"Never mind me, father," said Jasper a trifle impatiently, "and as to my work, Mr. Marlowe will give me a few more days. He's goodness itself. I shall telegraph him this morning for an extension."

"You will do nothing of the kind," declared Mr. King testily. "What can you do here, pray tell, by staying? You would be quite a muff in a few more days, Jasper," he added, "you are so down-hearted now. No, I insist that you go now."

"Very well," said Jasper quite stiffly, "I will take myself off by the afternoon train, then, father, since I am in the way."

"How you talk, Jasper!" cried his father in astonishment. "You know quite well that I am only thinking of your own good. What's got into you—but I suppose this confounded hospital we're in, has made you lose your head."

"Thank you, father," said Jasper, recovering himself by a great effort, "for putting it so, and I beg you to forgive me for my hasty words." He came up to the old gentleman and put out his hand quickly, "Do forgive me, father."

"Forgive you? Of course I will, though I don't know when you've spoken to me like that, Jasper," said his father, not yet able to shake himself free from his bewilderment. "Well, well, that's enough to say about that," seeing Jasper's face, "and now get back to your work, my boy, as soon as you can, and you'll thank me for sending you off. And as soon as Pickering Dodge is able to be moved home, why, the rest of us will finish our trip, and give you that surprise party—eh, Jasper?" and Mr. King tried to laugh in the old way, but it was pretty hard work.

* * * * *

"Well, now, Polly," said Dr. Fisher, a week after as he held her at arm's length, and brought his spectacles to bear upon her face, "remember what I say, child; you are to take care of yourself, and let Mrs. Cabot look out for things. It will do the woman good to have something to do," he added, dropping his voice. "I don't like to carry home your face, child; it won't do; you're getting tired out, and your mother will be sure to find it out. I really ought to stay and take care of you," and the little doctor began to look troubled at once.

"Indeed, Papa Fisher," cried Polly, brightening up, "you will do nothing of the kind. Why, my arm is doing famously. You know you said you never saw a broken arm behave so well in all your life."

"It isn't your arm, Polly, that worries me," said Father Fisher; "that's first-rate, and I shouldn't wonder if it turned out better perhaps for breaking, but it's something different, and it quite puzzles me; you look so down-hearted, child."

"Do I?" said Polly, standing quite straight, and rubbing her forehead with her well hand; "there, now, I will get the puckers and wrinkles out. There, Papa Fisher, are they all gone?" She smiled as cheerily as ever, but the little man shook his head, then took off his spectacles, wiped them, and set them back on his nose.

"No; it won't do; you can't make your old father believe but what you've something on your mind, Polly. I think I shall have to send your mother down here," he said suddenly.

"O, Father Fisher!" cried Polly, the color flying over her face, "you wouldn't ever do that, I am sure! Why, it would worry Mamsie so, and besides she can't leave King Fisher"—

He interrupted her as she clung to his arm. "I know that, but what can I do? If you'd only promise now, Polly," he added artfully, "that you won't tire yourself all out trying to suit Mrs. Cabot's whims—why, I'd think about taking back what I said about sending your mother down."

"Oh! I won't—I won't," promised Polly gladly. "And now, dear Papa Fisher, you'll take it all back, won't you?" she begged.

"Yes," said Dr. Fisher, glad to see Polly's color back again, and to have her beg him for some favor. So the next half-hour or so they were very cheery—just like old times; just as if there had been no sickness and the shadow of a loss upon them in the past days.

"Though why we should be always acting as if we were in the midst of it now, I don't see," said the little doctor at last. "We're all straightened out, thank God, and Pickering mending so fast that he's a perfect marvel. It would be a sin and a shame for us to be in the dumps forever. Well, now, Polly, remember. Whew! hear that youngster!" This last being brought out by Johnny's lusty shouts in the next room. "I don't envy Mrs. Fargo her bargain, and I do pity myself having to see him safely there."

"Oh! Charlotte will take all the care of him," said Polly quickly. "She's just beautiful with him; you don't know how beautiful, Papa Fisher, because you've been so busy, since you've been here, and Charlotte has kept him away from everybody so he needn't worry any one. And isn't it lovely that he is to have such a beautiful home?" added Polly with shining eyes.

"Um—yes, for Johnny," said Dr. Fisher. "Well, good-by, Polly." He gathered her up in his arms for a final kiss. "Oh! here's Charlotte come to bid you good-by, too."

"Polly," said Charlotte, drawing her off to a quiet corner, as the little doctor went away, leaving the two girls together, "I must say something, and I don't know how to say it."

Polly looked at her with wide eyes.

"It's just this," said Charlotte, plunging on desperately; "Polly, don't let Mrs. Cabot pick at you and talk about duty. Oh! I hate to hear her speak the word," exploded Charlotte, with a volume of wrath in her tone.

"What do you mean, Charlotte?" cried Polly in a puzzled way.

"Oh! she may—never mind how—she's quite peculiar, you know," said Charlotte, finding her way less clear with each word. "Never mind, Polly; only just fight her if she begins on what is your duty; if she does, then fight her tooth and nail."

"But it may be something that I really ought to do," said Polly.

Charlotte turned on her in horror. "O, never!" she cried. "Don't you do it, Polly Pepper. Just as sure as she says you ought to do it, you may know it would be the worst thing in all the world. Promise me, Polly, that you won't do it."

"But, Charlotte, I ought not to promise until I am quite sure that it wouldn't be my duty to do what Mrs. Cabot advises. Don't you see, Charlotte, that I ought not to promise?"

But Charlotte was too far gone in anxiety to see anything, and she could only reiterate, "Do promise, Polly, do; there's Mr. Higby calling us; the carriage is at the door. Do, Polly! I never will ask you anything else if you'll only promise me this."

But Polly could only shake her head, and say, "I ought not," and then Johnny had to be kissed and wrenched from Phronsie, who insisted on carrying him downstairs to set him in the carriage, and Mrs. Cabot came in, and old Mr. King wanted a last word with Charlotte, so that at last she was in Mr. Higby's carryall, shut in on the back seat looking out over Johnny's head, with a pair of very hopeless eyes. But her lips said, "Do, Polly!"

And still Polly, on the flat door-stone, had to shake her head.

"I shall tell Mrs. Fisher, and beg her to come right down here," determined Charlotte Chatterton to herself, "just as soon as I get in the house. That is exactly what I shall do," she declared savagely, as Mr. Higby whipped up the mare for the quarter-mile drive to the little station.



CHAPTER XVII.

JASPER.

"Halloo, King, Mr. Marlowe wants you." Jasper, his hands full of papers, hurried down the long warehouse, through the piles of books, fresh from the bindery, stacked closely to the ceiling. The busy packers who were filling the boxes, looked up as he threaded his way between them. "Mr. Marlowe is down there," indicating the direction with a nod, while the hands kept mechanically at their task.

"I want to see you about that last lot of paper," Mr. Marlowe began, before Jasper had reached him; "it is thin and of poorer quality than I ordered. The loss must be charged back to Withers & Co."

"Is that so?" exclaimed Jasper. "They assured me that everything should be right, and like the sample that we ordered it from."

"And Jacob Bendel writes that the edition we gave him of History of Great Cities to print will be shipped to us within a fortnight, when his contract was to be filled on Thursday. Of course we lose all the Chicago orders by this delay."

"What's the reason?" asked Jasper, feeling all the thrill of the disappointment as keenly as if he were the head of the house.

"Oh! a strike among the printers; his best men have gone out, and he's at the mercy of a lot of inferior workmen who are being intimidated by the strikers; but he thinks he can get the edition to us in ten days or so."

Mr. Marlowe leaned against an empty packing case and viewed the assistant foreman of the manufacturing department calmly, with the air of a man to whom disappointments were in the usual order of things.

"Can't we give it to another printer?" asked Jasper.

"Who?"

"Morse Brothers?"

"They are full and running over with work. I inquired there yesterday; we may want a little extra done as the rush over those Primary Readers is coming on. No, I can't think of a place where we could crowd it in, if we took it away from Bendel."

Jasper's gaze thoughtfully followed the drift of a shaving blown by the draft along the warehouse floor.

"I think I'll send you down to New York to see Bendel, and find out how things are. I don't get any satisfaction from letters," said Mr. Marlowe in a minute. "Beside you can attend to some other matters; and then there is that Troy job; you can do that."

"Very well, sir."

"Can you take the night express?" Mr. Marlowe pulled out his watch. It was ten minutes of three.

"Can I leave the Ransom bills I was checking off? Mr. Parker said they were the most important of the lot."

"Parker must give them to Richard; he knows pretty well how to do them, unless he can find time for them himself."

"I was to be at the Green printing-office at nine to-morrow morning," said Jasper.

"What for?"

"They sent down to Mr. Parker yesterday that we had made a mistake about price for doing those five hundred Past and Present; and wanted him to go to their office, and see Mr. Green himself."

"If Mr. Green thinks any mistake has been made, let him come to us," said Mr. Marlowe coolly. "You tell Parker to send a note to that effect; courteously written, of course, but to the point. We don't go running around after people who think mistakes are made. Let them bring their grievances here, if they have any. Is that all that detains you?"

Jasper held out his hand full of papers. "These were to come in between when they could, sir."

"Hem—hem"—Mr. Marlowe read them over with a practiced eye; rolled them up, and handed the roll to Jasper. "Tell Parker to set Danforth on those. Anything more?"

"I was to go to-morrow if there was time to get prices for best calendered paper of Patterson & Co. and Withers; but the next day will do."

"Parker must attend to all that," said Mr. Marlowe decidedly.

"Very well, sir. I believe that is all that hurries particularly."

"Come this way; I'll give you instructions what to say to Bendel," and Mr. Marlowe led the way out to a quiet corner of the warehouse, where he sat down by a desk, and rapidly laid the points of the business before his assistant.

The next morning in New York, Jasper ran across Mr. Whitney on Broadway.

"Well said; that you, Jasper? Why aren't you up at the house?"

"I came on the night express," said Jasper, finding it hard to wait a minute, "on a matter of importance for Mr. Marlowe. Sorry, Brother Mason, but I can't stop now."

"You'll be up to-night, of course," said Mason Whitney.

"I can't; I'm off for Troy," said Jasper concisely, "and I don't come back this way."

"Goodness! what a man your Marlowe is. And your sister Marian wants to hear about Polly and all the others; you've seen them so lately."

