"There's a man for you!" cried his better half. "To stand by and hear his own wife insulted!—the mother of his child—and join in it! How infamous! How base!"

Satisfied with results, Balcome consulted his watch. "Well, I'm a busy man," he observed, and kissed Hattie.

"Where is your father going?" demanded Mrs. Balcome.

"Where is father going?" telephoned Sue, taking off hat and coat.

"Buffalo."

Mrs. Balcome threw up the hand that was not engaged with the dog. "Oh, what shall we say to Buffalo!" she said tragically. "Oh, how can I ever go back!"

"Mr. Balcome, do you want to settle on some explanation?"

"Advise Hattie's mother"—Balcome shook a warning finger—"that for a change she'd better tell the truth."

"Oh!"—the shot told. "As if I don't always tell it—always!" Then to Sue, "Suppose we say that the bridegroom is sick?"

Inarticulate with mirth, Balcome gave Sue a parting pat on the shoulder and started away.

"But, John!"

Astounded at being thus directly addressed, and before he could bethink himself not to seem to have heard, Balcome brought short, silently appealing to Sue for her opinion of this extraordinary state of affairs.

For Sue knew. There was only one thing that could have so moved Mrs. Balcome. "Lady dear," she inquired pleasantly, "how much money do you want?"

"Oh, four hundred will do." And as Balcome dove into a capacious pocket and brought forth a roll, which Sue handed to her, "One hundred, two hundred,—three—four——" She counted in a careful, inquiring tone which implied that Balcome might have failed to hand over the sum she suggested. "And now, Hattie, get your things together. We want to be gone by the time that child comes."

"Oh, mother," returned Hattie, crossly, "you're beginning to treat me exactly as Mrs. Milo treats Sue."

No argument followed. For at this moment a door banged somewhere in the Rectory, then came the sound of running feet; and Mrs. Milo's voice, shrill with anger, called from the drawing-room:

"Susan!"

"Mother?" said Sue.

Hattie and her father gravitated toward each other in mutual sympathy. Then joined forces in a defensive stand behind Sue.

"Now, you'll catch it, Miss Susan!" promised Mrs. Balcome. "Here's someone who'll know how to attend to you!"

"My dear friend," answered Sue, "since early yesterday afternoon, here's a person that's been calling her soul her own."

"Susan!"—the cry was nearer, and sharp.

With elaborate calmness, Sue took up the Kewpie, seated herself, and prepared to look as independent and indifferent as possible.

"Susan!—Oh, help!"

It brought Sue to her feet. There was terror in the cry, and wild appeal.

The next moment, white-faced, and walking unsteadily, Mrs. Milo came from the drawing-room. "Oh, help me!" she begged. "I didn't tell her anything! I didn't! I didn't! How could she find us! That terrible woman!" She made weakly to the stone bench that was nearest, and sat—as Tottie followed her into sight and halted in the doorway, leaning carelessly.



CHAPTER XI

Miss Mignon St. Clair was a lady of resource. Given a telephone number, and a glimpse of a gentleman who was without doubt of the cloth, and she had only to open the Classified Telephone Directory at "Churches," run down the list until she came to the number Mrs. Milo had given her, and the thing was done. She disregarded Ikey's repeated "I don't knows" over the wire, donned an afternoon dress for her morning's work (Tottie was ever beforehand with the clock in the matter of apparel), and set forth for the Rectory, arriving—by very good fortune—as Mrs. Milo herself was alighting out of a taxicab.

Now she grinned impudently at the group in a the Close. "How-dy-do, people!" she hailed. "—Well, nobody seems to know me today! I'll introduce myself—Miss Mignon St. Clair." She bowed. Then to the figure crouched on the bench, "Say, how about it, Lady Milo?"

"Oh, you must go!" cried Mrs. Milo, rising. "You must! I'll see you—I promise—but go!"

Tottie came out. "Oh, wa-a-ait a minute! Why, you ain't half as hospitable as I am. I entertained the bunch of you yesterday, and let you raise the old Ned." She sauntered aside to take a look at the dial.

"Oh! Oh!" Mrs. Milo dropped back to the bench, shutting out the sight of her visitor with both trembling hands.

Sue went to stand across the dial from Tottie. "What can we do for you?" she asked pleasantly.

Tottie addressed Mrs. Milo. "Your daughter's a lady," she declared emphatically. And to Sue, "Nothin' 's been said about squarin' with me."

"Squaring?"

"Damages."

"Damages?"—more puzzled than ever.

But Balcome understood. He advanced upon Tottie, shaking a fist. "You mean blackmail!"

"Now go slow on that!" counseled Tottie, dangerously. "I aim to keep a respectable house."

"And I'm sure you do," returned Sue, mollifyingly.

It warmed Tottie into a confidence. "Dearie," she began, "I room the swellest people in the whole perfession. That's why I'm so mad. Here I took in that Clare Crosby. And what did she do to me?—'Aunt Clare!' Think of me swallerin' such stuff! Well, you bet I'm goin' to let Felix Hull know all there is to know, and—the kid is big enough to understand."

Now Sue put out a quick hand. "Ah, but you haven't the heart to hurt a child!"

"Haven't I! You just wait till I have my talk with her 'Aunt Clare'!"

"We haven't been able to locate her."

