"Now, the harsh way Miss Claire has toward Mr. Ronald! You'd think he had give himself dead away to her, an' was down on his knee-pans humble as a 'Piscerpalian sayin' the Literny in Lent, grubbin' about among the dust she treads on, to touch the hem o' her garment. Whereas, in some way unbeknownst to me, an' prob'ly unbeknownst to him, he's touched her pride, which is why she's so up in arms, not meanin' his—worse luck! An' it would have all worked out right in the end, an' will yet, if this new party that Radcliffe mentioned ain't Mr. Buttinsky, an' she don't foller the dictates of her art an' flirt with him too outrageous, or else marry him to spite herself, which is what I mean to pervent if I can, but which, of course, it may be I can't."



CHAPTER XIV

"Frank," said Mrs. Sherman one Sunday morning, some weeks later, stopping her brother on his way to the door, "can you spare me a few moments? I've something very important I want to discuss with you. I want you to help me with suggestions and advice in a matter that very closely concerns some one in whom I'm greatly interested."

Mr. Ronald paused. "Meaning?" he suggested.

"I don't know that I ought to tell you. You see, it's—it's confidential."

"Suggestions and advice are foolish things to give, Catherine. They are seldom taken, never thanked for."

"Well, in this case mine have been actually solicited. And I feel I ought to do something, because, in a way, I'm more or less responsible for the—the imbroglio."

Slipping her hand through his arm, she led him back into the library.

"You see, it's this way. Perhaps, after all, it will be better, simpler, if I don't try to beat about the bush. Amy Pelham has been terribly devoted to Mr. Van Brandt for ever so long—oh, quite six months. And he has been rather attentive, though I can't say he struck me as very much in love. You know she asked me out to Tuxedo not long ago. She wanted me to watch him and tell her if I thought he was serious. Well, I watched him, but I couldn't say I thought he was serious. However, you never can tell. Men are so extraordinary! They sometimes masquerade so, their own mothers wouldn't know them."

"Or their sisters."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing worth repeating. Go on with your story."

"Well, then, one evening she brought him here, you remember. I'd asked him to come, when I was in Tuxedo, and he evidently wanted to do so, for he proposed to Amy that she bring him. Of course, I'd no idea he and Miss Lang had ever met before, and when I innocently ordered her in, I did it simply because Radcliffe was refractory and refused to come without her, and I couldn't have a scene before guests."

"Well?"

"I didn't know Mr. Van Brandt came from Grand Rapids. How should I? One never thinks of those little, provincial towns as having any society."

"You dear insular, insolent New Yorker."

"Well, you may jeer as much as you like, but that's the way one feels. I didn't know that, as Martha says, he was 'formerly born' in Michigan. I just took him for granted, as one does people one meets in our best houses. He's evidently of good stock, he has money (not a fortune, perhaps, but enough), he's handsome, and he's seen everywhere with the smartest people in town."

"Well?"

"Well, naturally Amy doesn't want to lose him, especially as she's really awfully fond of him and he is uncommonly attractive, you know."

"Well?"

"It looks as if that one glimpse of Miss Lang had been enough to upset everything for Amy. He's hardly been there since."

"And what does she propose to do about it?"

"She doesn't know what to do about it. That's where my suggestions and advice are to come in."

"I see."

"Of course, we can't be certain, but from what Bob Van Brandt has dropped and from what Amy has been able to gather from other sources, from people who knew Miss Lang and him in their native burg, he was attached to her when she was no more than a kiddie. Then, when they grew up, he came East and she went abroad, and they lost sight of each other. But, as I say, that one glimpse of her was enough to ignite the old flame. You must have seen yourself how frankly, openly he showed his feeling that night."

"Well?"

"What is one to do about it?"

"Do about what?"

"Why—the whole thing! Don't you see, I'm responsible in a way. If I hadn't called Miss Lang in, Bob Van Brandt wouldn't have known she was here, and then he would have kept on with Amy. Now he's dropped her it's up to me to make it up to her somehow."

"It's up to you to make what up to Amy?"

"How dense you are! Why, the loss of Bob Van Brandt."

"But if she didn't have him, how could she lose him?"

"She didn't exactly have him, but she had a fighting chance."

"And she wants to fight?"

"I think she'd be willing to fight, if she saw her way to winning out."

"Winning out against Miss Lang?"

"Yes, if you want to put it so brutally."

"I see you are assuming that Miss Lang is keen about Van Brandt."

"Would you wonder if she were? It would be her salvation. Of course, I don't feel about her any longer as I did once. I know now she's a lady, but the fact of her poverty remains. If she married Bob Van Brandt, she'd be comfortably settled. She'd have ease and position and, oh, of course she'll marry him if he asks her."

"So the whole thing resolves itself down to—"

"To this—if one could only devise a way to prevent his asking her."

"Am I mistaken, or did I hear you say something about putting it brutally, a few moments ago."

"Well, I know it sounds rather horrid, but a desperate case needs desperate medicine."

"Catherine, you have asked for suggestions and advice. My suggestion to Miss Pelham is that she gracefully step down and out. My advice to you is that you resist the temptation to meddle. If Mr. Van Brandt wishes to ask Miss Lang to marry him, he has a man's right to do so. If Miss Lang wishes to marry Mr. Van Brandt after he has asked her, she has a woman's right to do so. Any interference whatsoever would be intolerable. You can take my advice or leave it. But if you leave it, if you attempt to mix in, you will regret it, for you will not be honorably playing the game."

Mrs. Sherman's lips tightened. "That's all very well," she broke out impatiently. "That's the sort of advice men always give to women, and never act on themselves. It's not the masculine way to sit calmly by and let another carry off what one wants. If a man cares, he fights for his rights. It's only when he isn't interested that he's passive and speaks of honorably playing the game. All's fair in love and war! If you were in Amy's place—if the cases were reversed—and you saw something you'd set your heart on being deliberately taken away from you, I fancy you wouldn't gracefully step down and out. At least I don't see you doing it, in my mind's eye, Horatio!"

"Ah, but you miss the point! There's a great difference between claiming one's own and struggling to get possession of something that is lawfully another's. If I were in Miss Pelham's place, and were sure the one I loved belonged to me by divine right, I'd have her—I'd have her in spite of the devil and all his works. But the thing would be to be sure. And one couldn't be sure so long as another claimant hadn't had his chance to be thrown down. When he'd had his chance, and the decks were cleared—then—!"

"Goodness, Frank! I'd no idea you could be so intense. And I'll confess I've never given you credit for so much imagination. You've been talking of what you'd do in Amy's place quite as if you actually felt it. Your performance of the determined lover is really most convincing."