"It's impossible," began Jasper; "you see I can't help it, Brother Mason; Mr. Marlowe's orders must be carried out."

"He's a beast, your Marlowe is," declared Mr. Whitney hotly. "I don't know what Marian will say when I tell her you are here in New York and won't stop for even a word with her."

"Sister Marian will say it's all right," said Jasper, a trifle impatiently, and feeling the loss of every moment a thing to be atoned for. "Mr. Marlowe is loaded up with trouble of all kinds. Now I must go."

"Hold on a minute," cried Mason Whitney. "Well, how are you getting on? Seems to me the publishing business doesn't agree with you. You look peaked enough," scanning Jasper's face closely.

"I'm well enough," said Jasper abruptly. "Tell sister Marian I will write her very soon," pulling out his watch; "good-by," and he was lost in the crowd surging down Broadway. Mr. Whitney standing still a moment to look after him, turned, and went directly to his office.

"That call on Hendryx & Co. can wait," he muttered to himself on the way, "but Jasper can't. The boy looks badly, and his father ought to know it; although it seems funny enough for me to be meddling with Jasper's affairs. But I won't leave anything to worry about afterward; they can't say I ought to have told them."

So a letter went out by next mail from Mr. Whitney's office, saying that Jasper looked poorly enough when he was met in New York; that he seemed incapable of breathing any other air than that saturated with business; that he had evidently mistaken his vocation when he chose to be a publisher. "Beside, there isn't any money now in the publishing business," added Mr. Whitney as a clincher; "there are too many of the fellows cutting each other's throats to make it pay; and books are slaughtered right and left, and Jasper much better get into some other business, in my opinion."

Meanwhile Jasper finished, to the letter, the instructions for Jacob Bendel, did up the other matters entrusted to him, and set out on his Troy expedition. Here he was detained a day or two, Mr. Marlowe's instructions being to wait over and telegraph if the business could not be adjusted satisfactorily. But the fourth day after leaving home, Jasper, just from the night express, mounted the stairs to his hotel in the early morning, his bag in his hand, and the expression on his face of a man who has accomplished what he set out to do.

"There's an old gent up in your room," announced Buttons, tumbling off, a sleepy heap, from one of the office chairs, to look at him.

"An old gentleman in my room," repeated Jasper, turning on the stairs. "Why was any person put in my room?"

"We didn't put the person there," said the boy, yawning fearfully, "he put himself there. He's a tiger, he is, and he blows me up reg'lar 'cause you ain't home," he added.

Jasper scaled the rest of the stairs, and tried the knob of his door with no gentle hand. Then he rapped loudly. "Open the door—this is my room."

"Oh! I'm coming," said a voice he knew quite well, and presently old Mr. King stood before him, his velvet cap and morning jacket both awry from impatient fingers.



"Father!" ejaculated Jasper. And "Goodness me, Jasper!" from the old gentleman, "what an unearthly hour to come home in."

Jasper hurried in, set his bag in the corner, then turned and looked at his father anxiously. Meanwhile old Mr. King was studying his son's countenance with no small degree of alarm.

"What is it," cried Jasper at last, coming close to him, "that has brought you?"

"What?—why, you."

"Me?" cried Jasper, in amazement.

"Yes; dear me, Jasper, with all the worries I have had lately, it does seem a pity that you couldn't take care of yourself. It really does," repeated Mr. King, his feelings nowise soothed by picking up his watch and finding it half-past six o'clock. When he made sure of the time, he set down the watch quickly, and stared at Jasper worse than ever.

"Now, father," said Jasper, "there's a mistake somewhere, but never mind now; you must get back to bed again. I don't know when you've been up at this hour." He tried to laugh, while he laid his hand on the old gentleman's arm. "Do get back to bed, father."

"It certainly is a most outrageous hour in which to arise," remarked his father, not able to suppress a yawn, "and I don't mind if I do turn in—but where will you sleep, Jasper?" whirling around on his son. "I've come to look after you, and I shouldn't begin very well to monopolize your bed," with a short laugh.

"Oh, I'll camp out on the lounge," said Jasper carelessly; "in two minutes I could be asleep there or anywhere else. Don't mind me, father."

"If you say so, then I will," said the old gentleman, "and you are too tired to talk before you've had a nap." So he lay down on the bed, Jasper dutifully tucking him up, and presently his regular breathing told that he had picked up the threads of his broken slumber.

Jasper threw himself on the lounge, but unable to close his eyes, his gaze fell on a sheet of paper, lying on the floor just within reach. It was impossible to avoid reading the words: "And Jasper better get into some other business, in my opinion," and signed "Mason Whitney."

Jasper jumped to his feet and strode up and down the room in growing indignation; then seized his hat and darted out to cool himself off before his father should awake. When he returned, old Mr. King was half-dressed, and berating Buttons for his failure to have the morning paper at the door.

"Now for breakfast," cried Jasper, his own toilet quickly made, "then I presume you want to see me in my business surroundings, father?" as they went down the stairs together.

"I most certainly do," said the old gentleman decidedly; and they turned into the breakfast room.

So after a meal in which Jasper, by skillful management of all conversational topics, allowed no chance word of business to intrude, old Mr. King and he started for the publishing house of D. Marlowe & Co., Jasper filling up all gaps that might suggest time for certain questions that seemed to be trembling on the tip of Mr. King's tongue, while that gentleman was making a running commentary to himself something in this wise: "Just like Mason; send me off here when there is not the slightest need of it. The boy is well enough; quite well enough," he added, in his energy speaking the last words aloud.

"What is it, father?" Jasper paused in the midst of a descriptive fire concerning the new buildings going up on either hand, with many side stories of the men who were erecting them; and he paused for an answer.

"Nothing—nothing of importance," said his father hastily. "I only observed that you appeared to be doing quite well; and as if the business agreed with you," he added involuntarily.

"I should think it did, father," cried Jasper enthusiastically, while his cheek glowed; "it's the grandest work a man can do, in my opinion."

"Hem, hem! well, we shall see," observed Mr. King drily, determined not to yield too easily. "You've been at it only six months. You know the old adage, Jasper: 'You must summer and winter' a thing before you decide."

Jasper drew a long breath. "I shall never be anything but a publisher, father," he said quietly.

"Hoity, toity! well, that is for me to decide, I take it," responded his father. "You've never disobeyed me yet, Jasper, and I don't believe you ever will. And if I think it's best for you to change your business, of course you'll do it."

Jasper's brow darkened, and he closed his lips tightly for a moment. Then something Polly said once when his father was in a particularly determined mood, came to his mind: "You better make him happy, Jasper, any way." That "any way" carried the day now.

"It shall be as you wish, father," he said, the frown disappearing; "I want you to be pleased, any way," unconsciously using Polly's word.

"I don't know as I should be at all pleased to have you leave the publishing business, Jasper," said old Mr. King, veering around quickly. "I can't tell till I've seen just how it suits you. But I am going to the root of the matter, now that I am here. Oh! is this the place?" as they came up against a large window, behind whose plate glass, rows and rows of books in all styles of bindings, met the view of the passer-by.

"This is it," said Jasper, with a thrill that he was part of the "it," and the satisfaction in his completed commission, that had been lost by his father's words, now bounded high again. "Now then, father, you must meet Mr. Marlowe," turning up the steps.

Old Mr. King walked down the store-length as if he owned the whole with several others of its kind thrown in, and on Jasper's pausing before a small office-door, marked "private," heard him say through its open window, "Good-morning, Mr. Marlowe."

"Ah, good-morning," came back quickly, and Mr. King saw a pleasant-faced gentleman of middle age, whose keen gray eyes seemed to note everything with lightning-like rapidity—"business all right?"

"Yes, sir," said Jasper.

"Very well; you may come to me in a quarter of an hour and report. I shall be through with these gentlemen," indicating one sitting by his side at the desk, and another awaiting his turn.

"Tell him that I am here, Jasper," said Mr. King pompously, with an admonitory touch upon Jasper's arm.

"It's impossible, father; he can't see you now," said Jasper hurriedly, trying to draw his father off to a quieter corner.

"Impossible? Can't see me? What is there to prevent, pray tell?" cried the old gentleman irately.



"He has business men with him; they'll be through in a quarter of an hour," Jasper brought out in distress that was by no means lightened by the knowledge that half of the clerks through the long salesroom were becoming acquainted with the conversation.

"It's atrocious. I never was kept waiting in my life," fumed Mr. King. "He doesn't know I am here—I will announce myself."

He started forward.

"Father," cried Jasper, darting after him, "let me get you a chair over here by the table and some books to look at."

"I want no books," said the old gentleman, now thoroughly determined, by this time looking in the open window of the private office. "Good-morning, sir," stiffly to the middle-aged gentleman sitting before the desk.

This gentleman looked up, nodded carelessly and said, "Excuse me, but I am at present engaged."

"I am Mr. Jasper King's father," announced the old gentleman with extreme dignity; and again the look of being able to buy out this and several other such establishments, spread over his face.

"I shall be very glad to see you, sir," said the middle-aged man imperturbably, "in a quarter of an hour. Excuse me," and he turned back to finish his sentence to the other business man.

"Jasper," cried Mr. King, taking short, quick steps to where Jasper stood, "give me a sheet of paper so that I may write to this fellow, and take you out of his contemptible trade—or stay, I will write from the hotel," and he started for the door.

"Father," exclaimed Jasper in a low tone, but so distinctly that every one standing near might hear, "Mr Marlowe is just right; he always is."

"Eh?" cried his father, turning and grasping the back of a chair to steady himself.

"Mr. Marlowe is just right about these things. He really couldn't see you, father."

"I have never been obliged to wait for any one in all my life, Jasper," declared his father impressively, "and I never will."

"I wonder what Polly would do now," thought Jasper in despair.

"And that you could tolerate such impertinence to me," continued Mr. King with growing anger, "is more than I can understand; but since you've come into trade it's vastly changed you. If you do not choose to come to the hotel with me, I must go alone," which with great dignity he now proceeded to do.

The first business man who had finished his conference with Mr. Marlowe now came down the salesroom. "How d'ye, King," he said cordially to Jasper in passing.

Jasper's face lighted as he gave an equally cordial response.

"Such familiarity, Jasper!" exclaimed his father in a fresh burst of irritation. "Dear me, I only trust you're not completely spoiled before I get you out of this."