Tottie's face fell. "No? Then I know a way to git even, and to git my pay. There's the newspapers—y' think they won't grab at this?" She jerked her red head toward the wedding-bell. "Just a 'phone, 'Long lost wife is found, or how a singer broke up a weddin'.'"

"Oh, no!" Hattie raised a frightened face to that upper window of the study.

"By Heaven!" stormed Balcome, stamping the grass.

"Now, I know you're joking!" declared Sue. "Yes, you are!"

"Yes, I ain't!"

"Ah, you can't fool me! No, indeed! You wouldn't think of doing such a thing—a woman who stands so high in her profession!"

Tottie's eyelids fluttered, as if at a light too brilliant to endure; and she caught her breath like one who has drunk an over-generous draught. "Aw—er—um." Her hand went up to her throat. She swallowed. Then recovering herself, "Dearie, you're not only a lady, but you're discernin'—that's the word!—discernin'." She laid a hand appreciatively on Sue's arm.

Sue patted the hand. "Ha-ha!" she laughed. "I could see that you were acting! The very first minute you came through that door—'That woman is an artist'—that's what I said to myself—'a great artist—-in her line.' For you can act. Oh, Miss St. Clair, how you can act!"

Tottie seemed to grow under the praise, to lengthen and to expand. "Well, I do flatter myself that I have talent," she conceded. "I've played with the best of 'em. And as I say,——"

"Exactly," agreed Sue. "Now, what I was about to remark was this: We're thinking very seriously of traveling—several of us—yes. And before we go, I feel that I'd like you to have a small token of my appreciation of what you've done for—for Miss Crosby—a small token to an artist——"

"Dearie," interrupted Tottie, "I couldn't think of it."

"Oh, just a little something—for being so kind to her."

"Not a cent. Y' know, I've got a steady income—yes, alimony. I'm independent. And it's so seldom that us artists git appreciated. No; as I say, not a cent.—And now, I'll make my exit. It's been a real pleasure to see you again." She backed impressively.

"The pleasure's all mine," declared Sue. "Good-by!"

"O-revour!" returned Tottie, elegantly. She bowed, swept round, and was gone.

Mrs. Milo uncovered her face.

Balcome chuckled. "My dear Sue," he said, "when it comes to diplomacy, our United States ambassador boys have nothing on you!"

"Oh, don't give me too much credit," Sue answered. "You know, people are never as bad as they pretend to be. Now even you and Mrs. Balcome—why, I've come to the conclusion that you two enjoy a good row!"

"Ah, that reminds me!" declared Balcome. "You spoke just now of traveling. And I think there's a devil of a lot in that travel idea."

"Brother Balcome!" exclaimed Mrs. Milo, finding relief from embarrassment in being shocked.

"Don't call me Brother!" he cried. "—Sue, ask Mrs. B. if she wouldn't like to get away to Europe.—And you could go with her, couldn't you?" This to Mrs. Milo, before whose eyes he held up a check-book. "What would you say to five thousand dollars?"

The sight of that check-book was like a tonic. Mrs. Milo smiled—and rose, setting her bonnet straight, and picking at the skirt of her dress.

"What do you think, Sue?" asked Balcome.

Sue considered. "They could go a long way on five thousand," she returned mischievously.

"And I need a change," put in her mother; "—after twenty years of—of widowed responsibility."

Balcome waxed enthusiastic. "I tell you, it's a great idea! You two ladies——"

"Leisurely taking in the sights," supplemented Sue.

"That's the ticket!" He opened the check-book. "First, England."

"Then France." Sue was the picture of demureness.

"Then the trenches!" Balcome winked.

"Italy is lovely," continued Sue, wickedly.

"Egypt—for the winter!" Balcome's excitement mounted as he saw his wife farther away.

"And there's the Holy Land."

This last was a happy suggestion. For Mrs. Milo turned to Mrs. Balcome, clasping eager hands. "Ah, the Holy Land!" she cried. "Palestine! The Garden of Eden!"

Mrs. Balcome listened calmly. But she did not commit herself. At some thought or other, she pressed Babette close.

"Yes!" Balcome took Mrs. Milo's elbow confidentially. "And think of Arabia!"

"India!"—it was Sue again.

"China!" added Balcome.

"Japan!"

"The Phil——"

"Look out now! Look out!"

"What's the matter?"

"Matter? You're coming up the other side!"

But Mrs. Milo was blissfully unaware of this bit of byplay. "Do you think Mrs. Balcome and I could make such an extended trip on five thousand?" she asked.

"Well, I'll raise the ante!—ten thousand." Balcome took out a fountain-pen.

"Oh, think of it!" raved Mrs. Milo, ecstatically. "The dream of my life!—Europe! Africa! Asia!—Dear Mrs. Balcome, what do you say?"

"We-e-e-ell," answered Mrs. Balcome, slowly, "can I take Babette?"

In his eagerness, Balcome addressed her direct. "Yes! Yes! I'll buy Babette a dog satchel!"

"I'll go," declared Mrs. Balcome.

Mrs. Milo was all gratitude. "Oh, my dear, thank you! And we'll get ready today!—Why not? I certainly shan't stay here"—this with a glance at the toy-strewn bench. "Susan,—you must pack."

Sue stared. "Oh,—do—do I go?"

"Would you send me, at my age——"

"No! No!"—hastily.

