Gertrude laughed. "Did I?" she replied. "Well, perhaps I think so still."

Whatever she may have thought, it did not prevent her continuing to be very cordial to the newly discovered relative. He and she were together a good deal during the day. She seemed to really enjoy his society. The remainder of the time she spent with her mother. Captain Dan scarcely saw her except at luncheon and dinner. Once he found her in the kitchen talking with Azuba, and on another occasion she and Mr. Hapgood were in conversation, but for her father she could spare only odd moments. The captain did not know what to make of it. When, taking advantage of a fleeting opportunity, he asked her she only laughed.

"I am very busy, Daddy," she said. "You mustn't bother."

"Bother! Well, I like that! How long since my company was a bother to you, Gertie? It never used to be."

"It isn't now, and you know it. But, as I say, I am very busy. Business first, pleasure afterwards."

"Humph! I'm glad I'm a pleasure, even if it's the kind that comes after everything else. What have you and your ma been talkin' about upstairs for the last hour?"

"A great many things—society and the Chapter and—oh, all sorts."

"Want to know! What were you and Azuba talkin' about?"

"About household matters and the people IN the house."

"People in the house! What people?"

"You and mother and Mr. Hun—that is, Cousin Percy—and Hapgood."

"That's all there is, except yourself. What was you and Hapgood havin' a confab on; more household matters?"

"Yes, in a way. Daddy, have Mr. Hungerford and Hapgood known each other long?"

"I guess so. He was Aunt Laviny's butler for a good many years, and Percy was a regular visitor there. What made you ask that?"

"Feminine curiosity, probably. Has our cousin many friends here in Scarford?"

"Why, he seems to know 'most everybody; everybody that's in what he and your mother call society, that is."

"But has he any intimate friends? Have you met any of them?"

"I met one once. He seemed to be pretty intimate. Anyhow, they called each other by their first names. Ho! ho! that whole thing was kind of funny. I never wrote you about that, did I?"

He told of the meeting in the Rathskeller. Gertrude evinced much interest.

"What was this friend's name?" she asked.

"'Monty,' that's all I heard. Queer name, ain't it—isn't it, I mean. But it ain't any queerer than 'Tacks'; that's what he called Hungerford."

"Has this 'Monty' called here? Has he been here at the house?"

"No-o, no, he hasn't. I caught a glimpse of him at the club, that time when I went there with Barney—Godfreys! it's a good thing Serena didn't hear me say that—with Phelps Black, I mean."

"Daddy, sometime when you have an opportunity, ask Mr. Black about this Monty, will you?"

"Sartin, if you want me to. But what do you care about Percy Hungerford's friends?"

"I don't—about his friends."

With which enigmatical remark she moved away to join Cousin Percy, who had just entered the room.

During the next three days, Daniel's feeling that his daughter was neglecting him grew stronger than ever. Her "business," whatever it might be, occupied practically all her time, and the captain and she were scarcely ever alone. He was disappointed. He had regarded her coming as the life preserver which was to help him through the troubled waters to dry land, and so far he was as helplessly adrift as before. Serena had forgiven his profane expression concerning her beloved Chapter, that was true, but Serena also was "busy" during the days and evenings, and at bedtime she was too tired to talk. Gertrude was with her mother a great deal, and with Cousin Percy almost as much. They visited the water-color exhibition together, and would have gone on other excursions if the cousin had had his way. Daniel did not like Mr. Hungerford. He had grown to tolerate him because Serena liked him so much, and declared him such a help in her literary and political labors, but the captain had found secret comfort in the belief that his daughter did not like him any better than he did. Now it looked as if she was beginning to like him, after all. And there was no doubt whatever that Cousin Percy liked her.

Gertrude's apparent interest in her mother's social and Chapter affairs was another disquieting feature of the situation, as Daniel viewed it. Mrs. Black and Mrs. Lake called one afternoon and to them the young lady was cordiality itself. They talked "Chapter," of course, and to her father's horror Gertrude talked it, too. Being invited to attend the next meeting she announced that she should be delighted to go.

"You didn't mean it, did you, Gertie?" pleaded the captain, when Serena had escorted the guests to the door. "You didn't mean you was figgerin' to go to that devilish—to that Chapter?"

"Hush! Yes, of course I meant it."

"But—but YOU!"

"Hush! Daddy, don't interfere. I know what I'm about."

Daniel was doubtful. If she had known she surely would not think of going. And yet, on the evening of the meeting, go she did. The meeting was a protracted one, and, on their return, Serena, finding the lower rooms apparently deserted, went upstairs. Gertrude was about to follow, but a figure stepped from the shadows of the library and detained her.

"Why, Daddy!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing up at this hour?"

"Sh-sh!" in an agitated whisper. "Don't let your mother hear you. I—I've been waitin' for you, Gertie. I just had to talk to you. Come in here."

He led the way into the library.

"Don't say anything," he whispered; "that is, don't say very much. Serena'll be wantin' to know where I am in a minute. Gertie, what are you up to? WHY did you go to that Chapter?"

"Hush, Daddy, hush! It is all right."

"All right! Yes, I know it's all right so far. That's what your mother used to say, back in Trumet, when she first started in. You begin by sayin' it's all right and pretty soon it IS all right. It ain't all right for me—it's all wrong. Why did you go to that meetin'?"

"I went because I wanted to see for myself. And I saw."

"Yes, you saw. And you heard, too, I'll bet you. Well, did you like it?"

"LIKE it! Daddy, tell me: There is another Woman's Club in Scarford, isn't there? This can't be the only one."

"No, it ain't. I believe there's another. A different one—a sensible one, so I've heard tell. Mrs. Fenholtz—you've heard me speak of her, Gertie; she's a fine woman—she belonged to the other one. She wanted Serena to join, but Annette Black had her innin's first, and after that 'twas all off."

"I see, I see."

"You see; but what are you goin' to do? Are you goin' to any more of them blessed meetin's?"

"I may. I probably shall. Daddy, dear, you must trust me. It is all right, I tell you."

Ordinarily this would have been enough. But to-night it was not. Captain Dan had spent some troubled hours since dinner and his nerves were on the ragged edge.

"All right!" he repeated impatiently. "Don't say that again. Is it all right for you to be gettin' into the same mess your mother is in? Is it all right for you to be talkin' about society and Chapters and—and I don't know what all? I did trust you, Gertie. I said so. I told Serena so this very afternoon. She was talkin' about Cousin Percy, she's always praisin' him up, and she said you liked him just as much as she did. He was a cultivated, superior young man, she said, and you recognized it. I laughed at her. I says, 'That's all right,' I says, 'but I wouldn't take too much stock in that. Gertie knows what she's up to. She's got some plan in her head, she told me so. She may pretend—'"

His daughter interrupted him.

"Father!" she exclaimed indignantly. "Why, Daddy! did you tell Mother THAT?"

"Course I did! Why not? It's so, ain't it? What is the plan, Gertie? What are you up to? You are pretendin', aren't you? Don't tell me you ain't! Don't tell me—"

"I shan't tell you anything. You don't deserve to be told. I'm out of patience with you, altogether. You deserve to be miserable. You'll spoil—But there! good-night."

"Gertie! Gertie! hold on. Don't—"

Serena's voice sounded at the head of the stairs.

"Gertie!" she called. "Who is it you're talking with? Is your father there? Why doesn't he come to bed?"

"He's coming, Mother, right away. So am I. Good-night, Daddy."

The next forenoon, as Azuba was blacking the stove, Gertrude entered the kitchen.

"Good-morning, Azuba," she said. "Are you alone?"

"Yes, yes, I'm alone."

"Where is Hapgood?"

"Land knows! Upstairs, lookin' out for that Hungerford man's clothes, I guess likely. He waits on that young critter as if he was the Prince of Wales. Well, you went Chapterin' and advancin' last night, I understand. What did you think of it?"

"Think? I thought—Oh, Azuba!"

"Yup. It's 'oh, Azuba,' I guess. That's what I've been sayin' to myself for quite a spell. I'd have said it to your pa, too, if it would have done any good."

"It wouldn't. We mustn't say a word to him, or anyone else."

"I know. And yet, when I think of the way things are goin' at loose ends I have the shakes. Do you know what it's costin' to run this place the way it's run? I know. And I know, too, that nobody else seems to know or care. Your pa trusts everything to his wife, and she trusts everything to that Hapgood. She can't be bothered, she says, and Hapgood's such a capable buyer. Capable! he'll be rich as well as capable if it keeps on, and the rest of us'll be capable of the poorhouse. And there's Serena's health. She's gettin' more nervous all the time, and just wearin' herself out with her papers and conventions and politics and bridge and society. My land! Don't talk to me! And it ain't no use to talk to her. There's got to be somethin' more'n talk."

Gertrude nodded.

"So I think," she affirmed. "Azuba, I have a scheme. It may be the best idea in the world and it may be the worst, but I am going to risk it. And you must help me. Will you?"

"Sartin sure I will!"

"And you won't tell a soul, not a living soul?"

"Not one, livin' or dead. You needn't look at me like that. I swan to mercy, I won't tell anybody."

"Good! Then listen."

Azuba listened, listened in silence. When her young mistress ceased speaking she shook her head slowly.

"Well," she observed, "it looks some like hoppin' out of the fryin' pan into the fire, but, even if it turns out that way, perhaps it's just as well to be roasted as fried. Humph! no, 'twon't do to tell anybody. I shan't, and you mustn't."

"I don't intend to."

"Um! Not even John Doane?"

"Well," doubtfully, "I may tell John later on. But I shall wait to tell him, I shan't write. He'll have to trust me, too."

