Gertrude noticed the silence and, seizing a moment when her entertaining cousin had paused, perhaps for breath, said, almost sharply:

"John, why don't you say something? You haven't spoken for five minutes."

John said very little, even in reply to this accusation.

"Haven't I?" he observed. "Well, what shall I say?"

"You might say something, considering that you and I haven't seen each other for so long."

Mr. Hungerford rose. "I hope I haven't interfered," he announced. "Didn't mean to intrude, I assure you. Beg pardon—er—Doane."

John did not answer. Gertrude also rose.

"Good-night, Cousin Percy," she said, with a gracious smile. "Thank you so much for the carriage and your escort."

"Quite welcome. Pleasure was mine. Goodnight, Gertrude. Oh, by the way, I believe you and I are to go over that paper of your mother's tomorrow. She asked my advice and said you would assist, I think. I shall look forward to that assistance. Good-night, Doane. Glad to have met you, I'm sure."

He strolled out. Upon reaching his room he discovered that his cigar case was empty. Hapgood not being on hand and, feeling the need of a bedtime smoke, he tiptoed down the stairs and through the back hall into the library. The room was dark, but sufficient light shone between the closed curtains of the drawing-room to enable him to locate Captain Dan's box. Silently and very slowly he refilled the case.

John Doane and Gertrude, alone at last, looked at each other. The former was very solemn. Gertrude, quite aware of the solemnity, but not aware of its principal cause—her father's impolitic disclosure of his apprehensions concerning herself—was nervous and a bit impatient.

"Well, John," she asked, after a moment's wait, "aren't you going to say anything to me even now?"

John tried his best to smile. It was a poor attempt.

"Why, yes," he said slowly, "I came all the way from Boston to see you and talk to you, Gertie. There is no reason why I shouldn't say—whatever there is to say, I suppose."

Gertrude looked at him. The tone in which this speech was delivered, and the speech itself—the first part of it, especially—amazed and hurt her. Incidentally, her temper having been sorely tried already that evening by Mr. Hungerford, it made her angry.

"All the way from Boston," she repeated. "Well, I never knew you to complain in that way before. I'm sorry to have caused you so much trouble."

"It wasn't a trouble, Gertie. You know I would go around the world for you."

"Then why speak of coming all the way from Boston? Whose fault was it, pray? Did I ask you to come?"

And now, John, who had been fighting his own temper for some time, grew angry.

"You did not," he declared. "But I judge it was time I did."

"Indeed! Indeed! Why?"

"Well—well, for various reasons. Of course, had I known my coming would interfere with your—your precious Chapter affairs and—"

"John, I had to go to that meeting. If you had written you were coming I shouldn't have gone. I should have made other arrangements. But you didn't write."

"I wrote every day."

"Yes, but you did not write you were coming here."

"I didn't think it was necessary. You wrote every day, too, but you didn't write—you didn't write—"

"What?"

"A good many things that—that I have learned since I came here."

"Indeed! What things? How did you learn them?"

"I—" John hesitated. To bring Captain Dan's name into the conversation would be, he felt, disloyal. And it would surely mean trouble for the captain. "I—I learned them with my own eyes," he declared. "I could see. Gertie, I can't understand you."

"And I don't understand you. I told you, at the only moment we have had together, I told you then that I would explain about the Chapter. I said that I must go or everything would be spoiled. You very nearly spoiled it by coming as you did."

Mr. Doane's expression changed. It had softened when she reminded him of the whispered word in the drawing-room. The last sentence, however, brought his frown back again.

"Well!" he exclaimed. "Well—humph! that's easily remedied. I came in a hurry and I can go the same way."

"John! John, what do you mean? How can you speak so to me! Would you go away now that—that—"

"You wouldn't miss me so much, I should imagine. Cousin Percy will be here, and you and he seem to be very confidential and friendly, to say the least."

Gertrude gasped. She was beginning to understand, or imagined that she was. She laughed merrily.

"John! Why, John!" she cried. "You're not jealous! YOU!"

John looked rather foolish. "No-o," he admitted doubtfully, "I'm not jealous. Of course I'm not, but—"

"But what? Don't you trust me, John? Don't you?"

"Of course I do. You know I do, but—See here, Gertie, you said you were going to explain—to explain something or other. Do it, then. I think I am entitled to an explanation."

But Gertrude's merriment had vanished. Her eyes flashed.

"I shall not explain," she said. "You don't trust me. I can see you don't."

"I do. I do, Gertie, really; but—but—"

"But you don't. You think—you think—oh, I don't know WHAT you think! No, I shall not explain, not now, at all events. Good-night!"

She hastened from the room. John ran after her.

"Gertie," he cried, "you're not going? You're not going to leave me in this way, without a word? I do trust you. I only said—"

"It wasn't what you said; it was the way you said it. I am going. I am shocked—yes, and hurt, John. I shall not speak to you again to-night. To-morrow perhaps, if you beg my pardon and I am really sure you do trust me, I may tell you—what I was going to tell. But not now. I—I didn't think you would treat me so."

She put her handkerchief to her eyes and hurried up the stairs. John, standing irresolute on the lower step, hesitated, fighting down his own pride and sense of injury. That moment of hesitation was freighted with consequence. Then:

"Gertie," he cried, hastening after her, "Gertie, wait! I do beg your pardon. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

But it was too late. Gertie's chamber door closed. John went slowly up to his own room, the room to which the butler had carried his bag. A few minutes after he had gone the curtains between the library and drawing-room parted and Mr. Hungerford appeared. He was very cautious as he, too, ascended the stairs. But his expression was a pleasant one; there was no doubt that Cousin Percy was pleased about something.



CHAPTER XI

Captain Dan stirred uneasily. In his dream he had navigated the Bluebird, his old schooner, to a point somewhere between Hatteras and Race Point light. It was night all at once, although it had been day only a few minutes before, and Azuba, who, it seemed, was cook aboard the Bluebird, was washing breakfast dishes in the skipper's stateroom. She was making a good deal of noise about it, jingling pans and thumping the foot of the berth with a stick of stove wood. The captain was about to remonstrate with her when Serena suddenly appeared—her presence on the schooner was a complete surprise—to ask him if he had not heard the bell, and why didn't he come into the house, because dinner was ready. Then Azuba stopped pounding the foot of the berth and began to thump him instead.

"Don't you hear the bell?" repeated Serena. "Wake up! Daniel! Daniel!"

Daniel stirred and opened his eyes. The Bluebird had vanished, so had Azuba, but the thumps and jingles were real enough.

"Hey?" he mumbled, drowsily. "Stop poundin' me, won't you?"

"Pounding you! I've been pounding and shaking you for goodness knows how long. I began to think you were dead. Wake up! Don't you hear the bell?"

Daniel, still but two-thirds awake, rolled over, raised himself on his elbow and grunted, "Bell! What bell?"

"The door bell. Someone's at the door. Don't you hear them?"

Captain Dan slid out of bed. His bare feet struck the cold floor beneath the open window and he was wide awake at last. The room was pitch dark, so morning had not come, and yet someone WAS at the door, the front door. The bell was ringing steadily and the ringer was varying the performance by banging the door with his feet. The captain fumbled for the button, found and pressed it, and the electric light blazed.

"For mercy sakes!" he grumbled, glancing at his watch hanging beside the head of the bed, "it's quarter past one. Who in time is turnin' us out this time of night?"

Serena, nervous and frightened—she, too, had been aroused from a sound sleep—answered sharply.

"I don't know," she snapped. "It's something important though, or they wouldn't do it. Hurry up and find out, can't you? I never saw such a man!"

Her husband hastened to the closet, found his slippers and bathrobe—the latter was a recent addition to his wardrobe, bought because his wife had learned that B. Phelps Black possessed no less than three bathrobes—and shuffled out into the hall. The bell had awakened other members of the household. A light shone under the door of John Doane's room, and from Gertrude's apartment his daughter's voice demanded to know what was the matter.

Daniel announced that he didn't know, but cal'lated to find out, and shuffled down the stairs. The lights in the hall and drawing-room were still burning, Gertrude and John having forgotten to extinguish them. Captain Dan unlocked the front door and flung it open. A uniformed messenger boy was standing on the steps.

"Telegram for John Doane," announced the boy. "Any answer?"

Daniel seized the proffered envelope. "How in time do I know whether there's any answer or not?" he demanded pettishly. "I ain't read it yet, have I? Think I've got second sight? Why in the nation didn't you ring up on the telephone, instead of comin' here and routin' out the neighborhood?"

The boy grinned. "Against the rules," he said. "Can't send telegrams by 'phone unless we have special orders."

"Well, I give you orders then. Next time you telephone. Hold on a minute now. John! oh, John!"

Mr. Doane, partially dressed, his coat collar turned up to hide the absence of linen, was already at the head of the stairs, and descending.

"Coming, Captain Dott," he said. "For me, is it?"

"Yes. A telegram for you. What—good land, Gertie! you up, too?"

Gertrude, in kimono and cap, was leaning over the rail. "What is it?" she asked quickly.

John announced, "A wire for me," he said. "I'm afraid—" He tore open the envelope. "Yes, I thought so. Mr. Griffin is worse and they want me at once. Every minute counts, they say. I must go—now. When is the next train for Boston, Captain?"

Daniel was very much flustered. "I don't know," he stammered. "There's a time-table around on deck somewheres, but—you ain't goin' now, John? To-night?"

"Yes, I must."

Gertrude hastened to find the time-table. John turned to the messenger.

"Know anything about Boston trains?" he asked.

"Yup. Two-twenty express through from New York. That's the next."

John stepped to the drawing-room and looked at the clock. "I can get it, I think," he announced. "I must. If I can get a cab—"

"I'll 'phone for one. But—but, John, you hadn't ought to—"

"Any answer?" demanded the messenger boy, intent on business.

