From Jane, also, came several letters, and from Frank Blaisdell one short scrawl.

Frank said he was having a bully time, but that he'd seen some of the most shiftless-looking grocery stores that he ever set eyes on. He asked if Maggie knew how trade was at his old store, and if Donovan was keeping it up to the mark. He said that Jane was well, only she was getting pretty tired because she WOULD try to see everything at once, for fear she'd lose something, and not get her money's worth, for all the world just as she used to eat things to save them.

Jane wrote that she was having a very nice time, of course,—she couldn't help it, with all those lovely things to see; but she said she never dreamed that just potatoes, meat, and vegetables could cost so much anywhere as they did in hotels, and as for the prices those dining-cars charged—it was robbery—sheer robbery! And why an able- bodied man should be given ten cents every time he handed you your own hat, she couldn't understand.

At Hillerton, Mr. Smith passed a very quiet summer, but a very contented one. He kept enough work ahead to amuse him, but never enough to drive him. He took frequent day-trips to the surrounding towns, and when possible he persuaded Miss Maggie to go with him. Miss Maggie was wonderfully good company. As the summer advanced, however, he did not see so much of her as he wanted to, for Father Duff's increasing infirmities made more and more demands on her time.

The Martin girls were still there. Annabelle was learning the milliner's trade, and Florence had taken a clerkship for afternoons during the summer. They still helped about the work, and relieved Miss Maggie whenever possible. They were sensible, jolly girls, and Mr. Smith liked them very much.



CHAPTER XVI

THE FLY IN THE OINTMENT

In August Father Duff died. Miss Flora came home at once. James Blaisdell was already in town. Hattie was at the mountains. She wrote that she could not think of coming down for the funeral, but she ordered an expensive wreath. Frank and Jane were in the Far West, and could not possibly have arrived in time, anyway. None of the young people came.

Mr. Smith helped in every way that he could help, and Miss Maggie told him that he was a great comfort, and that she did not know what she would have done without him. Miss Flora and Mr. James Blaisdell helped, too, in every way possible, and at last the first hard sad days were over, and the household had settled back into something like normal conditions again.

Miss Maggie had more time now, and she went often to drive or for motor rides with Mr. Smith. Together they explored cemeteries for miles around; and although Miss Maggie worried sometimes because they found so little Blaisdell data, Mr. Smith did not seem to mind it at all.

In September Miss Flora moved into an attractive house on the West Side, bought some new furniture, and installed a maid in the kitchen— all under Miss Maggie's kindly supervision. In September, too, Frank and Jane Blaisdell came home, and the young people began to prepare for the coming school year.

Mr. Smith met Mrs. Hattie one day, coming out of Miss Maggie's gate. She smiled and greeted him cordially, but she looked so palpably upset over something that he exclaimed to Miss Maggie, as soon he entered the house: "What was it? IS anything the matter with Mrs. James Blaisdell?"

Miss Maggie smiled—but she frowned, too.

"No, oh, no—except that Hattie has discovered that a hundred thousand dollars isn't a million."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, where she's been this summer she's measured up, of course, with people a great deal richer than she. And she doesn't like it. Here in Hillerton her hundred—and two-hundred-dollar dresses looked very grand to her, but she's discovered that there are women who pay five hundred and a thousand, and even more. She feels very cheap and poverty-stricken now, therefore, in her two-hundred-dollar gowns. Poor Hattie! If she only would stop trying to live like somebody else!"

"But I thought—I thought this money was making them happy," stammered Mr. Smith.

"It was—until she realized that somebody else had more," sighed Miss Maggie, with a shake of her head.

"Oh, well, she'll get over that."

"Perhaps."

"At any rate, it's brought her husband some comfort."

"Y-yes, it has; but—"

"What do you mean by that?" he demanded, when she did not finish her sentence.

"I was wondering—if it would bring him any more."

"They haven't lost it?"

"Oh, no, but they've spent a lot—and Hattie is beginning again her old talk that she MUST have more money in order to live 'even decent.' It sounds very familiar to me, and to Jim, I suspect, poor fellow. I saw him the other night, and from what he said, and what she says, I can see pretty well how things are going. She's trying to get some of her rich friends to give Jim a better position, where he'll earn more. She doesn't understand, either, why Jim can't go into the stock market and make millions, as some men do. I'm afraid she isn't always— patient. She says there are Fred and Elizabeth and Benjamin to educate, and that she's just got to have more money to tide them over till the rest of the legacy comes."

"The rest of the legacy!" exploded Mr. Smith. "Good Heavens, does that woman think that—" Mr. Smith stopped with the air of one pulling himself back from an abyss.

Miss Maggie laughed.

"I don't wonder you exclaim. It is funny—the way she takes that for granted, isn't it? Still, there are grounds for it, of course."

"Oh, are there? Do YOU think-she'll get more, then?" demanded Mr. Smith, almost savagely.

Miss Maggie laughed again.

"I don't know what to think. To my mind the whole thing was rather extraordinary, anyway, that he should have given them anything—utter strangers as they were. Still, as Hattie says, as long as he HAS recognized their existence, why, he may again of course. Still, on the other hand, he may have very reasonably argued that, having willed them a hundred thousand apiece, that was quite enough, and he'd give the rest somewhere else."

"Humph! Maybe," grunted Mr. Smith.

"And he may come back alive from South America"

"He may."

"But Hattie isn't counting on either of these contingencies, and she is counting on the money," sighed Miss Maggie, sobering again. "And Jim,—poor Jim!—I'm afraid he's going to find it just as hard to keep caught up now—as he used to."

"Humph!" Mr. Smith frowned. He did not speak again. He stood looking out of the window, apparently in deep thought.

Miss Maggie, with another sigh, turned and went out into the kitchen.

The next day, on the street, Mr. Smith met Mellicent Blaisdell. She was with a tall, manly-looking, square-jawed young fellow whom Mr. Smith had never seen before. Mellicent smiled and blushed adorably. Then, to his surprise, she stopped him with a gesture.

"Mr. Smith, I know it's on the street, but I—I want Mr. Gray to meet you, and I want you to meet Mr. Gray. Mr. Smith is—is a very good friend of mine, Donald."

Mr. Smith greeted Donald Gray with a warm handshake and a keen glance into his face. The blush, the hesitation, the shy happiness in Mellicent's eyes had been unmistakable. Mr. Smith felt suddenly that Donald Gray was a man he very much wanted to know—a good deal about. He chatted affably for a minute. Then he went home and straight to Miss Maggie.