Francis Ronald smiled. "A man who's succeeded in convincing a woman has not lived in vain," he said. "Well, I must be off, Catherine. Good luck to you and to Miss Pelham—but bad luck if either of you dares stick her mischievous finger in other people's pies."

He strode out of the room and the house.

Meanwhile, Martha, industriously engaged in brushing Miss Lang's hair, was gradually, delicately feeling her way toward what was, in reality, the same subject.

"Well, of course, you can have Cora if you want her. She'll be only too glad o' the ride, but do you think—now do you reelly think it's advisable to lug a third party along when it's clear as dish-water he wants you alone by himself an' yourself? It's this way with men. If they set out to do a thing, they gener'ly do it. But believe me, if you put impederments in their way, they'll shoor do it, an' then some. Now all them flowers an' candy that's been comin' here lately so reg'ler, they means business on Mr. Van Brandt's part if pleasure on yours. He's strewin' your path with roses an' pavin' it with Huyler's chocolates, so's some day in the near future he can come marchin' along it, an' walk straight up to the captain's office an' hand in his applercation for the vacancy. Now, the question is as plain as the nose on your face. Do you want him to do it first or do you want him to do it last? It's up to you to decide the time, but you can betcher life it's goin' to be some time, Cora or no Cora, ohne oder mit as our Dutch friend acrost the hall says."

Claire's reflection in the mirror she sat facing, showed a pair of sadly troubled eyes.

"O, it's very puzzling, Martha," she said. "Somehow, life seems all topsy-turvy to me lately. So many things going wrong, so few right."

"Now what, if I may make so bold, is wrong with your gettin' a first-class offer from a well-off, good-lookin' gen'l'man-friend, that's been keepin' comp'ny with you, off an' on, as you might say, ever since you was a child, which shows that his heart's in the right place an' his intentions is honorable. You know, you mustn't let the percession get by you. Life's like standin' on the curbstone watching the parade—at least, that's how it seems to young folks. They hear the music an' they see the banners an' the floats an' they think it's goin' to be a continuous performance. After a while they've got so used to the band a-playin' an' the flags a-wavin' that it gets to be an old story, an' they think that's what it'll be right along, so they don't trouble to keep their eye peeled for the fella with the water-can, which he asked 'em to watch out for him. No, they argue he's good enough in his way, but—'Think o' the fella with the drum!' Or even, it might be, who knows?—the grand one with his mother's big black muff on his head, doin' stunts with his grandfather's gold-topped club, his grandpa havin' been a p'liceman with a pull in the ward. An' while they stand a-waitin' for all the grandjer they're expectin', suddenly it all goes past, an' they don't see nothin' but p'raps a milk-wagon bringin' up the rear, an' the ashfalt all strewed with rag-tag-an'-bobtail, an' there's nothin' doin' in their direction, except turn around an' go home. Now, what's the matter with Mr. Van Brandt? If you marry him you'll be all to the good. No worry about the rent, no pinchin' here an' plottin' there to keep the bills down. No goin' out by the day, rain or shine, traipsin' the street on your two feet when you're so dead tired you could lay down an' let the rest walk over you. Why, lookin' at it from any standpoint-of-view I can't see but it's a grand oppertoonity. An' you're fond of him, ain't you?"

"O, yes, I'm very fond of Mr. Van Brandt. But I'm fond of him as a friend. I couldn't—couldn't—couldn't ever marry him."

"What for you couldn't? It ain't as if you liked some other fella better! If you liked some other fella better, no matter how little you might think you'd ever get the refusal of'm, I'd say, stick to the reel article: don't be put of with substitoots. It ain't no use tryin' to fool your heart. You can monkey with your brain, an' make it believe all sorts of tommyrot, but your heart is dead on to you, an' when it once sets in hankerin' it means business."

Claire nodded unseeingly to her own reflection in the glass.

"Now my idea is," Martha continued, "my idea is, if you got somethin' loomin', why, don't hide your face an' play it isn't there. There ain't no use standin' on the ragged edge till every tooth in your head chatters with cold an' fright. You don't make nothin' by it. If you love a man like a friend or if you love a friend like a man, my advice is, take your seat in the chair, grip a-holt o' the arms, brace your feet, an'—let'er go, Gallagher! It'll be over in a minit, as the dentists say."

"But suppose you had something else on your heart. Something that had nothing to do with—with that sort of thing?" Claire asked.

"What sorter thing?"

"Why—love. Suppose you'd done something unworthy of you. Suppose the sense of having done it made you wretched, made you want to make others wretched? What would you do—then?"

"Now, my dear, don't you make no mistake. I ain't goin' to be drew into no blindman's grab-bag little game, not on your sweet life. I ain'ter goin' to risk havin' you hate me all the rest o' your nacherl life becoz, to be obligin' an' also to show what a smart boy am I, I give a verdick without all the everdence in. If you wanter tell me plain out what's frettin' you, I'll do my best accordin' to my lights, but otherwise—"

"Well—" began Claire, and then followed, haltingly, stumblingly, the story of her adventure in the closet.

"At first I felt nothing but the wound to my pride, the sting of what he—of what they said," she concluded. "But, after a little, I began to realize there was something else. I began to see what I had done. For, you know, I had deliberately listened. I needn't have listened. If I had put my hands over my ears, if I had crouched back, away from the door, and covered my head, I need not have overheard. But I pressed as close as I could to the panel, and hardly breathed, because I wanted not to miss a word. And I didn't miss a word. I heard what it was never meant I should hear, and—I'm nothing but a common—eavesdropper!"

"Now, what do you think of that?" observed Mrs. Slawson. "Now, what do you think of that?"

"I've tried once or twice to tell him—" continued Claire.

"Tell who? Tell Mr. Van Brandt?"

"No, Mr. Ronald."

"O! You see, when you speak o' he an' him it might mean almost any gen'l'man. But I'll try to remember you're always referrin' to Mr. Ronald."

"I've tried once or twice to tell him, for I can't bear to be untruthful. But, then, I remember I'm 'only the governess'—'the right person in the right place'—of so little account that—that he doesn't even know whether I'm pretty or not! And the words choke in my throat. I realize it wouldn't mean anything to him. He'd only probably gaze down at me, or he'd be kind in that lofty way he has—and put me in my place, as he did the first time I ever saw him. And so, I've never told him. I couldn't. But sometimes I think if I did—if I just made myself do it, I could hold up my head again and not feel myself growing bitter and sharp, because something is hurting me in my conscience."