"And you don't mean to tell me that you'd like to stay behind!" There was a touch of the old jealousy.

"I didn't know you wanted me to go, mother."

"Most assuredly you go." She had evidently forgotten completely her threat of the afternoon before. Sue had disobeyed. Yet her disobedience was not to result in a parting. "And that reminds me"—turning to Balcome, who was scratching away with his pen. "If Sue goes——"

Balcome understood. He began to write a new check. "I'll make this twelve thousand."

Mrs. Balcome saw an opportunity. "Hattie, do you want to go?" she asked. She looked about the Close. "Hattie!"

But Hattie was gone.

Mrs. Milo bustled to Balcome to take the check. "I'll get the reservations at once," she declared. And as the slip of paper was put into her hand, "Oh, Brother Balcome!"

"Sister Milo!" Balcome, beaming, crushed her fingers gratefully in his big fist.

She bustled out, taking Mrs. Balcome with her.

Balcome kept Sue back. "Of course, I know that you won't get one nickel of that money," he declared. "So I'm going to give you a little bunch for yourself."

"But, dear sir,——"

"Not a word now! Don't I know what you've done for me? Why,"—shaking with laughter—"Mrs. B. will have to stay in England six months."

"Six?"

"Sh!"—he leaned to whisper—"Babette! Six months is the British quarantine for dogs!" He caught her hand, and they laughed immoderately.

Her hand free again, she found a slip of paper in it. "Five thousand! Oh, no! I can't take it!"

"Yes, you will! Take it now instead of letting me will it to you. For I'm going to die of joy! You see, my dear girl, you're not going to be earning while you travel. And you can use it. And you've given me value received. You've done me a whale of a turn! Please let me do this much."

"I'll take it if you'll let me use some of it for—for——"

"You mean that youngster?"

"Would you mind if I helped the mother?"

"Say, there's no string tied to that check. Use it as you like. But I want to ask you, Sue,—just curiosity—why were you so all-fired nice to that Crosby girl?"

"I'll tell you. But you'll never peep?"

"Cross my heart to die!"

"She's been so brave, and I'm a coward."

"That you're not, by Jingo!"

"Let me explain. She couldn't stand conditions that weren't suited to her. At nineteen, she rebelled. I'm not going to say that she didn't also do wrong. But she was so young. While I—I have gone on and on, knowing in my secret heart——" She choked, and could not finish.

"I understand, Sue. It's a blamed shame! And you can't stop now——"

"I shall go with mother."

"Well, if you find that young woman you give her as much of that five thousand as you want to. And if you need more——"

"Oh, you dear, old, fat thing!"

He put his arm about her. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder.

"There! There! You're a good girl."

"You're a man in a million! How can any woman find you hard to live with!"

"Momsey!" Ikey was standing beside them. His hair was disheveled, his face white.

"Ikey boy!" The sight of him made her anxious.

"You—you go avay?"

"We-e-ell,——"

"A-a-a-ah!" She was trying to break it gently. But he understood. Two small begrimed hands went up to hide his face.

She drew him to her. "But I'll come back, dear! I'll come back! Oh, don't! Don't!"

He clung to her wildly then. "Oh, how can I lif midoudt you! Oh, Momsey! Momsey! I nefer sing again!"

She led him to a bench. "Now listen!" she begged gently. "Listen! It's only for a little while."

He lifted his face. "Yes?"

"Yes, dear."

That comforted. "Und also," he observed philosophically, "de olt lady, she goes mit."

"Ikey!" Sue sat back, displeased.

"Oh, scuses! Scuses!"

"She's my mother."

"You—you sure?"

"Why, Ikey!" she cried, astonished.

"Alvays I—I like to t'ink de oder t'ing."

"What other thing?"

"Dat you vas found in de basket."

Balcome laughed, and Sue laughed with him. Even Ikey, guessing that he had inadvertently been more than usually witty, allowed a smile to come into those wet eyes.

"There!" cried Sue, putting both arms about him. "Momsey forgives."

"T'ank you. Und now I like to question—you don't go avay mit de preacher?"

"No! No!" Sue blushed like a girl.

"Den you don't marry mit him."

"N-n-n-n-no!"

"You feel better, don't you, old man?" inquired Balcome.

"Yes.—If I vas growed up, I vould marry mit her myself."

"Now little flattering chorister," said Sue, "there's something Momsey wants you to do. She'll have to leave here very soon. And before she goes she wants to hear that splendid voice again. So you go to the choirmaster, and ask him if he'll get all the boys together for Miss Susan, and have them sing something—something full of happiness, and hope."

"Momsey, can it be 'O Mutter Dear, Jerusalem?'"

"Do you like that best?"

"I like it awful much! De first part, she has Mutter in it; und—und also Jerusalem."

Sue kissed him. "And the second verse Momsey likes——

'O happy harbor of God's Saints! O sweet and pleasant soil! In Thee no sorrow can be found, Nor grief, nor care, nor toil!'"

"It's grand!" sighed Ikey.

"You ask the choirmaster if you may sing it. And if he lets you——"

"Goot!" He started away bravely enough. But the Church door reached, he turned and came slowly back. "Momsey," he faltered, "I don't remember my mutter. Vould you, now, mind if—just vonce before you go—if I called you—mutter?"