"Who's Donald Gray, please?" he demanded.

Miss Maggie laughed and threw up her hands.

"Oh, these children!"

"But who is he?"

"Well, to begin with, he's devoted to Mellicent."

"You don't have to tell me that. I've seen him—and Mellicent."

"Oh!" Miss Maggie smiled appreciatively.

"What I want to know is, who is he?"

"He's a young man whom Mellicent met this summer. He plays the violin, and Mellicent played his accompaniments in a church entertainment. That's where she met him first. He's the son of a minister near their camp, where the girls went to church. He's a fine fellow, I guess. He's hard hit—that's sure. He came to Hillerton at once, and has gone to work in Hammond's real estate office. So you see he's in earnest."

"I should say he was! I liked his appearance very much."

"Yes, I did—but her mother doesn't."

"What do you mean? She—objects?"

"Decidedly! She says he's worse than Carl Pennock—that he hasn't got any money, not ANY money."

'Money!" ejaculated Mr. Smith, in genuine amazement. "You don't mean that she's really letting money stand in the way if Mellicent cares for him? Why, it was only a year ago that she herself was bitterly censuring Mrs. Pennock for doing exactly the same thing in the case of young Pennock and Mellicent."

"I know," nodded Miss Maggie. "But—she seems to have forgotten that."

"Shoe's on the other foot this time."

"It seems to be."

"Hm-m!" muttered Mr. Smith.

"I don't think Jane has done much yet, by way Of opposition. You see they've only reached home, and she's just found out about it. But she told me she shouldn't let it go on, not for a moment. She has other plans for Mellicent."

"Shall I be—meddling in what isn't my business, if I ask what they are?" queried Mr. Smith diffidently. "You know I am very much interested in—Miss Mellicent."

"Not a bit. I'm glad to have you. Perhaps you can suggest—a way out for us," sighed Miss Maggie. "The case is just this: Jane wants Mellicent to marry Hibbard Gaylord."

"Shucks! I've seen young Gray only once, but I'd give more for his little finger than I would for a cartload of Gaylords!" flung out Mr. Smith.

"So would I," approved Miss Maggie. "But Jane—well, Jane feels otherwise. To begin with, she's very much flattered at Gaylord's attentions to Mellicent—the more so because he's left Bessie—I beg her pardon, 'Elizabeth"—for her."

"Then Miss Elizabeth is in it, too?"

"Very much in it. That's one of the reasons why Hattie is so anxious for more money. She wants clothes and jewels for Bessie so she can keep pace with the Gaylords. You see there's a wheel within a wheel here."

"I should say there was!"

"As near as I can judge, young Gaylord is Bessie's devoted slave— until Mellicent arrives; then he has eyes only for HER, which piques Bessie and her mother not a little. They were together more or less all summer and I think Hattie thought the match was as good as made. Now, once in Hillerton, back he flies to Mellicent."

"And—Mellicent?"

Miss Maggie's eyes became gravely troubled.

"I don't understand Mellicent. I think—no, I KNOW she cares for young Gray; but—well, I might as well admit it, she is ready any time to flirt outrageously with Hibbard Gaylord, or—or with anybody else, for that matter. I saw her flirting with you at the party last Christmas!" Miss Maggie's face showed a sudden pink blush.

Mr. Smith gave a hearty laugh.

"Don't you worry, Miss Maggie. If she'll flirt with young Gaylord AND OTHERS, it's all right. There's safety in numbers, you know."

"But I don't like to have her flirt at all, Mr. Smith."

"It isn't flirting. It's just her bottled-up childhood and youth bubbling over. She can't help bubbling, she's been repressed so long. She'll come out all right, and she won't come out hand in hand with Hibbard Gaylord. You see if she does."

Miss Maggie shook her head and sighed.

You don't know Jane. Jane will never give up. She'll be quiet, but she'll be firm. With one hand she'll keep Gray away, and with the other she'll push Gaylord forward. Even Mellicent herself won't know how it's done. But it'll be done, and I tremble for the consequences."

"Hm-m!" Mr. Smith's eyes had lost their twinkle now. To himself he muttered: "I wonder if maybe—I hadn't better take a hand in this thing myself."

"You said—I didn't understand what you said," murmured Miss Maggie doubtfully.

"Nothing—nothing, Miss Maggie," replied the man. Then, with business- like alertness, he lifted his chin. "How long do you say this has been going on?"

"Why, especially since they all came home two weeks ago. Jane knew nothing of Donald Gray till then."

"Where does Carl Pennock come in?"

Miss Maggie gave a gesture of despair.

"Oh, he comes in anywhere that he can find a chance; though, to do her justice, Mellicent doesn't give him—many chances."

"What does her father say to all this? How does he like young Gray?"

Miss Maggie gave another gesture of despair.

"He says nothing—or, rather, he laughs, and says: 'Oh, well, it will come out all right in time. Young folks will be young folks!'"

"But does he like Gray? He knows him, of course."

"Oh, yes, he likes him. He's taken him to ride in his car once, to my knowledge."

"His car! Then Mr. Frank Blaisdell has—a car?"

"Oh, yes, he's just been learning to run it. Jane says he's crazy over it, and that he's teasing her to go all the time. She says he wants to be on the move somewhere every minute. He's taken up golf, too. Did you know that?"

"Well, no, I—didn't."

"Oh yes, he's joined the Hillerton Country Club, and he goes up to the links every morning for practice."

"I can't imagine it—Frank Blaisdell spending his mornings playing golf!"

"You forget," smiled Miss Maggie. "Frank Blaisdell is a retired business man. He has begun to take some pleasure in life now."

"Humph!" muttered Mr. Smith, as he turned to go into his own room.

Mr. Smith called on the Frank Blaisdells that evening. Mr. Blaisdell took him out to the garage (very lately a barn), and showed him the shining new car. He also showed him his lavish supply of golf clubs, and told him what a "bully time" he was having these days. He told him, too, all about his Western trip, and said there was nothing like travel to broaden a man's outlook. He said a great deal about how glad he was to get out of the old grind behind the counter—but in the next breath he asked Mr. Smith if he had ever seen a store run down as his had done since he left it. Donovan didn't know any more than a cat how such a store should be run, he said.