"Yes. Say that I am leaving on the two-twenty. On the two-twenty. Got that, have you?"

"Sure, Mike! Prepay or collect?"

"I'll—I'll pay it, John." Captain Dan reached under his bathrobe. "Hey!" he exclaimed. "I declare I forgot I didn't have on—All right, John, I'll pay it. You go get ready."

Mr. Doane was on his way to his room. Daniel hurried after him, a difficult progress, for the slippers and bathrobe made hurrying decidedly clumsy. He located his trousers and the loose change in their pockets, explaining the situation to Serena as he did so. He and his wife descended the stairs together. The captain paid the messenger and hastened to telephone for the cab.

When the vehicle arrived, John was ready. His farewells to Daniel and Serena were hurried ones.

"I'm awfully sorry I can't stop longer," he declared. "I really shouldn't have come at all, under the circumstances. I—"

He paused. Gertrude was standing by the door. She was very grave and her eyes looked as if she had not slept. John went over to her; he, too, was grave.

"Gertie," he faltered, "Gertie—"

Serena interrupted. "Daniel!" she said, "Daniel!"

The captain looked at her. She frowned and motioned with her head. The light of understanding dawned in her husband's eyes.

"Hey? Oh, yes!" he cried hastily. "Come into the front room, Serena, just a minute. I want to speak to you."

They entered the drawing-room together. Gertrude and John were alone. For a moment neither spoke. Then the young man, bending forward, whispered: "Gertie," he asked anxiously, "aren't you—haven't you anything to say to me?"

"I thought, perhaps, you had something to say to me, John."

"I have. Gertie, I—"

There was a sound from above. Cousin Percy Hungerford, fully dressed and debonnair as always, was descending the stairs.

"What's the row?" he drawled. "I heard the racket and decided the house must be on fire. What's up?"

Whatever else was "up" it was quite plain John was sorry that Mr. Hungerford was up because of it. His tone was decidedly chilly as he answered.

"A wire for me," he said shortly. "I'm called to Boston at once."

"Really! How extraordinary! It wasn't a fire then, merely a false alarm. Sorry to have you go, Doane, I'm sure."

He spoke as if he were the host whose gracious pleasure it had been to entertain the guest during the latter's stay. John resented the tone.

"Thanks," he said crisply. "Gertie, I—I hope—"

He hesitated. It was not easy to speak in the presence of a third person, particularly this person. Cousin Percy did not hesitate.

"Gertie," he observed, "your—er—friend is leaving us at the wrong time, isn't he? There's so much going on this coming week. Really, Doane, you're fortunate, in a sense. Miss Dott and I are finding the social whirl a bit tiresome; you will escape that, at least."

Captain Dan appeared at the entrance to the drawing-room.

"I say, Hungerford! Percy!" he hailed impatiently.

Mr. Hungerford did not seem to hear him. He was regarding Miss Dott with anxious concern.

"Really, Gertrude," he said, "I shouldn't stand by that open door, if I were you. You have a slight cold and for—all our sakes—you must be careful. Step inside, I beg of you."

His begging was so tender, so solicitous, so intimate. John Doane's fists clenched.

"Hi!" It was the cabman calling from the street. "Hi! we've only got twelve minutes to catch that train."

John turned, involuntarily, toward the door. Gertrude, startled by the cabman's voice and aware of the need of haste, stepped to one side. Cousin Percy chose to put his own interpretation upon her movement.

"Thank you, Gertrude," he said feelingly. "That's better; you will be out of the draft there. Thank you."

John Doane, who was still hesitating, hesitated no longer. He seized his bag.

"Good-by, all," he said, in a choked voice. "Good-by, Captain Dott."

He strode through the doorway. Gertrude, for a moment, remained where she was. Then she followed him.

"John!" she cried, "John!"

John, half way down the steps, halted, turned, and looked up at her.

"Good-by, Gertie," he said.

"But, John, are you—aren't you—"

She stretched out her hands. Mr. Hungerford, pushing by the captain and Serena, stepped in front of her.

"Here, you!" he shouted, addressing the cabman; "what are you thinking about? Why don't you take the gentleman's bag?"

The driver sprang to get the bag, incidentally he seized his prospective passenger by the arm.

"Come on!" he shouted. "Come on! We'll miss the train. Ten to one we've missed it, anyhow."

"Oh, DO hurry, John!" cried Serena, anxiously. "You WILL miss it. You MUST go!"

And Mr. Doane went. The cab rattled away up the street, the old horse galloping, the driver shouting, and the whip cracking. Daniel drew a long breath.

"Well!" he said slowly, "he's gone. Yes, sir, he's gone, ain't he."

Serena turned on him.

"Yes, he's gone," she observed sarcastically, "but he isn't going very fast. Why in the world didn't you order an electric cab instead of that Noah's Ark? Half the neighbors have been waked up and they'll see it. How many times must I tell you? You NEVER learn!"

"Well, now, Serena—"

"Don't talk to me! Don't! My nerves are all of a twitter. I—I—oh, do let me go to bed! Gertie—why, Gertie, where are you going?"

Gertrude was on her way to the stairs. She did not appear to hear her mother's question.

"Gertie!" cried Serena again.

There was no answer. The young lady hurried up the stairs and they heard her chamber door close. Cousin Percy shrugged his shoulders.

"Too bad our friend was called away so suddenly," he observed. "Very much of a surprise, wasn't it? Too bad."

No one replied, not even Serena, who was not wont to ignore the comments of her aristocratic relative. Her next remark was in the nature of an order and was addressed to her husband.

"Come! Come! Come!" she said fretfully. "Do come to bed!"

Daniel, pausing only to extinguish the lights, obeyed. Mr. Hungerford, with another shrug and a covert smile, preceded him up the stairs. As the captain was about to enter his bedroom, a voice, which sounded as if the speaker was half asleep, called from the third floor.

"Is there anything I can do, sir?" asked Hapgood. "I 'ave just been aroused, sir."

Daniel turned. Here was a heaven-sent vent for his feelings.

"Do!" he repeated. "Anything you can do? Yes, there is. Shut your door and turn in."

"But, sir—"

"And shut your head along with it!"

There were some inmates of the Dott mansion who, probably, slept peacefully the remainder of that night, or morning. Cousin Percy doubtless did, also Mr. Hapgood. Azuba, sleeping at the rear of the house, had not been awakened at all. But neither Captain Dan or Serena slept. Mrs. Dott's nerves kept her awake, and the combination prevented Daniel from napping. Nerves were a new acquisition of Serena's; at least she had never been conscious of them until recently. Now, however, they were becoming more and more in evidence. She was fretful and impatient of trifles, and the least contradiction or upset of her plans was likely to bring on fits of hysterical weeping. It was so in this case. Daniel, trotting for smelling salts and extra pillows and the hot water bottle, was not too calm himself. His plans, the plans founded upon John Doane's remaining in Scarford for a time, had been decidedly upset. He pleaded with his wife.

"But I don't see what ails you, Serena," he declared. "John's gone, that's true enough, but you didn't know he was comin'. He was here, a little while, and that's some gain, ain't it? I don't see—"

"See! You wouldn't see if your eyes were spyglasses. Oh, dear! why does everything have to go wrong with me? I thought when John came that Gertie—"

"Yes. That Gertie what?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing! Oh, my poor head! It aches so and the back of it feels so queer. Where are the pillows? Can't you get me another pillow?"

"Sure I can! You've got three already, but I can fetch another. It's all this society business that's breakin' you down, Serena. That everlastin' Chapter—"

He was sorry as soon as he said it, but said it had been. He spent the next hour in explaining that he did not mean it.

Serena was not on hand at breakfast time. Neither was Gertrude. That young lady came into the library at ten o'clock, looking pale and worn and with dark circles under her eyes. She had a thick envelope in her hand.

"Daddy," she said, "will you post this for me?"

Her father looked up from the pile of papers on the writing table before him. He, too, appeared somewhat worried.

"Sartin," he announced promptly. "I've got a stack of stuff for the postman, myself. Bills and checks they are, mostly. Serena usually attends to the house bills, but she's kind of under the weather this morning. Say, Gertie," gravely, "it costs a sight to run this place, did you know it?"

"I suppose it does."

"You bet it does! Why, I never realized—But there, I suppose likely these bills are heavier than usual. I suppose they are. Good land! if they ain't! But, of course they are. I'll ask Serena about 'em by and by, when she's better. Give me your letter, Gertie, I'll mail it."

"You won't forget?"

"Not a mite. I'll put it right here with the others and give 'em to the postman when he comes. Humph! it's to John, isn't it? You're pretty prompt in your writin', ain't you? But that's natural; I remember when I used to write your mother twice a day. It's a wonder she stood it and kept her health, ain't it. Ha! ha!"

He chuckled and turned back to his bills and the checkbook. Gertrude left the room.

Captain Dan wrote and enclosed and affixed stamps. The pile of envelopes on the table grew steadily larger. Mr. Hungerford entered, seeking the cigar box.

"Good-morning," he observed, cheerfully.

Daniel looked up, grunted, and went on with his work. Cousin Percy smiled. A querulous voice called from the second floor.

"Daniel!" called Serena. "Daniel, where are you? Why don't you come up? I am all alone."

The captain sprang to his feet, "Comin'! Serena!" he shouted. "Comin'!"

He hurried out. Mr. Hungerford, left alone, helped himself to a cigar and strolled about the room. The pile of letters on the table caught his attention. Idly he turned the envelopes over, examining the addresses. All at once his interest became less casual; one of the written names had caught his attention.

Five minutes later the postman rang the doorbell. Captain Dan ran downstairs, entered the library, seized the letters from the table and hastened to hand them to the carrier.

"Daddy!" called Gertrude from above, "did you post my letter?"