"That's it!" said Martha confidently. "It's your conscience. Believe me, consciences is the dickens an' all for makin' a mess o' things, when they get right down to business. Now, if I was you, I wouldn't bother Mr. Ronald with my squalms o' conscience. Very prob'ly when it comes to consciences he has troubles of his own—at least, if he ain't, he's an exception an' a rare curiosity, an' Mr. Pierpont Morgan oughter buy him for the Museum. When your conscience tells you you'd oughter tell, ten to one you'd oughtn't. Give other folks a chance. What they don't know can't worry 'em. Besides, your just tellin' a thing don't let you out. You can't get clear so easy as that. It's up to you to work it out, so what's wrong is made right, an' do it yourself—not trust to nobody else. You can't square up by heavin' your load offn your own shoulders onto another fella's. You think you feel light coz you done your dooty, when ten to one you done your friend. No! I wouldn't advise turnin' state's everdence on yourself unless it was to save another from the gallus. As it is, you can take it from me, the best thing you can do for that—conscience o' yours, is get busy in another direction. Dress yourself up as fetchin' as you can, go out motorin' with your gen'l'man friend like he ast you to, let him get his perposal offn his chest, an' then tell'm—you'll be a sister to'm."



CHAPTER XV

Sam Slawson had gone to the Adirondacks in January, personally conducted by Mr. Blennerhasset, Mr. Ronald's secretary, Mr. Ronald, in the most unemotional and business-like manner, having assumed all the responsibilities connected with the trip and Sam's stay at the Sanatorium.

It was Claire who told Mr. Ronald of the Slawsons' difficulty. How Martha saw no way out, and still was struggling gallantly on, trying single-handed to meet all obligations at home and, in addition, send her husband away.

"That's too much—even for Martha," he observed.

"If I only knew how to get Sam to the mountains," Claire said in a sort of desperation.

"You have just paved the way."

"How?"

"You have told me."

"You are going to help?"

"Yes."

"O, how beautiful!"

"I am glad that, for once, I have the good fortune to please you."

Claire's happy smile faded. She turned her face away, pretending to busy herself with Radcliffe's books.

"I see I have offended once more."

She hesitated a moment, then faced him squarely.

"There can be no question of your either pleasing or offending me, Mr. Ronald. What you are doing for Martha makes me glad, of course, but that is only because I rejoice in any good that may come to her. I would not take it upon myself to praise you for doing a generous act, or to blame you if you didn't do it."

"'Cr-r-rushed again!'" observed Francis Ronald gravely, but with a lurking, quizzical light of laughter in his eyes.

For an instant Claire was inclined to be resentful. Then, her sense of humor coming to the rescue, she dropped her heroics and laughed out blithely.

"How jolly it must be to have a lot of money and be able to do all sorts of helpful, generous things!" she said lightly.

"You think money the universal solvent?"

"I think the lack of it the universal insolvent."

"I hope you don't lay too much emphasis on it."

"Why?"

"Because it might lead you to do violence to your better impulses, your higher instincts."

"Why should a man think he has the right to say that sort of thing to a woman? Would you consider it a compliment if I suggested that your principles were hollow—negotiable? That they were For Sale or To Let, like an empty house?"

"I suppose most men would tell you they have no use for principle in their business—only principal."

"And you think women—"

"Generally women have both principle and interest in the business of life. That's why we look to them to keep up the moral standard. That's why we feel it to be unworthy of her when a girl makes a mercenary marriage."

The indignant blood sprang to Claire's cheeks. What business had he to interfere in her affairs, to warn her against marrying Bob Van Brandt, assuming that, if she did marry him, it would be only for money. She was glad that Radcliffe bounded in just then, throwing himself upon her in his eagerness to tell her all that had befallen him during their long separation of two hours, when he had been playing on the Mall under Beetrice's unwatchful eye.

In spite of Martha, Claire had just been on the point of confessing to Mr. Ronald. He had seemed so friendly, so much less formidable than at any time since that first morning. But she must have been mistaken, for here were all the old barriers up in an instant, and with them the resentful fire in her heart.

Perhaps it was the memory of this conversation that made her feel so ill at ease with Robert Van Brandt. She could not understand herself. Why should she feel so uncomfortable with her old friend? She could not help being aware that he cared for her, but why did the thought of his telling her so make her feel like a culprit? Why should he not tell her? Why should she not listen? One thing she felt she knew—if he did tell her, and she refused to listen, he would give it up. He would not persist.

She remembered how, as a little girl, she had looked up to him reverentially as "big Robby Van Brandt." He was a hero to her in those days, until—he had let himself be balked of what he had started out to get. If he had only persisted, insisted, who knows—maybe—.

She was sure that if he offered her his love and she refused to accept it, he would not, like the nursery-rhyme model, try, try again. He would give up and go away—and in her loneliness she did not want him to go away. Was she selfish? she wondered. Selfish or no, she could not bring herself to follow Martha's advice and "let'm get his perposal offn his chest."

It was early in April before he managed to do it.

She and Radcliffe had gone to the Park. Radcliffe was frisking about in the warm sunshine, while Claire watched him from a nearby bench, when, suddenly, Mr. Van Brandt dropped into the seat beside her.

He did not approach his subject gradually. He plunged in desperately, headlong, heartlong, seeming oblivious to everything and every one save her.

When, at last, he left her, she, knowing it was for always, was sorely tempted to call him back. She did care for him, in a way, and the life his love opened up to her would be very different from this. And yet—

She closed her cold fingers about Radcliffe's little warm ones, and rose to lead him across the Plaza. She did not wonder at his being so conveniently close at hand, nor at his unwonted silence all the way home. She had not realized, until now that it was snapped, how much the link between this and her old home-life had meant to her. It meant so much that tears were very near the surface all that day, and even at night, when Martha was holding forth to her brood, they were not altogether to be suppressed.

"Easter comes early this year," Mrs. Slawson observed.

"'M I going to have a new hat?" inquired Cora.

"What for do you need a new hat, I should like to know? I s'pose you think you'll walk up Fifth Avenoo in the church parade, an' folks'll stare at you, an' nudge each other an' whisper—'Looka there! That's Miss Cora Slawson that you read so much about in the papers. That one on the right-hand side, wearin' the French shappo, with the white ribbon, an' the grand vinaigrette onto it. Ain't she han'some?'"

"I think you're real mean to make fun of me!" pouted Cora.

"I got a dollar an' a half for the Easter singin'," announced Sammy. "Coz I'm permoted an' I'm goin' to sing a solo!"

"Careful you don't get your head so turned you sing outer the other side o' your mouth," cautioned Martha. "'Stead o' crowin' so much, you better make sure you know your colic."

"What you goin' to do with your money?" inquired Francie, unable to conceive of possessing such vast riches.

"I do' know."

"Come here an' I'll tell you," said his mother. "Whisper!"

At first Sammy's face did not reveal any great amount of satisfaction at the words breathed into his ear, but after a moment it fairly glowed.

"Ain't that grand?" asked Martha.

Sammy beamed, then went off whistling.