"So he will. Fur's that goes, it's a good thing for men folks to learn to trust us women. If Labe, my husband, hadn't trusted me all these years, he'd have done some worryin', I cal'late. All right, Gertie, I'm with you till the last plank sinks. But," with a chuckle, "I'm kind of sorry for your pa. The medicine may cure us all in the end, but it'll be a hard dose for him to take, won't it?"



CHAPTER IX

Captain Dan's foundations were slipping from beneath him. His daughter's return had seemed to him like the first ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds and presaging the end of the storm. Now, it began to look as if the real storm was but beginning. Gertrude was apparently contracting the society and Chapter disease. Gertrude, upon whose good sense and diplomacy he had banked so heavily, was rapidly losing that sense. So far from influencing her mother to give up the "crazy notions" which were, Daniel firmly believed, wrecking their home and happiness, she was actually encouraging and abetting these notions.

The young lady was certainly spending a great deal of time with her mother and her mother's friends. When Mrs. Black and Mrs. Lake called for consultations concerning Chapter affairs, Gertrude took part in these consultations. Daniel, peeping into the library, saw the four heads together over the table, and heard his daughter's voice suggesting this and that. Invitations to various social functions came, and it was Gertrude who urged acceptance of these invitations. Captain Dan's pleas for quiet evenings together at home went for nought.

"You needn't go, Daddy," said Gertrude. "Mother and I know you don't care for such things. She and I can go without you."

"Go without me? The idea! Look pretty, wouldn't it, to have you two chasin' around nights all by yourself, without a man to look after you!"

"Oh, Cousin Percy will go with us. He is always obliging that way. Cousin Percy will go, I am sure."

The captain was equally sure. Cousin Percy was altogether too willing to go anywhere, at any time, provided Miss Dott went also. This very obvious fact did not add to Daniel's peace of mind. Rather than have his family escorted by its newest member, he resolved to sacrifice his own inclinations and go himself.



Miss Canby—the blonde young woman who played the piano at the Black home on the night of the dinner—issued invitations for an "At Home" in her apartments. All the Dott household—Mr. Hungerford included—were invited. Mrs. Black, who came to call, was enthusiastic. Her jealousy of Serena, which had manifested itself on the night of the latter's appointment as an Atterbury delegate, had apparently disappeared. She was again the dear friend and counselor, with all the old cordiality and a good deal of the old condescension.

This condescension, however, was confined to Serena and Captain Dan. Toward Cousin Percy she was extremely polite, but never patronizing, perhaps because that gentleman was so languidly at ease in her presence. He listened to her conversation with apparent interest, but his answers, gravely delivered, were at times a trifle sarcastic. She seemed to be a bit afraid of Cousin Percy, afraid and somewhat suspicious.

To Gertrude she was gushingly friendly, overwhelmingly so, and the friendship was, to all outward seeming, returned. Daniel, who had gathered from his daughter's previous remarks that she disliked the great Annette, was surprised and dismayed.

"For goodness sakes, Gertie," he demanded, "what did you kiss her for? Anybody'd think she was somebody near and dear that you hadn't laid eyes on for ten years. And she was here only yesterday. Do you love her so much you have to hug her every time you see her?"

Gertrude laughed. "Do you think I do?" she asked.

"I don't know what to think. It's a mighty sudden love, that's all I've got to say. Do you want her here ALL the time?"

"Well, when she is here I know where she is."

"So does anybody within hearin'. I never saw such a change in a person as there is in you. And all inside of a week. You used to go out of the room when that Black woman came into it. Now you kiss her when she comes."

"No, Daddy; I kiss her when she goes."

With which puzzling statement the interview ended.

B. Phelps accompanied his wife when the latter called to discuss the Canby invitation. His coming was unusual, the Dotts had seen comparatively little of him since their arrival in Scarford. Daniel was glad he came. Black and he were not altogether congenial; the captain would not have chosen him as an intimate; but at least there would be someone present with whom he could exchange a word. As B. Phelps did not care for Chapters and "At Homes" any more than he did, there was that bond between them.

Mr. Hungerford was, for a wonder, not in when the callers came. He went out very little nowadays, except when Miss Dott and her mother went; then he was always ready to go.

Annette declared that the Canby "At Home" was certain to be a most unusual affair. "So—er—well, so different," she explained. "Miss Canby is a very unusual woman, a unique woman, and her affairs are always as unique as she is. So truly Bohemian. I adore Bohemians, don't you, Gertrude?"

Gertrude said she did. "I don't know that I've met a great many," she added, "but I'm sure they must be very enjoyable."

"Oh, they are! And Miss Canby is one. The very first time I attended a gathering at her home I said to myself: 'THIS is true Bohemianism.'"

Captain Dan was astonished.

"Why!" he exclaimed, "Miss Canby's folks came from Down-East somewheres—Bangor, Maine, I think 'twas. She told me so, herself."

The remark was received in various ways, by various individuals. Serena frowned; Gertrude bit her lip; B. Phelps Black burst into a roar of laughter.

"I did not mean my statement literally, Captain Dott," explained Annette in gracious toleration. "But when people are independent and free from the usual conventionalities, as Miss Canby is, we speak of them as Bohemians. It is an—er—a term among artists and musicians, I believe."

Daniel understood little or nothing of this. He understood perfectly well, however, that he had blundered somehow, a glance at his wife's face told him that. Gertrude smiled at him kindly and observed: "Father is like myself, his acquaintance in Bohemia has been limited."

Captain Dan muttered that he guessed likely that was so, adding that he had an Armenian steward once who was a pretty good fellow. Then he subsided. Serena took up the conversation, changing the subject to the ever fruitful one of her beloved Chapter. In a moment the two ladies were deep in a discussion concerning the election of National officers for the Legion, an election which was to take place in Boston a few months later. Gertrude joined in the discussion, a proceeding which her father noticed with apprehension.

Mr. Black accepted an invitation to smoke, and he and Captain Dan went into the library. After the cigars were lighted, B. Phelps, lowering his voice so as not to be heard in the adjoining room, said suddenly:

"Dan, is that daughter of yours going off her head like the rest of the females?"

Daniel was indignant.

"Off her head!" he repeated. "Gertie! She's as smart and sensible a girl as ever lived. I say so, even if she is my daughter. What are you talkin' about?"

Mr. Black waved his hand. "Keep your hair on, Dan," he counselled pleasantly. "I like Gertrude, always have. I always thought she was as sensible as she is pretty, and that's saying something. But what has got into her since she got here in Scarford? You used to tell me she didn't care anything for society and all the rest of it; now she seems to be as daffy as her—well, as my wife, if you like that better."

"Daffy! See here, Barney Black, I—"

"Hush! Don't begin to yell or we'll have that hen convention in the parlor down on us. I'm not finding any fault with your daughter. I'm only talking for her good and yours. What does she care about this confounded Chapter foolishness?"

"She don't care nothin' about it."

"Doesn't she? She seems to be mighty interested in that talk they're having in there now. And she was as joyful as the rest of 'em over this Canby woman's 'At Home.'"

The captain was quite aware of the apparent joy; and Gertrude's growing interest in her mother's Chapter and its members was too obvious to be denied. Nevertheless, he tried to deny it.

"Oh, that's nothin'," he declared. "She and Serena have always been plannin' together over things, and this Chapter's like the rest, that's all. As for the 'At Home,' why—why—well, Gertie's young, and young folks generally like a good time."

"A good time! Great Scott! Have you ever been to that Canby apartment and seen the crowd that—No, of course you haven't. Dan, if my wife heard me she'd take my head off, but you're an old friend of mine and I like your daughter. Listen to me: Don't let Gertrude go to that 'At Home' if you can help it."

"Don't let her! How am I goin' to help it?"

"I don't know. Keep her in the house. Lock the door and hide the key. I would. If she was my daughter I'd—I'd chloroform her. Hanged if I wouldn't!"

Captain Dan's indignation was rapidly changing to alarm.

"See here, Barney," he demanded, "what are you tryin' to say, anyhow? What's wrong with this Miss Canby? Out with it."

"Nothing's wrong with her, so far as I know. And yet there isn't anything right. She's good enough, I guess, and she can play the piano like a streak, but she's a fool. She and the gang she is with are bleached-haired, frowzy-headed idiots, who hope they are Bohemians—whatever that is. They like to do what they call unusual things; they like to shock people—think it's smart. Don't let your wife or Gertrude—Gertie, especially—get in with that crowd. They don't belong there. And there's something else."

He hesitated. Daniel, trembling with anxiety, urged him to continue.

"What is it?" he begged. "What is the somethin' else?"

"Oh, nothing. It isn't my business anyhow. I ought to keep still."

"Keep still! After sayin' as much as you have? You go ahead or I'll shake it out of you one word at a time. Heave ahead now! I'm waitin'."

"Well, then, don't get mad. Remember I'm saying it merely as a friend. Is Gertie engaged to be married?"

"Sartin she is. To a fine fellow, too. What of it?"

"Why, this: If she is engaged why is she trotting about with this precious cousin of yours—this Percy Hungerford?"

Captain Dan started violently. He had asked himself that very question many times during the week which had just passed. To have someone else ask it, however, was too much. He bristled up like an angry cat.

"By Godfreys!" he sputtered, "what do you mean? Do you mean to hint—"

"I'm not hinting anything. Be quiet, or I'll stop right here. What do you know about Hungerford, anyway? Why is he here at your house?"

"Here! Why—why, he's here 'cause we asked him to stay. He's on his vacation and he's just makin' us a visit. As to knowin' anything about him, what do you mean by that? Do YOU know anything about him?"