"Sure!" was the prompt answer. "Just gave it to the mail man. It's on the road now."

Serena's "nerves" were in much better condition the following day, and her spirits likewise. Gertrude, however, was still grave and absent-minded and non-communicative. Toward Mr. Hungerford in particular she was cool and distant, answering his chatty remarks and solicitous inquiries concerning her health with monosyllables, and, on several occasions, leaving the room when he entered it. This state of affairs was even more marked on the second day after Mr. Doane's abrupt departure, and still more so on the third. She seemed nervously expectant when the postman brought the mail, and depressed when each consignment contained no letter for her. On the fourth day this depression was so marked that her father asked the cause.

"What ails you, Gertie?" he inquired. "You look as if you just come from a funeral. What's wrong?"

Gertrude, who was standing by the window, looking out, answered without turning her head.

"Nothing," she said shortly.

"Well, I'm glad of that. I thought you was troubled in your mind about somethin'. Ain't frettin' about John, are you?"

His daughter looked at him now, and the look was a searching one.

"About—Why should I fret about him, pray?" she asked slowly.

"I don't know. I thought maybe his goin' away so sudden was a sort of disappointment to you. 'Twas to the rest of us. Hey? Did you say somethin'?"

"No."

"Oh, I thought you did. Well, you mustn't be disappointed, Gertie. You see, business is business. John did what he thought was right and—"

"Daddy, do be still. I do not intend to trouble myself about—him. Don't talk to me, please. I don't feel like talking."

Daniel talked no more, at that time, but he wondered, and determined to ask Serena her opinion when the opportunity came.

It did not come immediately. A new development in Chapter politics was occupying Mrs. Dott's mind, a development so wonderful and so glorious in its promise that that lady could think or speak of little else. Mrs. Lake's term as president of Scarford Chapter was nearing its end. Annette Black, the vice-president, would have been, in the regular course of events, Mrs. Lake's successor to the high office. But Mrs. Lake and Annette, bosom friends for years, had had a falling out. At first merely a disagreement, it had been aggravated and developed into a bitter quarrel. The two ladies did not speak to each other. Annette announced her candidacy in meeting, and the very next day Mrs. Lake came to Serena with an amazing proposition.

The proposition was this: Mrs. Lake, it seemed, wished to become secretary of the National Legion. In order to do this—or to become even a prominent candidate—it was necessary for her to have the support of the officers of her own Chapter. If Mrs. Black was elected president she most decidedly would not have this support.

"That woman is a cat," she declared, "a spiteful underhanded cat. After all I have done for her! Why, she never would have been vice-president if it had not been for me! And just because she heard that I said something—something about her that was perfectly true, even if I did not say it—she broke out in committee and said things to me that—that I never shall forget, never! She shan't be president. I have as many friends as she has and I'll see to that. Now, my dear Mrs. Dott, I am counting on you—and your daughter, of course—as among those friends. We must select some woman for the presidency who will command the respect and get the votes of all disinterested members. Miss Canby wants the office, but she is too closely identified with me to be perfectly safe. But our party—I and my friends, I mean—have been considering the matter and we have decided that a dark horse—that is what the politicians call it—a dark horse is bound to win. We must get the right kind of dark horse. And we think we have it—him—her, I mean. YOU shall be our candidate. YOU shall be president of Scarford Chapter."

Serena gasped.

"Me?" she cried, forgetful, for once, of her carefully nurtured correctness of speech. "Me? President?"

"Yes, you. You are liked and respected by every member. You are known to be rich—I mean cultured and progressive and broad-minded. We can elect you and we will. Isn't it splendid? I'm SO proud to be the one to bring you the news!"

There was one strong qualification possessed by Mrs. Dott which the bearer of good news omitted to mention. Serena was supposed to be Annette Black's most devoted friend. Announcement of her candidacy would have the effect of splitting the Black party in twain. Mrs. Lake and her followers were very much aware of this, although their spokeswoman said nothing about it.

"You'll accept, of course," gushed Mrs. Lake. "Of course you will. I shall be so proud to vote and work for you."

Serena hesitated. The honor of being president of her beloved Chapter was a dazzling prospect. And yet—and yet—

"You will, won't you?" begged the caller.

"No," said Serena. "No, Mrs. Lake, I can't. I could not run against Annette Black. She is my best and dearest friend. If it were not for her I should not have come to Scarford at all. It would be treachery of the meanest kind. No, Mrs. Lake, I am not that kind of a friend. No."

"But—"

"Please don't speak of it again. I am ashamed even to hear you. Let's talk of something else."

But Mrs. Lake did not want to talk of anything else. She urged and argued and pleaded in vain. Then she began to lose her temper. The parting was not cordial.

And then came Mrs. Black, herself. She, somehow or other, had learned of the offer to be made Serena. When she found that the latter had refused that offer because of loyalty to her, she fairly bubbled over.

"You dear!" she cried, embracing her hostess. "You dear, splendid thing! It was what I expected; I knew you'd do it; but I'm SO happy and SO grateful. I never shall forget it—never. And whenever I can prove my loyalty and devotion to you, be sure I shall do it."

Serena was touched and gratified, but there was just a shade of disappointment in her tone as she answered.

"I know you will," she said. "Of course, I had rather be president of Scarford Chapter than anything else in the world, but—"

And then Annette had an idea. She clasped her hands.

"You shall be," she cried. "You shall be. Not this term, but the next—the very next. This term I shall be president, and you—YOU shall be vice-president. With you as our candidate we can beat that Canby creature to death. Oh, lovely! It is an inspiration."

And on that basis it was settled. The opposing tickets were Black and Dott against Canby and a lady by the name of Saunderson, another of Mrs. Lake's "dear friends." The Chapter was racked from end to end. Politics became the daily food of its members.

For Serena it was almost the only food. She was too busy to eat, except at odd times and hurriedly, and she slept less than ever. Her nervousness increased and she lost weight. Daniel was worried concerning her health and would have mentioned his worriment to Gertrude had not that young lady's mental state and behavior worried him almost as much.

Gertrude, for the first week after John Doane's departure, was depressed and silent and solemn. Once, her father found her in her room, crying and when he anxiously asked the reason she bade him go away and leave her, so sharply and in a tone so unlike her, that he went without further protestation. He did, however, go to Serena for advice.

"Oh, I don't know," said Serena impatiently. "She misses John, I suppose. She thought he was going to stay and he didn't, and she was disappointed. Don't bother me! Don't! I've checked this voting list over three times already and it has come out different each time. I'm so tired and headachy and nervous I think I shall die. Sometimes I don't care if I do. Go away."

"But, Serena, there's—there's somethin' queer about Gertie and John. I don't believe she's heard from him since he left. I don't believe she has."

"Then, why doesn't she write and find out what is the matter? Perhaps he's sick."

"Maybe so, but perhaps she don't want to write. Perhaps she's waitin' for him to do it."

"He can't write if he's sick, can he? Why don't she telegraph him?"

"That would be just the same, the way she may look at it."

"Then wire him yourself, why don't you? Oh, please go away—PLEASE. I'll speak to her, Daniel, when I get time; I was going to. But just now I—oh, my POOR head!"

Daniel made up his mind to telegraph Doane that very afternoon, but he did not. A happening in the household prevented him. Mr. Hapgood was summarily discharged.

Azuba was responsible for the affair. Serena was out—"committeeing" as usual—Gertrude was with her. Mr. Hungerford, also, was absent. Captain Dan, in the library, dolefully musing in an arm chair, heard a violent altercation in the kitchen. As it did not cease, but became more violent, he hastened to the scene.

Azuba was standing in the middle of the kitchen, her back against the table, facing the butler. Mr. Hapgood's face was red, his fists were clenched, and he was shaking one of them under the housekeeper's nose.

"Give it to me!" he ordered. "'And it over now, or I'll bash you good and 'ard."

Azuba merely smiled. "You'll bash nobody," she declared. "You're a thief, that's what you are—a low-down thief. I've always cal'lated you was one, ever since I laid eyes on you; now I know it. Don't you dare shake your fist at me. If my husband was here he'd—"

Hapgood interrupted, savagely consigning the Ginns, both male and female, to a much hotter place than the kitchen. Captain Dan strode into the room.

"Here!" he said sharply. "What's all this? You," addressing Hapgood, "what, do you mean by shakin' your fist at a woman?"

Mr. Hapgood's bluster collapsed, like a punctured toy balloon. He cringed instead.

"W'y, sir," he pleaded, "it wasn't anything. I lost my temper a bit, sir, that's all. She"—with a malignant snarl at Azuba—"she's got a letter of mine. She stole it and won't give it up. I was angry, sir, same as any man would 'ave been, and I forgot myself. Make 'er 'and over my letter, sir."

The captain turned to the defiant Mrs. Ginn.

"Have you got a letter of his, Zuba?" he demanded.

Azuba laughed. "I have," she declared, "and I'm glad of it. I've been waiting to get somethin' like it for a long spell. Stealin'! HE accuse anybody of stealin'! Here, Daniel Dott, you read that letter. Read it and see who's been doin' the stealin' around here."

She extended the letter at arm's length. The butler made a snatch at it, but Captain Dan was too quick. He unfolded the crumpled sheet of paper. It bore the printed name and address of one of Scarford's newer and more recently established grocers and provision dealers, and read as follows:

EDWARD H. HAPGOOD,

SIR:—Our order clerk informs us that you expect a higher percentage of commission on goods ordered by your household. We do not feel that we should pay this. While we, being a new house, were willing, in order to obtain your business, to allow a fair rate of commission to you for putting it in our way, and while, during the past three months, we have paid such commission, we do not feel—

Daniel tossed the note on the floor. He marched to the door leading to the back yard and threw it open. Then he turned to the butler.

"See that door?" he inquired, pointing toward it. "Use it."