When they came back from the garage they found callers in the living- room. Carl Pennock and Hibbard Gaylord were chatting with Mellicent. Almost at once the doorbell rang, too, and Donald Gray came in with his violin and a roll of music. Mellicent's mother came in also. She greeted all the young men pleasantly, and asked Carl Pennock to tell Mr. Smith all about his fishing trip. Then she sat down by young Gray and asked him many questions about his music. She was SO interested in violins, she said.

Gray waxed eloquent, and seemed wonderfully pleased—for about five minutes; then Mr. Smith saw that his glance was shifting more and more frequently and more and more unhappily to Mellicent and Hibbard Gaylord, talking tennis across the room.

Mr. Smith apparently lost interest in young Pennock's fish story then. At all events, another minute found him eagerly echoing Mrs. Blaisdell's interest in violins—but with this difference: violins in the abstract with her became A violin in the concrete with him; and he must hear it at once.

Mrs. Jane herself could not have told exactly how it was done, but she knew that two minutes later young Gray and Mellicent were at the piano, he, shining-eyed and happy, drawing a tentative bow across the strings: she, no less shining-eyed and happy, giving him "A" on the piano.

Mr. Smith enjoyed the music very much—so much that he begged for another selection and yet another. Mr. Smith did not appear to realize that Messrs. Pennock and Gaylord were passing through sham interest and frank boredom to disgusted silence. Equally oblivious was he of Mrs. Jane's efforts to substitute some other form of entertainment for the violin-playing. He shook hands very heartily, however, with Pennock and Gaylord when they took their somewhat haughty departure, a little later, and, strange to say, his interest in the music seemed to go with their going; for at once then he turned to Mr. and Mrs. Frank Blaisdell with a very animated account of some Blaisdell data he had found only the week before.

He did not appear to notice that the music of the piano had become nothing but soft fitful snatches with a great deal of low talk and laughter between. He seemed interested only that Mr. Blaisdell, and especially Mrs. Blaisdell, should know the intimate history of one Ephraim Blaisdell, born in 1720, and his ten children and forty-nine grandchildren. He talked of various investments then, and of the weather. He talked of the Blaisdells' trip, and of the cost of railroad fares and hotel life. He talked—indeed, Mrs. Jane told her husband after he left that Mr. Smith had talked of everything under the sun, and that she nearly had a fit because she could not get one minute to herself to break in upon Mellicent and that horrid Gray fellow at the piano. She had not supposed Mr. Smith could talk like that. She had never remembered he was such a talker!

The young people had a tennis match on the school tennis court the next day. Mr. Smith told Miss Maggie that he thought he would drop around there. He said he liked very much to watch tennis games.

Miss Maggie said yes, that she liked to watch tennis games, too. If this was just a wee bit of a hint, it quite failed of its purpose, for Mr. Smith did not offer to take her with him. He changed the subject, indeed, so abruptly, that Miss Maggie bit her lip and flushed a little, throwing a swift glance into his apparently serene countenance.

Miss Maggie herself, in the afternoon, with an errand for an excuse, walked slowly by the tennis court. She saw Mr. Smith at once—but he did not seem at all interested in the playing. He had his back to the court, in fact. He was talking very animatedly with Mellicent Blaisdell. He was still talking with her—though on the opposite side of the court—when Miss Maggie went by again on her way home.

Miss Maggie frowned and said something just under her breath about "that child—flirting as usual!" Then she went on, walking very fast, and without another glance toward the tennis ground. But a little farther on Miss Maggie's step lagged perceptibly, and her head lost its proud poise. Miss Maggie, for a reason she could not have explained herself, was feeling suddenly old, and weary, and very much alone.

To the image in the mirror as she took off her hat a few minutes later in her own hall, she said scornfully:

"Well, why shouldn't you feel old? You are old. YOU ARE OLD!" Miss Maggie had a habit of talking to herself in the mirror—but never before had she said anything like this to herself.

An hour later Mr. Smith came home to supper.

"Well, how did the game go?" queried Miss Maggie, without looking up from the stocking she was mending.

"Game? Go? Oh! Why, I don't remember who did win finally," he answered. Nor did it apparently occur to him that for one who was so greatly interested in tennis, he was curiously uninformed.

It did occur to Miss Maggie, however.

The next day Mr. Smith left the house soon after breakfast, and, contrary to his usual custom, did not mention where he was going. Miss Maggie was surprised and displeased. More especially was she displeased because she WAS displeased. As if it mattered to her where he went, she told herself scornfully.

The next day and the next it was much the same. On the third day she saw Jane.

"Where's Mr. Smith?" demanded Jane, without preamble, glancing at the vacant chair by the table in the corner.

Miss Maggie, to her disgust, could feel the color burning in her cheeks; but she managed to smile as if amused.

"I don't know, I'm sure. I'm not Mr. Smith's keeper, Jane."

"Well, if you were I should ask you to keep him away from Mellicent," retorted Mrs. Jane tartly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he's been hanging around Mellicent almost every day for a week."

Miss Maggie flushed painfully.

"Nonsense, Jane! He's more than twice her age. Mr. Smith is fifty if he's a day."

"I'm not saying he isn't," sniffed Jane, her nose uptilted. "But I do say, 'No fool like an old fool'!"

"Nonsense!" scorned Miss Maggie again. "Mr. Smith has always been fond of Mellicent, and—and interested in her. But I don't believe he cares for her—that way."

Then why does he come to see her and take her auto-riding, and hang around her every minute he gets a chance?" snapped Jane. "I know how he acts at the house, and I hear he scarcely left her side at the tennis match the other day."

"Yes, I—" Miss Maggie did not finish her sentence. A slow change came to her countenance. The flush receded, leaving her face a bit white.

"I wonder if the man really thinks he stands any chance," spluttered Jane, ignoring Miss Maggie's unfinished sentence. "Why, he's worse than that Donald Gray. He not only hasn't got the money, but he's old, as well."

"Yes, we're all—getting old, Jane." Miss Maggie tossed the words off lightly, and smiled as she uttered them. But after Mrs. Jane had gone, she went to the little mirror above the mantel and gazed at herself long and fixedly.

"Well, what if he does? It's nothing to you, Maggie Duff!" she muttered under her breath. Then resolutely she turned away, picked up her work, and fell to sewing very fast.