"Not much. Neither does anyone else; that's the queer part of it. While old lady Dott—your Aunt Lavinia—occupied this house, he was here a good deal. He didn't do anything then, except to be a general high-flyer around town with a few chums like Monty Holway, who is another gay young bird with money. After Mrs. Dott went abroad to live, he left Scarford and went to Providence a while; after that to Boston and New York, and various places. He had the reputation of being something of a sport, and in with a fast set. Now, all at once, he comes back here and settles down on—with you and your wife. What did he do that for?"

"I—I don't know. He didn't intend to settle. Says he didn't, anyway. As for bein' a sport—well, he's told us about that, told Serena the whole yarn. He owned up that he never took life very seriously while Aunt Laviny lived; had plenty of money and didn't have to. But now it's different. He's realized that he must work, same as other folks, and he's doin' it. He works for some magazine or other, doin' what he calls literary work."

"Humph! What magazine is it?"

"I don't know. I never asked."

"Well, all right. I tell you, honestly, Dan, there's a feeling that he is working you and the family for easy marks. You give him a good home and plenty to eat and smoke and it's a pretty soft thing for him. As to work—Humph!"

Daniel hesitated now. He had had faint but uneasy suspicions along this very line, although these, like other suspicions and misgivings, he had kept to himself. And Serena was such a firm believer in Cousin Percy; at the least hint against that young gentleman she flew to arms. The captain remembered this and his strong sense of loyalty to his wife caused him to remonstrate. He shook his head.

"No, no," he said, "you're wrong there, Barney, sure you are. Why, Percy has done a lot of writin' and such since he's been here. He goes to his room 'most every afternoon to write, and he's helped Serena with her Chapter papers and speeches more than you could imagine. As for Gertie's trottin' around with him, that's just foolishness. She's gone to picture shows and such when he asked her to, but that's only because she likes such things and wanted company her own age. It's all foolishness, I tell you. If anybody says 'tain't, you tell 'em I say they're lyin'. By Godfreys! if they say it to me I'll—"

"There! there! Keep your hair on, I tell you."

"'Tis on, what there is left of it. But, Barney, what sort of talk have you been givin' me? If Hungerford ain't all right, how is it that he knows so many folks in this town? How is it that he's invited everywhere, to all sorts of places, into everybody's houses? Invitations! Why, he gets more'n we do, and," with a sigh, "land knows that's enough, nowadays."

B. Phelps grunted contemptuously. "It is easy enough to get invitations," he observed. "When you've been in this town as long as I have you'll know that any young fellow, who is as good looking and entertaining as he is, will be invited to all sorts of things. The girls like him, so do their mothers—some of them. But there! I may be all wrong. Anyhow, I mustn't stay with you any longer or Annette'll be suspicious that you and I are knocking her dashed Chapter. I've told you this for your own good. Gertrude's a bully girl; I always liked her—wished a good many times I had a daughter like her. I should hate to see her get in wrong like—well, like some people you and I know. You keep her at home as much as you can. Good Lord, man!" with sudden vehemence, "do you want your house to get to be an empty d——d hole, only fit to sleep in, like—like—Yes, Annette, I'm coming."

This conversation remained in Captain Dan's head for days. It disturbed him greatly. Several times he made up his mind to speak to Serena concerning it, but each time he changed his mind. He even thought of writing a note to John Doane, urging the latter to run down to Scarford for a few days, but he was fearful that to do this might be a mistake. John would tell Gertrude, and she might not like it. Besides, Gertrude had said that she expected John to come before very long. So Daniel did nothing further than to remonstrate mildly concerning the acceptance of Miss Canby's invitation. As he gave no reason for his objection, other than the general one that he was tired and did not care about it, his remonstrances were unheeded. He need not go unless he wished, said Serena, she and Gertrude and Cousin Percy could go and he could stay at home and rest. Gertrude said the same. When the evening came, the whole family went, the captain included.

Annette had characterized the gifted Miss Canby as unusual, and the social affairs given by her as unique. After the first half hour in the "Bohemian" apartments, Daniel would have agreed with her, although his opinion might have been more emphatically expressed. Miss Canby WAS unusual, her apartments were unusual, and the "Bohemians" there gathered most unusual of all.

Gertrude, strolling about in the company of a young gentleman—not a Bohemian, but, like herself, merely a commonplace guest—found her father seated in a corner, sheltered by a Japanese screen and an imitation palm, and peering out at the assembled company with a bewildered expression on his face.

"Well, Daddy," she asked, "are you having a good time?"

Daniel, who had not noticed her approach, started and looked up.

"Hey?" he asked. "A good time! My soul and body! Yes, I'm havin' a good time. I haven't had a better one since I went to the sideshow at the circus. Who's that long-legged critter with the lay-down collar and the ribbon necktie? That one over there, talking to the woman with the hair that don't match. What ails him?"

Gertrude looked and laughed. "That is Mr. Abercrombie, the poet," she said. "Nothing ails him; he is a genius, that's all."

"Humph! That must be bad enough, then. What—"

He stopped. His daughter's escort had caught his attention. The young man's face was familiar.

"Why!" he faltered, "isn't this—"

"This is Mr. Holway, Daddy. I wanted you to meet him."

Her tone was quite serious, but there was an odd expression in her eye. Mr. Holway, blond, immaculate and blase, bowed. Then he, too, started.

"Eh!" he exclaimed. "Why, by Jove!"

Captain Dan nodded. "Yes," he observed, quietly. "Well, I'm much obliged to you, Gertie, but Mr. Holway and I have met before."

Gertrude's surprise, real or assumed, was great.

"Have you?" she cried. "Why, how odd! When?"

Mr. Holway, himself, answered. He seemed confused and his explanation was hurriedly given.

"Your father and I met one afternoon at—at the Palatine," he stammered. "I—I should have known. Tacks told me, but—but I had forgotten. I'm ashamed of my part in that, Mr. Dott. I really am. I owe you an apology. I hope you—I hope—"

Captain Dan nodded. "All right," he said briefly. "Don't say any more about it."

"But—but I hope you and Miss Dott won't—won't think—"

"We won't. I won't, anyway. I stopped thinking about it long ago. Well, Gertie, what have you been doin'? 'Most time to go home, is it?"

"Time to go home? Why, Daddy, we've just got here. We haven't been here an hour yet."

"Haven't we? I want to know! Seemed a good deal longer than that to me. All right, don't you worry about me. I can stand it, I guess. Where's your mother and—and Cousin Percy?"

"Mother is in the next room with Mrs. Lake and some more of the Chapter members. Cousin Percy is—Oh, here he comes now."

Hungerford appeared, strolling in their direction. He seemed surprised when he saw his relatives in company with Mr. Holway.

"Hello, Monty!" he said. "You here? How are you?"

The two young men shook hands. Gertrude smiled upon them both.

"Father and Mr. Holway were renewing acquaintanceship," she observed, cheerfully. "It seems that they have met before."

Cousin Percy's acknowledgment of this statement was a brief "Oh, indeed!" He and his friend exchanged glances.

"The—er—performance is about to begin, I believe," announced Mr. Hungerford. "Our hostess has—er—reluctantly consented to be led to the piano. Shall you and I adjourn to the next room, Cousin?"

Gertrude shook her head.

"Oh, thank you," she said, "but Mr. Holway has been telling me the most interesting stories about Scarford and the people in it, and I want to hear the rest. He is dreadfully sarcastic; I should not listen, I know, but I want to. Come, Mr. Holway."

She moved away, the flattered "Monty" in her wake. Mr. Hungerford gazed after them. He appeared not altogether pleased.

"Very sociable, chatty chap, that friend of yours, I should judge," observed Captain Dan drily.

"Um-hm!" grunted Cousin Percy. "Been chatting to you, has he?"

"No-o, not much this time. But you remember I've had the pleasure before."

Mr. Hungerford doubtless remembered; he looked as if he did. Then he, too, strolled away. The captain, left alone, indulged in a quiet chuckle.

Miss Canby's rendition on the piano, of what she was pleased to call "A sweet little thing of Tschaikovsky's—one of my favorites," was enthusiastically applauded, and she obliged with another, and still another. Then Mr. Abercrombie was prevailed upon to read one of his own outpourings of genius, a poem called "The Tigress," in which someone, presumably the author, described the torments involved in his adoration of a feminine person with "jetty brows and lambent eyes," whose kiss was like "a viper's sting" and who had, so to speak, raised the very dickens with his feelings. He read it with passionate fervor, and Captain Dan, listening, decided that the Tigress must be a most unpleasant person.

However, judging by the acclaim of the rest of the audience, she was a huge success, and the poet was coaxed into reading again, this time something which he had labeled "Soul Beams," and in which "love" rhymed with "dove" and "heart" with "dart" and "bliss" with "kiss" in truly orthodox fashion. Mr. Abercrombie's poetic gems were not appreciated by the mercenary and groveling minions who edited magazines, but here, amid his fellow Bohemians, they were more than appreciated, a fact which their creator announced gratified him more than he could express. And yet, he seemed to have little difficulty and less hesitation in expressing most things.

Daniel was not enthusiastic over the poems. He could not understand a great deal of them, but he understood quite enough. When B. Phelps Black winked at him from his seat at the other side of the room, he did not return the wink, although he knew perfectly well what it meant.

The poems were bad enough, according to his figuring, but when Miss Beatrice Dusante tripped into the circle to slip and twist and slide and gyrate in "one of her delightful Grecian dances," he found himself looking about for a convenient exit. Discovering none he remained where he was and blushed for the company.