She put out her arms to him. "Oh, my son! My son!"

With a cry, he flung himself into her embrace, weeping. "Oh, mutter! Mutter! Mutter!"

"Remember that mother loves you."

"Oh, my mutter," he answered, "Gott take fine care of you!"

"And God take care of my boy."

He sobbed, and she held him close, brushing at the tousled head. While Balcome paced to and fro on the lawn, and coughed suspiciously, and blinked at the sun. "Say, I've got an idea," he announced. "Listen, young man! Come here."

Gently Sue unclasped the hands that clung about her neck, and turned the tear-stained face to Balcome.

"Up in Buffalo, in my business, I need a boy who knows how to keep his mouth shut. Now when do you escape from this—this asylum?" He swept his hat in a wide circle that included the Rectory.

Pride made Ikey forget his woe. "Oh," he boasted, "I can go venefer I like. You see, my aunt, she only borrows me here."

"Ah! And what do you think of my proposition?"

Ikey meditated. "Vell, I ain't crazy to stay here mit Momsey gone."

Balcome put a hand on his shoulder. "I thought you wouldn't. So suppose we talk this over—eh?—man to man—while we hunt the choirmaster?"



CHAPTER XII

When they were gone, Sue looked down at the check in her hand. Yesterday, in the heat of a just resentment, she had boasted a new freedom. What had come of it was twelve hours without the presence of her mother—twelve hours shared with Hattie and Farvel.

They had been happy hours, for strangely enough Hattie had needed little cheering. It was Farvel who easily accomplished wonders with her. Sue did not know what passed between the clergyman and the bride-who-was-not-to-be during a long conference in the library. She had heard only the low murmur of their voices. And once she had heard Hattie laugh. When the two finally emerged, it was plain that Hattie had been weeping, and Farvel was noticeably kind to her, even tender. At dinner he was unwontedly cheerful, relieved at the whole solving of the old, sad mystery, though worried not a little by Clare's disappearance. After dinner he had taken himself out and away in a futile search that had lasted the whole night.

But happy as Sue had been since parting with her mother at Tottie's, nevertheless she felt strangely shaken, as if, somehow, she had been swept from her bearings. She attributed this to the fact that never before had she and her mother spent a night under different roofs. Until Sue's twenty-fourth birthday, there had been the daily partings that come with a girl's school duties. (Sue had continued through a business college after leaving high school.) But beyond the short trip to school and back, Mrs. Milo did not permit her daughter to go anywhere alone, urging Sue's youth as her excuse.

They shopped together; they sat side by side in the Milo pew at St. Giles; and after Sue's sixteenth birthday, though Wallace might have to be left at home with his father, Mrs. Milo did not permit her daughter to accept invitations, even to the home of a girl friend, unless she herself was included. It was said—and in praise of Mrs. Milo—that here was one woman who took "good care of her girl."

When Horatio Milo died (an expert accountant, he had no resistance with which to combat a sudden illness that was aggravated by a wound received in the Civil War), Mrs. Milo clung more closely than ever—if that was possible—to Sue. To the daughter, this was explained by her mother's pathetic grief; and by her dependence. For Sue was now, all at once, the breadwinner of the little family.

At this juncture, Mrs. Milo pleaded hard in behalf of an arrangement for earning that would not take her daughter from her even through a short business day. Sue met her mother's wishes by setting up an office in the living-room of their small apartment. Here she took some dictation—her mother seated close by, busy with her sewing, but not too busy to be graciousness itself to those men and women who desired Sue's services. There was copying to be done, too. The girl became a sort of general secretary, her clients including an author, a college professor, and a clergyman.

Thus for six years. Then, at thirty years of age, she went to fill the position at the Rectory. Her father had been a vestryman of the Church, and she had been christened there—as a small, freckle-faced girl in pigtails, fresh from a little village in northern New York.

And now, at this day that was so late, Sue knew that between her and her mother things could never again be as they had been. Their differences lay deep: and could not be adjusted. Mrs. Milo had always demanded from her daughter the unquestioning obedience of a child; she would not—and could not—alter her attitude after so many years.

But there was a reason for their parting that was more powerful than any other: down from its high pedestal had come the image of Mrs. Milo that her daughter had so long, and almost blindly, cherished. All at once, as if indeed her eyes had been suddenly and miraculously opened, Sue understood all the hypocrisy of her mother's gentleness, the affection that was only simulated, the smiles that were only muscle deep.

How it had all happened, Sue as yet scarcely knew. But in effect it had been like an avalanche—an avalanche that is built up, flake by flake, over a long period, and then gives way through even so light a touch as the springing to flight of a mountain bird. The Milo avalanche—it was made up of countless small tyrannies and scarcely noticeable acts of selfishness adroitly disguised. But touched into motion by Mrs. Milo's frank cruelty, it had swept upon the two women, destroying all the falsities that had hitherto made any thought of separation impossible. As Sue fingered the check, she realized that her life and her mother's had been changed. It was likely that they might go on living together. Though they were two women who belonged apart.

"Why, Miss Susan,"—Farvel had come across the lawn to her noiselessly—"what's this I hear? That you're going away."

She rose, a little flurried. "I—I suppose I must."

"And you've bought all these for—for the child," he added, catching sight of the dolls and toys.