Hapgood did not seem to comprehend.

"Wh-what, sir?" he faltered.

"Use that door. Get out! Out of this house, and don't you dare show your nose inside it again. Here!" stepping to the rack behind the open door. "These are your—duds—aren't they? Take 'em and get out. Quick!"

He threw an overcoat and hat at the astonished man-servant, who caught them mechanically.

"Get!" repeated the captain.

Hapgood apparently understood at last. His usual expression of polite humility vanished and he glowered malevolently.

"So I'm fired, am I?" he demanded. "Fired, without no notice or nothin'. 'Ow about my two weeks' wages? 'Ow about square treatment? 'Ow about my things upstairs? I've got rights, I 'ave, and you'll find it out. Blame your eyes, I—"

He darted through the doorway just in time. Captain Dan was on the threshold.

"You can send for your things upstairs," said the captain. "They'll be ready—either up there or on the sidewalk. Now, my—hum—thief," with deliberate and dangerous calmness, "I'm comin' out into that yard. If I was you I'd be somewhere else when I get there. That's my advice."

The advice was taken. Mr. Hapgood was in the street by the time his employer reached the gate. Bolting that gate, Daniel walked back to the kitchen.

"Thank you, Zuba," he said quietly. "You've only confirmed what I suspected before, but thank you, just the same."

Azuba was regarding him with a surprise in which respect was strongly mingled.

"You're welcome," she said drily. "It's good riddance to bad rubbish, that's what I call it. But," her surprise getting the better of her judgment, "I must say I ain't seen you behave—I mean—"

She stopped, the judgment returning. But Captain Dan read her thoughts and answered them.

"He's a man," he said shortly, "or an apology for one. I know how to deal with a MAN—his kind, anyway."

Azuba nodded. "I should say you did," she observed. "Well, if you'd like to hear the whole yarn, how I come to suspect him and all, I can tell you. You see—"

But Daniel would not listen. "I don't want to hear it," he said. "Tell Serena, if you want to, when she comes home. I've got too much else on my mind to bother with swabs like him. If he should try to come back again you can call me, otherwise not. I ain't interested."

And yet, if he could have seen and heard his ex-butler just at that moment, he might have been interested. Hapgood, on the next corner, out of sight from the Dott home, had met and waylaid Mr. Percy Hungerford. To the latter gentleman he was telling the story of his discharge. Cousin Percy seemed disturbed and angry.

"It's your own fault," he declared. "You ought to have been more careful."

"Careful! 'Ow should I know the fools was going to write a letter? I told 'em not to. And 'ow did I know the old woman—blast 'er—was watchin' me all the time? And now I've lost my job, and a good soft job, too. You've got to get it back for me, Mr. 'Ungerford; you've got to 'elp me, sir."

"I'll help you all I can, of course, but I doubt if it will do any good. I can't stand talking with you here. Drop me a line at the club, telling me where you are, and I'll let you know what turns up. Oh, say, have any more letters come for—you know who?"

"No, that was the only one, sir. But a telegram came this morning."

Mr. Hungerford started. "A telegram?" he repeated. "For her?"

"Yes, sir. And from 'im, it was, too."

"Did she get it?"

Mr. Hapgood winked. "It was 'phoned up from the telegraph office, sir," he said, "and I answered the 'phone. 'Ere's the copy I made, sir."

He extracted a slip of paper from his pocket. Cousin Percy snatched the slip and read the penciled words. Hapgood smiled.

"Looks good, don't it, sir," he observed. "'Frisco's a long way off."

Hungerford did not answer. He tore the paper into small pieces and tossed them away.

"Well," he said, after a moment, "good by and good luck. Let me know where you are and meanwhile I'll see what can be done for you. Good by."

He was moving off, but his companion stepped after him.

"Just a minute, sir," he said. "Could you 'elp me out a bit, in the money way? I'm flat broke; the old 'ayseed chucked me without a penny; 'e did, so 'elp me."

Cousin Percy looked distinctly annoyed.

"I'm pretty nearly broke myself," he declared, impatiently.

"Is that so, sir, I'm sorry, but I think you'll 'ave to 'elp me a bit. I think—I think you'd better, Mr. 'Ungerford, sir."

Hungerford looked at him. The look was returned. Then the young gentleman extracted a somewhat attenuated roll of bills from his pocket, peeled off two and handed them to his companion.

"There you are," he replied. "That's all and more than I can spare, just now. Good by."

"Good by, sir—for now. And thank you kindly."

Captain Dan, for all his prompt handling of the thieving butler and his professed ability to deal with men—Mr. Hapgood's kind of man—awaited the return of his wife and daughter with considerable uneasiness. Hapgood, in his capacity as trained, capable, aristocratic servant, had been a favorite of Serena's. The captain dreaded telling his wife what, in the heat of his anger, he had done. But his dread was needless. Serena's mind was too much occupied with politics and political ambition to dwell upon less important matters.

"I suppose it is all right," she said. "If he was a thief he should be discharged, of course. No doubt you did right, Daniel, but we shall miss him dreadfully. I don't know where we can get another butler like him."

Daniel gasped. "Good land of love!" he cried; "we don't WANT another like him, do we! I should hope we didn't."

"I don't mean another thief. Oh, dear me! Why do you pick me up in that way? One would think you took a delight in worrying me all you could. Get me a cup of tea. I want it right away. My nerves are all unstrung. Gertie—"

But Gertie had gone to her room; she spent the greater part of her time there now. Her mother sighed.

"She's gone," she declared. "Just when I need her most, of course. I can't see what has got into her for the last few days. She was so interested in the Chapter. Even more than I, I began to think. And yet, at the committee meeting this afternoon—the most important meeting we've had; when we were counting the votes which we can be sure of and those that are doubtful, she scarcely said a word. Just sat there and moped. I don't know what is the matter with her."

Daniel nodded. "I think I do," he said. "It's John. Somethin's the matter between her and John. If he had only stayed here! If he would only come back!"

"Then for mercy sakes get him back! Telegraph him. You said you were going to."

Captain Dan rose. "I will," he declared. "I'll do it right now, this minute. Not till I see you to your tea, Serena," he added, hastily. "I'll tell Zuba about that first, of course."

He sent the telegram within the hour. It was an inquiry concerning Mr. Doane's whereabouts, his employer's health, how he was getting on, and when he—John—was to return to Scarford. The answer arrived, via telephone, about eight that evening. It was a surprising answer.

"Doane gone to San Francisco on business of the firm," it said. "Left at midnight yesterday."

It was signed by the senior partner. Serena had gone out, of course; she was scarcely ever in now, but Gertrude, having finished dinner, was in her room as usual. Her father hurried up the stairs.

"Gertie," he cried, entering without knocking, "Gertie, what do you suppose I've just found out? It's the most astonishing news. John is—he has—Why, you'd never guess!"

Gertrude, who was sitting in the rocking chair by the window, showed her first sign of interest. At the mention of the name she turned quickly.

"What?" she cried, in a startled voice. "What? Is it—is it bad news? He isn't—isn't—"

"No, no! No, no! He's all right. Don't look like that, you scare me. John's all right; that is, I suppose he is. But he—Here! read it yourself."

Gertrude took the paper upon which he had written the message. She read the latter through; read it and reread it. Then she turned to her father.

"But I can't understand," she faltered. "I can't—I can't understand. He didn't send this himself. He has gone to San Francisco; but—but this is signed by someone else. What does it mean?"

Daniel was frightened. It was time to explain, and yet, considering his daughter's look and manner, he was afraid to explain.

"You see," he stammered, "well, you see, Gertie, that's an answer, that is. John didn't send it, he'd gone. But, I presume likely they thought my telegram ought to be answered, so—"

Gertrude interrupted. "Your telegram?" she repeated. "YOUR telegram? What telegram?"

"Why, the telegram I sent to John. I knew you hadn't heard from him, and I thought probably—"

"Wait—wait a minute. Did YOU send a telegram to—to him?"

"Yes; sure I did. I—"

"What did you say?"

"I said—why, I said that you—we, I mean—was wonderin' about him and—and missin' him and when was he comin' back here. That's about what I said. I wrote it in a hurry and I don't remember exactly. That's about it, anyhow. Why, what's the matter?"

Gertrude had risen.

"You said that!" she cried. "You—without a word to me—said—you begged him to come back! Begged him! on your knees! to—to—"

"No, no! I never got on my knees. What would I do a fool thing like that for, when I was sendin' a telegram? I just asked—"

"You just asked! You said that I—I—And this was your answer! THIS!"

She dashed the message to the floor, covered her face with her hands and threw herself upon the bed. Daniel, aghast and alarmed, would have raised her but she pushed him away.

"Oh!" she cried. "The shame of it! Don't touch me! Please don't touch me!"

"But, Gertie—what on earth?"

"Don't touch me. Please don't touch me. Just go away, Daddy. Go and leave me. I mustn't talk to you now. If I do, I shall say—Please go. I want to be alone."

Daniel went. That he had made another blunder was plain enough, but just now he was too hurt and indignant to care a great deal.

"All right," he said shortly; "I'm goin'. You needn't worry about that. That's about all the orders I get nowadays—to go away. I ought to be used to it, by this time. I'm a fool, that's what I am, an old worn-out, useless fool."

He slammed the door and descended the stairs. He had been in his accustomed refuge, the library, for perhaps twenty minutes, when the bell rang. He waited for Hapgood to answer the ring and then, suddenly remembering that the butler had departed, answered it himself.

Mr. Monty Holway smiled greeting from the steps.

"Good evening, Captain Dott," he said. "Is Miss Dott in?"

Daniel hesitated. "Yes," he said, "she's in, but—"

"May I see her? Will you be good enough to give her my card?"

The captain took the card.