The Bohemians, however, did not blush; neither, to his amazement, did Serena, who looked on and applauded with the rest. He found some comfort in the absence of his daughter, who was not among the seated guests, but, at last, even this comfort was dispelled. He caught a glimpse of Gertrude, still accompanied by the attentive Mr. Holway, standing in the back row. He tried to catch her eye and, by frowns and shakes of the head, to indicate his disapproval of the dance and her presence as a witness. He did not succeed in attracting her attention, but when, a moment later, she and her escort moved off, he was somewhat relieved. Gertrude looked as if she did not care for Miss Dusante's dancing any more than he did. Mr. Hungerford, also, did not appear interested. He was looking at Miss Dott and "Monty," and there was a frown on his face.

Upon their return, after they were together in the library at home, Daniel's shocked indignation burst forth.

"Well!" he declared, "that's enough. That's the limit, that is! What kind of a gang IS that, anyway?"

His wife regarded him with astonishment. Gertrude, after one glance at his face, turned and walked to the other side of the room, where she busied herself with a book on the table. Cousin Percy smiled broadly.

"Gang!" repeated Serena. "Gang! Why, what are you talking about, Daniel?"

"I'm talkin' about that gang at that Canby woman's place to-night. I never saw such a brazen gang anywhere. Haven't they got ANY respectability? How'd they come to let that dancin' thing in there? Couldn't they see her before she got in? Couldn't they stop her? Why—"

Serena interrupted. "Stop her!" she repeated. "How could they stop her? She was an invited guest."

"Who invited her? That's what I want to know. Who invited her?"

"Miss Canby, I suppose. She is a friend of hers."

"A friend! A FRIEND!"

"Yes. Now, Daniel, don't be silly. I know what you mean, and I must say I sympathize with you just a little. Annette explained to me afterwards though, so I suppose it is all right. Annette says that this Miss Dusante's dancing is all the rage now. She has made a study of the ancient Grecian dances and she does them everywhere. She is paid high prices for it, too."

"I don't doubt it. I should think she'd want to be. Did you see the way she was dressed? I never—"

"Hush, Daniel! That was the old Greek costume. Miss Canby told me all about it; the old Greeks used to dress like that."

"They did! Then it didn't take 'em long. Brazen thing! Why!" with a sudden turn upon his daughter, "Gertie—Gertie Dott, stop fussin' with that book and listen to me. You were there; I saw you lookin' on. YOU didn't like that Greek dancin', did you?"

Gertrude hesitated. Her cheeks were red and, for a moment, she seemed to find it difficult to speak. Then, after a quick look at her mother, she answered, calmly:

"Like it! Why not, Daddy? It is all the rage, just as Mother says, and it is certainly graceful. I rather think I should like to learn it myself. I understand Miss Dusante gives lessons."

Daniel's mouth opened and remained open. Cousin Percy stared at the speaker. Even Serena, defender of the dances of the ancient Greeks, looked shocked.

"Why, Gertie!" she cried. "Gertie! You! the idea!"

"Why not, Mother?"

"Why not! I should think you would know why not. I never heard you speak like that before."

"I never saw any dances like those before. I have heard about them, of course, but I never saw them. We never did—you or father or any of us—a great many things that we are doing now. We are learning all the time; that's what you told me, Mother. I never went to a Bohemian 'At Home' before."

Serena's eyes snapped. "Well, you'll never go to another one," she declared, "if it's going to have this effect on you."

The young lady smiled. "Why, of course I shall," she cried. "I want to learn, just as you do, Mother. And I mean to. Good-night!"

She left the room and they heard her ascending the stairs. Daniel and Serena looked at each other. Cousin Percy looked at them both.

Captain and Mrs. Dott had a long talk before retiring. The captain derived some satisfaction from the talk; it seemed to him that their daughter's declaration of independence had startled Serena somewhat. She even went so far as to admit that, in spite of Mrs. Black's explanations and gracious commendations, she, herself, had not been impressed by Miss Canby's guests. She and Gertrude would have an interview in the morning, she declared.

Captain Dan waited hopefully for the result of that interview. The hope was crushed when Serena reported to him.

"It is all right, Daniel," said Mrs. Dott. "I guess Gertie didn't really mean what she said about taking lessons of the Dusante woman. She thought the dances graceful, and they were, of course. But Gertie is older now—yes, she is older, and she expects to have her own way more than she has had it. She said a lot of things to me, things that she hasn't said before. It seems that when she first came home she was inclined to think I had exaggerated when I wrote her about the lovely people here in Scarford, and the Chapter, and the brilliant women in it. Now, she sees I was right. She has helped me a good deal already with my Chapter work, and she means to do more. She is going to join the Chapter herself. She—why, what's the matter?"

Daniel had made a choking noise in his throat; he appeared to be strangling.

"Noth—nothin'," he gasped. "Nothin' much. I'm all right. But—but you said—why, how can Gertie join the Chapter? She ain't goin' to stay here. She's goin' back to college soon as her vacation's over."

Serena shook her head. There was just a shade of doubt, almost of trouble, in her voice as she answered.

"No-o," she said, "no, Daniel, she isn't. She isn't going back any more. She thinks it isn't necessary."

"Not necessary! Why, how you talk, Serena! Not necessary to finish out her last term! What do you mean? One of the things that troubled me most, back there in Trumet before we was rich, was that I might not afford for her to finish out at that college, and now, when I can, she ain't goin'. I say she is. I say she's got to."

"I don't believe that will make any difference, Daniel. She seems to have made up her mind. I'm kind of sorry, I must say, but she is obstinate. She says it is so much more interesting here that she is going to stay. You can talk to her, if you want to, but I don't think it will do any good."

Serena was right; although Captain Dan did talk to his daughter his arguments and persuasions were quite useless.

"No, Daddy," said Gertrude, "I am going to stay right here. I told you that if I were needed I should come home. I have come home and I am needed. I shall not go back. It is only the last half term, anyway."

"Yes, but then's when the girls have all their best times, all the dances and—and entertainments and society times. You said so. Do you want to miss all those?"

Gertrude smiled. "Oh," she observed, "I expect to have a great many 'society times,' as you call them, right here in Scarford. There seems to be no lack of them, and Mother is decidedly in the swim. It's no use, Daddy; my mind is made up. Don't you worry, it is all right."

"Well—well, I—I must say—See here, are you really going to join that Chapter thing?"

"Yes."

"You are! After all you said—"

"Yes, no matter what I may have said."

"By—by time! I don't know what to do with you. I—I set a lot of store by you, Gertie. I kind of banked on you. And now—"

Gertrude's expression changed. She patted his cheek.

"Keep on banking on me, Daddy dear," she whispered, "perhaps I'm not altogether hopeless, even yet."

But her father, for once, refused to believe her.

"I don't like it," he declared. "And other folks don't like it, either. Why, Barney Black got after me only the other day about you. He wanted to know why you—you, an engaged girl—was cruisin' around so much with this Cousin Percy of ours. He thought 'twas queer. I said—"

Gertrude rose to her feet. Her arm was snatched from the captain's shoulder so quickly that he jumped.

"Daddy!" she cried, her cheeks blazing, "do you mean to say that you have been discussing me with—with Mr. Black?"

"I didn't start it, he did. He said—"

"I don't care what he said. Oh, the impertinence of it! And you listened! listened and believed—"

"I didn't say I believed it."

"You did believe it, though. I can see you did. I shan't try to comfort you any more. You deserve all that is coming to you. And," with a deliberate nod, "it is coming."

"Comin'! It's HERE! Gertie, there's another thing: What about John? What do you think John would say if he knew you weren't goin' back to college?"

Gertrude looked at him. Her lips twitched.

"Oh," she said, mischievously, "as to that—well, Daddy, you see, he DOESN'T know it."

That afternoon Daniel wrote a letter. He said nothing to anyone, not even Serena, about the letter, but wrote it in the solitude of the library and posted it with his own hands. Just before sealing the envelope he added this postscript: "Whether you come or not, don't tell a soul that I wrote you this. And, if you do come, just let them think it was all on your own hook. THIS IS IMPORTANT."

On Saturday evening there was to be a meeting of the Chapter, and on Tuesday Serena returned from committee with the joyful news that Gertrude was to be admitted to membership at that meeting. The young lady expressed herself as delighted. Cousin Percy extended congratulations. Captain Dan said nothing. Later, he visited Azuba in the kitchen, and there he received another shock.

Azuba was not, as usual, busy with her cooking or scrubbing. She was seated in a chair by the window, reading a paper. She looked up as he entered, but immediately resumed her reading. The captain waited for her to speak. As a general thing he did not have to wait.

"Hello, Zuba," he hailed.

Azuba turned a page of the paper. She did not answer.

"Hello!" he hailed again. "What's the matter, Zuba? Gone into a trance, have you?"

"Hey?" Azuba did look up then, but at once looked down again. "Hey?" she repeated. "No, I ain't in no trance. I'm readin', that's all."

"I should think that was enough, if it fixes you so you can't speak to anybody. Must be mighty interestin' readin'."

"Hey? Interestin'? I guess 'tis interestin'! It's more'n that, it's upliftin', too. I'm just beginnin' to realize what I am."

"That so? Well, what are you?"

"I'm a woman, that's what I am."

She made the declaration with the air of one imparting news of a startling discovery. Daniel laughed.

"Is that so!" he exclaimed. "Well, well! I want to know! I always suspected it, Zuba, but I'm glad you told me, just the same. Does it say so in that paper?"

Azuba rose from her chair. She did not laugh; she was intensely serious.

"It says a lot of things," she announced, "a lot of things I never thought of afore. I don't mean that exactly. I've thought of 'em, but I never knew how to make anything out of my thoughts. I just kept thinkin' and let it go at that. Now, I'm beginnin' to realize. I'm a woman, I am, a free woman. That paper is for free women. Have you read it, Cap'n Daniel?"