The business man turned around and gave a significant look to a knot of the salesmen, but happening to catch Jasper's eye, he said, "It's a fine day, King," carelessly, and passed out, but not before "Stuck-up old money-bag" fell upon the old gentleman's ear.

"We would better go to the hotel now, I think, father," said Jasper quietly. "Frank," to the nearest salesman, "will you tell Mr. Marlowe when it is ten minutes past," glancing at the clock, "that I was obliged to go with my father, but I will be back at ten o'clock?"

"You need give yourself no such trouble, Jasper, as all this," said his father decidedly; "I will wait if it is absolutely necessary that you see him," with a patronizing wave of his gloved hand toward the private office.

"It is absolutely necessary," said Jasper.

"Very well; I wait, then," said his father, accepting with the air of a martyr, the chair by the table of books.

And just then the private office-door opened and out came the other business man, followed by Mr. Marlowe.

"Frank," he called briskly, "ask Jasper's father to step here."



CHAPTER XVIII.

MR. KING ATTENDS TO MATTERS.

Old Mr. King kept on turning the books with a careless hand.

"Father," begged Jasper in a low voice, and putting his hand on the old gentleman's arm, such a world of entreaty in his face, that his father turned in spite of himself.

"After all I much better have it over with now, I really think," said Mr. King; "yes, Jasper, we will go back," with a marked emphasis on the word "back."

"I can't thank you enough, father," exclaimed Jasper gratefully.

"Well, well, say no more," said old Mr. King abruptly, as they reached the private office.

Mr. Marlowe's hands were mechanically adjusting the loose papers on his desk, so as not to lose an instant's time as Mr. King and Jasper came up, but he turned a face, over which a bright smile shot suddenly, lighting up the gray eyes, then quickly whirled around in his office chair. "Glad to see you," he said, putting out a cordial right hand.

Mr. King bowed, but evidently did not see the hand; which Mr. Marlowe not appearing to notice, the old gentleman was more furious than ever.

"Set a chair for your father, Jasper," said Mr. Marlowe quietly, "and get one for yourself." Then he leaned back in his office chair and pleasantly surveyed old Mr. King, waiting for him to speak.

"I have come, sir," said Mr. King, as he settled his courtly old figure in the chair Jasper had put for him beside the desk, "to see you about my son; I am not satisfied with his appearance, nor, I am sorry to say, with his surroundings."

"Indeed,?" said the head of the publishing house of D. Marlowe & Co., still with a pleasant smile on his face.

"I am very sorry," repeated Jasper's father, "to have to say it, but my attention has been called to the fact, and I cannot now ignore it."

"Hardly by Jasper," remarked Mr. Marlowe, bringing the revolving chair so that he could see Jasper's face.

"Indeed, no," cried Jasper involuntarily, "it is something father has heard elsewhere, Mr. Marlowe, and I know he will feel quite differently when he comes to see things as they really are."

The grave look on Mr. Marlowe's face disappeared as he turned back to old Mr. King.

"Well," he said at last, as the other showed no sign of continuing the conversation, and still playing with the paper cutter on his desk.

"Permit me to say, sir," Mr. King broke out, finding to his astonishment it was not an easy matter to talk to this imperturbable man entrenched behind his own desk, "that I am disappointed in the atmosphere in which I find my son. It smells of trade, sir, too much to suit my fancy."

"Did you suppose for an instant, Mr. King," asked Mr. Marlowe, dropping the paper-cutter to pick up the pencil, "that our books came out ready for libraries, without any intervening process?"

"I certainly supposed Jasper was to be in charge of a literary department of the house, when I gave my consent to his coming here—" declared Mr. King very decidedly.

"Father!" exclaimed Jasper, unable longer to keep silent, "how could I take charge of any department, until I had learned it all myself?"

"You have been through Harvard," his father turned on him, "and it seems to me are fully competent to do the literary work required here."

"And as for the manufacturing department," continued Jasper, finding it more difficult to keep still, "it was the only place for me; I had to begin at the bottom, if I'm ever to be a publisher—which is what my work is to be—"

"Not so fast—not so fast," cried the old gentleman excitedly. "You are not to be a publisher, I take it, if I do not wish it. You've given your word you will not."

"I have given my word, father," said Jasper with a long breath, "and I'll not go back on it," but his lips whitened.

All this while Mr. Marlowe still played with the little articles on his desk, sitting very quietly and watching the two. He now threw them down with an abrupt movement, whirled the revolving chair around suddenly and sent a lightning-like glance of stern inquiry toward old Mr. King.

"Be so kind, sir, as to define exactly what your intentions are as to your son's future. Time is very valuable here, and every fraction squandered has to be made up in some way."

"My intentions are," said the old gentleman, in a lofty way, "to take my son out of the business—entirely out, sir," he waved his hand in a stately and comprehensive manner; then glanced to see the effect on the head of the house.

But there was no effect whatever, except a quick business-like acceptance of the situation on Mr. Marlowe's implacable face. "Father!" began Jasper. But old Mr. King was beyond hearing a word.

"I had intended," he went on condescendingly, "to have my son put in a large interest in the business, supposing it turned out to be the proper one for him. In fact, his and my financial support would have made it one of the finest publishing houses in the world."

Mr. Marlowe bowed. "Thank you," he said politely. "James," turning to the window opening into the book-keeping department, "make out Jasper King's account and settle at once. I believe you wish to go as soon as you can, do you not," to Jasper, "that is, after you have given me the report of the business you did on the trip?"

Jasper could not speak for a moment. Then he said: "But I can't leave my work in this way—it's," and he sprang to his feet.

"Jasper," Mr. Marlowe stopped a moment and seemed to swallow something in his throat, then went on, "your father wishes it, and you will make him happy"—Jasper started at Polly's own words—"that's enough for one life time. I'm sorry to lose you, my boy," he suddenly grasped Jasper's hand, "but allow me to say, sir," turning to old Mr. King, "that for you and your money I have very little consideration. You don't own enough to make it worth while for the house of David Marlowe & Co. to extend an invitation to you to enter it. And now, if you will excuse me, I will hear Jasper's account of the business he was sent on."

With that, seeing it was expected of him, old Mr. King got out of his chair, by the side of the desk, and passed into the long salesroom.

"I hope you'll believe," began Jasper brokenly, feeling as if the whole world were going awry, "that this strange idea was never gained from me. Why, I love the business." His gray eyes glowed as he spoke the word.

"My boy," Mr. Marlowe's face was alight with feeling, "don't explain, I understand it all; you've the misfortune to be born into a rich family, and your father probably never had to raise his hand to earn a penny. He isn't to be blamed, only I did hope"—

"That I was different," finished Jasper, his head drooping a bit with the shame of it. "Oh, Mr. Marlowe, father is so splendid—he's just a magnificent man," he added, the head coming up, with Jasper's old habit of throwing it back, "if you only knew him and he could have shown you his old self."

"Don't I know it," responded Mr. Marlowe heartily, "and I also know that you must stick by him. Only I did hope—and now I will finish what I was going to say—that you could stay and help me, for you are after my own heart, Jasper," he added abruptly, a rare tremble in his voice.

Jasper put out his hand instinctively. "Thank you, Mr. Marlowe," he said as the head of the house grasped it warmly, "I shall never forget this."

And then, as if nothing but the ordinary business had occurred, Jasper sat down and went carefully over every detail of the commission he had been sent on, heard Mr. Marlowe's terse, "That's good, Jasper; you've done it all well," and passed out for the last time, from the private office, and joined his father in silence, for the walk to the hotel.

That night Jasper's father wanted to go to a concert, so Jasper got a box, and sat through it all, not seeing anything but Polly's face, and hearing, "I'd make him happy, any way."

Down in the audience sprinkled here and there, or in the galleries, were some of the D. Marlowe & Co. salesmen and workers staring often up at him, and the handsome white-haired old gentleman by his side.

"There's that old snob," they would exclaim at first recognition, to their companions, "look at him," and under pretense of gazing at the stage, the opera glasses would be turned on the box. "Looks as if he owned the whole town, eh?"

"He is awfully handsome, isn't he?" every salesman's companion would exclaim, looking at Jasper pale and quiet, in the most secluded part of the box.

"Yes," said every one of the men, only seeing the old gentleman, "but he's too toploftical to live"—or something to that effect—and then they would forget all about it till the companion's opera glasses leveled in the same direction, brought the conversation around to the old topic.

"They had a flare-up with Mr. Marlowe this morning," confided one salesman to his friend in the entr'acte, "and he's off," with a nod over to Jasper's private box.

"Oh dear me!" exclaimed the young girl, with a pang at her heart, "has he left your business?"

"Yes," said the salesman, and a real regret passed over his careless face, "and it's a shame, for no one would have thought he owned a penny; he was just digging at the business all the time, like the rest of us."

"Is he very rich?" asked the young girl.

"Well, I should say," began the salesman, unable to find words to express Jasper's financial condition. Then the curtain rang up.

The next morning, old Mr. King broke the egg into his cup thoughtfully. "I suppose I might as well look about a bit, now that I'm here, Jasper. I haven't been in this town for twenty years or so."

"Very well, father," said Jasper, trying not to be listless. "Where shall we go to-day?"

"Oh, I'll look around by myself," said his father quickly. "You go to bed—you look all done up," scanning his son's face anxiously.

"Indeed, you will not go alone," said Jasper, rousing himself with shame. "We'll have a good day together."

"Indeed we will not," retorted the old gentleman.

"I shall have a cab and go by myself. You'll go to bed, or I'll call in the doctor. Goodness me, Jasper, you don't look like the same boy that started out in business six months ago; you're all worn out."

Jasper said nothing, only redoubled his efforts on the breakfast before him that now assumed colossal proportions, and as if it could never be eaten in the world, hoping to persuade his father into allowing him to go on the tour of inspection. But it was no use. Mr. King on finishing his morning repast, stalked out to the office, and ordered a carriage, and presently departed, with last injunctions to Jasper, "to lie down and take things easy."

As his father closed the door, Jasper sank into a chair by the table and allowed his head to drop into his hands; but only for a minute, then he sprang to his feet, and paced the floor rapidly.

"If Polly is only happy," he said to himself over and over. How long he walked thus he never knew—it was only by hearing a vigorous knock on the door that he stopped, and called, "Come in."