"It'll be nice to give them to her. But I'd hoped I could be near Barbara for a long time to come. I hoped I could help to make up to the little one for—for anything she's lacked." She shook her head. "But you see, my mother depends on me so. She wouldn't go without me. She's too old to go just with Mrs. Balcome. And—and if it's my duty——" At her feet was that box which Mrs. Balcome had thrown down on hearing that it contained something which should be put upon ice. Sue picked the box up and began to undo the string.

Farvel stood in silence for a little. Then, finally, "I—I want to tell you something before you go. I'm afraid it will surprise you. And—and"—coloring bashfully—"I hardly know how to begin."

"Ye-e-es?" Sue was embarrassed, too, and hid her confusion by taking from the box a bride's bouquet that was destined not to figure in any marriage ceremony. At sight of the flowers, her embarrassment grew.

Farvel began to speak very low.—"After Laura left, I didn't think of a second marriage—not even when her brother had the divorce registered. I felt I couldn't settle down again and be happy when I didn't know her fate. She might be alive, you see. And I am an Episcopal clergyman. Still—I wasn't contented. I had my dreams—of a home, and a wife——" He paused.

"A wife who would really care," she said.

"Yes. And a woman I could love. Because, I know I'm to blame for Laura's going—oh, yes, to a very great extent. I didn't love her enough. If I had, she never would have left—never would have done anything to hurt me. If I were to marry again, it would have to be someone I cared for a great deal. That's what I—I want to plead now when I tell you—when I confess. I want to plead that this new love I feel is so great—almost beyond my—my power, Miss Susan."

She did not look at him. The bouquet in her hand trembled.

He went on. "I oughtn't to find it hard to tell you anything. I've always felt that there was such sympathy between us. As if you understand me; and I would never fail to understand you."

"I have felt it, too."

Now she lifted her eyes—but to the windows of the drawing-room. From the nearest, a face was quickly withdrawn—her mother's. She stepped back, widening the distance between herself and Farvel.

"Susan!" It was Mrs. Milo, calling as if from a distance.

Instantly, Farvel also fell back. And scarcely knowing why she did it, Sue put the bride's bouquet behind her.

Mrs. Milo came out. Her eyes had a peculiar glitter, but her voice was gentle enough. "Susan dear, why do you go flying away just when you're wanted? Why don't you come and help your poor motherkins as you promised? You don't want me to do everything?"

"No, mother."

"Then please go at once and help Mrs. Balcome with the packing. My things go into the two small wardrobe trunks. You'll have to use that big trunk that was your dear father's. Now hurry!"

"Yes, mother." Sue attempted a detour, the bouquet still out of her mother's sight.

"What are you trying to conceal, dear?"

"It's—it's Hattie's bouquet."

A look of mingled fear and resentment—a look that Sue understood; next, breathing hard, "What are you doing with it? You don't want it! Give it to me!" Mrs. Milo caught the flowers from her daughter's hands and threw them upon the grass. "Now go and do what I've asked you to!" She pointed.

Sue glanced at Farvel, who was staring at the elder woman in amazed displeasure. "I'll be back," she said significantly. There was a trace of yesterday's rebellion in her manner as she went out.

As the drawing-room door closed, Mrs. Milo's manner also underwent a change. She hastened to Farvel, her eyes brimming with tears, her lips trembling. "Oh, Mr. Farvel," she cried, "she's all I've got in this world. She's the very staff of my life! And my heart is set on her going abroad with me! It'll be an expensive trip, but I'm an old woman, Mr. Farvel, and I can't take that long journey without Sue! I know you're against me for what I did yesterday—for what I said to your wife. But I felt she'd separate me from Sue—that she'd put Sue against me. And, oh, don't punish me for it! Don't take my daughter away from me! Oh, don't! Don't!" She caught at his hand, broke down completely, and sobbed.

"Why, Mrs. Milo!" exclaimed Farvel, not understanding. "What do you mean?—take her away?"

"I mean marry her!—Oh, she's my main hold on life!"

He laughed. "My dear, dear lady, I haven't the least intention in the world of asking your daughter to marry me."

"No?" She stopped her weeping.

"None whatever. How can I marry—while Laura is alive?"

"And—and"—doubtfully—"you don't even—love her?"

"Will it make your mind entirely easy if I tell you that I—I care for someone else?" He blushed like a boy.

"Oh, Alan Farvel, I'm so glad! So glad!" Her gratitude was spontaneous. "And I wish you could marry! You deserve the very best kind of a wife!"

"You flatter me."

"Not at all! You're a good man. You'd make some girl very happy. I've always said, 'What a pity Mr. Farvel isn't a married man'—not knowing, of course, that you'd ever been one.—Could I trouble you to hand me that bouquet?"

"Certainly." Farvel picked up the bride's bouquet from where she had thrown it and gave it to her.

"Thank you. A moment ago, I found the perfume of it quite overpowering. But the blossoms are lovely, aren't they?—So you do care for someone? And"—she smiled in her best playfully teasing manner—"is the 'someone' a secret?"

"Well,——"

"Ah, you don't want to tell me! I'm an old lady, Mr. Farvel; I know how to keep a secret."

"Oh, I'm going to tell you. Though you're going to think very badly of me."

"Badly? For being in love?—You will have to wait."

"For being in love with a certain young lady."