"Ye-es," he said, "I'll give it to her, but—but—Well, you see, she ain't feelin' very well this evenin' and I don't know as she'll want to see anybody."

Gertrude herself called from the head of the stairs.

"Who is it, Daddy?" she asked. "Someone for me?"

"It's—er—Mr. Holway."

"Oh, is it!" The tone was one of delighted surprise. "Ask him to come in, Daddy. I'll be right down."

She came almost immediately. She greeted the caller with outstretched hand.

"I'm so glad to see you, Mr. Holway," she said. "I was lonely. It was nice of you to come."

She was pale, and the dark circles under her eyes were more apparent than ever, but the eyes themselves were shining brightly. She was gay and, for her, extremely vivacious. Mr. Holway looked gratified and happy. Captain Dan looked astonished and bewildered.



CHAPTER XII

The bewilderment and astonishment remained with the captain for some time, just as his daughter's apparent light heartedness remained with her. Holway's call was longer than usual, lasting until Serena, escorted by Mr. Hungerford, returned from Mrs. Black's, where they had been discussing the all-important election. Hungerford and his friend greeted each other with a marked lack of warmth; in fact, they scarcely spoke. Serena was too tired to talk, but Gertrude talked enough for all. She chatted and laughed with almost feverish gaiety until the caller, after many false starts and with evident reluctance, finally tore himself away. Then her manner changed, she was silent and thoughtful and, soon afterward, said goodnight and went up to her room.

Captain Dan forebore to trouble his wife with the news of the telegram announcing John Doane's departure for the West, and the reception of that news by Gertrude. After hearing Serena's complaints of her "nerves" and weariness, he decided that there was trouble sufficient for that night. But the next morning he spoke of it. Serena was surprised, of course, and worried likewise.

"You're right, Daniel," she said, "I am afraid you're right. She and John must have had some disagreement. I suppose it is only a lover's quarrel—young engaged people are always having foolish quarrels—and they always get over them and make up again. But, oh, dear! why did they quarrel just now? Haven't I got enough on my mind without fretting about them? Well, I'll talk to Gertie this very forenoon."

She did, but the talk was unsatisfactory. When Daniel, waiting anxiously to learn what had taken place, questioned her she shook her head.

"I can't make Gertie out," she declared pettishly. "She acts so queer. Doesn't want to talk about John at all. Says it is all right, and why should I worry if she doesn't? And she is so different, somehow. She was willing enough to discuss my chances for the vice-presidency. She asked twenty questions about that and declares she is going to help me. And yesterday, when I wanted her to help, she didn't take any interest. I never saw such a change. And she is so—so fidgety and—and nervous and high-spirited and silly. She laughed at nothing and kept jumping up and walking about and sitting down again. I declare! it made ME jumpy just to look at her."

Gertrude's conduct was certainly surprising. It caused Captain Dan to feel "jumpy" more than once. Her determination to help her mother in the campaign she put into immediate practice. She called Cousin Percy into council, borrowed Serena's list of Chapter members, and the pair spent hours checking that list together. Then Gertrude announced that she was going to make some calls. She made them and returned, exultant.

"I think I have made two converts this afternoon," she said. "I am almost sure they will vote for you, Mother. You and I must go to Mrs. Black's to-night and talk it over with her. We MUST; it is very important."

Serena, who had hoped for an early bedtime, expressed weariness, and protested, but her protests were overruled. They went to the Blacks' and Captain Dan and Mr. Hungerford went, also. Annette was delighted to see them. Mr. Black succeeded in repressing his joy.

"For the Lord's sake, Dan!" he exclaimed, when, he and the captain were alone, "isn't there EVER going to be any let-up to this tom-foolery? Are these women of ours going stark crazy?"

Daniel gloomily replied that he didn't know.

"You're worse off than I am," continued B. Phelps. "There's two lunatics in your family and only one in mine. Your daughter's just as bad as her mother, every bit—worse, if anything. But, it seems to agree with HER. I never saw her so lively or so pretty either. Humph! your pet cousin there is badly gone, or I'm no judge. Well, you remember what I told you about him."

Daniel nodded. He was too depressed for words.

"All right, it's your funeral, not mine. But, say! there's one ray of hope. The whole crowd may be licked to death in this election. If they are, my wife says she'll resign from the Chapter and never speak to one of the bunch again. It sounds too good to be true, but it may be. It's enough to make a fellow hop in and do some political work himself—for the other side. What?"

The political work continued, mornings and afternoons, evenings and far into the nights. Serena was in it, Gertrude was in it, and Cousin Percy and Mr. Holway were in it because she was. Monty's calls were of frequent occurrence. Mr. Hungerford and his erstwhile chum did not speak to each other at all now. But at receptions and teas and dances and musicals and committee meetings one or the other was on hand at Miss Dott's elbow. And Gertrude was very gracious to them both; not more to one than the other, but exceptionally kind and agreeable to each.

The social affairs were of almost as frequent occurrence as the political meetings. Gertrude accepted all invitations and urged her mother to accept.

"You must, Mother," she declared. "Now is the time when you can't afford to offend or neglect anyone. You may need their votes and influence."

"But, Gertie," pleaded poor, tired Serena, "I can't go everywhere."

"You must. If this vice-presidency is worth all the world to you, as you say it is, you must sacrifice everything else to get it."

"But, I can't! I'm almost worn out. I—I—oh, sometimes I feel almost willing to give it all up and go back to—to—almost anywhere, even Trumet, if I could rest there."

"You don't mean that, Mother."

"No; no, of course I don't."

"Because if you do, why—well, that is different. If you WANT to go back to dead and alive old Trumet—"

"I don't. I—I wouldn't for anything. I shouldn't think you, of all people, would hint at such a thing. You! When I have climbed so high already; when our social position has become what it is. You! talking of going back to Trumet."

"I'm not. You mentioned it; I didn't. I'm having a beautiful time. I just love our social position. The Blacks and the Kellys and—er—that Miss Dusante! Oh, I adore them. I wouldn't leave such cultured people for anything. And you enjoy it so, Mother. You look so happy."

Was there a trace of sarcasm in this outburst? Serena was, for the moment, suspicious. She tried her hardest to look very happy indeed.

"I am happy, of course," she declared.

"I know it. And we want to keep on being happy, don't we. So we must not decline anyone's invitation. We must go, go, go, all the time."

"But some of the invitations are from people I scarcely know at all. And some I don't like."

"That makes no difference. They may be of value to you in your campaign, or socially, or somehow. Don't you see, Mother? In politics or society one wishes to advance, to climb higher all the time. And to do that one must use one's acquaintances as rounds in the ladder. Use them; get something from them; pretend to love them, no matter whether you really hate them or not. They may hate you, but they want to use you. That's part of the game, Mother."

This was worldly advice to be given by a young lady scarcely out of college. And it sounded so unlike Gertrude. But, then, Gertrude had changed, was changing more and more daily.

"We don't entertain enough," went on the adviser. "We should be giving some affair or other at least once a week. Invite everybody you know—everyone but the Lake crowd, of course. I'll make out a list of eligibles to-day and we'll give an 'At Home' next week."

"But, Gertie—the expense. It costs so dreadfully. We're not rich; that is, not very rich."

"No matter. Everyone thinks we are. If they didn't, most of them would cut us dead to-morrow. We must pretend to be very rich. I'll make out the list. Mr. Holway will help me. He is coming to call this evening."

Serena looked more troubled than ever.

"Gertie," she said earnestly, "I think I ought—yes, I am going to warn you against that Mr. Holway. I don't like your having him call or being seen in his company."

"You don't! I am surprised. I'm sure he is very polite and agreeable. He belongs to the best club and he dresses well, and as to society—why, he is in the very heart of it; our kind of society, I mean."

"I know, I know. But—well, Cousin Percy doesn't speak well of him. He says he is a very fast young man."

Gertrude bit her lip. "Did Percy say that!" she exclaimed. "How odd! Why, Monty—I mean Mr. Holway—said almost the same thing about him. And I KNOW you like Cousin Percy, Mother."

Mrs. Dott scarcely knew how to answer. As a matter of fact she did not like their aristocratic relative quite as well as she had at first. There were certain things about him, little mannerisms and condescensions, which jarred upon her. He was so very, very much at home in the family now; in fact, he seemed to take his permanent membership in that family for granted. He had ceased to refer to himself as being on a vacation, and, as for his "literary work," he appeared to have forgotten that altogether.

But these were not the real reasons for Serena's growing dislike and uneasiness. She hinted at the real reason in her next remark.

"I don't think," she said, "I don't think, Gertie, that you and he should be so much together. You are engaged to be married, you know, and John—"

Gertrude interrupted. She ignored the mention of Mr. Doane's name.

"Oh, Cousin Percy is all right," she said lightly. "He's good company. Of course he may be something of a sport, but that is to be expected. The trouble with you and me, Mother, is that we are too old-fashioned; we are not sporty enough."

"GERTIE!" Serena's horror was beyond words.

Gertrude laughed. "But that can be mended," she went on. "Mother, you should learn to drink cocktails and tango. I think I shall. Everybody's doing it, doing it, doing it!"

Humming this spirited ditty, which the street pianos had rendered popular, and smiling over her shoulder at her mother, she "one-stepped" from the room. Serena put both hands to her head. Her "nerves" were more troublesome than ever the remainder of that day.

There were enough troubles to rack even a healthy set of nerves. The domestic situation was decidedly complicated. No successor to the departed Hapgood had, as yet, been selected. Mr. Hungerford was partially responsible for this. At first, when told of the butler's misbehavior and its consequences, he had expressed sorrow, but had advised forgiveness and the reinstallation of the discharged one. The crime was, after all, not so very serious. Most butlers exacted commissions from tradespeople, so he had been told. Of course it was all wrong, a pernicious system and all that, but they did do it. And many employers winked at the system. Hapgood was an exceptional fellow, really quite exceptional. Aunt Lavinia had treated him as one of the family, almost. Captain Dan, to whom these statements were made, was stubbornly indignant. He wouldn't wink at a thief, and he wouldn't fire him and then hire him over again, either. If "that everlastin' sneak showed his white-washed face on the premises again, he'd have that face damaged." All the captain hoped for was a chance to inflict the damage.