"They told me," said Jack Loughead, answering the knock, "at the Marlowes,' that I should find you here, unless you had left the town. Are you sick?" he asked with concern.

"No; sit down, do, Loughead," said Jasper, dragging forward a chair, and falling into one himself, just beginning to be conscious of a stiff pair of legs.

Jack Loughead set his hat on the table, and himself in the chair that Jasper proffered. Then he fell to tapping the tip of his shining boot with his walking stick.

"King, I came here to ask you something, that if I didn't trust you so well I could never ask in all the world. But I feel I can trust you."

"Oh, don't—don't," begged Jasper, putting up an unsteady hand to ward off the dreaded subject. "Don't tell me anything, Loughead."

"Well, I will ask you something, then," said Jack Loughead coolly. "I'm a business man, King, and I must come to the point in a business way. First, let me tell you that Uncle and I start for Australia in a fortnight;" Jasper drew a long breath of relief. "Yes, I must get back; and you will see that I cannot go without," Jack Loughead paused—then went on abruptly. "Does Miss Pepper care for Pickering Dodge?"

"How do I know—how can I tell?" cried Jasper desperately, and springing from his chair, he began to pace the floor again. "Excuse me, Loughead, I'm not myself to-day. I've left D. Marlowe & Co. and"—

"Yes, I know," interrupted Jack, and drawing a long breath of relief on his part at being able to speak on this subject now that the ice was broken; "well, I'm glad, of course, King, if you didn't care to stay," he said.

"But I did," cried Jasper, stopping short, to emphasize this. "Mr. Marlowe is a royal man, through and through, and I'd work for him all my life. But my father thought best not; that's enough," he added in the abruptest fashion, beginning to walk again.

"Yes; well, I see," said Jack. "I know a little what well-meaning relatives can do to make a young man's life miserable. I'm sorry, King," and he looked truly wretched over it.

"And you must forgive anything strange about me to-day," said Jasper, walking on hurriedly, "for I am all upset."

"Yes, I know," repeated Jack Loughead, "nothing breaks a man up like wrenching him from his work. King," he sprang to his feet and joined Jasper walking on by his side down the room, "you are Miss Pepper's brother, or as good as one. Can you tell me if I shall wrong Pickering Dodge if I speak to her?"

Jasper was saved from answering by old Mr. King coming in with a "Oh, how d'ye, Loughead? Well, well, Jasper, you've had a good nap, I take it." And then all three went down to luncheon, and Jasper managed not to be left alone with Jack Loughead until at the last when he said, "I shall go and tell the whole story to Mrs. Fisher; of course I must speak to her first."

* * * * *

"Halloo, Dave!" It was such a remarkable cry that David turned at once, although he was almost on a dead run across the campus.

"Hey, there!" shouted Percy Whitney as David turned. "Whew! How you do go, Dave."

"What's the matter?" cried David, running lightly back to stand in front of Percy. "Dear me, Percy, you have lost your eyeglasses!" with a glance at the other's flushed face; "wait, I'll find the things."

"I yelled my lungs sore," said Percy in irritation, dropping down on his knees to pass his hands carefully over the campus grass, "and now I've lost these. Bad luck to you, Dave, for it!"

"Oh! go without 'em," said David, getting gingerly down on all-fours to prowl around on the greensward.

"Go without 'em?" repeated Percy, sitting straight in indignation. "How could I see, pray tell? Don't be a donkey, Dave."

David said nothing, but fell to a more diligent search, while Percy bewailed his loss, watching eagerly David's nimble fingers moving in and out of the little tufts of grass.

"Shades of the departed specs," cried David, also sitting straight and peering with his keen blue eyes in a birdlike way along the sward. "It's a mysteri—oh, Great Caesar!" then he fell on his back on the campus, and rolled and laughed, to bring up red and shining, only to tumble over and roll again.

"Of all the idiots in the universe, Dave Pepper," fumed Percy. "What's the matter?"

"Your trouble has gone to your head," said David faintly. "Feel and see; oh dear!"



Percy's hand flew up to his thick mane of brown hair, that not all his disgust and tireless training could persuade to lie smoothly, when he picked off his beloved glasses, after an angry twitch or two.

"How you can sit there and laugh when Joe is in danger, I don't see," he exclaimed irritably, adjusting them to his nose. "I've nearly killed myself to catch you, and"—

"Joe in danger!" cried David, on his feet in an instant. "Oh, Percy, what do you mean?" his cheeks whitening, and his blue eyes agleam.

"Joel's brought it on himself," said Percy, his irritation not going down. "I must say, Dave, if he'd behave more like the rest of us, he'd be"—

Then Polly's words, "Oh, dear, beautiful Joel!" came to mind, and he coughed violently, holding fast the eyeglasses in their place.

"What danger?" demanded David, in his impatience shaking Percy's arm.

"Well, you must know, after last night's performance over Joe, that they wouldn't let him alone."

"Last night's performance over Joel?" repeated David in astonishment. "What yarn are you spinning now, Percy?"

"Goodness sake, you are yarning yourself," retorted Percy indignantly, "to pretend that you don't know that last night a dozen or more fellows called on Joe, and he handled 'em without gloves, so that Bingley and Dobbs can't hardly step to-day."

"It's the first word I've heard of it," said David slowly, but emphatically, and staggering back a step or two to look at Percy. "I was out all the evening. Oh, magnificent old Joe!"

"Magnificent old Joe!" repeated Percy, "you better say 'poor Joe,' when you know what they are intending to give him."



CHAPTER XIX.

MOTHER FISHER AND CHARLOTTE.

David's blue eyes flashed dangerously. "Tell all you know, Percy," he said briefly.

"Dobbs heads it, as he did the first one," said Percy; "they've changed their tactics, and will get at Joe on their way home from that confounded meeting. Dave, can't you keep him from that?" and Percy, forgetting himself, peered anxiously over his glasses.

"No," said David shortly, "and I sha'n't try."

"You're an idiot," cried Percy, in a passion, "a stupid, blind old donkey! Joe will be mauled dreadfully," he howled, beating his hands together in distress; "no help for it but to keep him away from that old association meeting."

"Anything more to tell?" asked David.

"No," Percy shot out. "Bingley told me all he knew; but they wouldn't let him catch much of it, because he's left the gang"—

David's feet by this time were flying over the Campus, so that Percy was obliged to shout the remainder of the sentence after him. The consequence was that several heads were popped out of as many windows in the long gray dormitory fronting the Campus, their owners all engaged in the pleasing duty of staring at Percy and the flying figure across the grass.

"Now I'm in for it, for there's Dobbs, I vow," exclaimed Percy to himself, in dismay; "he'll guess I've given Dave warning," and he tried to strike a careless attitude, picking off his glasses to hold them up and gaze long and earnestly through them into the nearest tree.

"You can't come it," jeered Dobbs, from his window. "No birdsnesting, I promise you, Whitney; ha, ha!" And the other heads popped farther out than ever, to add a few hisses.

Percy, maddened by the failure of his plan to divert suspicion, now lost his head entirely, and sticking his eyeglasses on again, ran off like lightning to his room, followed by "Little coward, we'll treat you too—Look out!"

* * * * *

"Well, Jasper; now I'm bound for the next thing—Percy and Joel and David," declared old Mr. King as Jack Loughead was cleverly off; "we are so near, it's a pity not to drop down on them."

"Don't you think you ought to hurry back to Brierly?" asked Jasper, having hard work not to show that he cared anything about it one way or the other.

"No, I don't," answered his father, in his crispest fashion. "No one needs me there; Mrs. Cabot is a host in herself, and those boys may—who knows? At any rate, I must see how they are getting on, so we will go as soon as you can get your things packed and sent home," and the old gentleman glanced around the room at the various keepsakes and family adornings that Jasper had brought with him to make life less lonely while he made a business man of himself.

"Very well, father," said Jasper, he could not trust himself to say more; and for the first time had to hurry away that his father might not see his face. But old Mr. King was the farthest removed from carrying the look of a person holding any interest whatever in Jasper's trouble, for he went on to say, "And I do hope you will get it over with as quickly as possible, Jasper, so that we may be off," then he fell to reading the evening paper with great gusto.

Jasper seized his hat, rushed down stairs two steps at a time, nearly overturning Buttons leaning on the post at the foot.

"Oh! beg pardon," said Jasper, quite as if it had been a gentleman he had run against.

"You hain't hurt me none," said Buttons, staggering back to his support, where he craned his neck in curiosity to watch young Mr. King's impatience.

Once out in the park, a half-mile away, his hands thrust in their pockets, Jasper slackened his pace, and breathed freer. Before him seemed to be the little brown house; it was the first time he had seen Mrs. Pepper—and they had just finished their long talk, when the mother had thanked him for rescuing Phronsie from the organ-grinder. The five little Peppers were begging him to come over again to see them, but Mrs. Pepper laid her hand on his arm. "Be sure, Jasper," she warned, "that your father is willing." He could see her black eyes looking down into his face. What would she say now?

Jasper threw himself down on one of the seats under a friendly tree. "At least, Polly, you sha'n't be ashamed of me," he said in a moment or two, "and dear Mrs. Fisher," then he walked quietly off to make the last preparations that his father had ordered.

* * * * *

"Well, now, Charlotte," said Mrs. Fisher, "you needn't worry, not a single bit," and she went on calmly sorting out the small flannel petticoats in her lap. "That is rather thin," she said, holding up one between her eyes and the light; "King Fisher, how you do kick things out!"

"Mrs. Fisher!" exclaimed Charlotte Chatterton in amazement, "how can you sit picking over flannel petticoats, when perhaps Polly will—oh, do excuse me," she broke off hastily, "for speaking so."

"Polly? I'd trust my girl to know what was sense, and what was nonsense," declared Mother Fisher crisply, and not taking off her attention in the slightest from Baby's petticoats.

"Ar-goo—ar-goo!" screamed little King.

"So we would—wouldn't we, Birdie?" she said, nodding at him.

"But people do such very strange things in—in—love," said Charlotte, her face full of distress, "I mean when love is in the question, Mrs. Fisher."

"Polly doesn't," said Mrs. Fisher scornfully. "Polly has never been in love; why, she is only twenty."

Charlotte gave an uneasy whirl and rushed off to the window.

"And there's that dreadful, hateful Mrs. Cabot," she cried, plunging back, her pale eyes afire. "Oh! I feel so wicked, Mrs. Fisher, whenever I think of her, I'd like to tear her, I would, for picking at Polly," she declared with venom.