"Ho-ho! That's very unlikely. Now, who is it? I'm all eagerness!" She smiled at him archly.

He waited a moment; then, "I love Hattie Balcome."

"Hattie?" She found it impossible of comprehension.

"Hattie."

"Well,—that is—news."

He bowed, a little surprised. He had expected anger and vituperation.

"Of course, my son—— But as that can't be. And Sue—does Sue know?"

"I was just about to tell her."

She turned, calling: "Susan! Susan! Susan!"

There was a rustle at the door—a smothered laugh. Sue appeared. "Who calls the Queen of Lower Egypt?" she hailed airily, striking an attitude. She had changed her dress. This was the "other one" given her by Balcome—a confection all silver and chiffon. And this was Sue at her youngest.

"Oh, my dear," cried her mother, "it's lovely!"

Startled by the unexpected admiration, Sue relaxed the pictorial attitude. "You—you really like it, mother?"

"I think it's adorable!" vowed Mrs. Milo. "A perfect dream!—Don't you think so, Mr. Farvel?"

He smiled. "I've never seen Miss Susan look more charming," he declared.

His compliment heightened the color in Sue's cheeks. "I—I just happened across it," she explained, "so I thought I'd try it on."

Mrs. Milo prepared to go. "By the way, Susan," she said. "I've changed my mind about Europe."

"You're not going?" Sue looked pleased.

"Oh, yes, I'm going. But—I've decided not to take you."

"Oh." Sue looked down, that her mother and Farvel might not guess at her relief and her happiness.

Her mother went on: "It's quite true what you said yesterday. You have been tied to me too closely. We need a change from each other." She spoke with great gentleness. Smiling at Sue, the elder woman noted how cruelly the bright sunlight of the Close brought out all the lines in her daughter's face, emphasized the aging of the throat and the graying of the hair.

"Besides," continued the silvery voice, "it would be a very expensive trip—with four in the party."

"Four?"

"Poor dear Wallace, I'm going to take him with me. His happiness is ruined, and where would he go without me? Not to Peru—alone. I couldn't permit that. He is absolutely broken-hearted. I must try to heal his wound.—Oh, I'm not criticizing the way Hattie has treated him. But his mother must not be the one to fail him now,—the darling!"

"I want you to make any arrangement, any decision, that will mean comfort and happiness to you and Wallace," said Sue. And felt all at once a sudden, new, sweet sense of freedom.

"And I feel that Mrs. Balcome and I will need a man along," added Mrs. Milo. "If you were to go also——"

"I am just as satisfied not to."

"—It would take more money than we shall have. And as Hattie's mother is going, doubtless Hattie will be glad enough to have you here to chaperone her."

"Yes."

"But then do anything you like. You'll remember that yesterday you twitted me about having to be waited on. I'll prove to you, my dear, that I can get on without you."

"Yes," said Sue, again. "And for what it would cost to take me, you can hire the best of attention."

"That's true, though I hadn't thought of it. But for a woman of my years, I'm very active. I need no attention, really.—Just see, will you, if there isn't a hook loose here on this shoulder? Mrs. Balcome was downstairs when I dressed."

Sue looked. "It's all right, mother dear."

"And this bonnet"—she gave it a petulant twitch—"you know it's heavier on one side than the other. I told you that when you were making it."

"I'm sorry, mother." Sue adjusted the bonnet with deft hands.

"And now I have a thousand things to do!" It was like a dismissal of Sue. Two things had come between them: on Sue's part, it was the sudden knowledge of her mother's character—of its depths and its shallows; while on the part of the elder woman, it was injured pride, and never-to-be-forgotten mortification.

Mrs. Milo floated away to the door. "And Mr. Farvel has a great secret to tell you," she chirped as she went; "—a wonderful secret." She turned to blink both eyes at the clergyman roguishly. "He's going to confess to you." Then she held out the bride's bouquet, and with such a peremptory gesture that Sue came to take it from her. Next she shook a finger at Farvel. "Now out with it, Alan!" she commanded.

"Alan!" gasped Sue, under her breath. She gave her mother a tiny push. "Yes, go, mother! Hurry! You're wanted at the telephone!"

"I'm wanted at the steamship office," answered Mrs. Milo. "Oh, think of it!—Egypt! The Holy Land! The Garden of Eden!"

Left alone, both Farvel and Sue found the moment embarrassing. She went back to the sun-dial, picking at the flowers of the bouquet. He stood apart, hands rammed in pockets.

Presently, "Well, I—I don't have to go to Europe." She smiled at him shyly.

"No. That's—that's good."

"And—and when I went out you—you were saying——"

It helped him. "I was trying to—to make a clean breast of something," he began, faltering. "But—but—oh, she can tell you best." He looked up at the window of his study. "Hattie!" he called. "Hattie!"

"Yes, Alan!" A rose fell upon the grass; then Hattie looked down at them, radiant and laughing, her fair hair blowing about her face.

"Come here, little woman."

"All right." The fair head disappeared.

"Hattie!" Sue was like one in a dream.

"You're—you're shocked. But wait——"

"No—no. That is,—not the way you mean." Then as the truth came to her, she went unsteadily to a bench, sat, and leaned her head on a hand. Now she understood why her mother was willing to leave her behind!

Hattie came tearing across the grass to her. "Oh, Sue! Oh, you're crying! Oh, dear Sue, you're crying!" She knelt, her arms about the elder woman.