Two days later Mellicent went back to school. Bessie went, too. Fred and Benny had already gone. To Miss Maggie things seemed to settle back into their old ways again then. With Mr. Smith she took drives and motor-rides, enjoying the crisp October air and the dancing sunlight on the reds and browns and yellows of the autumnal foliage. True, she used to wonder sometimes if the end always justified the means—it seemed an expensive business to hire an automobile to take them fifty miles and back, and all to verify a single date. And she could not help noticing that Mr. Smith appeared to have many dates that needed verifying—dates that were located in very diverse parts of the surrounding country. Miss Maggie also could not help noticing that Mr. Smith was getting very little new material for his Blaisdell book these days, though he still worked industriously over the old, retabulating, and recopying. She knew this, because she helped him do it—though she was careful to let him know that she recognized the names and dates as old acquaintances.

To tell the truth, Miss Maggie did not like to admit, even to herself, that Mr. Smith must be nearing the end of his task. She did not like to think of the house—after Mr. Smith should have gone. She told herself that he was just the sort of homey boarder that she liked, and she wished she might keep him indefinitely.

She thought so all the more when the long evenings of November brought a new pleasure; Mr. Smith fell into the way of bringing home books to read aloud; and she enjoyed that very much. They had long talks, too, over the books they read. In one there was an old man who fell in love with a young girl, and married her. Miss Maggie, as certain parts of this story were read, held her breath, and stole furtive glances into Mr. Smith's face. When it was finished she contrived to question with careful casualness, as to his opinion of such a marriage.

Mr. Smith's answer was prompt and unequivocal. He said he did not believe that such a marriage should take place, nor did he believe that in real life, it would result in happiness. Marriage should be between persons of similar age, tastes, and habits, he said very decidedly. And Miss Maggie blushed and said yes, yes, indeed! And that night, when Miss Maggie gazed at herself in the glass, she looked so happy—that she appeared to be almost as young as Mellicent herself!



CHAPTER XVII

AN AMBASSADOR OF CUPID'S

Christmas again brought all the young people home for the holidays. It brought, also, a Christmas party at James Blaisdell's home. It was a very different party, however, from the housewarming of a year before.

To begin with, the attendance was much smaller; Mrs. Hattie had been very exclusive in her invitations this time. She had not invited "everybody who ever went anywhere." There were champagne, and cigarettes for the ladies, too.

As before, Mr. Smith and Miss Maggie went together. Miss Maggie, who had not attended any social gathering since Father Duff died, yielded to Mr. Smith's urgings and said that she would go to this. But Miss Maggie wished afterward that she had not gone—there were so many, many features about that party that Miss Maggie did not like.

She did not like the champagne nor the cigarettes. She did not like Bessie's showy, low-cut dress, nor her supercilious airs. She did not like the look in Fred's eyes, nor the way he drank the champagne. She did not like Jane's maneuvers to bring Mellicent and Hibbard Gaylord into each other's company—nor the way Mr. Smith maneuvered to get Mellicent for himself.

Of all these, except the very last, Miss Maggie talked with Mr. Smith on the way home—yet it was the very last that was uppermost in her mind, except perhaps, Fred. She did speak of Fred; but because that, too, was so much to her, she waited until the last before she spoke of it.

"You saw Fred, of course," she began then.

"Yes." Short as the word was, it carried a volume of meaning to Miss Maggie's fearful ears. She turned to him quickly.

"Mr. Smith, it—it isn't true, is it?"

"I'm afraid it is."

"You saw him—drinking, then?"

"Yes. I saw some, and I heard—more. It's just as I feared. He's got in with Gaylord and the rest of his set at college, and they're a bad lot—drinking, gambling—no good."

"But Fred wouldn't—gamble, Mr. Smith! Oh, Fred wouldn't do that. And he's so ambitious to get ahead! Surely he'd know he couldn't get anywhere in his studies, if—if he drank and gambled!"

"It would seem so."

"Did you see his father? I saw him only a minute at the first, and he didn't look well a bit, to me."

"Yes, I saw him. I found him in his den just as I did last year. He didn't look well to me, either."

"Did he say anything about—Fred?"

"Not a word—and that's what worries me the most. Last year he talked a lot about him, and was so proud and happy in his coming success. This time he never mentioned him; but he looked—bad."

"What did he talk about?"

"Oh, books, business:—nothing in particular. And he wasn't interested in what he did say. He was very different from last year."

"Yes, I know. He is different," sighed Maggie. "He's talked with me quite a lot about—about the way they're living. He doesn't like—so much fuss and show and society."

Mr. Smith frowned.

"But I thought—Mrs. Hattie would get over all that by this time, after the newness of the money was worn off."

"I hoped she would. But—she doesn't. It's worse, if anything," sighed Miss Maggie, as they ascended the steps at her own door.

Mr. Smith frowned again.

"And Miss Bessie—" he began disapprovingly, then stopped. "Now, Miss Mellicent—" he resumed, in a very different voice.

But Miss Maggie was not apparently listening. With a rather loud rattling of the doorknob she was pushing open the door.

"Why, how hot it is! Did I leave that damper open?" she cried, hurrying into the living-room.

And Mr. Smith, hurrying after, evidently forgot to finish his sentence.

Miss Maggie did not attend any more of the merrymakings of that holiday week. But Mr. Smith did. It seemed to Miss Maggie, indeed, that Mr. Smith was away nearly every minute of that long week—and it WAS a long week to Miss Maggie. Even the Martin girls were away many of the evenings. Miss Maggie told herself that that was why the house seemed so lonesome.

But though Miss Maggie did not participate in the gay doings, she heard of them. She heard of them on all sides, except from Mr. Smith— and on all sides she heard of the devotion of Mr. Smith to Miss Mellicent. She concluded that this was the reason why Mr. Smith himself was so silent.

Miss Maggie was shocked and distressed. She was also very much puzzled. She had supposed that Mr. Smith understood that Mellicent and young Gray cared for each other, and she had thought that Mr. Smith even approved of the affair between them. Now to push himself on the scene in this absurd fashion and try "to cut everybody out," as it was vulgarly termed—she never would have believed it of Mr. Smith in the world. And she was disappointed, too. She liked Mr. Smith very much. She had considered him to be a man of good sense and good judgment. And had he not himself said, not so long ago, that he believed lovers should be of the same age, tastes, and habits? And yet, here now he was—

And there could be no mistake about it. Everybody was saying the same thing. The Martin girls brought it home as current gossip. Jane was highly exercised over it, and even Harriet had exclaimed over the "shameful flirtation Mellicent was carrying on with that man old enough to be her father!" No, there was no mistake. Besides, did she not see with her own eyes that Mr. Smith was gone every day and evening, and that, when he was at home at meal-time, he was silent and preoccupied, and not like himself at all?