"He's goin' to invest it in a hat for Cora as a s'prise, me addin' my mite to the fun' an' not lettin' him be any the wiser. An' Cora, she's goin' to get him a pair o' shoes with her bank pennies, an' be this an' be that, the one thinks he's clothin' the other, an' is proud as Punch of it, which they're learnin' manners the same time they're bein' dressed," Martha explained to Claire later.

"I wish you'd tell that to Radcliffe," Claire said. "He loves to hear about the children, and he can learn so much from listening to what is told of other kiddies' generosities and self-denials."

Martha shook her head. "There's nothin' worth tellin'," she said. "An' besides, if I told'm, he might go an' tell his mother or his Uncle Frank, an' they might think I was puttin' in a bid for a Easter-egg on my own account. Radcliffe is a smart little fella! He knows a thing or two—an' sometimes three, an' don't you forget it."

That Radcliffe "knew a thing or two—an' sometimes three," he proved beyond a doubt to Martha next day when, as she was busy cleaning his Uncle Frank's closet, he meandered up to her and casually observed:

"Say, you know what I told you once 'bout Miss Lang bein' Mr. Van Brandt's best girl?"

"Yes."

"Well, she ain't!"

"Why ain't she?"

"I was lookin' out o' the window in my mother's sittin'-room yesterday mornin', an' when my mother an' my Uncle Frank they came up from breakfast, they didn't see me coz I was back o' the curtains. My mother she had a letter Shaw, he just gave her, and when she read it she clapped her hands together an' laughed, an' my Uncle Frank he said, 'Why such joy?' an' she said, 'The greatest news! Amy Pelham is engaged to Mr. Van Brandt!' An' my Uncle Frank, his face got dark red all at once, an' he said to my mother, 'Catherine, are you 'sponsible for that?' an' she said, 'I never lifted a finger. I give you my word of honor, Frank!' An' then my Uncle Frank he looked better. An' my mother she said, 'You see, he couldn't have cared for Miss Lang, after all—I mean, the way we thought.' An' he said, 'Why not?' An' she said, 'Coz if he had asked her, she would have taken him, for no poor little governess is going to throw away a chance like that. No sensible girl would say no to Bob Van Brandt with all his 'vantages. She'd jump at him, an' you couldn't blame her.'

"An' then my mother an' my Uncle Frank they jumped, for I came out from behind the curtains where I'd been lookin' out, an' I said, 'She would too say no! My Miss Lang, she's sensible, an' one time in the Park, when Mr. Van Brandt he asked her to take him an' everything he had (that's what he said! "Take me an' everything I have, an' do what you want with me!"), Miss Lang she said, "No, Bob, I can't! I wish I could, for your sake, if you want me so—but—I can't." An' Mr. Van Brandt he felt so bad, I was sorry. When I thought Miss Lang was his best girl, I didn't like him, but I didn't want him to feel as bad as that. An' he went off all alone by himself, an' Miss Lang—'Only I couldn't tell any more, for my Uncle Frank, he said reel sharp, 'That's enough, Radcliffe!' But last night he brought me home a dandy boat I can sail on the Lake, with riggin' an' a center-board, an', O, lots o' things! An' so I guess he wasn't so very mad, after all."



CHAPTER XVI

"Most like it's the Spring," said Martha. It was Memorial Day. She and Miss Lang were at home, sitting together in Claire's pretty room, through the closed blinds of which the hot May sun sent tempered shafts of light.

Claire regarded Mrs. Slawson steadily for a moment, seeming to make some sort of mental calculation meanwhile.

"Well, if it is the Spring," she observed at length with a whimsical little frown knitting her brows, "it's mighty forehanded, for it began to get in its fine work as far back as January. Ever since the time Sam went to the Sanatorium you've been losing flesh and color, Martha, and—I don't know what to do about it!"

"Do about it!" repeated Mrs. Slawson. "Why, there ain't nothin' to do about it, but let the good work go on. I'm in luck, if it's true what you say. Believe me, there's lots o' ladies in this town, is starvin' their stummicks an' everythin' else about 'em, an' payin' the doctors high besides, just to get delicate-complected, an' airy-fairy figgers, same's I'm doin' without turnin' a hand. Did you never hear o' bantin'? It's what the high-toned doctors recommend to thin down ladies who have it so comfortable they're uncomfortable. The doctors prescribes exercise for'm, an' they take it, willin' as doves, whereas if their husbands said, 'Say, old woman, while you're restin', just scrub down the cellar-stairs good—that'll take the flesh off'n you quicker'n anythin' else I know!' they'd get a divorce from him so quick you couldn't see 'em for dust. No, they'd not do anythin' so low as cellar-stairs, to save their lives. You couldn't please 'em better'n to see another woman down on her marra-bones workin' for 'em, but get down themselves? Not on your sweet life, they wouldn't. They'd rather bant. Bantin' sounds so much more stylisher than scrubbin'."

Claire smiled, but her eyes were very serious as she said, "All the same, Martha, I believe you are grieving your heart out for Sam. I've been watching you when you didn't know it, and I've seen the signs and the tokens. Your heart has the hunger-ache in it!"

"Now, what do you think o' that!" exclaimed Mrs. Slawson. "What do you know about hearts an' hunger-aches, I should like to know. You, an unmarried maiden-girl, without so much as the shadder or the skelegan of a beau, as far as I can see. What do you know about a woman hungerin' an' cravin' for her own man? You have to have reelly felt them things yourself, to know the signs of 'em in other folks."

Claire's lip trembled, but she did not reply.

When Martha spoke again it was as if she had replied.

"O, go 'way! You ain't never had a leanin' in any gen'l'man's direction, I'd be willin' to wager. An' yet, I may as well tell you, you been gettin' kinder white an' scrawny yourself lately, beggin' your pardon for bein' so bold as notice it. Mind, I ain't the faintest notion of holdin' it against you! I know better than think you been settin' your affections on anybody. There's other things besides love gives you that tired feelin'. What you need is somethin' to brace you up, an' clear your blood, like Hoodses Sassperilla. Everybody feels the way you do, this time o' year. I heard a young saleslady (she wasn't a woman, mind you, she was a saleslady), I heard a young saleslady in the car the other mornin' complain—she was the reel dressy kind, you know, with more'n a month's pay of hair, boilin' over on the back of her head in puffs an' things—the gallus sort that, if you want to buy a yard o' good flannen off her, will sass you up an' down to your face, as fresh as if she was your own daughter—she was complainin' 'the Spring always made her feel so sorter, kinder, so awful la-anguid.'"

"Martha, dear," broke in Claire irrelevantly, "I wonder if you'd mind very much if I told Mr. Ronald the truth. He thinks you were an old family servant. He thinks you nursed me till I was able to walk."