Captain Dan took the paper which she extended to him at arm's length. He recognized it immediately. It was "The Woman's Voice," official organ of the National Guild of Ladies of Honor. Serena was a subscriber.

He glanced at the paper and tossed it on the table.

"Yes," he said shortly, "I've read some of it."

Azuba seized the discarded journal as if it were a precious treasure, a thing to be treated tenderly and with reverence.

"Some of it!" she repeated. "Humph! I'd read all of it, if I was you. 'Twould do the men good if they was made to read every number ten times over. It's a wonderful paper. It's opened MY eyes, I can tell you that."

It had, apparently, opened her mouth as well, although to do that required no great urging at any time. She went on to preach the glories of the "Voice," and concluded by reading an editorial which, like Mrs. Lake's addresses at Chapter meetings, contained a great many words and, to the captain's mind, little understanding.

He listened, fidgeting impatiently, to perhaps two-thirds of the editorial, and then he interrupted.

"Hold on! Heave to!" he ordered. "For the land sakes, Zuba, what's set you goin' like this? Are YOU goin' to—to—"

"To what? Am I goin' to what?"

"Are you goin' to 'advance' or whatever you call it? What ails all you women, anyway?"

"What ails us? Hain't I been readin' you what ails us?"

"You've been readin' a whole lot, but I've heard it all before. You want to be 'free'! Confound it, you ARE free, ain't you? You want to take your place in the world! Why, you've had the front place ever since Eve got Adam to eat the apple. She was skipper of that craft, wasn't she! And us men—most of us, anyhow—have been fo'mast hands ever since. What is it you want? Want to vote? Go ahead and vote. I'M willin'."

But Azuba laughed scornfully.

"Vote!" she repeated. "I don't care whether I vote or not."

"Then what do you want?"

"We want—" Azuba hesitated, "we want—what this paper says we want. And," with determination, "we're goin' to have it."

"All right, have it, then! Meantime, let's have dinner. It's pretty nigh half-past five, and the table ain't set. And," with a sniff, "there's somethin' burnin' somewheres, I smell it."

This statement had an effect. Azuba dropped the precious paper and sprang to open the oven door.

"Well!" she declared, "it's all right. 'Twas that cranberry pie, and 'twas only beginnin' to scorch. It's all right."

"Glad to hear it. Now, say, Zuba, you take my advice; you're a practical, sensible woman, I always said so. Don't you get to be silly, at your age."

It was an impolitic remark. Azuba bristled.

"At my age!" she repeated. "Humph! I ain't so much older than some folks in this kitchen, nor in the rest of the house, either. What do you mean by silly?"

"I mean—I mean—well, I mean don't you get to joinin' lodges and readin' papers and racin' out every night in the week to somethin' or other. It ain't worth while. It's silly—just silly."

"Oh, is it! Well, other women do it. Your wife's been doin' it ever since we got here. And now Gertie's startin' in. You always made your brags that she was about as sensible, smart a girl as ever drawed breath. I ain't got money; nobody's left ME a cart load of dollars and a swell front house. But I've got rights and feelin's. I'm a woman, a free woman, and if it ain't silly for Mrs. Dott and Gertie to want to advance and—and so on, I cal'late 'tain't silly for me either. Perhaps you'd like to have me tell Serena that you said she was silly. Shall I?"

Daniel did not answer, but his look was answer sufficient. Azuba smiled triumphantly.

"Practical," she sneered. "No, Cap'n Daniel, I ain't been practical so far, but I'm goin' to be. I'm a-goin' to be. You watch me."

Her employer's guns were spiked. He marched out of the kitchen, slamming the door viciously. The library was tenanted by Cousin Percy, who was taking a nap on the lounge. Upstairs, Gertrude was helping her mother with a "report" of some kind. Hapgood, the butler, was in the hall, and he bowed respectfully.

"Yes, sir," he said. "Did you wish anything, sir?"

"No," snarled Captain Dan, and went out for a walk. This was the last straw. If Azuba was going crazy the situation was hopeless indeed. And he had received no reply to his letter.

Hapgood, left alone in the hall, grinned, strolled into the library and, regardless of Mr. Hungerford's presence, filled his pockets with cigars from his employer's box. Downstairs, in the kitchen, Azuba was busy getting dinner. At intervals she burst out laughing.

That evening Mr. "Monty" Holway called.



CHAPTER X

Mr. Holway's call was, ostensibly, a call upon the Dott family in general, but it was to Gertrude that he addressed most of his conversation. The young lady was very affable and gracious. She expressed herself as glad to see him, and she appeared to be. "Monty" was a voluble person, and he talked a great deal, although a critic might possibly have considered his remarks more remarkable for quantity than quality. In the presence of Captain Dan he appeared a trifle ill at ease, a fact which the captain attributed to circumstances attending their first meeting. Serena seemed somewhat surprised at the call. She regarded her daughter and Mr. Holway with an odd expression, and, so it seemed to her husband, was apparently dissatisfied or disturbed. At all events she said little and, when addressed, answered absent-mindedly.

Mr. Hungerford was the most surprised of all. He had been out, and when, returning, he found his friend in the drawing-room, his greeting was not too cordial. Mr. Holway also seemed embarrassed, and a bit on his guard.

"Hello, Tacks!" he said, rising and extending his hand.

Cousin Percy did not see the hand, or, if he saw it, did not offer his own.

"Hello," he said, gruffly. Then, after a quick glance at the quartette in the drawing-room, he pulled forward a chair and, without waiting for an invitation, seated himself.

"How goes it?" inquired Monty.

"All right enough. Oh—er—Gertrude, I've found out about that recital affair. It is next Wednesday afternoon. I have arranged for us to go. Rather difficult business to manage, at such a late date, but I managed to pull it off."

Gertrude smilingly declared that she was much obliged. "I don't know, of course," she added, "what Mother's plans for that day may be, but if she is not busy I'm sure we shall be pleased to go. Thank you for thinking of us."

Mr. Hungerford hesitated. "Well," he said, "to tell you the truth, I had supposed that Mrs. Dott might be rather busy. It is your committee meeting afternoon, isn't it, Mrs. Dott? and so I arranged for only two. Awfully stupid of me, I know."

"Oh, that will be all right. You and Mother can go, then. I don't mind at all. Really, I don't. And Mother is so fond of music. It is all right, Mother," turning to Serena, who had been about to speak, "you can go just as well as not. You must. Never mind the committee meeting; I'll act as your substitute there."

Cousin Percy was not overcome with joy; at least, he managed to restrain his ecstasy. Mr. Holway volunteered a word.

"Is it the Wainwright Recital you are talking about?" he inquired, eagerly. "That's all right. I can get cards for that. It's a cinch. I'll see that you go, Miss Dott. By George! I'll—I'll go myself. Yes, I will, really. We'll all go."

This prompt suggestion should have cleared the air. Somehow it did not. Mr. Hungerford merely grunted. Gertrude shook her head.

"No," she said, "I think, perhaps, I had better not go, after all. But it is ever so nice of you to offer, Mr. Holway. You and Cousin Percy can take Father and Mother. That will be splendid."

"Don't bother about me," put in Daniel, hastily. Recitals were almost as distasteful as Chapter meetings or "At Homes" to his mind.

"It won't be any bother, I'm sure," declared Gertrude. "Will it, Cousin Percy? Will it, Mr. Holway?"

Both the young gentlemen murmured their pleasure at the prospect of acting as escorts to the elder members of the Dott family. Serena said she would "see about it," she couldn't say for certain whether or not she would be able to attend the recital. Captain Dan said nothing.

The conversation dragged somewhat after this. "Monty" and Mr. Hungerford addressed the greater portion of their remarks to Gertrude, only occasionally favoring Serena and Daniel with a word or question. To each other they were very uncommunicative. At last, however, after Mr. Holway had given a very full account of a "dinner dance" which he had recently attended, "a very exclusive affair, only the best people, you know," Percy, who had been listening impatiently, turned toward him and drawled:

"I remember that dance. Beastly tiresome, I judged it would be, so I sent regrets. I heard you enjoyed yourself, old chap. Said I imagined so, considering your company. By the way, that must be getting quite serious, that affair of yours. When may we expect the announcement?"

Holway colored. His usual facility of speech seemed to have deserted him.

"Announcement!" he stammered. "Announcement! What—what—"

His friend laughed.

"Oh, it's all right, old man," he observed. "Don't get excited. She's a charming girl. No one blames you."

"Monty" continued to sputter. Gertrude was all excitement.

"Oh, how interesting!" she said. "Do tell us about her, Mr. Holway. Do I know her?"

"Know her!" Mr. Holway's indignation was intense. "I—I don't know her myself. He's just guying, Miss Dott. He—he thinks because he—he is so confoundedly fascinating, and has so many—so many—

"Oh, that reminds me, Tacks," turning upon the smiling Hungerford, "I saw a friend of yours yesterday. She looked quite desolate, quite broken-hearted, my word she did. You were a little cruel there, weren't you, my boy? Just a bit cruel. Everyone expected—"

He did not finish the sentence, but his expression indicated that much was expected. It was Cousin Percy's turn to color.

"Don't be an idiot, Monty," he snapped. "That is, more of an idiot than you can help. Don't mind him, Gertrude; he has an amazing idea of repartee, that's all."

Serena volunteered a remark concerning the weather just then. She observed that it might be raining, it had looked that way before dinner. Mr. Holway possibly considered that a hint was involved; at any rate, he rose and announced that he must be going. Gertrude begged him not to hurry, they had all enjoyed his call so much, she said. Cousin Percy suddenly declared that he would accompany his friend on his way, a walk would do him good. Monty expressed no enthusiasm at the prospect of company, but the pair left the house together.