"You needn't be afraid," repeated Mrs. Fisher calmly, "Polly knows Mrs. Cabot through and through, and will never be influenced by anything she says."

"Oh, dear, dear, dear!" cried Charlotte, wringing her long hands, "and there's that Mr. Loughead, and everything is mixed up, and I can't frighten you."

"Now, just see here, Charlotte," cried Mother Fisher, casting aside the flannel petticoats to look up, "you must just put your mind off from all this; I should never know you, my girl, you are always so sensible and quiet. Why, Charlotte, what has gotten into you?"

"That's just it," cried Charlotte, a pink passion in her sallow cheeks, "everybody thinks because I don't rant every day, that I haven't any more feeling than a stick or a stone. Oh! do excuse me, Mrs. Fisher, but I love Polly so!" And she flung herself down on her knees, burying her face among the little flannel petticoats in Mother Fisher's lap.

"There—there, my dear," said Mrs. Fisher, smoothing Charlotte's pale straight hair, "of course you love Polly; everybody does."

"And I don't—don't want her to marry that Pickering Dodge," mumbled Charlotte.

"Certainly not; and she's no more likely to marry him than you are," said Mrs. Fisher coolly, giving gentle pats to Charlotte's head, while King Fisher screamed and twitched his mother's gown in anger to see the petting going on.

"Well, now I have two babies," said Mother Fisher, with a smile, lifting him up to her lap, where he amused himself by beating on Charlotte's head with both fat fists, till his mother seized them with one hand, while she gently smoothed the girl's hair with the other. "Polly can be trusted anywhere; and when she is in too much of a dilemma, then she brings everything to mother."

Charlotte sat up straight and wiped her eyes.

"And we've got somebody else to worry about much more, and all our sympathies ought to go out to him," said Mrs. Fisher gravely.

"Charlotte, I don't mind telling you that I am dreadfully sorry that Grandpapa has taken Jasper away from his business." She sat King Fisher abruptly on the floor, all the little petticoats tumbling after him, and walked away so that Charlotte could not see her face. "Poor Jasper, he loved his work so."



"And that's just it," gasped Charlotte, somehow finding her feet to hurry over to Mrs. Fisher, "Jasper has lost his work, and now oh dear!—oh! can't you see, Mrs. Fisher"—and then frightened at her boldness, she ran back to Baby.

"Charlotte Chatterton!" exclaimed Mrs. Fisher. There was something so dreadful in her tone, that Charlotte, without a word, ran out of the room—to meet little Dr. Fisher hurrying upstairs with his hands full of letters. "A whole budget from Brierly," he announced joyfully; "two for you, my girl," casting them into her hands. "And the folks are coming home next week; that is, our folks—good news—eh, Charlotte?" then he sped on to find his wife.

And at dinner Charlotte, sitting pale and immovable amidst all the chat, let the news of Mr. and Mrs. Mason Whitney's and Dick's determination to come on to greet the arrivals from the Brierly farmhouse, fall on apparently unheeding ears.

"Charlotte!" cried Dr. Fisher at last, looking at her through his big spectacles, "why, I thought you would rejoice with us," he added reproachfully.

"Adoniram," exclaimed Mrs. Fisher across the table, for the first time in her life looking as if she would like to step on his toes. The little doctor stared at her a moment—"Oh—er—never mind, my dear," he cried abruptly, turning to Charlotte. "I suppose you do not feel well."

"Yes, I do feel well," said Charlotte truthfully, not daring to look at Mrs. Fisher, but keeping her eyes on the tablecloth.

"I have a letter from Mr. King—a very long one; he is going to see Joel and David," Mother Fisher made haste to say; "I hope he hasn't heard anything wrong about them," and a little anxious pucker came on her forehead.

Charlotte Chatterton glanced up quickly, and seeing it, "Oh, I do believe everything is all right, Mrs. Fisher," she exclaimed involuntarily.

Mother Fisher looked straight at her with one of her brightest smiles. "I guess so," she said, her brow clearing.

And after they had pulled back their chairs from the table, and the little doctor had gone into his office for a minute, Mrs. Fisher followed Charlotte out into the hall.

"Charlotte," and she put both hands on the girl's shoulders, "you and I won't meddle with the Lord's will for Polly. Promise me that you'll not say one word of what we were talking, to any one."

"I won't!" said Charlotte Chatterton.

"And now," said Mother Fisher, dropping her arms and resuming her usual cheery manner, "you and I, Charlotte, have got to put our minds on getting ready for the Whitneys and the home-coming, and we must make it just the brightest time that ever was. I'm no good at thinking up ways to celebrate," added Mrs. Fisher, with a little laugh, "Polly always did that; so you must do it for me, you and the doctor, Charlotte. And you better run in to his office now and make a beginning, for next week will come before we know it," and with a motherly pat, and a "run along, child," Mrs. Fisher waited to see Charlotte well on the way before she turned to her own duties.

"Come in!" cried little Dr. Fisher, as she rapped at the office door. "Oh, it's you, Charlotte," with a sigh of relief; "I'm sure I don't feel much like dragging on my boots and going off to the Land's End to-night, on a call."

"Mrs. Fisher thought I ought to come and see you, sir, about getting up a plan to celebrate the home-coming next week," said Charlotte, feeling her heart bounding already with delight. Would they really all be together in a week?

"Now that's something like," exclaimed Dr. Fisher joyfully, and pushing aside with a reckless hand his books and vials on the table; "sit down, do, Charlotte; there," as Charlotte settled her long figure in the opposite chair. "Now then!"

"I never got up a plan to celebrate anything in my life," said Charlotte, folding her hands in dismay.

"Nor I either," confessed the little doctor in an equal tremor, "Polly was always great at those things. But I suppose that's the reason my wife set us two together, Charlotte, for she's the wisest of women, and perhaps we ought to learn how to get up celebrations."

"If only Phronsie were home," breathed Charlotte wistfully. "I'm so afraid our affair will be worse than nothing."

"I dare say," replied the little doctor cheerily, "but we can try, and that goes a great way, Charlotte—trying does."



Charlotte drew a long breath and moved uneasily in her chair. "If we only knew how to begin," she said at last doubtfully.

"I've always found," said Dr. Fisher, springing from his chair, "that all you had to do to start a thing was to—begin."

"Yes, that's just it," ruminated Charlotte, bringing up her hands to hold her head with, "I think we are in a tight place, Dr. Fisher."

"Hum, that may be," assented the little man, "I like tight places. Now, then, Charlotte, how do you say begin?"

Charlotte sat lost in thought for a minute, then she said, "Any way, I think it would be best for us to get up something very simple, so long as we are beginners."

"I think so too," agreed Dr. Fisher, "so that's settled. Now for the first thing; what do you say we should do, Charlotte?"

"How would it do," asked Charlotte suddenly, "to invite everybody after they have gotten over the first of the home-coming—after dinner, I mean—into the drawing-room, and then tell them that we are not smart enough to think up things, and ask them to give a recitation apiece, or something of that sort?"

"Charlotte Chatterton!" exclaimed the little doctor, cramming his hands into the side pockets of his office coat and staring at her,

"I am ashamed of you! that would be shabby enough—not so bad either," he added quickly, a sudden thought striking him, "as you'll do your part in singing."

"Oh! I couldn't sing," cried Charlotte, drawing back into her shell of coldness again, "they don't any of them care for it; they've heard me so much," she finished, trying to smooth her refusal over.

"You'll sing," declared the little doctor decidedly, "we could never be tired of hearing you; and for the rest, I have a notion that this might suit. See here," and he threw himself into his office chair, and looked Charlotte squarely in the face, "why not ask Alexia and Cathie and the others, to take hold and get up some fandango—eh?"

Charlotte caught herself on the edge of saying "No," then drew a long breath and said, "Well," trying not to seem indifferent over the plan.

"Don't like it—eh?" asked Dr. Fisher, regarding her keenly.

"It might be the best thing in the world," said Charlotte slowly. "Those girls act splendidly; they've had little plays so often, and Polly has drilled them, that they'll know just how to go to work, and it will please Polly. Oh, yes, do let us have that," she cried, beginning to wax quite enthusiastic.

"It will please them too," said the little man, not withdrawing his gaze.

"Yes, it will please them," said Charlotte, after a minute, "and I will run over in the morning and ask them."

"That's good!" cried Dr. Fisher, bringing his hands together with a joyful clap; and getting out of his chair he began to skip up and down like a boy. "And let Amy Loughead do the piano music, do; that will please Polly to see how the child has gone ahead. I can't hardly believe Miss Salisbury; she tells me the chit practices every minute she can save from other things. Be sure to have her asked, Charlotte, child."

"I will ask Amy," promised Charlotte, with a pang at the thought of the delight over Jack Loughead's handsome face at her invitation.

"And you are to sing," cried the little doctor jubilantly. "Now we are all capitally fixed. It takes you and me to get up celebrations, doesn't it?" and he stood as tall as he could and beamed at her. "I'd go over as early as I could, Charlotte," he advised, "and tell those girls, because you know a week isn't much to get ready in."

"I will," said Charlotte, "go the very first thing after breakfast."

And after breakfast, the next morning, she tied her hat on, and not trusting herself to think of her expedition, actually ran down the long carriage drive to the avenue—then walking at her best pace, she stood before Alexia Rhys' door and rang the bell.

"There, now, I can't go back," she said to herself, and in a minute or two she was in the reception room, and Alexia Rhys was running over the stairs and standing with a puzzled expression on her face, before her.

"Oh, my goodness me—oh, oh!" exclaimed Alexia, with a little laugh. "Is this you, Miss Chatterton?"

"Yes," said Charlotte Chatterton, "I came to ask if you would get up something nice to celebrate the home-coming of all the family from Brierly; and Mr. Whitney's family are to come too, next week. Will you, Miss Rhys?"

"Well, I never!" cried Alexia Rhys, sinking into the first chair she could find. "You want me—I shouldn't think you would," she added truthfully.

"I didn't at first," said Charlotte Chatterton, "but I do now, Miss Rhys—oh! very much, you and Miss Harrison, and all those girls—you can get up something beautiful; and Dr. Fisher and I don't in the least know how, and we want you to do it." Then she sat quite still.