And it was such a pity—she had thought so much of Mr. Smith! It really made her feel quite ill.

And Miss Maggie looked ill on the last evening of that holiday week when, at nine o'clock, Mr. Smith found her sitting idle-handed before the stove in the living-room.

"Why, Miss Maggie, what's the matter with you?" cried the man, in very evident concern. "You don't look like yourself to-night!"

Miss Maggie pulled herself up hastily.

"Nonsense! I—I'm perfectly well. I'm just—tired, I guess. You're home early, Mr. Smith." In spite of herself Miss Maggie's voice carried a tinge of something not quite pleasant.

Mr. Smith, however, did not appear to notice it.

"Yes, I'm home early for once, thank Heaven!" he half groaned, as he dropped himself into a chair.

"It has been a strenuous week for you, hasn't it?" Again the tinge of something not quite pleasant in Miss Maggie's voice.

"Yes, but it's been worth it."

"Of course!"

Mr. Smith turned deliberately and looked at Miss Maggie. There was a vague questioning in his eyes. Obtaining, apparently, however, no satisfactory answer from Miss Maggie's placid countenance, he turned away and began speaking again.

"Well, anyway, I've accomplished what I set out to do."

"You-you've ALREADY accomplished it?" faltered Miss Maggie. She was gazing at him now with startled, half-frightened eyes.

"Yes. Why, Miss Maggie, what's the matter? What makes you look so—so queer?"

"Queer? Nonsense! Why, nothing—nothing at all," laughed Miss Maggie nervously, but very gayly. "I may have been a little—surprised, for a moment; but I'm very glad—very."

"Glad?"

"Why, yes, for—for you. Isn't one always glad when—when a love affair is—is all settled?"

"Oh, then you suspected it." Mr. Smith smiled pleasantly, but without embarrassment. "It doesn't matter, of course, only—well, I had hoped it wasn't too conspicuous."

"Oh, but you couldn't expect to hide a thing like that, Mr. Smith," retorted Miss Maggie, with what was very evidently intended for an arch smile. "I heard it everywhere—everywhere."

"The mischief you did!" frowned Mr. Smith, looking slightly annoyed. "Well, I suppose I couldn't expect to keep a thing like that entirely in the dark. Still, I don't believe the parties themselves—quite understood. Of course, Pennock and Gaylord knew that they were kept effectually away, but I don't believe they realized just how systematically it was done. Of course, Gray understood from the first."

"Poor Mr. Gray! I—I can't help being sorry for him."

"SORRY for him!"

"Certainly; and I should think YOU might give him a little sympathy," rejoined Miss Maggie spiritedly. "You KNOW how much he cared for Mellicent."

Mr. Smith sat suddenly erect in his chair.

"Cared for her! Sympathy! Why, what in the world are you talking about? Wasn't I doing the best I could for them all the time? Of COURSE, it kept HIM away from her, too, just as it did Pennock and Gaylord; but HE understood. Besides, he HAD her part of the time. I let him in whenever it was possible."

"Let him in!" Miss Maggie was sitting erect now. "Whatever in the world are YOU talking about? Do you mean to say you were doing this FOR Mr. Gray, all the time?"

"Why, of course! Whom else should I do it for? You didn't suppose it was for Pennock or Gaylord, did you? Nor for—" He stopped short and stared at Miss Maggie in growing amazement and dismay. "You didn't— you DIDN'T think—I was doing that—for MYSELF?"

"Well, of course, I—I—" Miss Maggie was laughing and blushing painfully, but there was a new light in her eyes. "Well, anyway, everybody said you were!" she defended herself stoutly.

"Oh, good Heavens!" Mr. Smith leaped to his feet and thrust his hands into his pockets, as he took a nervous turn about the room. "For myself, indeed! as if, in my position, I'd—How perfectly absurd!" He wheeled and faced her irritably. "And you believed that? Why, I'm not a marrying man. I don't like—I never saw the woman yet that I—" With his eyes on Miss Maggie's flushed, half-averted face, he stopped again abruptly. "Well, I'll be—" Even under his breath he did not finish his sentence; but, with a new, quite different expression on his face, he resumed his nervous pacing of the room, throwing now and then a quick glance at Miss Maggie's still averted face.

"It WAS absurd, of course, wasn't it?" Miss Maggie stirred and spoke lightly, with the obvious intention of putting matters back into usual conditions again. "But, come, tell me, just what did you do, and how? I'm so interested—indeed, I am!"

"Eh? What?" Mr. Smith spoke as if he was thinking of something else entirely. "Oh—THAT." Mr. Smith sat down, but he did not go on speaking at once. His eyes frowningly regarded the stove.

"You said—you kept Pennock and Gaylord away," Miss Maggie hopefully reminded him.

"Er—yes. Oh, I—it was really very simple—I just monopolized Mellicent myself, when I couldn't let Donald have her. That's all. I saw very soon that she couldn't cope with her mother alone. And Gaylord—well, I've no use for that young gentleman."

"But you like—Donald?"

"Very much. I've been looking him up for some time. He's all right."

"I'm glad."

"Yes." Mr. Smith spoke abstractedly, without enthusiasm. Plainly Mr. Smith was still thinking of something else.

Miss Maggie asked other questions—Miss Maggie was manifestly interested—and Mr. Smith answered them, but still without enthusiasm. Very soon he said good-night and went to his own room.

For some days after this, Mr. Smith did not appear at all like himself. He seemed abstracted and puzzled. Miss Maggie, who still felt self-conscious and embarrassed over her misconception of his attentions to Mellicent, was more talkative than usual in her nervous attempt to appear perfectly natural. The fact that she often found his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon her, and felt them following her as she moved about the room, did not tend to make her more at ease. At such times she talked faster than ever—usually, if possible, about some member of the Blaisdell family: Miss Maggie had learned that Mr. Smith was always interested in any bit of news about the Blaisdells.

It was on such an occasion that she told him about Miss Flora and the new house.

"I don't know, really, what I am going to do with her," she said. "I wonder if perhaps you could help me."

"Help you?—about Miss Flora?"

"Yes. Can you think of any way to make her contented?"