"Of course I'm crying," answered Sue. "That's what I always do when I—I see that someone is happy."

"Oh, Sue! Sue!" The girl clung to her. "Don't think too badly of me. It came out last night—when Alan and I were talking. I told him I didn't love Wallace the way I should—oh, Sue, you know I never have—and that it was because I loved someone else. And, oh, he grew so—so white—he was so hurt—and I told him—I had to. It just poured out of my soul, Sue. It had been kept in so long."

"You darling girl!" They clung to each other, murmuring.

"Now you know why I was so—so broken up yesterday," explained Farvel. "It wasn't—Laura. It was Hattie."

"Oh, we've cared for each other from the first!" confessed Hattie. "And we've settled how it is all going to be. I'll stay in New York, where we can be near each other, and see each other now and then—oh, we shall be only friends, Sue. But I'd rather have his friendship than the love of any other man I've ever known. And we'll be patient. And if we can't ever be more than friends, we'll be glad just for that. See how happy you've been, Sue, with no one—all these years. And here I shall have Alan."

"Ah, my dear girl!" exclaimed Sue. She stroked the bright hair. "Ah, my dear girl!"

"Oh, Sue, you mean you haven't been happy? Why don't you marry?"

Sue laughed. "I? What an idea! Why, I don't think I've ever even had the thought. Anyhow, the years have gone—the inclination is gone, if it ever was there. I'm too old." Then with sudden and passionate earnestness, "But you two." She rose and took each by a hand, and led them to the dial. "Read! Read what is written in the stone!—Tempus Fugit—time flies! Oh, take your happiness while you can! Don't wait. Oh, don't!—We must find a way somehow. The Church—we must see the proper authorities—oh, it isn't right that you two should be punished——"

"Momsey!" Peter, the pale, was calling from the drawing-room door. "There's a gentleman——"

A man appeared behind the boy, and pushed past into the Close—a young man, unshaven and haggard, with bloodshot eyes.

"Is there something I can do for you?" asked Farvel, quickly. He hastened toward the visitor, who looked as if he had suddenly gone mad.

"Hull is my name," announced the man; "—Felix Hull."

"Oh, yes," said Sue, eagerly. She signed to Hattie to go, and the girl hastened away through the door under the wedding-bell.

"You have news?" questioned Farvel.

Hull crossed the lawn to the dial. He walked slowly, like an old man. And his shoulders were bent. His derby hat was off, and he clutched it in two shaking hands.

"Tell us," bade Sue. "It's—bad news?"

"Yes."

"Take your time," she added kindly.

"Yesterday—just before you saw her—I was there. She was—well, you know. She begged me to go—and keep away from the house. That made me suspicious. I told her I wouldn't come back. Well, I didn't. Because I never left. I knew she wasn't telling me the truth—I beg your pardon, sir.—So I hung around. I saw you all go in. After a little, I saw her come out—on the run. I followed. She went about twenty blocks——"

"Where?"

"You're Miss Milo, aren't you?"

"Susan Milo."

"She spoke of you—oh, so—so loving. Well, it was a girl's club—called the Gramercy. I knew it well because we'd met there many a time. I went in. There was a new maid on hand, but I saw Clare. She came right away, like as if she was more than glad to have a talk. I didn't expect that, so I'd brought along a canary—to make her think it was hers—the one she'd left behind, you see,—so she couldn't just refuse to see me. Well, we talked. There wasn't any quarreling. She wasn't a bit broke up—that surprised me. And it threw me clean off my guard. She was highty-tighty, as you might say, and I'll admit it hurt. We shook hands though, when I went, but she didn't ask me to stay to tea." He turned to Farvel. "One thing she said about the child she wanted you to know."

"What?"

"It's not your daughter, sir."

"Ah."

"And I hear from the St. Clair woman that the little one isn't as old as Clare said. So——"

"I understand."

"Well, this morning, when I woke up—I didn't sleep much to speak of last night—I got to thinking about—her. And I made up my mind that I'd go look her up, and—and be a friend to her anyhow." His voice broke. "I was fond of her, Miss Milo."

"She was gone?"

He nodded. "She'd been gone since the night before. Went out, the maid said, with no hat on and a letter in her hand—for the post. And she hadn't come back. I tell you, that worried me. I was half-crazy." He tried to control his voice, to keep back the tears.

"Then it's very bad news," ventured Farvel. He laid a hand on the other man's sleeve.

"I went over to the St. Clair house," Hull went on. "Clare hadn't been there. Then—I knew. So I went to the one place—that was likely——"

"You mean——" asked Farvel. "Oh, not that! Not that!"

"She was there. She'd spoken about the river. That's why I was sure."

"The river!" gasped Sue. "Oh, what are you saying?"

"She'd done as she said," answered Hull, quietly.

Sue sank to a bench. "Oh, that cry of hers, yesterday!" she reminded, breaking down. "Do you remember, Mr. Farvel? When she saw you—'It's all over! It's all over!' Oh, why did I let her out of my sight!"

"It's my fault," declared Hull, hoarsely. "I was too hard on her. Too hard." He turned away.