"Well, I declare!" cried Alexia Rhys, unable to find another word. Then she looked out of the window. "Oh, here's Clem," and, rushing out, Charlotte could hear a whispered consultation with, "Did you ever?" and "I'm awfully ashamed," while Clem's voice said, "So am I."

"Well, come in," said Alexia audibly at last, dragging Clem after her into the reception room, "we've got to do what's right now, any way."

"I'm awfully ashamed, Miss Chatterton," said Clem Forsythe, going straight to Charlotte's chair and putting out her hand; "we girls haven't been right to you since you came, and I, for one, want to ask your pardon."

"Dear me, so do I," cried Alexia, crowding in between with an eager hand stretched out, "but what good will that do—we said things, at least I did the most. Oh, my hateful tongue!"

"If you'll only take hold and make a nice celebration for Polly and all the others, that will be all I'd want," said Charlotte. "Thank you, you are so good," she brought up happily.

"And then we'll do something for you some time," declared Alexia, "all for yourself, won't we, Clem—something perfectly elegantly splendid?"



CHAPTER XX.

STRAIGHTENING OUT AFFAIRS.

Two days after, old Mr. King was walking over the college campus, bound for Joel's and David's room in the "Old Brick Dormitory."

"I am glad I sent Jasper ahead to the hotel; I much rather pop in on the boys by myself," soliloquized the old gentleman in great satisfaction. "Ah, here it is," beginning to mount the stairs.

"Come in," yelled a voice, as he rapped with his walking-stick on the door of No. 19, "and don't make such a piece of work breaking the door down—oh, beg pardon!" as Mr. King obeyed the order.

A tall figure sprawled in the biggest chair, his long legs carried up to the mantel, where his boots neatly reposed; while a cloud of smoke filling the room, made Mr. King cough violently in spite of himself.

"'Tis a nasty air," said the tall young man, getting his legs down in haste from the mantel, and himself out of the chair, though with much difficulty; "take a glass of water, sir," hobbling over to a side table, and pouring one out, to work his way with it to old Mr. King.

"Thank you," said the old gentleman, when he could speak, and accepting it quickly, "you say truly, the air is beastly," glancing around the room in displeasure at the plentiful signs of its inmates' idea of having a good time at college. "Are Joel and David Pepper soon to be in?" As he spoke, he lifted up the cover of a French novel thrown on the lounge near him, and dropped it quickly as he read the title.

"Hey? oh! I see—a little mistake," exclaimed the tall youth, going unsteadily back to his chair. "Their room is 19, in the extension. I am Robert Bingley, sir."

"I'm very glad," cried old Mr. King heartily, "for I don't mind telling you, my young friend, that I shouldn't want Joel's and David's room to look like this."

"I don't blame you in the least, sir," said Bingley, nowise abashed, "but you needn't worry, for the Peppers aren't my kind. You must be Grandfather King?" he added.

"Yes, I am," said old Mr. King, straightening up, and throwing back his white hair with a proud gesture. "So you've heard about me?" he asked, in a gratified way.

"I should rather think we had," said Bingley, "why, all of us know about you, sir." Here he got out of his chair again. "You won't care to, after you know all, but I should like to shake hands with you, sir."

"Most certainly," responded the old gentleman heartily, "although your room isn't to your credit." Thereupon he bestowed a courtly hand-shake upon the young man, with the utmost cordiality, making Bingley, who seemed to have a good deal of trouble with his legs, to retreat to his chair in a high state of satisfaction.

"It was mean of me to ask you such a favor, sir," said Bingley, gazing up at the ceiling, "before I had told you all, but I couldn't help it, some way, and I knew you wouldn't touch my hand after you'd heard. Well, I was one of a gang who went to Joe Pepper's room last week for the purpose of lamming him."

"You went to Joe Pepper's room for the purpose of lamming him?" repeated old Mr. King, darting out of his chair.

"Yes, sir"—Bingley still kept his gaze glued to the ceiling—"but we didn't do it, though; Joe lammed us."

"Oh!"

"So the rest of the gang are going for him to-night; I'm not able to," said Bingley, trying to appear careless.

"Joel to be in such business—how could he!" fumed old Mr. King. "A gentleman—and I thought so much of his turning out well. It will kill his mother—oh, how could he?" turning fiercely on Bingley.

"See here, now," cried that individual, tearing his gaze from the ceiling, to send a sharp glance at the white-haired old gentleman, "Joe is all right; straight as a brick. You can bet your money on that, sir."

"Oh—oh!" cried Mr. King, more and more horrified, "is this what you all come to college for? I should consider, sir," very sternly, "it a place to keep up the dignity of one's family in, and that of such a venerable institution," waving both shapely hands to include the entire pile of buildings by which they were surrounded.

Bingley gave vent to an uncontrollable laugh. "Beg pardon, sir, but the dignity isn't worth a rush. We are in the old hole, and all we look out for is to have a good time, and scrape through."

"Old hole—and scrape through! Oh, dear—oh, dear!" groaned old Mr. King.

"That's what our set do," said Bingley, to give him time to recover, "Joe and Davina—ah, I mean David—don't train in our crowd; the other one, Whitney"—

"Don't tell me that he does," interrupted Percy's grandfather sharply. "It wouldn't be possible."

"No, he doesn't affect us," said Bingley coolly, "it's all he can do to take care of those eyeglasses of his; and he'd muss his clothes. Whitney is something of a softy, sir."

Old Mr. King drew a long breath of relief. But he looked so troubled, that Bingley for the life of him couldn't keep up his assumed carelessness.

"Sit down again, do, sir," he begged involuntarily, "and I will tell you all about it," and Mr. King, resuming his chair, presently had a graphic account of Joel's course in college, with a description of the trouble in his room, till the whole thing was laid bare.

"How I wish I had been here to see my boy," exclaimed the old gentleman, with sparkling eyes; "I might have helped him a bit." He stretched out a handsome fist and looked at it as admiringly as any college athlete could view his own. "Well," dropping his arm, "I am interrupting you, Mr."—groping for the name.

"Bingley, sir."

"Ah, yes; Bingley. Well, Mr. Bingley, pray go on. Did you not say that another attempt was to be made on my grandson?"

Bingley nodded. "To-night after he comes from the Association rooms," he added.

"We shall see—we shall see," exclaimed the old gentleman drily, in a manner that delighted Bingley and made him tingle all over to "be in at the death" himself.

"Dobbs has planned it to"—

"Dobbs?" interrupted the old gentleman sharply, "what family? Not the Ingoldsby Dobbs, I trust"—

"This chap's name is Ingoldsby Dobbs," said Bingley; "he's a high-flyer, I tell you! Lives up to his name, I suppose he thinks."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," mourned Mr. King; "I have known his father ever since we were boys; he's capital stock. Well, go on, Mr. Bingley, and let me know what this young rascal is up to," he added, with extreme irritation.

"He is going to have his men close in on Joe in the middle of the park. Pepper often comes that way to 'Old Brick'—short, you know, for 'Old Brick Dormitory'—with a poor miserable cuss—excuse me, sir—he's trying to get up on to sober legs. There are twenty fellows pledged to do the job, I've found out."

Bingley didn't think it worth while to mention how the plan was discovered, nor that heavy vengeance was vowed upon his head if he divulged it.

"I gave it away to Whitney. I couldn't get at Davi—er, Dave, to see if it wasn't possible to keep Joe away from that meeting."

"It would come some time—it better be to-night," said the old gentleman briefly. "Well, is that all?"

"Yes, sir; only that they are to toss a cloak over Joe's head, and carry him off for a little initiation fun."

"Ah!" Old Mr. King sat quite straight. "Thank you, Mr. Bingley," he said, getting out of his chair. He didn't offer to shake hands, and Bingley, though pretending not to notice any omission of that sort, felt considerably crest-fallen about it.

The moment the door was shut and he heard Mr. King go down the stairs, Robert Bingley ran his fingers through his hair, giving a savage pull at the innocent locks.

"Curse my luck!" he growled, taking out the angry fingers to shake them at his legs, "tied here by these two beggars, and he thinks that I'm sneaking out of standing up for Joe!"

Old Mr. King fumed to himself all the way down the stairs, becoming more angry with each step. When he reached the lower hall he turned and passed through the building instead of going out, and meeting a young collegian on a run, asked, "Have the goodness to tell me, sir, does Mr. Ingoldsby Dobbs room in this building?"

"No. 23-4-5 in the extension," said the undergraduate, not slackening speed, and pointing the direction. So the old gentleman climbed the staircase to the wing, and presently rapped on the door marked 23.

Uproarious shouts of laughter greeted him as he opened the door in response to a loud "Come in!" The noise stopped as suddenly as it was possible for the inmates of the room to check it when they saw the visitor, but not before "We'll season Pepper well and make the deacon howl!" came distinctly to his ears.

"Good afternoon, young gentlemen," said old Mr. King, bowing his white head; and holding his hat in his hand, he advanced to the table, around which sat six or eight of them. "I beg of you not to go," as some of them made a sudden movement to leave; "I should like to see you all, though I called especially upon Mr. Ingoldsby Dobbs."

A tall, wiry youth with sallow face and high-bred nose, disentangled himself from the group and came forward. "I don't remember where I have met you, sir," he said, yet extending his hand, with his best manner on.

"Aristocratic old party," whispered one man to his neighbor, "Dobbsey needn't be afraid to claim him."

"I am very thankful to say I never have met you before, young man," observed Mr. King coolly, not seeing the slender hand waiting for his, "your father honors me with his friendship. This may tell you who I am," and he threw a card upon the table.

Young Dobbs' sallow face turned a shade paler as he picked up the card and read it.

"Glad to see you—sit down, won't you?" he mumbled, dragging up a comfortable chair. "Any friend of father's is welcome here," he went on awkwardly, while the rest of the men stared at him, one of them exclaiming under his breath, "First time Dobbs' cheek deserted him, I'll wager."

The old gentleman looked first into Ingoldsby Dobbs' thin face, then surveyed them all quite leisurely. "I understand you paid my grandson, Joel Pepper, a call a short time since, when instead of abusing him, some of you got your deserts."

The men started, and angry exclamations went around the room: "He's turned coward, the mean sneak! We'll pay him up!" and remarks of a like nature being quite audible.

Old Mr. King turned on them. "Silence!" he commanded. "My grandson Joel doesn't know I am here. I heard the story since my arrival. If any one says one word against him, I'll cane him from the top of the stairs to the bottom," and he looked as if he could do it.

