milo." Mrs. Balcome interposed her bulk between them.

"She's not to blame!" defended Hattie. "On the contrary—she wouldn't let me decide quickly. We talked about it 'way into the night."

Balcome twitched a rose voile sleeve. "Don't mind her, Hattie," he counseled. "That's the kind of wild thing she says about me."

"Can you deny that Susan has influenced you?" persisted Mrs. Balcome. "Can you truthfully say—Oh!" For over the wall, and over the little white door, had come a large, gay-striped rubber ball. It Struck the grass, bounced, and came rolling to Mrs. Balcome's feet.

"Here she is!" whispered Balcome.

"Sneaking in!" accused his wife.

Now, the white door swung wide to the sound of motor chugging, and a hop came trundling across the lawn. Next, Sue appeared, backing, for her arms were full of bundles. She dropped one or two as she came. "Oh, there you go again!" she laughed. "Oh, butter-fingers!"

"Goo-oo-ood-morning!" began Mrs. Balcome, portentously.

Sue turned a startled face over a shoulder. And at once she was only a small girl caught in naughtiness. "Oh,—er—ah—good-morning," she stammered. "I—er—I've got everything but the kitchen stove." She made to a bench and let all her purchases fall. "Mrs. Balcome,—how—how is mother?"

"You care a lot about your poor mother!" retorted Mrs. Balcome. "You'll send her gray hairs in sorrow to the grave!"

Balcome winked at Sue. "Hebrews, ten, thirty-six," he reminded roguishly. "'For ye have need of patience.'"

"Well, dear lady, just what have I done?" Sue sank among the packages.

"I say you're responsible for this—this unfortunate turn of affairs."

"If you'd only let things alone yesterday," broke in Wallace; "if you'd stayed at home, and minded your own affairs."

"So you could have deceived Hattie."

"No! You've no right to call it deception. That's one of your new-woman ideas. This is something that happened long ago, before I ever met Hattie—and it's sacred——"

Hattie burst out laughing. "Sacred!" she cried. "Of course—an affair with the wife of your host!"

"Hattie!" warned Mrs. Balcome.

But Hattie ignored her mother. "What a disgusting argument!" she went on. "What a cowardly excuse!"

Matters were taking a most undesirable turn. To change their course, Mrs. Balcome swung round upon Sue. "Why did you send Dora for that child?"

"What has the poor child to do with it?"

"Ah! You see, Wallace? It was all done purposely. So that Hattie would decide against you. What does Susan Milo care that you'll be mortified? That Hattie's life will be spoiled?" (Hattie smiled.) "That I'll have to explain and lie?"

"Ha! Ha!—Lie!" chuckled Balcome.

"Don't you see that she's not thinking of you, Hattie? That you'll have to pack up and go home?—Oh, it's dreadful! Dreadful!"

"Yes," answered Hattie. "It would be dreadful—to have to go home."

Mrs. Balcome did not seem to hear. She was waving a hand at the bundles. "And what, may I ask, are all these?"

"These?"

"You heard me."

"Well, this—for, oh, she must have the best welcome that we can give her, the darling!—this——"

"All cooked up for Mr. Farvel's benefit, I suppose," interjected Mrs. Balcome.

"Of course. Who cares anything about the child!" Sue laughed.

"Oh, your mother has told me of your aspirations,"—this with scornful significance.

"Mm!—This is socks—oh, such cunning socks—with little turnover cuffs on 'em!" Sue's good-humor was unshaken. "And this is sash ribbon. And this is roller skates." She lifted one package after the other. "And a game. And a white rabbit. And a woolly sheep—it winds up!" She gave it to Hattie. "And a hat—with roses on it! And rompers—I do hope she's not too big for rompers! These are blue, with a white collar. And 'Don Quixote'—fine pictures—it'll keep. And look!"—it was a train of cars. "Isn't it a darling? I could play with it myself! Just observe that smokestack! And—well, she can give it to her first beau. And, behold, a lizard! Its picture is on the box!" She waved it. "Made in the U. S. A.!"

Mrs. Balcome had been watching with an expression not so irritable as it was wearied. "You are pathetic!" she said finally. "Simply pathetic!"

"Look!" invited Sue, holding up a duck. "It quacks!"

But Mrs. Balcome had turned on Hattie, and caught the sheep from her hand. "You!" she scolded; "—for the child of that—that——"

Hattie held up a warning finger. "Don't criticize the lady before Wallace," she cautioned.

Slowly Wallace straightened, and came about. "Well," he said quietly, "I guess that's the end of it." He went to Sue, holding out a hand. "Sue, I'm going——"

"Go to mother, Wallace. I'll see you later."

"Hattie! Hattie!" importuned her mother. "Tell him not to go!"

"No," said Hattie, firmly. "I was willing to do something wrong—and all this has saved me from it. I've never cared for Wallace the right way. He knows it. I was only marrying him to get away from home."

"Hear that!" cried Mrs. Balcome.

"No,—you don't love me," agreed Wallace.

"I don't believe I've ever loved you," the girl went on; "only—believe me!—I didn't know it till—till I came here."

"I understand." Out of a pocket of his vest he took a ring—a narrow chased band of gold. "Will—will you keep this?" he asked. "It was for you."

"Some other woman, Wallace, will make you happy." She made no move to take the ring, only backed a step.

Quickly Sue put out her hand. "Let me take it, dear brother. And try not to feel too bad." She had on a long coat. She dropped the ring into a pocket.

"And, Sue, I want to tell you"—he spoke as if they were alone together—"that I'm ashamed of what I said to you yesterday—that you're quick to think wrong. You're not. And you were right. And you're the best sister a man ever had."

"Never mind," comforted Sue. "Never mind."

He tried to smile. "This—this is chickens coming home to roost, isn't it?" he asked; turned, fighting against tears, and with a smothered farewell entered the house.

Mrs. Balcome wiped her eyes. "Oh, poor Wallace! Poor boy!" she mourned. And to Sue, "I hope you're satisfied! You started out yesterday to stop this wedding—your own brother's wedding!—and you've succeeded. I can't fathom your motives—except that some women, when they fail to land husbands of their own, simply hate to see anybody else have one. It's the envy of the—soured spinster."

Sue was busily arranging the toys. "So I can't land a husband, eh?" she laughed.

"But your mother tells me that you're championing the unmarried alliance," went on Mrs. Balcome.

"You mean Laura Farvel, of course. Well, not exactly. You see, neither mother nor I know anything against Mrs. Farvel except what Mrs. Farvel has said herself. But one thing is certain: even an unmarried alliance, as you call it, is more decent than a marriage without love."

"Oh, slam!" Balcome exploded in pure joy.

"How dare you!" cried Mrs. Balcome, dividing an angry look between her husband and Sue.

"And," Sue went on serenely, "when it comes to that, I respect an unmarried woman with a child fully as much as I do a married woman with a poodle."

"Wow!" shouted Balcome.

"I think," proceeded Mrs. Balcome, suddenly mindful of the existence of her own poodle, and looking calmly about for Babette, "I think that you have softening of the brain."

"Well,"—Sue was tinkering with the smoke-stack—"I'd rather have softening of the brain than hardening of the heart."

"Isn't she funny?" demanded Balcome, to draw his wife's fire. "She doesn't dare to stand up for Wallace you'll notice, Sue,—though she'd like to. But she can't because she's raved against that kind of thing for years. So she has to abuse somebody else."