So Cousin Percy, finding Daniel obdurate, tried his influence upon Serena, whom he regarded, and justly, as the real head of the house. But Serena, too, refused to consider Mr. Hapgood's re-employment. She had talked with Azuba, and Azuba had declared that she should leave in "just about two-thirds of a jiffy" if the butler came back. "When he comes into my kitchen," she said, "I get out. I should hate to quit the folks I'd worked for the biggest part of my life, but there's some things I won't stand. He's one of 'em. Don't talk to me about HIM!"

Mr. Hapgood was not re-engaged nor forgiven, and Hungerford kindly volunteered to find a competent successor. He would make some inquiries among his friends, the right sort of people, he said, and his manner indicated that the said people were accustomed to employing butlers in droves.

Azuba, therefore, was left with all the domestic cares upon her hands. These hands were quite competent, had they been disengaged, but just now they were full. Azuba was "advancing," just as she had proclaimed to Captain Dan that she intended to do. She read "The Voice" and kindred literature a great deal, and quoted from her readings at every opportunity. Denied admittance to the Chapter, in spite of Gertrude's efforts in her behalf—Gertrude had warmly advocated the formation of a Servants' Branch—she had made search on her own hook and suddenly announced that she had found what she was looking for. This, so she affirmed, was an organization called "The Free Laborers' Band," and it met in a hall somewhere or other, though no one but its members seemed to know just where that hall was. Serena made inquiries, but neither servants nor mistresses had ever heard of the "Band." Gertrude, when she heard of it, at first seemed to be much amused, and laughed heartily. Then she became very grave and declared it a splendid thing and that she was delighted because Azuba had found her opportunity. She was entitled to that opportunity, as was every free woman, and certainly neither Gertrude or her mother, being "free women" themselves, must offer objection or permit mere household drudgery to interfere.

So Azuba "advanced" and preached and went out at night and occasionally during the day. Gertrude and Serena went out all the time, when they were not entertaining themselves. Life became a never-ending round of politics and society functions, followed by, on Mrs. Dott's part, sleepless nights and "nerves" and fretful worriment concerning Gertrude. Gertrude did not appear to worry. She grew gayer and more gay, more careless in her manner and more slangy in her speech. Mr. Holway continued to call and Cousin Percy to dance solicitous attendance. John Doane's name was never mentioned in his fiancee's presence. She would not speak, or permit others to speak, of him.

And then Mr. Holway ceased to call. His final call was a lengthy one, and he and Gertrude were alone during the latter part of it. The following day Daniel met him on the street and was barely recognized. The captain was not greatly troubled at the slight—he did not care greatly for the lively Monty—but he was surprised. When he mentioned the meeting to his daughter the young lady smiled, but offered no explanation. Her father did not press the point. As Holway came no more and it became apparent that he was not coming, the captain was satisfied.

Gertrude's strange behavior alarmed and troubled him, but his wife's ill health and her worn, weary expression alarmed him more. He was actually frightened concerning her.

"Oh, Serena," he begged, "what makes you do it? It isn't worth it. You're killin' yourself. Let's give it up and go somewhere and rest. The Queen of Sheba's job ain't worth it, let alone just bein' vice-president of Scarford Chapter."

But Serena shook her head. "I can't give it up, Daniel," she declared hysterically. "I—I think I would if I could. I really do. Sometimes I feel as if I would give up everything just to be at peace and happy and contented again."

"You bet!" with enthusiasm. "So would I. And we were contented at Trumet, wasn't we? That is, I was; and you was enough sight better contented than you are now."

"I know, I know. But I can't give it up, Daniel. Don't you see? I can't! I mustn't think of myself at all. See how loyally Annette and the rest have stood by me. Their splendid loyalty is the one thing that makes it worth while. I must keep up and fight on for their sakes. I must be as true to them as they are to me. Would they desert me for anything? No! And I shan't desert them. I am going to be elected. I know it. After that, after the election is over, I may—I might, perhaps—"

"You might go somewhere with me and have a good, comfortable time. All right, we will. And Gertie can go, too."

The mention of her daughter's name seemed to be more disturbing than all the rest. Serena burst into tears.

"She wouldn't go, Daniel!" she cried. "You know she wouldn't. She—she is going crazy, I do believe. She is wild about society and bridge—she told me only yesterday she wasn't sure that playing for money was wrong. All my friends and her friends did it and why shouldn't we? And she dances all these dreadful new dances and uses slang and—and—oh, she is—I don't know WHAT she will be if this keeps on. Why does she do it? WHO is responsible?"

Daniel did not answer. He had a feeling that he could, without moving from his chair, lay a hand upon the person chiefly responsible, but he kept that feeling to himself.

"She'd go, if we wanted her to," he affirmed stoutly.

"No, she wouldn't."

"By time! she would. You and I would make her. I couldn't do it alone, I know that, but if you'll say the word and stand by me she'll go, if I have to—to give her ether and take her while she's asleep. Say the word, that's all I want you to do."

Serena did not say the word, not then. She continued to moan and wring her hands.

"She's all wrong, Daniel!" she cried. "She does wrong things. She is with—with Cousin Percy too much. He and she are getting to be altogether too friendly. She has dropped John for good, I'm afraid. Oh, suppose she should—"

The captain's anger burst forth at this expression of his own secret dread.

"Suppose she should marry that Hungerford, you mean!" he cried. "She won't! She won't! She's too sensible, anyway; but, if she should, I—I'd rather see her dead. Yes, sir, dead!"

"So had I. But Cousin Percy—"

"D—n Cousin Percy!"

For once his profanity met with no rebuke. Serena did not appear to notice it.

"He is not the right sort of man for her," she declared. "He is polite and aristocratic and he has helped us in society; but he is dissipated and fast, I'm sure of it. He has been out a great deal lately and comes home late, and I have heard him come up the stairs as if—as if—Oh, WHY did you insist on his staying here, living here with us?"

"Why did I—Humph! Well, that's all right. That's all right, Serena. You back me up in that, too, and he'll go out a sight quicker than he came in. I'll see that he does. He'll fly. I can handle MEN even yet—though I don't seem to be good for much else."

But Mrs. Dott wouldn't hear of it. They couldn't PUT him out, she declared; think of the scandal! No, no, no! The interview ended by the captain's dismissal and Serena's getting ready for that evening's committee meeting.

It developed that Azuba's "Band" met on that same evening. Gertrude and her mother had gone—they were to dine with the committee at Annette's—and when Daniel, at seven o'clock, shouted for his dinner, no dinner was ready.

"I can't stop to fuss with dinner," said Azuba firmly. "I've got to get ready for my Band meetin'. All the afternoon I've been fussin' with my speech—I'm goin' to speak to-night—and now it's time for me to change my clothes. I'm sorry, Cap'n Dott; I never neglected you afore; but this time I've got to. There's plenty to eat in the ice-chest and you must wait on yourself. No use to talk! I ain't got time to listen."

Captain Dan was furious. This was a trifle too much.

"You get that dinner!" he roared. "Get it, or you'll never get another meal in this house!"

"Won't I? Why not? Mrs. Dott said I might go to this meetin'. She'll understand."

"By time, Zuba Ginn, I'll discharge you! I will! I don't care if you have been with us since Methusalem's time. You old foolhead! At your age—"

"I'm no older than your wife, Dan'l Dott. And you can't discharge me, neither. I wouldn't go. I'm no Hapgood. I've got rights and I'll stand up for 'em. You ain't the boss, I guess. If Serena discharges me, all right; but she won't. There! don't talk to ME. I've got other fish to fry."

She marched up the back stairs. Daniel sprang after her, but she closed the door in his face. For a moment he hesitated. Then he turned back and, re-entering the kitchen, began to pace up and down, his hands in his pockets.

He strode from the sink to the back door, wheeled and strode back again. There was an odd expression on his face. He frowned, muttered to himself, whistled, smiled, and once broke into a short laugh. But, as he continued the pacing, gradually the frown and smile disappeared and his expression became one of grim determination. His lips closed, his eyes puckered, and his stride lengthened. His heels struck the oilcloth with sharp, quick thumps. If one of his former shipmates, a foremast hand on the schooner Bluebird, could have seen him then, that foremast hand would have interpreted his behavior as a forerunner of trouble. He would have known that the "old man" was making up his mind to a definite course of action and that, having made it up, he would keep to that course so long as he could see or breathe.

And that interpretation would have been correct. Captain Dan was desperate. He had made up his mind to fight, to "put his foot down" at last. Serena's ill health, Gertrude's conduct, the aggravating insolence of Cousin Percy, all these had helped to spur him to this pitch. And now came Azuba's open rebellion and her declaration that his command amounted to nothing, that he was not the "boss." It was true, that was the humiliating fact which stung. He was not the boss; he was not even cabin boy, and he knew it. But, to be openly told so, and by his cook, was a little too much. The worm will turn—at least we are told that it will—and Daniel Dott was turning.

He jerked his hands from his pockets and opened his mouth.

"Azuba!" he roared. "You, Zuba, come here!"

Azuba did not answer. She was in her room at the top of the house and, of course, did not hear the shout. Before the captain could repeat it someone knocked at the back door.

The knock was no hesitating, irresolute tap. It was an emphatic, solid thump. Daniel heard it, but, in his present state of mind, was in no mood to heed.

"Zuba!" he repeated. "Zuba Ginn, are you comin' here or shall I come after you? ZUBA!"