"CONTENTED! Why, I thought—Don't tell me SHE isn't happy!" There was a curious note of almost despair in Mr. Smith's voice. "Hasn't she a new house, and everything nice to go with it?"

Miss Maggie laughed. Then she sighed.

"Oh, yes—and that's what's the trouble. They're TOO nice. She feels smothered and oppressed—as if she were visiting somewhere, and not at home. She's actually afraid of her maid. You see, Miss Flora has always lived very simply. She isn't used to maids—and the maid knows it, which, if you ever employed maids, you would know is a terrible state of affairs."

"Oh, but she—she'll get used to that, in time." "Perhaps," conceded Miss Maggie, "but I doubt it. Some women would, but not Miss Flora. She is too inherently simple in her tastes. 'Why, it's as bad as always living in a hotel!' she wailed to me last night. 'You know on my trip I was so afraid always I'd do something that wasn't quite right, before those awful waiters in the dining-rooms, and I was anticipating so much getting home where I could act natural—and here I've got one in my own house!'"

Mr. Smith frowned, but he laughed, too.

"Poor Miss Flora! But why doesn't she dismiss the lady?"

"She doesn't dare to. Besides, there's Hattie. She says Hattie is always telling her what is due her position, and that she must do this and do that. She's being invited out, too, to the Pennocks' and the Bensons'; and they're worse than the maid, she declares. She says she loves to 'run in' and see people, and she loves to go to places and spend the day with her sewing; but that these things where you go and stand up and eat off a jiggly plate, and see everybody, and not really see ANYBODY, are a nuisance and an abomination."

"Well, she's about right there," chuckled Mr. Smith.

"Yes, I think she is," smiled Miss Maggie; "but that isn't telling me how to make her contented."

"Contented! Great Scott!" snapped Mr. Smith, with an irritability that was as sudden as it was apparently causeless. "I didn't suppose you had to tell any woman on this earth how to be contented—with a hundred thousand dollars!"

"It would seem so, wouldn't it?"

Something in Miss Maggie's voice sent Mr. Smith's eyes to her face in a keen glance of interrogation.

"You mean—you'd like the chance to prove it? That you wish YOU had that hundred thousand?"

"Oh, I didn't say—that," twinkled Miss Maggie mischievously, turning away.

It was that same afternoon that Mr. Smith met Mrs. Jane Blaisdell on the street.

"You're just the man I want to see," she accosted him eagerly.

"Then I'll turn and walk along with you, if I may," smiled Mr. Smith. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, I don't know as you can do anything," she sighed; "but somebody's got to do something. Could you—DO you suppose you could interest my husband in this Blaisdell business of yours?"

Mr. Smith gave a start, looking curiously disconcerted.

"B-Blaisdell business?" he stammered. "Why, I—I thought he was—er— interested in motoring and golf."

"Oh, he was, for a time; but it's too cold for those now, and he got sick of them, anyway, before it did come cold, just as he does of everything. Well, yesterday he asked a question—something about Father Blaisdell's mother; and that gave me the idea. DO you suppose you could get him interested in this ancestor business? Oh, I wish you could! It's so nice and quiet, and it CAN'T cost much—not like golf clubs and caddies and gasoline, anyway. Do you think you could?"

"Why, I—I don't know, Mrs. Blaisdell," murmured Mr. Smith, still a little worriedly. "I—I could show him what I have found, of course."

"Well, I wish you would, then. Anyway, SOMETHING'S got to be done," she sighed. "He's nervous as a witch. He can't keep still a minute. And he isn't a bit well, either. He ate such a lot of rich food and all sorts of stuff on our trip that he got his stomach all out of order; and now he can't eat anything, hardly."

"Humph! Well, if his stomach's knocked out I pity him," nodded Mr. Smith. "I've been there."

"Oh, have you? Oh, yes, I remember. You did say so when you first came, didn't you? But, Mr. Smith PLEASE, if you know any of those health fads, don't tell them to my husband. Don't, I beg of you! He's tried dozens of them until I'm nearly wild, and I've lost two hired girls already. One day it'll be no water, and the next it'll be all he can drink; and one week he won't eat anything but vegetables, and the next he won't touch a thing but meat and—is it fruit that goes with meat or cereals? Well, never mind. Whatever it is, he's done it. And lately he's taken to inspecting every bit of meat and groceries that comes into the house. Why, he spends half his time in the kitchen, nosing 'round the cupboards and refrigerator; and, of course, NO girl will stand that! That's why I'm hoping, oh, I AM hoping that you can do SOMETHING with him on that ancestor business. There, here is the Bensons', where I've got to stop—and thank you ever so much, Mr. Smith, if you will."

"All right, I'll try," promised Mr. Smith dubiously, as he lifted his hat. But he frowned, and he was still frowning when he met Miss Maggie at the Duff supper-table half an hour later.

"Well, I've found another one who wants me to tell to be contented, though afflicted with a hundred thousand dollars," he greeted her gloweringly.

"Is that so?" smiled Miss Maggie.

"Yes.—CAN'T a hundred thousand dollars bring any one satisfaction?"

Miss Maggie laughed, then into her eyes came the mischievous twinkle that Mr. Smith had learned to watch for.

"Don't blame the poor money," she said then demurely. "Blame—the way it is spent!"



CHAPTER XVIII

JUST A MATTER OF BEGGING

True to his promise, Mr. Smith "tried" Mr. Frank Blaisdell on "the ancestor business" very soon. Laboriously he got out his tabulated dates and names and carefully he traced for him several lines of descent from remote ancestors. Painstakingly he pointed out a "Submit," who had no history but the bare fact of her marriage to one Thomas Blaisdell, and a "Thankful Marsh," who had eluded his every attempt to supply her with parents. He let it be understood how important these missing links were, and he tried to inspire his possible pupil with a frenzied desire to go out and dig them up. He showed some of the interesting letters he had received from various Blaisdells far and near, and he spread before him the genealogical page of his latest "Transcript," and explained how one might there stumble upon the very missing link he was looking for.

But Mr. Frank Blaisdell was openly bored. He said he didn't care how many children his great-grandfather had, nor what they died of; and as for Mrs. Submit and Miss Thankful, the ladies might bury themselves in the "Transcript," or hide behind that wall of dates and names till doomsday, for all he cared. HE shouldn't disturb 'em. He never did like figures, he said, except figures that represented something worth while, like a day's sales or a year's profits.