After they had gone, Daniel turned to his wife.

"Humph!" he observed, "what sort of talk do you call that? I thought those two were chums; and yet I didn't know but they was goin' to fight one spell. It's a good thing you hove in that about the rain when you did, Serena."

Serena was grave. "Gertie," she inquired, "did you ask that young man to call here?"

Gertrude was the picture of surprised innocence.

"Ask him to call?" she repeated. "Mr. Holway, do you mean? I don't know. I think not. Why?"

"WHY?" Captain Dan almost shouted it. His wife motioned him to be quiet.

"Hush, Daniel," she said. "You know why, Gertie, as well as I do. You are engaged to be married."

Gertrude smiled. "Of course I am," she answered. "What of it?"

"What OF IT?"

"Hush, Daniel, hush! Engaged girls, Gertie, are not supposed to have young men calling upon them."

"Oh," with a shrug. "I don't know that he was calling on me. He did not ask for me when he came. And you and Daddy were here all the time. Besides, merely because I am engaged isn't any reason why I should retire from the world altogether, is it? Mrs. Lake says—"

Daniel struck the table with his fist.

"Mrs. Lake!" he shouted. "Mrs. Lake don't live with her husband. She's a grass widow, that's what she is."

"She is one of Mother's dearest friends, and any friend of Mother's should be good enough for me."

The captain choked. "You—you talk to her, Serena," he stammered; "I can't."

Serena looked more troubled than ever.

"Gertie," she faltered, "if Mrs. Lake has been advising you—to—to—"

"She hasn't advised me at all. Now, Mother, what IS the use of all this? If I have learned anything from you and your Chapter friends it is to be broad-minded and independent. If Mrs. Lake is not a living example of independence, who is?"

Serena could not seem to find an answer at the moment. Her husband tried again.

"Gertie Dott," he declared, "I—I don't know what to make of you, all at once. And John Doane wouldn't either. If John knew—"

Gertrude interrupted. "That's enough, Daddy," she said, firmly. "I am quite willing John shall know; when I am ready I shall tell him. He is a dear, good fellow, in his way, but—"

She hesitated. Her parents asked a question in concert.

"But what?" they demanded.

"Why—why, nothing of importance. But I am learning here in Scarford. My opportunity has come, just as yours did, Mother. I am a free woman and I shall not be a slave—a SLAVE to any man."

With which remark, a quotation from a paper read at the most recent Chapter meeting, she walked from the room. Her astonished parents looked at each other. Daniel was the first to speak.

"My soul and body!" he gasped. "What—what—Serena, did you hear what she said? That about John? That he was a good fellow—in his way? In his WAY! My soul and body!"

Serena shook her head.

"I—I don't believe she meant it, Daniel," she said. "I'm sure she didn't. She's just a little carried away, that's all. All this society—this altered social position of ours—has turned her head the least bit. She didn't mean it. I'll have another talk with her pretty soon."

"I should say you'd better. Serena, do you know what I've done? Done on my own hook, I mean. I've written—"

He paused. The disclosure which, on the impulse of the moment, he had been about to make was, for him, a serious one. He had written the letter "on his own hook," without telling his wife of his action. What would she say if he told her now, so long afterward?

"You've done? What have you done?" asked Serena sharply.

The captain still hesitated. Before his mind was made up the front door opened and Cousin Percy made his appearance. He entered the hall quickly, and to Mr. Hapgood—who hastened from somewhere or other to take his coat and hat—he said nothing, except to snarl a comment on the butler's slowness. He did not speak to the Dotts either, but tramped savagely up the stairs. His face, as seen by the electric light, was flushed and frowning.

Serena turned to her husband.

"How cross he looked," she said, wonderingly. "I never saw him so before. What do you suppose has happened?"

Speculation concerning Cousin Percy's evident perturbation caused her to forget the disclosure Captain Dan had been about to make. By the time she remembered to ask about it the captain had decided not to tell. He fabricated some excuse or other, and the excuse was accepted, to his great relief.

None of the Dott household attended the Wainwright recital. Mr. Holway called on Wednesday, just after luncheon, to say that he had obtained the necessary cards, but his kindness went for nought. He stayed, so it seemed to Daniel, a good deal longer than was necessary, and Mr. Hungerford, who remained in the room every moment of the time, evidently thought so, too. So did Serena. Gertrude, however, was very cordial, and again begged the visitor not to hurry.

Saturday evening was that of the Chapter meeting, the meeting at which Gertrude was to be made a member. That forenoon Azuba electrified her mistress by expressing an ardent desire to become a member also. Her wish was not received with enthusiasm.

"Why, what do you want to do that for, Azuba?" asked Serena in amazement.

"Why shouldn't I want to? You're a member, ain't you? Gertie's goin' to be a member to-night, ain't she?"

"Yes. But—but—"

"Well, but what?"

"I didn't know you were interested in such things. You never were when we lived in Trumet."

Azuba dismissed the past with a scornful sniff and a wave of the hand.

"Trumet!" she repeated. "Trumet ain't nothin'. Nobody's anything in Trumet. We're in Scarford now, and Scarford's a progressive, up-to-date place. We've all changed since we've been here, and I'm changin' much as anybody. I've been hearin' your papers, when you read 'em to Gertie and the cap'n, and I've been readin' 'The Voice,' too. Yes ma'am, I've read it and I've found out what a back number I've been. But, I ain't goin' to be so no more. I'm goin' to be as up-to-date as the next one, even if I do have to wash dishes for a livin'. Serena—Mrs. Dott, I mean—I'd like first rate to join that Chapter of yours. You put my name in to-night and maybe it can be voted on next meetin'."

"But—but, Azuba, are you sure you know what it means? Do you think your husband would want you to—"

"My husband! What's he got to do with it? If we free women have got to be slaves to our husbands it's a pretty state of things, I must say. You don't ask your husband every time you go to meetin' whether he likes it or not. No, ma'am, you don't! You're above that, I cal'late. And I shan't ask Labe neither—even if he was where I could ask him, which he ain't. Husbands! Don't talk to me about husbands! THEY don't count."

Serena said that she would see what could be done and hurried away to discuss the new development with the family.

"Of course she can't join," she declared. "It is ridiculous. The idea! I supposed she had more sense."

Daniel chuckled. "So did I," he observed, "until she got shoutin' independence to me the other day. But it looked then as if she'd got it bad. All right, Serena, if Zuba Jane Ginn is goin' to make speeches at your Chapter meetin's, I'll go any time. You won't have to ask me but once."

He laughed aloud. His wife was vexed.

"Of course you think it's a great joke," she said. "Anything that makes trouble for me is a joke to you. She can't join. What do you suppose Annette and Mrs. Lake and the rest would say if I proposed my servant girl as a member? Do stop being silly, if you can. What are you grinning at now?"

Captain Dan, repressing his grin with difficulty, explained that he was thinking of what they would say. Serena, giving him up in disgust, turned to her daughter.

"Gertie," she begged, "why don't you say something? Azuba can't join that Chapter and you know it."

Gertrude shook her head.

"I suppose, she can't," she replied. "And yet, I'm afraid, Mother, that you will find that fact rather hard to explain to her. Azuba doesn't consider herself a servant, in the ordinary sense, at all. She feels, I think, that she is a friend of the family. And she has a right, of course, to improve and advance in every way. I am very much pleased to know she is so ambitious."

"Ambitious! Azuba Ginn! What does she know about progress or advancement? Who put such ridiculous ideas in her head?"

"Perhaps I did. She and I have had some long talks on the subject. She asked questions and it was duty—and my privilege—to answer them. I am very hopeful of Azuba. She is my first convert. I shall help her all I can."

"Help her! Help her to what? To be too high and mighty for her place? Help her to be dissatisfied with her station in life?"

"Yes; why not? None of us should be satisfied, short of the very highest. Why, Mother, if you had been satisfied we might all be stagnating in Trumet."

Serena abandoned the argument. She refused to mention Azuba's desire for advancement again. Several times during the day Captain Dan saw her regarding her daughter with the same odd, doubtful look that she had worn when Mr. Holway made his first call.

After dinner that evening Gertrude and Serena hastened upstairs to dress for the Chapter meeting. Mr. Hungerford, after expressing his regret that the gathering was not to be an "open" one and he, therefore, would not be permitted to see Miss Dott become one of the elect, went out. When he first became a member of the household it was his custom, on occasions of this kind, to remain in the library as "company" for Captain Dan. Now, however, he seldom did this. The captain did not mind; he preferred his own society to that of Cousin Percy.

Just as the ladies descended the stairs the doorbell rang. Hapgood answered the ring, and the voice which replied to his polite query concerning the caller's name was a familiar one.

"Why!" exclaimed Serena, "it is—isn't that—"

"It's John!" cried Gertrude. "Why, JOHN!"

Mr. Doane pushed past the butler and entered the hall. His glance took in the group at the foot of the stairs, but it lingered upon only one member of it.

"Gertie!" he said, and stepped forward. Captain and Mrs. Dott looked the other way; Hapgood gave his attention to the closing of the door.

A moment later the young man was ready to shake hands with the less important inhabitants of the mansion. He did so heartily.

"My!" he exclaimed, "but I'm glad to see you all. It seems a hundred years since I did see you. How are you?"

Serena answered. Captain Dan, his first surprise over, seemed nervous.

"We're real well," declared Serena. "And it seems awfully good to have you here. Gertrude and I—"

Gertrude interrupted.

"But, John," she said, "how did you happen to come so unexpectedly? I didn't know—you didn't write me a word about it."

"I didn't know it, myself. That is, I wasn't sure of it. You know our junior partner, Mr. Griffin, has been very ill—I wrote you that. He is very ill even yet, but he is a little better, and so I grabbed the opportunity. I should have come before, just as soon as—"

He paused. Daniel, in the background, was grimacing and shaking his head.