The back door was merely latched, not locked. Now it was thrown open, a heavy step sounded in the entry and a voice, a man's voice, said, in a shout almost as loud as the captain's, "Yes, Zuba; that's what I was cal'latin' to say, myself. Who—why, hello, Cap'n Dan! How are you?"

Daniel turned. A man had entered the kitchen, a big man, wearing a cloth cap, and carrying in one hand a lumpy oilcloth valise. He tossed the valise to the floor, grinned, and extended a hand.

"Well, Cap'n Dan," he observed, "you look as natural as life. I must have changed, I cal'late. Don't you know me?"

The captain's eyes were opening wider and wider. "Labe!" he exclaimed; "Laban Ginn! Where in the world did you come from?"

The person who had so unceremoniously entered the kitchen was Azuba's husband, mate of the tramp steamer.



CHAPTER XIII

"For the land sakes! Laban Ginn!" repeated Daniel.

Mr. Ginn grinned cheerfully. He was six feet tall, or thereabouts, and more than half as wide. His hair and beard were grayish red and his face reddish brown. He was dressed in the regulation "shore togs" of a deep sea sailor, blue double-breasted jacket, blue trousers and waistcoat, white "biled" shirt, low collar—celluloid, by the look—and a "made" bow tie which hung from the button by a worn loop of elastic. His hands were as red as his face and of a size proportionate to the rest of him. He seized the captain's hand in one of his, crushed it to a pulp, and returned the remains to the chief mourner.

"Well, say," he cried, his grin widening, "that feels natural, don't it? Last time you and me shook hands was over three years ago. How are you? Blessed if it ain't good to see you again."

Captain Dan was slowly regaining his equilibrium.

"Same to you, Labe," he returned heartily. "But—but, by Godfreys, you're the last person I expected to see just now."

"Yep, I shouldn't wonder."

"Sit down, sit down. Humph! Does Azuba know you're comin'?"

"No, not yet."

"Well, sit down and I'll call her. She's here with us, of course."

"Sartin she is. Where else would she be? I knew she was here; heard you hailin' her just as I made port at the back door. Set down?" He threw himself into a chair, which groaned under the pressure. "Sure, I'll set down! Feels kind of good to drop anchor when you've been cruisin's long as I have. No, Zuby don't know I'm comin'. Last time I wrote her was from Mauritius. I've been to clink and gone since. She WILL be surprised, won't she? Ho! ho! Did I leave the hatch open? Here, let me shut it."

But Daniel himself shut the "hatch," that is to say, the back door. He was on his way to the stairs, but Mr. Ginn detained him.

"Hold on a shake, Cap'n," he said. "I ain't hardly seen you yet. Let's have a look at you." Crossing his legs—his feet were like miniature trunks—he added, "How are you, anyway?"

Daniel replied that he was fair to middling.

"Sit still and make yourself comfortable, Labe," he went on. "I'll tell Zuba you're here."

"What's your hurry? Give me a chance to catch my breath. I lugged that dunnage bag," indicating the valise, "from the depot up here, and I feel as if I'd strained every plank in my hull. Ought to go into dry dock and refit, I had. I landed in Philadelphy a week ago," he continued. "Quit the old steamer for good, I have. Me and the skipper had some words and I told him where he could go. Ho! ho! I don't know whether he went or not; anyhow, I started for Trumet. Got there and found you'd come into money and had moved to Scarford and was livin' with the big-bugs. Some house you've got here, ain't it! Soon's I see it I headed for the back door. 'A first cabin companion like that's no place for me,' I says. Ho! ho! Besides, I cal'lated to find Zuby Jane out in the fo'castle here. Didn't expect to locate you, though, in this end of the ship. How's it seem to be rich? Ain't got fat on it, have you."

Daniel, amused in spite of his recent ill temper, shook his head.

"Not yet," he answered. "So you've been ashore a week and your wife doesn't know it? Why didn't you write to her from Philadelphia?"

"Oh, I don't know. Zuby and me's got an understandin' about that, and other things. There's nothin' like havin' a clear understandin' to make married folks get along together. We write letters, of course, but we don't write very often. I'm li'ble to be 'most anywheres on the face of the earth, and it makes me fidgety to think there's letters chasin' me round and I ain't gettin' 'em. I say to Zuby, 'Long's you don't hear from me you'll know I'm all right, and long's I don't hear from you I'll know the same. We'll write when we feel like it. I'll come home as often as I can, and when I come I'll fetch you my share of the wages.' That's our understandin' and it's a good one. We ain't had a fight since we was spliced; or, if we have, I always stop it right off—stop her part, I mean. Where IS the old gal, anyhow?"

"She's up in her room, I presume likely."

"Oh, is she? Well, she'll be down in a jiffy. If she ain't I'll go up and give her a surprise."

"I'll call her, if you give me a chance."

"No, no, you needn't. No 'special hurry. She's waited for three years; cal'late ten minutes more won't hurt neither of us. Had your supper yet?"

Daniel smiled grimly. "Not yet," he replied.

"Then she'll be down to get it, of course. I shan't stop her; I'm empty as a rum bottle four days out of port. You folks eat late, don't you?"

"Sometimes."

"I should think so. What's Zuby doin' up in her room this time of night?"

"She said she was goin' to change her clothes."

"Oh, yes, yes; I see. Well, 'twon't take her long. If I went up I'd only hold her back, and I want my supper. Let's have a smoke, Dan, while we're waitin'."

He patted one pocket after the other and finally located a chunky, battered pipe, which he proceeded to fill with shavings from a black plug. Daniel watched him. A new idea was dawning in his mind, an idea which seemed to afford him some pleasurable anticipation. Mr. Ginn looked up from his tobacco shaving.

"Now, tell me about all this money of yours," he commanded. "I didn't hear nothin' else at Trumet; that and your wife's gettin' to be commodore of some woman's lodge or other was all they talked about. Hey? Why, where's your pipe? Ain't you goin' to smoke? I've got plenty terbacker."

Daniel looked dubious. "I guess not, Labe," he said. "Zuba—well, the fact is, Zuba doesn't like people to smoke in her kitchen."

Laban's face expressed astonishment. "She don't!" he cried. "She don't? How long since?"

"Oh, almost ever since she came here. It is one of her new ways."

"'Tis, hey? Well, I like the old ones better, myself. Never you mind her ways; trot out your pipe and light up. I—"

He was interrupted by his companion, who made a flying jump toward the stove. The teakettle was boiling over.

"Let it bile," commented Mr. Ginn. "'Tain't your funeral, is it? You ain't supposed to boss the galley. That's the cook's business, not the skipper's."

But Daniel carefully removed the kettle to a place of safety.

"It's my business to-night," he said. "I'm gettin' my own supper."

Mr. Ginn straightened in his chair. "You be?" he exclaimed. "You BE? What for? Ain't there no women folks in the house? Ain't Zuby—why, you said—"

"I know I said, but what I say don't seem to amount to much. You see, Labe, your wife has got some of what MY wife calls advanced ideas. She belongs to some kind of a lodge herself, and this is their meetin' night. Just before you came Zuba made proclamations that I could cook my own supper. She said she couldn't stop to do it; she'd be late to the meetin' if she did."

Laban's mouth opened. The pipe fell from it, scattering sparks like a Roman candle, and bounced upon the spotless floor of the kitchen. Daniel would have picked it up, but his visitor intervened. He put one mammoth foot upon the sparks and, leaning forward, demanded instant attention.

"For thunder sakes, Dan Dott!" he cried. "Never mind that pipe; let it alone. For thunder sakes, tell me what you're talkin' about? Zuby—Zuby Jane Ginn racin' to lodges and tellin' you—YOU—to cook your own meals! Go on! You're loony."

"Maybe I am, Labe, but it's so."

"It's so? And you let it be so? I don't believe it. What do you mean? How long has it been so?"

Captain Dan proceeded to tell of his housekeeper's conversion to progress and advancement. He did not suppress any of the details; in fact, he magnified them just a bit.

"She's a free woman, so she says, Labe," he said, in conclusion. "And a free woman has a right to be free."

"Is that so! That's what she says, hey? And you let her say it? Why, you—you—" He hesitated, hovering between candid expression and the respect due an ex-skipper of a three-master. "Wh-what do you have such goin's on in your house for?" he demanded. "What makes you let the gang afore the mast run over you this way? Why don't you—who's that upstairs; your wife?"

"No, my wife is out. I shouldn't wonder if that was Zuba. She's on her way to the door, probably."

"She is, hey? Call her down here. Sing out to her to come down. Hi!" as the captain stepped to the stairs, "don't say nothin' about me."

Daniel, suppressing a grin, shouted up the stairs.

"Zuba!" he called. "Zuba, come down here a minute."

Azuba answered, but in no complacent tone. "Don't bother me, Cap'n Dott," she protested. "I'm late as 'tis."

"Just a minute, Zuba, that's all. One minute, please."

Mr. Ginn snorted at the "please." They heard the housekeeper descending. At the bottom step she sniffed loudly.

"I do believe it's tobacco smoke!" she exclaimed. "Cap'n Dott, have you been smokin' in my kitchen?"

She entered the room, waving an indignant arm. She was dressed in her Sunday best, bonnet and all.

"What!" she began, and then, suddenly aware that her employer was not alone, turned to stare at his companion. "Why!" she exclaimed; "who—oh, my soul! LABAN!"

"Hello, Zuby!" roared her husband, rising to greet her. "How be you, old gal?"

Before she could speak or move he seized her in his arms, squeezed her to him, and pressed a kiss like the report of a fire-cracker upon her cheek. "How be you, Zuby?" he repeated.

"Oh, Labe!" gasped Azuba. "Labe!"

"I'm Labe, all right. No doubt about that.... Well, why don't you say somethin'? Ain't you glad to see me?"