And speaking of grocery stores, had Mr. Smith ever seen a store run down as his old one had since he sold out? For that matter, something must have got into all the grocery stores; for a poorer lot of goods than those delivered every day at his home he never saw. It was a disgrace to the trade.

He said a good deal more about his grocery store—hut nothing whatever more about his Blaisdell ancestors; so Mr. Smith felt justified in considering his efforts to interest Mr. Frank Blaisdell in the ancestor business a failure. Certainly he never tried it again.

It was in February that a certain metropolitan reporter, short for feature articles, ran up to Hillerton and contributed to his paper, the following Sunday, a write-up on "The Blaisdells One Year After," enlarging on the fine new homes, the motor cars, and the luxurious living of the three families. And it was three days after this article was printed that Miss Flora appeared at Miss Maggie's, breathless with excitement.

"Just see what I've got in the mail this morning!" she cried to Miss Maggie, and to Mr. Smith, who had opened the door for her.

With trembling fingers she took from her bag a letter, and a small picture evidently cut from a newspaper.

"There, see," she panted, holding them out. "It's a man in Boston, and these are his children. There are seven of them. He wrote me a beautiful letter. He said he knew I must have a real kind heart, and he's in terrible trouble. He said he saw in the paper about the wonderful legacy I'd had. and he told his wife he was going to write to me, to see if I wouldn't help them—if only a little, it would aid them that much."

"He wants money, then?" Miss Maggie had taken the letter and the picture rather gingerly in her hands. Mr. Smith had gone over to the stove suddenly—to turn a damper, apparently, though a close observer might have noticed that he turned it back to its former position almost at once.

"Yes," palpitated Miss Flora. "He's sick, and he lost his position, and his wife's sick, and two of the children, and one of 'em's lame, and another's blind. Oh, it was such a pitiful story, Maggie! Why, some days they haven't had enough to eat—and just look at me, with all my chickens and turkeys and more pudding every day than I can stuff down!"

"Did he give you any references?"

"References! What do you mean? He didn't ask me to HIRE him for anything."

"No, no, dear, but I mean—did he give you any references, to show that he was—was worthy and all right," explained Miss Maggie patiently.

"Of course he didn't! Why, he didn't need to. He told me himself how things were with him," rebuked Miss Flora indignantly. "It's all in the letter there. Read for yourself."

"But he really ought to have given you SOME reference, dear, if he asked you for money."

"Well, I don't want any reference. I believe him. I'd be ashamed to doubt a man like that! And YOU would, after you read that letter, and look into those blessed children's faces. Besides, he never thought of such a thing—I know he didn't. Why, he says right in the letter there that he never asked for help before, and he was so ashamed that he had to now."



Mr. Smith made a sudden odd little noise in his throat. Perhaps he got choked. At all events, he was seized with a fit of coughing just then.

Miss Maggie turned over the letter in her hand.

"Where does he tell you to send the money?"

"It's right there—Box four hundred and something; and I got a money order, just as he said."

"You GOT one! Do you mean that you've already sent this money?" cried Miss Maggie.

"Why, yes, of course. I stopped at the office on the way down here."

"And you sent—a money order?"

"Yes. He said he would rather have that than a check."

"I don't doubt it! You don't seem to have—delayed any."

"Of course I didn't delay! Why, Maggie, he said he HAD to have it at once. He was going to be turned out—TURNED OUT into the streets! Think of those seven little children in the streets! Wait, indeed! Why, Maggie, what can you be thinking of?"

"I'm thinking you've been the easy victim of a professional beggar, Flora," retorted Miss Maggie, with some spirit, handing back the letter and the picture.

"Why, Maggie, I never knew you to be so—so unkind," charged Miss Flora, her eyes tearful. "He can't be a professional beggar. He SAID he wasn't—that he never begged before in his life."

Miss Maggie, with a despairing gesture, averted her face.

Miss Flora turned to Mr. Smith.

"Mr. Smith, you—YOU don't think so, do you?" she pleaded.

Mr. Smith grew very red—perhaps because he had to stop to cough again.

"Well, Miss Flora, I—I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I shall have to agree with Miss Maggie here, to some extent."

"But you didn't read the letter. You don't know how beautifully he talked."

"You told me; and you say yourself that he gave you only a post-office box for an address. So you see you couldn't look him up very well."

"I don't need to!" Miss Flora threw back her head a little haughtily. "And I'm glad I don't doubt my fellow men and women as you and Maggie Duff do! If either of you KNEW what you're talking about, I wouldn't say anything. But you don't. You CAN'T KNOW anything about this man, and you didn't ever get letters like this, either of you, of course. But, anyhow, I don't care if he ain't worthy. I wouldn't let those children suffer; and I—I'm glad I sent it. I never in my life was so happy as I was on the way here from the post-office this morning."

Without waiting for a reply, she turned away majestically; but at the door she paused and looked back at Miss Maggie.

"And let me tell you that, however good or bad this particular man may be, it's given me an idea, anyway," she choked. The haughtiness was all gone now "I know now why it hasn't seemed right to be so happy. It's because there are so many other folks in the world that AREN'T happy. Why, my chicken and turkey would choke me now if I didn't give some of it to—to all these others. And I'm going to—I'M GOING TO!" she reiterated, as she fled from the room.

As the door shut crisply, Miss Maggie turned and looked at Mr. Smith. But Mr. Smith had crossed again to the stove and was fussing with the damper. Miss Maggie, after a moment's hesitation, turned and went out into the kitchen, without speaking.

Mr. Smith and Miss Maggie saw very little of Miss Flora after this for some time. But they heard a good deal about her. They heard of her generous gifts to families all over town.

A turkey was sent to every house on Mill Street, without exception, and so much candy given to the children that half of them were made ill, much to the distress of Miss Flora, who, it was said, promptly sent a physician to undo her work. The Dow family, hard-working and thrifty, and the Nolans, notorious for their laziness and shiftlessness, each received a hundred dollars outright. The Whalens, always with both hands metaphorically outstretched for alms, were loud in their praises of Miss Flora's great kindness of heart; but the Davises (Mrs. Jane Blaisdell's impecunious relatives) had very visible difficulty in making Miss Flora understand that gifts bestowed as she bestowed them were more welcome unmade.