Martha considered. "Well, ain't that the truth?" she asked blandly. "I lived out from the time I was twelve years old. That was in Mrs. Granville's mother's house. When I was sixteen I went to Mrs. Granville's. I was kitchen-maid there first-off, an' gradjelly she promoted me till I was first housemaid. I never left her till I got married. If that don't make me an old family servant, I'd like to know."

"But he thinks you were an old family servant in our house."

"Well, bless your heart, that's his business, not mine. How can I help what he thinks?"

"Didn't you tell him, Martha dear, that you nursed me till I was able to walk?"

"Shoor I did! An' it's the livin' truth. What's the matter with that? Believe me, you wasn't good for more than a minit or two more on your legs, when I got you into your bed that blessed night. You was clean bowled over, an' you couldn't 'a' walked another step if you'd been killed for it. Didn't I nurse you them days you was in bed, helplesslike as a baby? Didn't I nurse you till you could walk?"

"Indeed you did. And that's precisely the point!" said Claire. "If Mr. Ronald—if Mrs. Sherman knew the truth, that I was poor, homeless, without a friend in New York the night you picked me up on the street, and carried me home and cared for me without knowing a thing about me, they mightn't—they wouldn't have taken me into their house and given me their little boy to train. And because they wouldn't, I want to tell them. I want to square myself. I ought to have told them long ago. I want—"

"You want 'em to bounce you," observed Mrs. Slawson calmly. "Well, there's always more'n one way of lookin' at things. For instance any good chambermaid, with experience, will tell you there's three ways of dustin'. The first is, do it thora, wipin' the rungs o' the chairs, an' the backs o' the pictures, an' under the books on the table like. The second is, just sorter flashin' your rag over the places that shows, an' the third is—pull down the shades. They're all good enough ways in their own time an' place, an' you foller them accordin' to your disposition or, if you're nacherelly particular, accordin' to the other things you got to do, in the time you got to do 'em in. Now, I'm particular. I'm the nacherelly thora kind, but if I'm pressed, an' there's more important things up to me than the dustin', I give it a lick an' a promise, same as the next one, an' let it go at that, till the time comes I can do better. Life's too short to fuss an' fidget your soul out over trifles. It ain't always what you want, but what you must. You sometimes got to cut short at one end so's you can piece out at another, an' you can take it from me, you only pester folks by gettin' 'm down where they can't resist you, an' forcin' a lot of hard facks down their throats, which ain't the truth anyhow, an' which they don't want to swaller on no account. What do they care about the machinery, so long as it turns out the thing they want? Believe me, it's foolishness to try to get 'em back into the works, pokin' about among the inside wheels an' springs, an' so forth. You likely get knocked senseless by some big thing-um-bob you didn't know was there. Now I know just eggsackly what's in your mind, but you're wrong. You think I told Mr. Ronald fibs. I didn't tell'm fibs. I just give'm the truth the way he'd take it, like you give people castor-oil that's too dainty to gullup it down straight. Some likes it in lemon, an' some in grobyules, but it's castor-oil all the same. He wanted to know the truth about you, an' I let him have it, the truth bein' you're as fine a lady as any in the land. If I'd happened to live in Grand Rapids at the time, I'd most likely of lived out with your grandmother, an' been an old family servant in your house like I was at Mrs. Granville's, an' I certainly would of nursed you if I'd had the chanct. It was just a case o' happenso, my not havin' it. The right kind o' folks here in New York is mighty squeamish about strangers. They want recommendations—they want 'em because they want to be sure the ones they engage is O.K. That's all recommendations is for, ain't it? Now I knew the minit I clapped eye to you, that, as I say, you was as grand a lady as any in the land, an' that bein' the case, what was the use o' frettin' because I hadn't more than your sayso to prove it. But if I'd pulled a long face to Mrs. Sherman, an' told her, hesitatin'-like an' nervous, about—well, about what took place that night, she, not havin' much experience of human nature (only the other kind that's more common here in New York City), she'd have hemmed, an' hawed, an' thought she'd better not try it, seein' Radcliffe is such an angel-child an' not to be trained except by a A-I Lady."

"But the truth," persisted Claire.

"I tell the truth," Mrs. Slawson returned with quiet dignity. "I only don't waste time on trifles."

"It is not wasting time on trifles to be exact and accurate. An architect planning a house must make every little detail true, else when the house goes up, it won't stand."

"Don't he have to reckon nothin' on the give or not-give of the things he's dealin' with?" demanded Martha. "I'm only a ignorant woman, an' I ask for information. When you're dress-makin' you have to allow for the seams, an' when you're makin'—well, other things, you have to do the same thing, only spelled a little different—you have to allow for the seems. Most folks don't do it, an' that's where a lot o' trouble comes in, or so it appears to me."

Claire twisted her ring in silence, gazing down at it the while as if the operation was, of all others, the most important and absorbing.

"We may not agree, Martha dear," she said at last, "but anyway I know you're good, good, good, and I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the world."

"Shoor! I know you wouldn't! An' they ain't hurt. Not in the least. You got one kinder conscience an' I got another, that's all. Consciences is like hats. One that suits one party would make another look like a guy. You got to have your own style. You got to know what's best for you, an' then stick to it!"

"And you won't object if I tell Mr. Ronald?"

"Objeck? Certainly not! Tell'm anything you like. I always was fond o' Mr. Ronald myself. I never thought he was as hard an' stern with a body as some thinks. Some thinks he's as hard as nails, but—"

"O, I'm sure he's not," cried Claire with unexpected loyalty. "His manner may seem a little cold and proud sometimes, but I know he's very kind and generous."

"Certaintly. So do I know it," said Mrs. Slawson. "I don't say I mayn't be mistaken, but I have the highest opinion o' Lor—Mr. Ronald. I think you could trust'm do the square thing, no matter what, an' if he was kinder harsh doin' it, it's only because he expects a body to be perfect like he is himself."

In the next room Sabina was shouting at the top of her lungs—"Come back to ear-ring, my voornean, my voornean!"

"Ain't it a caution what lungs that child has—considerin'?" Martha reflected. "Just hear her holler! She'd wake the dead. I wonder if she's tryin' to beat that auta whoopin' it up outside. Have you ever noticed them autas nowadays? Some of them has such croupy coughs, before I know it I'm huntin' for a flannen an' a embrercation. 'Xcuse me a minit while I go answer the bell."

A second later she returned. A step in advance of her was Mr. Ronald.

"I am lucky to find you at home, Martha," were the first words Claire heard him say.

Martha, by dint of a little unobservable maneuvering, managed to superimpose her substantial shadow upon Claire's frail one.

"Yes, sir. When I get a day to lay off in, you couldn't move me outer the house with a derrick," she announced. "Miss Lang's here, too. Bein' so dim, an' comin' in outer the sunlight, perhaps you don't make out to see her."