"'Twas Bingley, then," said Dobbs sullenly.

The old gentleman completely ignored him, addressing his words to the crowd. "There are four men in this class who are going to be protected from your insults. Those are my three grandsons and Mr. Robert Bingley; and this is to be done without appealing to the college authorities either. That puts a stop to your fine plan, Mr. Dobbs," at last looking at him, "and any other idea of the same sort your fertile brain may chance to think up. The first intimation of any hostility, and your father and the fathers of these men here with you," waving his hand at them all, "and of the others in this interesting plan, will be informed, and you will be dealt with exactly like any other disturber of the peace—villains in college or out of it ought to be served to the same punishment, in my opinion. Now have any of you remarks to make?"

It was so like Joel's invitation to "Come on and have it out now," that not a single man of them stirred.

"Then I will have the pleasure of bidding you good-by," said Mr. King, and the next moment he was outside of No. 23, while perfect silence reigned within.

Polly came slowly down Mrs. Higby's front stairs and looked at Phronsie standing at the further end of the entry.

"What's the matter, Phronsie?" at last she asked.

For the first time in her life Phronsie seemed unable to answer Polly, and she stood quite still, her gaze fastened on the big-flowered muslin curtain that swung back and forth in the breeze that came through the open window.

"Now, Phronsie," said Polly very decidedly, and going up to her, "you must tell me what the matter is."

"I can't," said Phronsie, in a low tone, "don't ask me, Polly."

"Can't tell me everything?" cried Polly. "Dear me, what nonsense, Phronsie. Come now, begin, there's a dear."

"But I am not to tell," persisted Phronsie, shaking her head. Then she drew a long breath, and looked as if she were going to cry.

"Who has been telling you things?" cried Polly, her brown eyes flashing, "that you are not to tell? It is Mrs. Cabot. I know it is, for there is no one else here who would do it."

"Don't ask me," pleaded Phronsie in great distress, and clutching Polly's gown. "Oh, don't say anything more about it, Polly."

"Indeed I shall," declared Polly. "No one has a right to command you in this way, and I shall just speak to Mrs. Cabot about it."

"Oh, no, no," protested Phronsie, huddling up closer to Polly in dismay; "please, Polly, don't say anything to her about it, please"

"Mamsie wouldn't ever allow you to be annoyed about anything," said Polly, with increasing irritation, "and if Mrs. Cabot has said anything to you, Phronsie, to make you feel badly, why, I must know it. Don't you see, child, that I really ought to be told?"

Phronsie folded her hands tightly together, trying to keep them quiet, and her cheeks turned so very white that Polly hastened to put her well arm around her, saying quickly, "There, there, child, you needn't tell me now if you don't want to. Wait a bit."

"I had rather tell it now," said Phronsie, "but oh, I do wish that Grandpapa was here," she added sadly.

"Whatever can have been said to you, Phronsie?" exclaimed Polly in dismay. "You frighten me, child. Do tell me at once what it was."

"Jasper isn't going to be at Mr. Marlowe's any more," said Phronsie, with distinctness.

"Jasper isn't going to be at Mr. Marlowe's any more." repeated Polly wildly, and holding Phronsie so closely that she winced. "Oh, what do you mean! who has told you such nonsense?"

"Mrs. Cabot," said Phronsie; "she told me this morning—and I was not to tell you, Polly. But I did not promise not to. Indeed I didn't."

"What perfect nonsense!" exclaimed Polly, recovering herself, and trying to laugh, "well, Phronsie, child, didn't you know better than to believe any story that Mrs. Cabot might tell? How in the world could she know of Jasper's affairs, pray tell?" and she laughed again, this time quite gaily.

"Ah, but," said Phronsie, shaking her head, "she had a letter from Mr. Cabot; it came in this morning's mail; she opened it and said out loud this dreadful thing about Jasper, and then she saw me, and she said I was not to tell you."

Polly dropped Phronsie's arm and rushed down the hall.

"Where are you going?" cried Phronsie, hurrying after—"Oh, Polly!"

"I am going to make Mrs. Cabot tell me everything she knows," said Polly hoarsely, and not looking back; "she shall let me have every syllable. It can't be true!" She threw wide the door of Mrs. Higby's "keeping-room" where that lady was engaged in putting a patch on the chintz-covered sofa, and talking gossip with a neighbor at the same time.

"I thought as this was a-going so fast, Mr. Higby sets it out so, and we were all so comfortable to-day, I'd get at it kinder early," said Mrs. Higby apologetically; "anything I can do, Miss Polly?" she asked, flying away from her patch, and dropping her scissors on the floor.

"No," said Polly, turning back hastily. "Never mind, Mrs. Higby."

"Now 'twas something you wanted me for," cried Mrs. Higby, ambling toward the door, "I ain't a mite busy, Miss Polly; that old patch can wait. La! I can tell Mr. Higby to set on the other end till I get time to attend to it. What was it, Miss Polly?"

Polly turned back, Mrs. Higby's tone was so full of entreaty. "Oh, nothing, only if it isn't too much trouble, would you ask Mrs. Cabot to come down stairs a moment, I want to see her."

"Oh, cert'in," cried Mrs. Higby, ambling off toward the stairs. And presently Mrs. Cabot in a pink morning gown came down the hall toward Polly, and put both arms around her.



"What is it, dear?" she asked caressingly.

"Come out of doors," begged Polly, "I can't breathe here. Come, Mrs. Cabot."

And Mrs. Cabot, her arms still around Polly, was drawn out to the old porch, Phronsie following. Then Polly shook herself free.

"Is it true?" she began—"I made Phronsie tell me—that Jasper," she caught her breath, but went on again hurriedly, "has left Mr. Marlowe?"

"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Cabot in consternation, "what shall I do? Yes; but I wasn't to tell you; Mr. King is coming back. Do wait, Polly, and ask him about it."

"I shall not wait," declared Polly passionately, facing her. "Tell me all you know, Mrs. Cabot; every single word."

"I don't know a thing about it," cried Mrs. Cabot in a frightened way, "only Mr. Cabot writes that Mr. King has made Jasper leave Mr. Marlowe. That's all I know about it, Polly," she added desperately, "and I wish Mr. Cabot had been asleep before he wrote it. Phronsie, oh! get a glass of water; be quick, child!" as Polly sank down on the old stone floor of the porch.



CHAPTER XXI.

POLLY TRIES TO HELP JASPER.

"I think it was a mean shame," began Dick wrathfully.

"Dick—Dick!" exclaimed his mother gently.

Mr. Whitney tapped his knee with a letter he had just placed within its envelope, then threw it on the table. "It's the best job I ever did," he cried jubilantly, "to get Jasper out of that business."

Dick sent his two hands deep within their pockets. "Oh! how can you say so?" he cried.

"And how can you question what your father does?" exclaimed Mrs. Whitney. "Why, that isn't like you, Dick!" with a face full of reproach.

"Oh! let the boy say what he wants to, Marian," broke in her husband easily. "So, Dicky, my lad, you don't think I did just the right thing for Jasper—eh?"

He leaned back in his chair, and surveyed his young son with a twinkle in his eye.

"No, I don't," declared Dick, beginning to rage up and down the room on young indignant feet. "I say it's mean to meddle with a fellow's business. I wouldn't stand it!" he added stoutly.

Mr. Whitney laughed long and loud, despite his wife's shocked, "Dicky, don't, dear!"

"Well, if I didn't know that in a year's time Jasper will come to me and say, 'I thank you!' I should never have gone through with the job in the world," said his father, when he came out of his amusement. "It isn't the pleasantest piece of work a man could select, 'to meddle,' as you call it, with another's affairs."

"Jasper never will thank you in the world—never!" exclaimed Dick, cramming his irritated hands deeper in their pockets, and turning on his father.

"You see," said his father, nodding easily.

"And you see, papa," cried Dick, turning hastily in front of him, looking so exactly like his father that Mrs. Whitney forgot to chide, in admiring them both.

"And I think it's too bad," went on Dick. "Everybody pitches into Jasper, and wants him to do things; and Grandpapa is always picking at him. I'd—I'd fight—sometimes," he added.

"Softly—softly there, my boy," said Mr. Whitney; "you'll have plenty of practice for all your fighting powers by and by; a fourteen-year-old chap doesn't know everything."

"Well, I know one thing," declared Dick, more positively, "Grandpapa has always been meddling with Jasper, and you know it, papa."

"That's because he expects great things from Jasper, and that he will hold up the King name; we all do," replied his father.

Dick turned on an impatient heel. "And so he would have done, if you'd let him be a publisher," he declared.

His father laughed again, and leaned out of his chair to pinch his son's ear, but Dick, resenting this indignity, retreated to a safe position, declaring, "And I'm going to be one when I'm through college—so!"



"Mr. King's a-coming down the road, and Mr. Jasper!" screamed Mrs. Higby, coming out suddenly to the porch. "I see 'em from the keepin'-room window. My! what's the matter with Miss Polly?"

"Nothing," said Polly, opening her eyes; "that is, not much," and sitting up straight. "Are Grandpapa and Jasper really coming?" she asked.

"Dear me, Polly," exclaimed Mrs. Cabot, before Mrs. Higby could answer, and putting shaking hands on Polly's shoulders, "I never was so frightened in my life! I thought your arm was worse—and you so near well! O, dear! are you sure you are right?" peering around into her face. "Here comes Phronsie with the water—that's good!"

Polly took the glass and smiled up reassuringly into Phronsie's troubled face. "Oh! how good that is, Phronsie," she cried. "There now, I'm all right. Don't let Grandpapa or Jasper know," and she sprang to her feet, while Mrs. Higby hurried off to see if her preparations for dinner were all right, now that Mr. King had come back a day sooner than he wrote he intended.

"Phronsie, you go and meet them; do, dear," begged Polly; and as Phronsie ran off obediently, Polly walked up and down the porch with hasty steps, holding her hands as tightly locked together as the injured arm would allow. "Oh! if I only had time to think—but I ought to try, even if I don't say just exactly the right words, for Mr. Marlowe may not be able to take him back if I wait," and then Grandpapa came hurrying out with, "Where's Polly?" and she was kissed and her cheeks patted—he not seeming to notice anything amiss in her—he was so glad to get back; and through it all, Polly saw only Jasper's face, and, although everything seemed to turn around before her, she made up her mind that she would tell Grandpapa just what she thought, and beg him to change his mind, the very first instant she could.