"As soon as what, John?" asked Gertrude.

"As soon as—as soon as I could. You're glad I came, aren't you; even if it was rather sudden?"

"Of course I am. You know it."

Her tone was hearty enough, and yet Mr. Doane seemed to find something lacking in it. Serena, too, looked quickly at her daughter.

"Of course she's glad," she declared. "So are we all. But what are we thinking of? Take off your things. Where's your trunk? Have the man bring it right in."

"There isn't any trunk. There's a bag outside there, that's all. My visit is likely to be a very short one. If I should have a wire that Mr. Griffin was worse it might be shorter still. I should have to go at once. But we won't worry about that. Dinner? No, thank you, I have dined."

Captain Dan ushered the newcomer into the drawing-room. John exclaimed at the grandeur of the apartment.

"Whew!" he whistled. "You're fine, aren't you? Gertie wrote me how grand you were and I have been anxious to see the new house. Gertie—why, Gertie! what is it?"

Gertrude was standing in the doorway. She looked perplexed and troubled. John noticed, for the first time, that she was wearing her coat and hat.

"Were you going out?" he asked.

Gertrude hesitated. Serena answered for her.

"Gertie and I were going out," she said. "It is Chapter night and she was going to be made a member. But you won't go now, of course, Gertie. I'll go—John will excuse me, I know—and you can join at the next meeting. It will be all right, I think. It will have to be, of course."

But Gertrude still hesitated. Her father was surprised.

"Why, Gertie!" he cried. "What are you standin' there for? 'Tain't likely you'll go to that meetin' now that John's come all the way from Boston to see you. Tell him you ain't goin'."

The young lady was plainly much disturbed. She looked at Mr. Doane and it was evident that she wanted to say something very much indeed. What she did say, however, was a surprise to everyone.

"I—I ought to go, John," she faltered. "It is a very important meeting. I can't tell you—now—how important it is."

John's disappointment showed in his look, but his answer was prompt.

"Then go, by all means," he said. "I'll go with you, if I won't be in the way."

But this self-sacrificing proposal was dubiously received by both the ladies. Serena shook her head.

"I'm afraid you couldn't do that, John," she said.

"It isn't an open meeting, and men are not admitted. But Gertie doesn't need to go."

"Yes, I do, Mother."

"No, you don't. I'll explain to Mrs. Lake and the rest. Of course you won't go and leave John here alone."

"Daddy will be with him and I shall hurry home as soon as I can. I must go, John; I really must. I will explain why later. If I had only known that you were coming! If you had only written me! WHY did you come without writing?"

Captain Dan, fearful of the answer, and indignant at his daughter's conduct, burst into protest.

"You ought to be glad he's come, anyhow," he declared. "I cal'late he thought—I don't care, Serena, I've said 'cal'late' all my life, and I can't help forgettin' once in a while—I suppose John thought he'd surprise you, Gertie. And now you're goin' to clear out and leave him, just on account of that—that Chapter of yours. You never used to be crazy about Chapters. You used to poke fun at 'em. You did and you know it. But since you've got here to Scarford—I can't help it, Serena; I'm mad clean through. Can't YOU tell that girl to stay to home where she belongs?"

"Gertie," began Serena, again; but her daughter would not listen.

"Don't, Mother!" she cried, "you are wasting time. We shall be late, as it is. John knows that my going is necessary, or I should not do it. He trusts me to that extent, I hope."

"Of course," said Mr. Doane heartily. "Run along and don't say any more about it. Come back as soon as you can, that's all. Shan't I come after you? I can wait outside until the thing is over."

"No; I don't intend to wait until it is over. Mother and I can take a cab. Come, Mother."

Serena reluctantly led the way to the hall. Hapgood opened the door.

"One moment, Mother," said Gertrude. She left Serena on the step and hurried back to the drawing-room. Captain Dan and John were standing there in silence.

"Daddy," said the young lady, "I think I left my pocketbook upstairs in my room. Will you get it for me?"

The captain ran to the stairs. Gertrude stepped quickly over to her lover.

"John," she whispered, "you will forgive me, won't you, dear? I MUST go. It will spoil everything if I don't. You see—why, Daddy! you haven't found that pocketbook so soon!"

Daniel had reappeared in the doorway.

"I sent Hapgood for it," he announced. "It's a good thing to make him work once in a while. What's the use of my runnin' errands when I pay him wages to run 'em for me? He'll be down in a minute."

Gertrude did not seem pleased. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Well, never mind. Why! here is the pocketbook in my bag, after all. Good-by, John. I will hurry back. You and Daddy will have a lot to talk about, I know. Good-by."

The door closed behind her. Captain Dan stepped to the foot of the stairs.

"Found it yet?" he shouted.

Hapgood answered from above.

"No, sir, not yet."

"Then keep on lookin' till you do. It's a good excuse to keep him out of the way," he explained, turning to Mr. Doane. "He makes me nervous, hangin' around and lookin' at me. I never was brought up to a butler and I can't get used to this one. Come on into the sittin'-room—library, I mean. The furniture ain't so everlastin' straight up and down there and there's somethin' to smoke—or there ought to be, if Cousin Percy ain't smoked it first. Come on, John."

In the library, with lighted cigars and in comfortable easy chairs, the two men looked at each other.

"Well, John," began the captain, "you—you come, didn't you?"

"Yes, of course. I should have come as soon as I got your letter, but I couldn't get away. I was going to tell you that."

"Yes," drily, "I know you was. If I hadn't cut across your bows, you would. Whew! if you had I guess likely there'd have been somethin' doin'. If Gertie or Serena knew I wrote you that letter I'd stand to lose what hair I've got left. Didn't I write you not to mention that letter to a livin' soul?"

"You did. But I couldn't understand why. What is all this secrecy, anyhow? And what is troubling you about Gertie?"

"Well, now, I don't know as there's anything."

"Humph! I judged there was a little of everything. What is the matter? Out with it.

"Well—we-ell—you see—you see—"

"I don't see anything, Captain Dott."

"You saw how she was set on goin' to that Chapter meetin', didn't you? You saw that?"

"Yes, but what of it?"

"What of it? What OF it? Did she ever use to want to go to such things? Down in Trumet did she ever want to go? I bet she didn't! But now she does. And she's goin' to join the thing—join it, herself! As if one loon—I mean as if one Chapter member in the family wasn't enough. I thought when Gertie come home she'd probably keep her ma from goin' off the course altogether. I thought, with her level head, she'd swing us back into the channel again. But she didn't—she didn't. John, Gertie's got the Chapter disease worse than her ma ever had it, I do believe. You've got to talk to her, John, that's what you've got to do—talk to her."

John laughed. He did not take the situation very seriously. If Gertrude wished to become interested in the Chapter, he was willing she should. She probably had a good reason for it. Her insisting upon attending a meeting on the very evening of his arrival was odd—it did not seem like her—but she doubtless had a good reason for that, too.

"Why don't you talk to her yourself, Captain?" he asked.

"Me! Me talk to her! I have, and what good has it done? She won't listen to me any more. I don't mean she ain't kind to me and lovin' and all that—she wouldn't be Gertie if she wasn't that—but when it comes to Chapter business she's all on her ma's side."

"Why not talk to her mother, then?"

Daniel straightened in his chair. "To Serena!" he repeated. "Talk against Chapter to Serena! John, you don't know what you're sayin'. One time—just one—I did talk that way. I biled over and I damned that Chapter and the gang in it, cussed 'em in good plain United States. But I'll never do it again. Once was enough."

He was so very serious that his companion fore-bore to laugh.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why! John, you ain't married or you wouldn't ask that. I'm a peaceable body and I like peace in the house. More'n that, I hate to go 'round feelin' like a sneak thief. That one damn made me miserable for two days. I never swore to Serena afore and I never will again. She was all cut up over it and in a way she was right. No, swearin' aboard ship is one thing—I've had mates that couldn't navigate without it—but ashore in your own house, to the women folks you care for, it don't go. I can't talk to Serena about that Chapter—not even if I'm left alone ALL the time, same as I'm left to-night."

John nodded. He thought that, at last, he had reached the milk in the cocoanut. Captain Dan, with his love for home and his hatred of lodges and societies, had refused to be interested in his wife's pet hobby, and felt himself neglected and forsaken. He had brooded upon it, and this outburst and the letter he had written were the consequences.

"Oh, well," he said. "I shouldn't worry. The Chapter here is a large one and Mrs. Dott is interested in it. The interest will wear off when it gets to be an old story."

"Wear off! With Gertie goin' it harder than her mother ever thought of?"

"Oh, Gertie doesn't mean it."

"She DON'T! She don't! Perhaps you don't think she means it when she goes to every 'tea' and 'recital' and 'at home' and crazy dido from here to Beersheba and back. Is THAT goin' to wear off? Chasin' around with Cousin Percy and that Holway and land knows who?"

"What? Captain Dott, you're making mountains out of mole hills. Gertie isn't that kind."

"That's what I said. That's what I used to think. It's this Scarford that's doin' it. It's this Scarford and the society crowd we've got in with. Annette Black—Barney Phelps's wife—is in society, and so's the Lake woman and that Canby piano pounder and that Dusante—my Godfreys! you ought to have seen her, John! She was the brazen thing. Dancin' around! And all hands sittin' lookin' at her as if she was a Sunday School. Everybody! Serena and Gertie and that Holway man and all. And Gertie up and says she might like to dance that way. She! And Cousin Percy laughin' because she said it."