"She ain't had time yet to pull herself together," Mrs. Slawson inwardly noted. "But, Lord! I couldn't stand in front of her forever, an' even if a girl is dead in love with a man (more power to her!), that's no reason she should go to the other extreme to hide it, an' pertend she's a cold storage, warranted to freeze'm stiff, like the artificial ice they're makin' these days, in the good old summertime."

The first cold greetings over, Claire started to retreat in the direction of the door.

"Excuse me, please—I promised Francie—She's expecting me—she's waiting—"

"Pshaw now, let her wait!" said Martha.

"Don't let me detain Miss Lang if she wishes to go," interposed Mr. Ronald. "My business is really with you, Martha."

"Thank you, sir. But I'd like Miss Lang to stay by, all the same—that is, if you don't objeck."

"As a witness? You think I need watching, eh?"

"I think it does a body good to watch you, sir!"

"I didn't know before, you were a flatterer, Martha. But I see you're a lineal descendant of the Blarney Stone."

Claire felt herself utterly ignored. She tried again to slip away, but Martha's strong hand detained her, bore her down into the place she had just vacated.

"How is Francie?" inquired Mr. Ronald, taking the chair Mrs. Slawson placed for him.

"Fine—thank you, sir. The doctors says they never see a child get well so fast. She's grown so fat an' big, there ain't a thing belongs to her will fit her any longer, they're all shorter, an' she has to go whacks with Cora on her clo'es."

"Perhaps she'd enjoy a little run out into the country this afternoon in my car. The other children, too? And—possibly—Miss Lang."

"I'm sure they'd all thank you kindly, sir," began Martha, when—"I'm sorry," said Claire coldly, "I can't go."

Mr. Ronald did not urge her. "It is early. We have plenty of time to discuss the ride later," he observed quietly. "Meanwhile, what I have in mind, Martha, is this: Mr. Slawson has been at the Sanatorium now for—?"

"Goin' on five months," said Martha.

"And the doctors think him improved?"

"Well, on the whole, yes, sir. His one lung (sounds kinder Chineesy, don't it?), his one lung ain't no worse—it's better some—only he keeps losin' flesh an' that puzzles'm."

"Do you think he is contented there?"

"He says he is. He says it's the grand place, an' they're all as good to'm as if he was the king o' Harlem. You seen to that, sir—he says. An' Sam, he's always pationate, no matter what comes, but—"

"Well—but?"

"But—only just, it ain't home, you know, sir!"

"I see. And the doctors think he ought to stay up there? Not return home—here, I mean?"

"That's what they say."

"Have you—the means to keep him at the Sanatorium over the five months we settled for in January?"

"No, sir. That is, not—not yet."

"Would you like to borrow enough money to see him through the rest of the year?"

Martha deliberated. "I may have to, sir," she said at last with a visible effort. "But I don't like to borrer. I notice when folks gets the borrerin'-habit they're slow payin' back, an' then you don't get thanks for a gift or you don't get credit for a loan."

This time it was Mr. Ronald who seemed to be considering. "Right!" he announced presently. "I notice you go into things rather deep, Martha."

Mrs. Slawson smiled. "Well, when things is deep, that's the way you got to go into them. What's on your plate you got to chew, an' if you don't like it, you can lump it, an' if you don't like to lump it, you can cut it up finer. But there it is, an' there it stays, till you swaller it, somehow."

"Do you enjoy or resent the good things that are, or seem to be, heaped on other people's plates?"

"Why, yes. Certaintly I enjoy 'em. But, after all, the things taste best that we're eatin' ourselves, don't they? An' if I had money enough like some, so's I didn't have to borrer to see my man through, why, I don't go behind the door to say I'd be glad an' grateful."

"Would you take the money as a gift, Martha?"

"You done far more than your share already, sir."

"Then, if you won't take, and you'd rather not borrow, we must find another way. A rather good idea occurred to me last night. I've an uncommonly nice old place up in New Hampshire—in the mountains. It was my father's—and my grandfather's. It's been closed for many years, and I haven't given it a thought, except when the tax-bills came due, or the caretaker sent in his account. It's so far away my sister won't live there, and—it's too big and formidable for one lone man to summer in by himself. Now, why wouldn't it be a capital idea for you to pack up your goods and chattels here, and take your family right up there—make that your home? The lodge is comfortable and roomy, and I don't see why Mr. Slawson couldn't recover there as well, if not better, than where he is. I'd like to put the place in order—make some improvements, do a little remodeling. I need a trusty man to oversee the laborers, and keep an eye and close tab on the workmen I send up from town. If Mr. Slawson would act as superintendent for me, I'd pay him what such a position is worth, and you would have your house, fuel, and vegetables free. Don't try to answer now. You'd be foolish to make a decision in a hurry that you might regret later. Write to your husband. Talk it over with him. He might prefer to choose a job for himself. And remember—it's 'way out in the country. The children would have to walk some distance to school."

"Give 'em exercise, along of their exercises," said Martha.

"The church in the village is certainly three miles off."

"My husband don't go to church as reg'lar as I might wish," Mrs. Slawson observed. "I tell'm, the reason men don't be going to church so much these days, is for fear they might hear something they believe."

"You would find country life tame, perhaps, after the city."

"Well, the city life ain't been that wild for me that I'd miss the dizzy whirl. An' anyhow—we'd be together!" Martha said. "We'd be together, maybe, come our weddin'-day. The fourth o' July. We never been parted oncet, on that day, all the fifteen years we been married," she mused, "but—"

"Well?"

"But, come winter, an' Mis' Sherman opens the house again, an' wants Miss Claire back, who's goin' to look out for her?"

"Why—a—as to that—" said Mr. Ronald, so vaguely it sounded almost supercilious to Claire.

In an instant her pride rose in revolt, rebelling against the notion he might have, that she could possibly put forth any claim upon his consideration.

"O, please, please don't think of me, Martha," she cried vehemently. "I have entirely other plans. You mustn't give me, or my affairs, a thought, in settling your own. You must do what's best for you. You mustn't count for, or on, me in the least. I have not told you before, but I've made up my mind I must resign my position at Mrs. Sherman's, anyway. I'll write her at once. I'll tell her myself, of course, but I tell you now to show that you mustn't have me in mind, at all, in making your plans."

Martha's low-pitched voice fell upon Claire's tense, nervous one with soothing calmness.

"Certaintly not, Miss Claire," she said.

"And you'll write to your husband and report to him what I propose," suggested Mr. Ronald, as if over Claire's head.

"Shoor I will, sir!"

"And if he likes the idea, my secretary will discuss the details with him later. Wages, duties—all the details."

"Yes, sir."