Farvel went to him and held out his hand. Hull took it, and they stood in silence for a long moment. Then Hull drew back. There was a queer, distorted smile on his face. "This comes of a man's thinking he's smart," he declared. "I wanted to show her I was on—instead of letting her explain it all to me. But I've always been like that—too smart—too smart." He turned and went out, walking unsteadily.

It was Sue who broke the news to Hattie. And when the latter had left to rejoin her mother at the hotel (for it was agreed that it would be better if Farvel and the girl did not see each other again until later). Sue came back into the Close—to wait for Barbara.

She waited beside the dial. There was nothing girl-like in her posture. Her shoulders were as bent as Hull's had been. The high color was gone from her face. And the gray eyes showed no look of youth. She felt forsaken, and old, and there was an ache in her throat.

"Well, the poor trapped soul is gone," she said presently, out loud to herself. She looked down at the dial. "Time is not for her any more. But rest—and peace."

What changes had come while just these last twenty-four hours were flying! while the shadow on that dial had made its single turn!

"And here you are, Susan, high and dry." She had wept for another; she laughed at herself. "Here you are, as Ikey says, 'All fixed up, und by your lonesomes.' But never mind any lamentations, Susan." For her breast was heaving in spite of herself. "Your hands are free—don't forget that? And you can do l-l-l-lots of helpful things—for your pocket is lined. And there must be something ahead for you, Susan! There must be s-s-s-something!"

"Miss Susan!" Someone had come from the drawing-room.

"Dora!" But she kept her face turned away, lest she betray her tears.

"It is your humble servant," acknowledged Dora.

"Well, my humble servant, listen to me: I want you to pack my things into that old trunk of father's. And put my typewriter into its case, and screw the cover down. And when I send you word, you'll bring both to me. But—no one is to know where you come."

Dora's eyes bulged with the very mystery of it—the excitement. "Miss Susan," she vowed gravely, "I shall follow your instructions if my life is spared!"

"And now—bring the little one."

"In all my orphanage experience," confided Dora, delaying a moment to impart this important news, "I've never heard so much mother-talk. Since last night, she's not stopped for one second! I gave her a hot lemonade to get her to sleep. And she was awake this morning when it was still dark. I think"—with feeling—"that if she doesn't get her mother pretty soon, she'll—she'll——" But words failed her. She wagged her head and went out.

Sue stood for a moment, looking straight before her, her eyes wide and grave. Presently, a smile lighted them, and softened all her face. She turned. Her hat and the long coat were on the bench with the toys. She went to put them on, buttoning the coat carefully over the silver gown. Next, she took from a pocket the ring that her brother had given her. She held it up for the sun; to shine upon it. Then, very deliberately, she slipped it upon the third finger of her left hand.

A movement within the house, a patter of small feet at the drawing-room door, and Sue turned. There stood a little girl in a dress of faded gingham. Down her back by a string hung a shabby hat. But her shoes were new and shining.

In one hand she carried a doll.

She glanced up and around—at the ivy-grown wall of the Church, at the stained-glass windows glowing in the light, at the darting birds, the wedding-bell, the massed flowers and palms; and down at the grass, so neat and vividly green, and cool. Last of all, she looked at Sue.

Sue knelt, and held out both hands, smilingly, invitingly; then waited, dropping her arms to her sides again.

Barbara came nearer, but paused once more, and the brown eyes studied the gray. This for a long moment, when the child smiled back at Sue, as if reassured, and nodded confidingly.

"Oh, this is a beautiful garden," she said. "And after today, I'm going to live where there's flowers all the time! My mother, she's come back from Africa. My father hasn't, because he's got to hunt lions. But my mother and me, we're going to live in a little cottage in—in, well, some place. And there's a garden a-a-all around the cottage,"—she made a sweeping gesture with one short arm—"a garden of roses! And I'm going to have my mother every day. And she loves me! And she's good, and brave, and sweet, and pretty."

At that moment, Sue Milo was beautiful. All the tenderness of a heart starved of its rightful love looked from her eyes. And her face shone as if lighted by a flame. "I—love you!" she said tremulously.

"Do you?"—there was an answering look of love in the eyes of the child.

"Oh, so tenderly!"

The little face sobered. The small figure moved forward a step. "I'm—I'm glad"—almost under her breath. "Because—because I love you, too." Then coming still closer, and looking earnestly into those eyes so full of gentle sweetness, "Who—are—you?"

"Barbara,"—Sue's arms went out again, yearningly—"Barbara, I—am your mother."

"Mother!"—the cry rang through the Close. The child flung herself into those waiting arms, clasping Sue with her own. "Oh, mother! Mother! Mother!"

"My baby! My baby!"

Now past the open door of the Church, walking two and two in their white cottas, came the choir. And their voices, high and clear, sang that verse of Ikey's song which Sue loved best—

"O happy harbor of God's Saints! O sweet and pleasant soil! In Thee no sorrow can be found, Nor grief, nor care, nor toil!"

Before the song was done, Barbara's hat was on, and with "Lolly-Poppins" and the woolly lamb under an arm; with Sue similarly burdened with the Kewpie, the new doll, and the duck that could quack, the two went, hand in hand, across the lawn to that little white door through which forsaken babies had often come, but through which one lovingly claimed was now to go. And the little white door opened to the touch of Sue's hand—and through it, to a new life and a new happiness; to service sweet beyond words, went a new mother—and with her, a new-found daughter.

THE END