"Hold on! Wait a minute, Captain. I never saw you so excited. What about this Cousin Percy of yours? He's living here with you, I know that; but what sort of a chap is he? And Holway—who is Holway?"

Daniel went on to explain who Holway was. Also he spoke of Mr. Hungerford and his ways and his intimacy with the family, particularly Gertrude. For weeks the captain had been wanting to talk to someone about these things and, now that he had that opportunity, he made the most of it. He spoke of his own loneliness, and of Serena's infatuation for society, of Gertrude's coming and the great change in her, of the gay life in Scarford, and of his daughter's apparent love for it. He gave his opinion of Hungerford and of Holway, the latter's friend. When John asked questions which implied a belief that the situation was not really as bad as the narrator thought it, Captain Dan, growing warmer and more anxious to justify himself, proceeded to make his statements stronger. He quoted instances to prove their truth. Serena was crazy on the subjects of Chapter and Chapter politics and fashion and money and society, and Gertrude was getting to be even worse. It wasn't any use to talk to her. He had tried. He had told her she was engaged and ought to be more careful. He wasn't the only one who thought so. Barney Black had said the same thing. He quoted from Mr. Black's conversation.

John Doane listened, at first with the smile of the disbeliever, then with more and more uneasiness. He trusted Gertrude, he believed in her, she was not a flirt, but if these stories were true—if they were true—he could not understand. He asked more questions and the answers were as non-understandable. Altogether, Captain Dan, with the best intentions in the world, and with the happiness of his daughter and John uppermost in his mind, succeeded in laying a mine which might wreck that happiness altogether.

At last something—perhaps the expression on his visitor's face—caused him to feel that he might have said too much. He hastened to rectify the mistake.

"Of course you mustn't think Gertie ain't all right, far's you're concerned, John," he said. "She is—I—I'm dead sure she is. But, you see—you see—You do see, don't you, John?"

Mr. Doane did not answer. He seemed to be thinking hard.

"You see, John, don't you?" repeated Captain Dan.

"Yes, I suppose I do."

"And you know Gertie's all right—at heart, I mean? You mustn't be jealous, nor anything of that kind."

John laughed. "Don't talk nonsense," he said curtly.

"No, I won't. But—er—what are you thinkin' about?"

"Nothing. Humph! I can't understand—"

"Neither could I. That's why I wrote you. You see why I wrote you, don't you, John?"

"Yes—yes, I see why you wrote me; but—but I can't see why she didn't. She hasn't written me a word of all this."

And then the captain, in his anxiety to explain, made another indiscreet remark.

"Well," he observed, "I suppose likely she was afraid you might think that, now she had money—more money than she ever had before, I mean—and was in a different, a higher-toned crowd than she had ever been, that—that—well, that she was likin' that crowd better than the old one. She might have thought that, you know, mightn't she?"

Mr. Doane did not answer. Daniel had made a pretty thorough mess of it.

"Of course," went on the captain, "as far as Cousin Percy is concerned—"

John stirred uneasily. "Cousin Percy be hanged!" he snapped. "That's enough of this foolishness. Let's change the subject. How is Nate Bangs getting on with the store at home?"

The Metropolitan Store at Trumet was the one thoroughly satisfactory spot on the checkered map of Daniel Dott's existence at the present time. Nathaniel Bangs was making a success of that store. He reported each week and the reports showed increasing business and a profit, small as yet, but a profit nevertheless.

So the captain was only too glad to speak of the store and did so. John appeared to listen, but his answers and comments were absent-minded. He accepted a fresh cigar, at his host's invitation, but he permitted it to go out.

At half-past ten the doorbell rang. Daniel sprang to his feet.

"Here they are!" he declared. "Gertie come home early, just as she said she would. That's 'cause she wanted to see you, John. Hi!" shouting at Mr. Hapgood, who had long since given up the search for the missing pocketbook and had been dozing upstairs, "Hi! you needn't mind. Go aloft again! Go below! Go somewhere! We don't need you. I'll let 'em in, myself."

The butler, looking surprised, obeyed orders and went—somewhere. The captain flung open the door.

"Well!" he hailed. "Here you are! And pretty early for Chapter night, too. We're waitin' for you, John and I. Shall I pay the cab man?"

Serena, the first to enter, answered.

"No," she said, "he is already paid."

"That so? Did you pay him, Serena? Thought that was my job usually. I—" Then, in a tone go entirely different that John Doane, in the drawing-room, noticed the change, he added, "Oh! oh! I, see."

"Come in," went on Serena. "Come right in, Cousin Percy."

She entered the drawing-room, followed by Gertrude and—Mr. Percy Hungerford. Captain Dan, remaining to close the door, came last.

"John," said Serena proudly, "we want you to meet our cousin, Mr. Hungerford. Percy, this is John."

John and Hungerford exchanged looks. The latter gentleman extended a gloved hand. "Charmed," he observed.

John expressed pleasure at the meeting. The pair shook hands.

"So—so Cousin Percy came home with you, did he?" inquired Daniel. "That was kind of unexpected, wasn't it?"

Mr. Hungerford himself answered.

"Why," he declared, "not altogether, on my part I hoped for the pleasure. It seemed rather rough for Miss Dott and her mother to come alone, and so I hung about until the affair was over."

"He had a carriage all ready for us," declared Serena. "It was so thoughtful of him."

"Not at all. Great pleasure, really."

Gertrude made the next remark.

"We did not need a carriage," she said. "Or, if we did, we could easily have gotten one. Cousin Percy need not have troubled."

"John offered to come for you," said Daniel. "So did I. We'd have both come, but you wouldn't have us. Wouldn't accept our invitation, would they, John? Gave us to understand they didn't like our company."

"Cousin Percy did not wait for an invitation," explained Serena. "He just came. He is so thoughtful."

Gertrude looked annoyed. She had been regarding Mr. Doane.

"Mother," she said sharply, "don't be silly. We did not ask for an escort and we didn't need one. The whole thing was quite unnecessary and unexpected. Come, Mother, do take off your things. Oh, I'm so glad to get home."

The ladies retired to remove their wraps. John made a move to go to their assistance, but Mr. Hungerford, attentive as usual, got ahead of him.

"Well, Daddy dear," said Gertrude, as they re-entered, "what have you and John been doing while we were away? I suppose you've had a long talk?"

Daniel colored. He looked at Mr. Doane, who, in spite of himself, colored also, and was tremendously annoyed because he did so.

"Yes," said the captain hastily. "Yes, we talked. We talked, didn't we, John?"

"We did," affirmed John.

"I'm sure you did. And what about?"

"Oh—oh, about everything. How did the Chapter doin's go off? You're a member now, I suppose, Gertie?"

"Yes," was the brief reply, "I am a member."

"Um-hm! Well, I hope you're satisfied—I mean I hope you'll like it. Didn't make a speech, did you? Ha! ha!"

Gertrude did not answer. Serena, to her husband's surprise, appeared vexed.

"But she did though, by Jove!" exclaimed Cousin Percy. "She did, and I'm told it created a great sensation. Miss Canby told me about it as I was waiting for you to come out, Gertrude. She said you gave them a brand-new idea. Congratulations, Gertrude. Wish I might have heard it. Something about the privileges of the Chapter being extended to the hoi polloi, wasn't it?"

The new member of Scarford Chapter looked more annoyed than ever.

"I spoke of the Chapter's advantages being extended," she said, "that's all."

"And enough, too," cried her mother, impatiently. "Quite enough, I should think. If I had known you were going to do that, I should have stayed at home. It was that foolish Azuba who put the notion in your head. You'll be proposing her name next, I suppose. The idea!"

Daniel burst into a roar of laughter.

"What do you think of that, John?" he cried. "Zuby Jane makin' speeches! There's advancement for you, ain't it?"

John smiled, but rather faintly. He had scarcely taken his eyes from Cousin Percy's aristocratic presence. The latter gentleman turned to him.

"Well—er—Mr.—Mr. Doane," he observed carelessly, "how do you like Scarford, as far as you've seen it?"

John replied that he had seen very little of it.

"You will find it a bit different from—er—what is it? Oh, yes, Trumet. You'll find it a bit different from Trumet, I imagine."

"No doubt. I can see that already."

"But John doesn't come from Trumet," explained Serena; "that is, not now. He is in business in Boston."

Cousin Percy seemed surprised. He favored the visitor with another look. "Indeed!" he drawled. He did not add "He doesn't look it," in words, but his manner expressed just that.

Daniel caught his wife's eye. "Well, Serena," he observed, with a meaning wink, "I guess likely you're tired, ain't you? Time to go aloft and turn in, I should say."

Serena nodded. "Yes," she answered. "Gertrude, you and John will excuse us, won't you? John, Captain Dott and I will see you in the morning. Good-night! Good-night, Cousin Percy."

"Good-night!" said Mr. Hungerford.

"You'll excuse us, John, I'm sure," went on Serena. "Of course you and Gertie will want to talk, and," with a slight pause and a glance at Percy, "we will only be in the way. Come, Daniel."

Captain Dan paused in the doorway. "Ain't you tired, too, Cousin Percy?" he inquired.

It was a fairly broad hint, but Mr. Hungerford did not take it.

"Oh, no," he replied; "not at all. Good-night, Captain."

He seated himself on the sofa. Daniel, frowning, followed his wife upstairs.

The conversation which ensued was confined almost altogether to Hungerford and Gertrude. John Doane had little to say, and less opportunity to say it. Each remark made by the young lady was answered by Percy, and that gentleman talked almost incessantly. His remarks also were of a semi-confidential nature, dealing with happenings at various social affairs which Gertrude and he had attended, and hints at previous conversations and understandings between them. John began to feel himself an outsider. After a time he ceased trying to talk and relapsed into silence.