"And you may tell the children I'll leave orders that the car be sent for them some other day. I find it's not convenient, after all, for me to take them myself this afternoon. I spoke too fast in proposing it. But they'll not be disappointed. Mr. Blennerhasset will see to that. I leave town to-night to be gone—well, indefinitely. In any case, until well on into the autumn or winter. Any letter you may direct to me, care of Mr. Blennerhasset at the office, will be attended to at once. Good-by, Martha!—Miss Lang—" He was gone.

When the car had shot out of sound and sight, Martha withdrew from the window, from behind the blinds of which she had been peering eagerly.

"He certainly is a little woolly wonder, meaning no offense," she observed with a deep-drawn sigh. "Yes, Mr. Ronald is as good as they make 'em, an' dontcher forget it!"

She seated herself opposite Claire, drawing her chair quite close.

"Pity you an' him is so on the outs. I'm not speakin' o' him, s'much, but anybody with half an eye can see you got a reg'lar hate on'm. Any one can see that!"

A moment of silence, and then Claire flung herself, sobbing and quivering, across Martha's lap, ready to receive her.

"O, Martha!" she choked.



CHAPTER XVII

"Well now, what do you think o' that! Ain't it the end o' the law? The high-handed way he has o' doin' things! Think o' the likes o' me closin' up my 'town-house' an' takin' my fam'ly (includin' Flicker an' Nixcomeraus) 'to the country-place'—for all the world like I was a lady, born an' bred.—Sammy, you sit still in your seat, an' eat the candy Mr. Blennerhasset brought you, an' quit your rubberin', or the train'll start suddently, an' give you a twist in your neck you won't get over in a hurry.... Ma, you comfortable?.... Cora an' Francie, see you behave like little ladies, or I'll attend to you later. See how quiet Sabina is—Say, Sabina, what you doin'? Now, what do you think o' that! If that child ain't droppin' off to sleep, suckin' the red plush o' the seat! For all the world like she didn't have a wink o' rest last night, or a bite or a sup this mornin'—an' she slep' the clock 'round, an' et a breakfast fit for a trooper. Say, Sabina—here, wake up! An' take your tongue off'n that beautiful cotton-backed plush, d'you hear? In the first place, the gen'l'men that owns this railroad don't want their upholsterry et by little girls, an', besides, it's makin' your mouth all red—an', second-place, the cars isn't the time to sleep—leastwise, not so early in the mornin'. Miss Claire, child, don't look so scared! You ain't committin' no crime goin' along with us, an' he'll never suspicion anyhow. He's prob'ly on the boundin' biller by this time, an' Mr. Blennerhasset he don't know you from a hole in the ground. Besides, whose business is it, anyway? You ain't goin' as his guest, as I told you before. You're my boarder, same's you've always been, an' it's nobody's concern if you board down here or up there...

"Say, ain't these flowers just grand? The box looks kinder like a young coffin, but never mind that...

"A body would think all that fruit an' stuff was enough of a send-off, but Lor—Mr. Ronald, he don't do things by halves, does he? It wouldn't seem so surprisin' now, if he'd 'a' knew you was comin' along an' all this (Mr. Blennerhasset himself helpin' look after us, an' see us off—as if I was a little tender flower that didn't know a railroad ticket from a trunk-check), I say, it wouldn't seem so surprisin' if he'd 'a' knew you was comin' along. I'd think it was on your account. What they calls delicate attentions. The sorter thing a gen'l'man does when he's got his eye on a young lady for his wife, an' is sorter breakin' it to her gently—kinder beckonin' with a barn-door, as the sayin' is.

"But Mr. Ronald ain't the faintest notion but you've gone back to your folks in Grand Rapids, an' so all these favors is for me, of course. Well, I certainly take to luckshurry like a duck takes to water. I never knew it was so easy to feel comfortable. I guess I been a little hard on the wealthy in the past. Now, if you should marry a rich man, I don't believe—"

Claire sighed wearily. "I'll never marry anybody, Martha. And besides, a rich man wouldn't be likely to go to a cheap boarding-house for a wife, and next winter I—O, isn't it warm? Don't you wish the train would start?"

At last the train did start, and they were whirled out of the steaming city, over the hills and far away, through endless stretches of sunlit country, and the long, long hours of the hot summer day, until, at night, they reached their destination, and found Sam Slawson waiting there in the cool twilight to welcome them.

Followed days of rarest bliss for Martha, when she could marshal out her small forces, setting each his particular task, and seeing it was done with thoroughness and despatch, so that in an inconceivably short time her new home shone with all the spotless cleanliness of the old, and added comeliness beside.

"Ain't it the little palace?" she inquired, when all was finished. "I wouldn't change my lodge for the great house, grand as it is, not for anything you could offer me! Nor I wouldn't call the queen my cousin now we're all in it together. I'm feelin' that joyful I'd like to have what they calls a house-swarmin', only there ain't, by the looks of it, any neighbors much, to swarm."

"No," said Ma regretfully, "I noticed there ain't no neighbors—to speak of."

"Well, then, we can't speak o' them," returned Martha. "Which will save us from fallin' under God's wrath as gossips. There's never any great loss without some small gain."

"But we must have some sort of jollification," Claire insisted. "Doesn't your wedding-day—the anniversary of it, I mean—come 'round about this time? You said the Fourth, didn't you?"

Martha nodded. "Sam Slawson an' me'll be fifteen years married come Fourth of July," she announced. "We chose that day, because we was so poor we knew we couldn't do nothin' great in the line o' celebration ourselves, so we just kinder managed it, so's without inconveniencin' the nation any or addin' undooly to its expenses, it would do our celebratin' for us. You ain't no notion how grand it makes a body feel to be woke up at the crack o' dawn on one's weddin' mornin' with the noise o' the bombardin' in honor o' the day! I'm like to miss it this year, with only my own four young Yankees spoilin' my sleep settin' off torpeders under my nose."

"You won't miss anything," said Claire reassuringly, "but you mustn't say a word to Sam. And you mustn't ask any questions yourself, for what is going to happen is to be a wonderful surprise!"

"You betcher life it is!" murmured Martha complacently to herself, after Claire had hastened off to confer with the children and plan a program for the great day.

Ma to make the wedding-cake! Cora to recite her "piece." Francie and Sammy to be dressed as pages and bear, each, a tray spread with the gifts it was to be her own task and privilege to contrive. Sabina to hover over all as a sort of Cupid, who, if somewhat "hefty" as to avoirdupois, was in all other respects a perfect little Love.

It seemed as if the intervening days were winged, so fast they flew. Claire never could have believed there was so much to be done for such a simple festival, and, of course, the entire weight fell on her shoulders, for Ma was as much of a child in such matters as any, and Martha could not be appealed to, being the bride, and, moreover, being away at the great house, where tremendous changes were in progress.