And so, before the first greetings of the homecoming were fairly over, Polly, afraid her courage would give out if she waited a moment longer, put her hand on Mr. King's arm. "What is it, dear?" asked the old gentleman, busy with Phronsie, who hung around his neck, while she tried to tell him everything that had happened during his absence; and he peered over her shoulder into Polly's face.

"Grandpapa," cried Polly in a tremor, "could you let me talk to you a little just now? Please, Grandpapa."

"Well, yes, dear, after Phronsie has"—

"Oh! Phronsie will wait," cried Polly, guilty of interrupting; "I know she will."

For the first time in her life, Phronsie said rebelliously, "Oh! I don't want to wait, Polly. Dear Grandpapa has just got home, and I must tell him things."

"So you shall, Phronsie," declared old Mr. King, drawing her off beyond Polly's reach. "There, now you and I will get into this quiet corner," and he sat down and drew Phronsie to his knee. "Now, Pet, so you are glad to get your old Grandpapa home, eh?"

Polly, in an agony at being misunderstood, followed, and without stopping to think, she threw her arms around Phronsie and cried, "O, Phronsie! do trust me, dear, and let Grandpapa go. I must see him now!"

Mr. King gave Polly's burning cheeks a keen glance, then he set Phronsie on the floor abruptly. "Phronsie, see, dear, Polly really needs me. Come, child," and he gathered up Polly's hand into his own, and marched out of the room with her.

"Suppose we go in here," said the old gentleman, "and have our talk," unceremoniously opening the door of Mrs. Higby's best room as he spoke; "nobody is likely to disturb us here."

Polly, not caring where she went, but with the words she must speak weighing heavily on her mind, followed him unsteadily into the parlor, and while he threw open a blind or two to light up the gloom that usually hung over Mrs. Higby's best room, she busied herself trying to think how she should begin.

"There, now, my dear," said Mr. King, coming up to her, and drawing her off to a big haircloth sofa, standing stiffly against the wall, "we will sit down here, and then we can go over it comfortably together and settle what is on your mind," he added, feeling immensely gratified at the impending confidence.

"Grandpapa," cried Polly in desperation, and springing from the sofa, where he had placed her by his side, to stand in front of him, "I don't know where to begin. Oh! do help me." She clasped her hands, and stood the picture of distress, unable to say another word.

"Why, how can I help you to tell me, child," cried old Mr. King in astonishment, "when I don't know in the least what it is you want to say?"

"Oh! I know it," cried Polly, twisting her hands, unable to hold them quite still. "O, dear! what shall I do? Grandpapa, it's just"—

"Well, what, my dear?" asked the old gentleman, and taking one of her hands encouragingly. "Are you afraid of me? Why, Polly!"

Polly started at his tone of reproach, and threw her well arm around his neck, exactly as Phronsie would have done, which so pleased the old gentleman that it was easier for her to begin again to tell him what was on her mind. But when she had gotten as far as "It's just this"—she stopped again.

"Well, now, Polly," said Mr. King, sitting straight on the sofa, with displeasure," I must say, I am surprised at you. I should never think this was you, Polly, never in all the world," which so unnerved her, that she plunged at once into what she had set herself to do, saying the most dreadful thing that was possible.

"O, Grandpapa!" she cried, "do you think it can be right to take Jasper away from his work?"

"Hoity-toity! Well, I must say, Polly," exclaimed the old gentleman in the greatest displeasure, and rising abruptly from the sofa, brushing her aside as he did so, "that I never have been so surprised in my life, as to have you come to teach me my duty. Right? Of course it is—it must be, if I wish it. I have always looked out for Jasper's good," with that he walked up and down the parlor, fuming at every step, and looking so very dreadful, that Polly, rooted to the spot, had only to stand still, and watch him in despair.

"If you could have seen Jasper, the way he was when I found him," said Mr. King, tired at last of vituperating, and coming up to Polly sternly, "you would be glad to have me get him out of the wretched business. It smelt so of trade, and everybody was grossly familiar; while that Mr. Marlowe—I have no words for him, Polly. He insulted me."

"Oh!—oh!" cried Polly, with clasped hands and flaming cheeks. "How could he, Grandpapa? Jasper has always said he was such a gentleman."

"Jasper's ideas of what a gentleman should be, and mine, are very different," exploded the old gentleman, beginning to walk up and down the parlor again. "I tell you, Polly, that my boy is sadly changed since he went into that contemptible trade."

"But Jasper loves his work," mourned Polly, her color dying down.

"Loves his work? Well, he shouldn't," cried Mr. King in extreme irritation. "It's no sort of a work for him to love, brought up as he has been. A profession is the only thing for him. Now he studies law"—

"O, Grandpapa!" cried Polly, quite white now, and she precipitated herself in front of the old gentleman's angry feet, "Jasper just hates the law. I know, for he has often said so; and if you do fasten him down all his life to what he don't like, and make him be a lawyer, it will kill him. He'll do it, Grandpapa"—Polly rushed on, regardless of the lightning gleam of anger in the sharp eyes above her; and, although she knew that after this she should never be the same Polly to him as of old, she kept on steadily—"because you want him to; he'll do anything to please you, and make you happy, Grandpapa, and he won't say anything, but it will kill him; it surely will, for he loves his work with Mr. Marlowe so." Then Polly stopped, aghast at the effect of her words.

"And what am I to do now, pray, to please you?" asked old Mr. King, and drawing off to look at her quite coldly.

"Oh! nothing to please me," cried poor Polly; "only for Jasper. Do let him go back to Mr. Marlowe, Grandpapa."

"He shall never go back to Mr. Marlowe with my consent," declared the old gentleman stiffly, his anger rising again, "and you have displeased me very much, Polly Pepper, by all this. Now you may go; and remember, not another word about Jasper and his work. I will arrange everything concerning him without interference." And Polly, not knowing how crept out of Mrs. Higby's parlor, and shut the door.



"Polly!" somebody called, as she hurried on unsteady feet over the stairs to her own little room that she had begged under the farmhouse eaves. But she didn't even answer, only rushed on, and locked the door behind her. Then she threw herself on her knees by the bed, and buried her face in her hands. This was worse than the day so long ago when she sat in the old rocking-chair in the little brown house, with eyes bound closely to shut out all outside things; and all of them had been afraid she was going to be blind. For now she felt sure that she had spoiled whatever chance there might have been for Jasper. "Oh! why did I speak—why did I?" she cried, over and over in her distress, as she buried her face deeper yet in Mrs. Higby's gay patch bedquilt.

After a while—Polly never could tell how long she had staid there—somebody rapped at the door. It was Phronsie; and she cried in a grieved little voice, "Polly, are you here? I've been under the apple-trees—and just everywhere for you. Do let me in."

"I can't now, Pet," cried Polly, trying not to let her voice sound choked with tears; "you run away, dear; Polly will let you in by and by."

"Are you sick, Polly?" cried Phronsie anxiously, and kneeling down to put her mouth to the keyhole.

"No, not a bit," said Polly hastily, and trying to speak cheerfully.

"Really, Polly?"

"Really and truly, Phronsie; there, run away, dear, if you love me."

Phronsie, at this, unwillingly crept off, and still Polly knelt on, with the wild remorse tugging at her heart that she had been the one to injure Jasper's prospects for life.

And then the dinner-bell rang, and Polly, who was never known to be late at a meal, heard Mrs. Higby come out into the hall again, and shake the big bell till it seemed to fill the whole farmhouse with its noise.

"Oh! I can't go down—I can't!" moaned poor Polly to herself, quite lost to everything but the dreadful distress at the mischief she had wrought. And then Phronsie came again, this time imploring, with tears—for Polly felt quite sure that she could hear her crying—that Polly would only open the door, "and let me see you just once, Polly!"

And even Mrs. Cabot came, and Polly thought she should go wild to have her stand outside there and beg and insist that Polly should come down to them all.



"I don't want any dinner," said Polly over and over. "I just must be alone a little while," and at last she spoke quickly to Mrs. Cabot's persistent pleadings, "Have the goodness, Mrs. Cabot, not to call me again." And then she was sorry the minute she had spoken the words, and she opened her door a little crack to call after Mrs. Cabot, as she sailed downstairs in great displeasure, "Oh! do forgive me, dear Mrs. Cabot, for speaking so. I am very sorry, but I cannot come down just yet."

"I shall send you up your dinner, then," said Mrs. Cabot, only half appeased, and pausing on the stairs.

"No, no!" begged Polly, and she seemed so distressed at the mere thought, that Mrs. Cabot unwillingly let her have her way about it.

It was in the middle of the afternoon, and Polly, exhausted by weeping, had fallen asleep just where she was, on her knees by the bed, her head on the gay bedquilt, when a low knock on the door startled her and made her rub her eyes and listen.

"Polly," said a voice—it was Jasper's—"won't you undo the door? I want to speak to you."

"O, Jasper!" cried Polly, springing to her feet, and running over to the door, "I can't; don't ask me—not just yet."

"I won't ask you again," said Jasper, "if you don't wish it, Polly."

His voice showed his disappointment, and Polly, full of dismay at the trouble she had made for him, couldn't find it in her heart to cause him this new worry.

"You won't want to speak to me, Jasper," she cried, unlocking the door with trembling fingers, "when you know what I have done."

"What, Polly?" he cried, trying not to show how he felt at sight of the swollen eyelids and downcast face. Meanwhile he drew her out gently into the hall. "There, let us sit down here," pausing before the wide window-seat; "it's quiet here, and nobody will be likely to come here." He waited till Polly sat down, then made a place for himself beside her.

"Jasper," cried Polly, lifting her brown eyes, now filling with tears again, "you can't think what I've done. I've ruined your whole life for you!"

"How, Polly?" Jasper's face grew pale to his lips. "Oh! do tell me at once," yet he seemed to be afraid of what she was about to say.

"O, Jasper! I thought perhaps I could help you. I never knew till this morning, just before you came, that you had lost your place. Mrs. Cabot had a letter from her husband, and she told me. And I spoke to Grandpapa and begged him to let you go back, and, O, Jasper!" here Polly's tears, despite all her efforts to keep them back, fell in a shower, "you can't guess how dreadfully Grandpapa feels, and he says—oh! he says that you are to study law, and never, never go back to Mr. Marlowe."