Azuba looked as if she did not know whether she was glad or not; in fact, as if she knew or realized any little of anything.

"Labe!" she said again. "Laban Ginn! When—WHERE did you come from?"

"Oh, from all 'round. Trumet was my last port and I made that by way of Malagy and Philadelphy. But I'm here, anyhow, and that's somethin'. My! it's good to see you. You look as natural as life. Set down and let's look at you."

The housekeeper sat down; she appeared glad of the opportunity. Her husband faced her, grinning broadly.

"Just as handsome as ever; hey, old lady," he observed. "And look at the duds! Say, you're rigged up fine, from truck to keelson, ain't you, Zuby! Never seen you rigged finer. A body would think she knew I was comin', wouldn't they, Cap'n Dan?"

Daniel did not answer, although he seemed much interested in the situation.

Azuba drew a hand across her forehead.

"I DIDN'T know it," she declared emphatically. "Indeed, I didn't! Why didn't you write me, Laban Ginn?"

"Write! Write nothin'! I wanted to surprise you. But there, there! Don't set around in that rig any longer. Makes me feel as if you'd come to call on the parson. Take off your coat and bonnet and let's be sociable. And while we're talkin' you turn to and get supper. I'm pretty nigh starved to death. So's the cap'n; he said so."

Mrs. Ginn looked at Captain Dan. There was a twinkle in his eye. Azuba noticed that twinkle.

"Laban," she stammered, "I—I—I CAN'T stay here and get supper to-night. I can't."

Laban was tremendously surprised—at least he pretended to be.

"Can't!" he repeated. "Can't stay here, when I've just got home?"

"No, I can't. If I had known you was comin' 'twould have been different. But I didn't know it."

"What difference does that make? Zuby, don't make me laugh; I'm too hungry for jokin'. Take off your bonnet, now; take it off."

"I mustn't, really, Labe. It's lodge night and they expect me. I—"

"Take off your bonnet!"

"I can't! ... Well, I will, for just a minute." The last sentence was added in a great hurry, for her husband showed signs of preparing to remove the headgear with his own hands. She placed the bonnet on the table and fidgeted in her chair, glancing first at her employer and then at the clock. Captain Dan was smiling broadly.

"That's fine!" exclaimed Mr. Ginn. "Now you look like home folks. Now she'll get us some supper, won't she, Cap'n?"

Again Daniel did not answer, but his smile, as Azuba interpreted it, was provokingly triumphant. Her lips closed tightly.

"I can't get any supper to-night, Laban," she declared firmly. "I just can't. I'm awful sorry, bein' as you've just got home, but you'll have to forgive me. I'll explain when you and me are alone."

"Explain? Explain what?"

"Why—why—" with another look, almost vindictive, at the grinning captain, "what my reason is. But I can't tell you now—I can't."

"That's all right. I don't care about explainin's. You can explain any old time; just now, me and the cap'n want our supper."

"I shan't get your supper. I told Cap'n Dott I couldn't before I went upstairs. I'm goin' out."

"No, no, you ain't. Quit your foolin', old lady. I'm gettin' emptier every minute. So are you, ain't you, Cap'n?"

Daniel hesitated, looked at his housekeeper's face, and burst into a roar of laughter. That laugh decided the question. Azuba rose.

"Don't talk to me," she snapped. "I'm sorry, but it serves you right, Laban, for comin' home without sendin' me word; and just at the wrong time, too. Give me that bonnet."

She reached for the bonnet, but her husband reached it first. "'Tain't much of a bonnet, anyhow, Zuby," he said. "Now I look at it closer I don't think it's becomin' to your style of complexion. Some day I'll buy you another."

"Give me that bonnet, Laban Ginn!"

"I don't like to see that bonnet around, Zuby. Let's get it out of sight quick."

His wife sprang at the bonnet, but he barred her off with an arm like a fence-rail, removed a lid from the stove, put the unbecoming article in on the red-hot coals, and replaced the lid. "There!" he said, "that helps the scenery, don't it? Now let's have supper."

Captain Dan laughed again. For an instant Azuba stared, white-faced, at the cremation of the bonnet. Then she darted to the door. "I'll go now," she cried, "if I have to go bareheaded! I'll show you! Let go of me!"

Mr. Ginn had thrown an arm about her waist. She pulled his hair and gave him some vigorous slaps on the cheek, but he smiled on. "You want to get supper, Zuby," he coaxed. "I know you do. You just think it over now. It's too noisy out here to do much thinkin'. Where's a nice quiet place? Oh! this'll be first rate."

He bore her, kicking like a jumping-jack, across the kitchen to the closet where the pans and cooking utensils were kept. "Think it over in there, Zuby," he said calmly, shutting the door and planting himself in a chair against it. "That's a fine place to think. Now, Cap'n, you and me can have our smoke, while she's thinkin' what to give us to eat; hey?"

Judging by the thumps and kicks and screams inside the closet the housekeeper's thoughts were otherwise engaged.

"You let me out, Labe Ginn!" she screamed. "Cap'n Dott, you make him let me out!"

Daniel, weary from laughing, could only gasp.

"I can't, Zuba!" he answered, choking. "I can't! It ain't my affair. I couldn't interfere between husband and wife. You're a free woman, Zuba, you know. You ought to be advanced enough by this time to fight your own battles."

"That's right, Zuba," counseled Mr. Ginn. "Fight 'em out in there. You can be just as free in there as you want to. Have some of my terbacker, Cap'n?"

Captain Dan declined. The prisoner continued to thump and kick and threaten. Her jailer refilled and lighted his pipe.

"Thought over that bill of fare, Zuby?" he shouted, after a time.

More thumps and threats; tears as well. Daniel began to feel pity instead of triumph.

"Hadn't you better, Labe," he began. Mr. Ginn waved him to silence.

"How about supper, Zuby?" he called. "Oh, all right, all right. I don't know as I'm as hungry as I was, anyway. Appetite's kind of passin' off, I cal'late. You stay in there and think till mornin', and we'll have it for breakfast."

Silence—actual silence—for a moment. Then Azuba asked, in a half-smothered but much humbler voice, "Oh, Labe! WON'T you let me out?"

"Sure thing—if you've thought up that supper for me and Cap'n Dan'l."

"But I did so want—oh, if I could only tell you! It was SO necessary for me to go to that meetin'. You've spiled everything, and just as 'twas goin' so nice. What Gertie'll say I don't know."

Daniel developed a new interest.

"Gertie?" he repeated. "Hush, Labe! wait a minute. What's Gertie got to do with it?"

"Nothin', nothin'. Oh, Labe, PLEASE."

"Well, I tell you, Zuby: it's close to nine now, and that's too late for you to be cruisin' out to meetin's. Sorry you have to miss the speeches and things, but—Say, I tell you what I'll do. If it's a sermon you want I'll preach you one, myself. Make it up while you're settin' the table. Ready to come out and be good? That's right. Now, I bet you she's thought up somethin' that'll make our mouths water, Cap'n."

The crestfallen housekeeper emerged, blinking, from her thinking place. She removed her coat and, without even a glance at her employer, proceeded to adjust the dampers of the stove. Captain Dan rose from his chair.

"I'm afraid I can't stop to have supper with you, Labe," he said. "I've got an—an errand to do outside, myself. I'll eat at a restaurant or somewhere. You'll stay here to-night, of course. I'll see you in the mornin'. Good-night! Good-night, Zuby!"

Azuba did not reply. Laban shouted protests. What was the sense of going just when supper was being made ready at last? Daniel, however, did not stay to listen. He climbed the back stairs to the hall, put on his overcoat and hat and went out. He had been too tender-hearted to remain in the kitchen and gloat, or appear to gloat, over a "free woman's" humiliation. Nevertheless, he astonished the waiter at the restaurant where he ate dinner by bursting into laughter at intervals, and with no obvious cause. The waiter suspected that the old gentleman from the country had been drinking, and the size of the tip he received helped to confirm his suspicion.

His dinner eaten, Captain Dan walked slowly home. Unlocking the front door with his latchkey he tiptoed through the hall and listened at the head of the back stairs. There was a steady murmur of voices in the kitchen. He heard a bass grumble from Mr. Ginn and Azuba's shrill reply. Then the pair burst into a laugh. Evidently some sort of understanding on a peaceful basis had been reached. Still chuckling, the captain went up to his bedroom, removed his outer garments and his shoes, put on his bathrobe and slippers, and settled himself, with the evening paper, to await his wife's return. He resolved to be awake when she did return; he had news for her. Filled with this resolution, he read for three-quarters of an hour steadily, then at intervals between naps, and at last dropped into a sound sleep, the paper in his lap.

Gertrude and Serena came home at a surprisingly early hour. Not that the committee meeting was over; it was not. In fact, the elaborate dinner spread before her supporters by the grateful Mrs. Black had scarcely reached its last course when Gertrude suddenly rose from the table and hastened to her mother's side. She had been watching the latter with increasing anxiety all the evening.

"What is it, Mother?" she asked. "What is it?"

Serena, sitting with her elbow on the table, her hand to her forehead, and her untasted ice before her, looked up in a bewildered way.

"What—why, what do you mean, Gertie?" she stammered. "What—I don't think I understood you."

"What is the matter, Mother?" repeated Gertrude. "Don't you feel well?"

Still Mrs. Dott did not seem to understand. She tried to smile, but the vague uncertainty of the smile caused even Annette, who had been deep in discussion of a plan for securing the vote of a still doubtful member, to cease speaking and regard her guest with surprise.

"What is it, Mother?" urged Gertrude. "You look so strange. Are you ill?"

Serena gazed at her for a moment, rose, stood looking about in the same hesitating, uncertain manner, and then, throwing her arms about her daughter's neck, burst into hysterical sobs.