But at last came the wonderful day, and everything was in readiness.

First, a forenoon of small explosive delights for the children—then, as the day waned, a dinner eaten outdoors, picnic-fashion on the grass, under the spreading trees, beneath the shadows of the mighty mountain-tops.

What difference if Ma's cake, crowning a perfect feast, had suffered a little in the frosting and its touching sentiment, traced in snowy lettering upon a bridal-white ground, did read

FIFTEEN YEARS OF MARRED LIFE.

It is sometimes one's ill-luck to misspell a word, and though a wedding-cake is usually large and this was no exception, the space was limited, and, besides, no one but Sam senior and Miss Lang noticed it anyhow.

A quizzical light in his eye, Mr. Slawson scrawled on a scrap of paper which he passed to Claire (with apologies for the liberty) the words:

"She'd been nearer the truth if she'd left out the two rrs while she was about it, and had it:

FIFTEEN YEARS OF MA'D LIFE."

Then came Cora's piece.

Her courtesy, right foot back, knees suddenly bent, right hand on left side (presumably over heart, actually over stomach), chin diving into the bony hollow of her neck—Cora's courtesy was a thing to be remembered.

LADY CLARE

She announced it with ceremony, and this time, Martha noticed, the recalcitrant garter held fast to its moorings.

"''Twas the time when lilies blow And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe—'"

"His!" prompted Martha in a loud stage-whisper. "His—not 'a'—"

Cora accepted the correction obediently, but her self-confidence was shaken. She managed to stammer,

"'Give t-to—his c-cousin, L-Lady C-Clare,'"

and then a storm of tears set in, drowning her utterance.

"Well, what do you think o' that?" exclaimed Martha, amazed at the undue sensitiveness of her offspring. "Never mind, Cora! You done it grand!—as far as you went."

To cover this slight mishap, Claire gave a hurried signal to the pages, who appeared forthwith in splendid form, if a little overweighted by the burdens they bore. In some strange way Claire's simple gifts had been secretly augmented until they piled up upon the trays, twin-mountains of treasure.

When the first surprise was past, and the wonders examined and exclaimed over, Martha bent toward Claire, from her seat of honor on the grass.

"Didn't I think to tell you Mr. Blennerhasset come up on the early train? Sammy, he drove down to the station himself to meet'm. Mr. Blennerhasset brought up all them grand things—for Mr. Ronald. Ain't he—I mean Mr. Ronald—a caution to 've remembered the day? I been so took up with things over there to the great house, I musta forgot to tell you about Mr. Blennerhasset. Ain't everything just elegant?—

"It's pretty, the way the night comes down up here. With the sharp pin-heads o' stars prickin' through, one by one. They don't seem like that in the city, do they? An' the moon's comin' up great!"

Claire's eyes were fixed on the grassy slope ahead.

"Who are those three men over there?" she asked. "What are they doing? I can't make out in the dusk anything but shadow-forms."

"Sam, an' Mr. Blennerhasset, an'—an'—another fella from the neighborhood. Mr. Blennerhasset he brought up some fire-works to surprise the young uns, an' they're goin' to set 'em off. It's early yet, but the sooner it's over the sooner to sleep. An' the kids has had a excitin' day."

Up shot a rocket, drawing the children's breaths skyward with it in long-drawn "A-ahs!" of perfect ecstasy.

Then pin-wheels, some of which, not to belie their nature, balked obstinately, refusing to be coerced or wheedled into doing their duty.

"Say, now, mother," cried Francie excitedly—"that pin-wheel—in the middle of it was a cork. When it got over spinning fast, I saw the cork."

"Don't you never do that no more," cautioned Martha. "Never you see the cork. It's the light you want to keep your eye on!" which, as Claire thought it over, seemed to her advice of a particularly shrewd and timely nature.

She was still pondering this, and some other things, when she felt Mrs. Slawson's hand on her shoulder.

"It's over now, an' I'm goin' to take the young 'uns in, an' put 'em to bed. But don't you stir. Just you sit here a while in the moonlight, an' enjoy the quiet in peace by yourself. You done a hard day's work, an' you give me an' Sammy what we won't forget in a hurry. So you just stay out here a few minits—or as long as you wanter—away from the childern's clatter, an'—God bless you!"

Claire's gaze, following the great form affectionately, saw it pass into the darker shadows, then forth—out into the light that shone from the open door of the lodge.

"She's home—and they're together!" Unconsciously, she spoke her grateful thought aloud.

"Yes, she's home—and they're together!"

The words were repeated very quietly, but there was that in the well-known voice, so close at hand, that seemed to Claire to shake the world. In an instant she was upon her feet, gazing up speechless, into Francis Ronald's baffling eyes.

"You are kind to every one," he said, "but for me you have only a sting, and yet—I love you."

* * * * *

Martha was still busy wrestling with the pyramid of dishes left over from the feast, when at last Claire came in alone.

"Did you get a chance to compose yourself, an' quiet down some under the stars?" inquired Mrs. Slawson. "It's been a noisy day, with lots doin'. I don't wonder you're so tired—your cheeks is fairly blazin' with it, an' your eyes are shinin' like lit lamps."

"You knew—you knew he was here!" said Claire accusingly.

"He? Who? O, you mean Mr. Ronald? Didn't I think to tell you, he come up along with Mr. Blennerhasset? I been so flustrated with all the unexpected surprises of the day, it musta slipped my mind."

"I've seen Mr. Ronald!" Claire said." I've spoken with him!"

"Now, what do you think o' that! Wonders never cease!"

"Do you know what I did?"

"Search me!"

"I told him—the truth."

"We-ell?"

"And—I'm going to marry him!"

Mrs. Slawson sat down hard upon the nearest chair, as if the happy shock had deprived her of strength to support her own weight.

"No!" she fairly shouted.

"Yes!" cried Claire. "And, O, Martha! I'm so happy! And—did you ever dream such a thing could possibly happen?"

"Well, you certaintly have give me a start. I often thought how I'd like to see Mr. Ronald your financiay or your trosso, or whatever they call it. But, that it would really come to pass—" She paused.

"O, you don't know how I dreaded next winter," Claire said, as if she were thinking aloud. "I went over it—and I went over it, in my mind—what I'd do—where I'd go—and now—Now!... I couldn't take that fine job you had your eye on for me, not even if it had come to something. Don't you remember? I mean, the splendid job you had the idea about, that first night I was sick. I shan't need it now, shall I, Martha?"

"You got it!" said Martha.

Claire's wide eyes opened wider in wonderment. She stared silently at Mrs. Slawson for a moment. Then the light began to break in upon her slowly, but with unmistakable illumination.

"You—don't—mean?" she stammered.

"Certaintly!" said Martha.

THE END