Every day, from one quarter or another, came stories like these to the ears of Miss Maggie and Mr. Smith. But Miss Flora was seen very seldom. Then one day, about a month later, she appeared as before at the Duff cottage, breathless and agitated; only this time, plainly, she had been crying.

"Why, Flora, what in the world is the matter?" cried Miss Maggie, as she hurried her visitor into a comfortable chair and began to unfasten her wraps.

"I'll tell you in a minute. I came on purpose to tell you. But I want Mr. Smith, too. Oh, he ain't here, is he?" she lamented, with a disappointed glance toward the vacant chair by the table in the corner. "I thought maybe he could help me, some way. I won't go to Frank, or Jim. They've—they've said so many things. Oh, I did so hope Mr. Smith was here!"

"He is here, dear. He's in his room. He just came in. I'll call him," comforted Miss Maggie, taking off Miss Flora's veil and hat and smoothing back her hair. "But you don't want him to find you crying like this, Flora. What is it, dear?"

"Yes, yes, I know, but I'm not crying—I mean, I won't any more. And I'll tell you just as soon as you get Mr. Smith. It's only that I've been—so silly, I suppose. Please get Mr. Smith."

"All right, dear."

Miss Maggie, still with the disturbed frown between her eyebrows, summoned Mr. Smith. Then together they sat down to hear Miss Flora's story.

"It all started, of course, from—from that day I brought the letter here—from that man in Boston with seven children, you know."

"Yes, I remember," encouraged Miss Maggie.

"Well, I—I did quite a lot of things after that. I was so glad and happy to discover I could do things for folks. It seemed to—to take away the wickedness of my having so much, you know; and so I gave food and money, oh, lots of places here in town—everywhere, 'most, that I could find that anybody needed it."

"Yes, I know. We heard of the many kind things you did, dear." Miss Maggie had the air of one trying to soothe a grieved child.

"But they didn't turn out to be kind—all of 'em," quavered Miss Flora. "Some of 'em went wrong. I don't know why. I TRIED to do 'em all right!"

"Of course you did!"

"I know; but 'tain't those I came to talk about. It's the others—the letters."

"Letters?"

"Yes. I got 'em—lots of 'em—after the first one—the one you saw. First I got one, then another and another, till lately I've been getting 'em every day, 'most, and some days two or three at a time."

"And they all wanted—money, I suppose," observed Mr. Smith, "for their sick wives and children, I suppose."

"Oh, not for children always—though it was them a good deal. But it was for different things—and such a lot of them! I never knew there could be so many kinds of such things. And I was real pleased, at first,—that I could help, you know, in so many places."

"Then you always sent it—the money?" asked Mr. Smith.

"Oh, yes. Why, I just had to, the way they wrote; I wanted to, too. They wrote lovely letters, and real interesting ones, too. One man wanted a warm coat for his little girl, and he told me all about what hard times they'd had. Another wanted a brace for his poor little crippled boy, and HE told me things. Why, I never s'posed folks could have such awful things, and live! One woman just wanted to borrow twenty dollars while she was so sick. She didn't ask me to give it to her. She wasn't a beggar. Don't you suppose I'd send her that money? Of course I would! And there was a poor blind man—he wanted money to buy a Bible in raised letters; and of COURSE I wouldn't refuse that! Some didn't beg; they just wanted to sell things. I bought a diamond ring to help put a boy through school, and a ruby pin of a man who needed the money for bread for his children. And there was—oh, there was lots of 'em—too many to tell."

"And all from Boston, I presume," murmured Mr. Smith.

"Oh, no,—why, yes, they were, too, most of 'em, when you come to think of it. But how did you know?"

"Oh, I—guessed it. But go on. You haven't finished."

"No, I haven't finished," moaned Miss Flora, almost crying again. "And now comes the worst of it. As I said, at first I liked it—all these letters—and I was so glad to help. But they're coming so fast now I don't know what to do with 'em. And I never saw such a lot of things as they want—pensions and mortgages, and pianos, and educations, and wedding dresses, and clothes to be buried in, and—and there were so many, and—and so queer, some of 'em, that I began to be afraid maybe they weren't quite honest, all of 'em, and of course I CAN'T send to such a lot as there are now, anyway, and I was getting so worried. Besides, I got another one of those awful proposals from those dreadful men that want to marry me. As if I didn't know THAT was for my money! Then to-day, this morning, I—I got the worst of all." From her bag she took an envelope and drew out a small picture of several children, cut apparently from a newspaper. "Look at that. Did you ever see that before?" she demanded.

Miss Maggie scrutinized the picture.

"Why, no,—yes, it's the one you brought us a month ago, isn't it?"

Miss Flora's eyes flashed angrily.

"Indeed, it ain't! The one I showed you before is in my bureau drawer at home. But I got it out this morning, when this one came, and compared them; and they're just exactly alike—EXACTLY!"

"Oh, he wrote again, then,—wants more money, I suppose," frowned Miss Maggie.

"No, he didn't. It ain't the same man. This man's name is Haley, and that one was Fay. But Mr. Haley says this is a picture of his children, and he says that the little girl in the corner is Katy, and she's deaf and dumb; but Mr. Fay said her name was Rosie, and that she was LAME. And all the others—their names ain't the same, either, and there ain't any of 'em blind. And, of course, I know now that—that one of those men is lying to me. Why, they cut them out of the same newspaper; they've got the same reading on the back! And I—I don't know what to believe now. And there are all those letters at home that I haven't answered yet; and they keep coming—why, I just dread to see the postman turn down our street. And one man—he wrote twice. I didn't like his first letter and didn't answer it; and now he says if I don't send him the money he'll tell everybody everywhere what a stingy t-tight-wad I am. And another man said he'd come and TAKE it if I didn't send it; and you KNOW how afraid of burglars I am! Oh what shall I do, what shall I do?" she begged piteously.

Mr. Smith said a sharp word behind his teeth.

"Do?" he cried then wrathfully. "First, don't you worry another bit, Miss Flora. Second, just hand those letters over to me—every one of them. I'll attend to 'em!"

"To YOU?" gasped Miss Flora. "But—how can you?"

"Oh, I'll be your secretary. Most rich people have to have secretaries, you know."

"But how'll you know how to answer MY letters?" demanded Miss Flora dubiously. "Have you ever been—a secretary?"

"N-no, not exactly a secretary. But—I've had some experience with similar letters," observed Mr. Smith dryly.

Miss Flora drew a long sigh.

"Oh, dear! I wish you could. Do you think you can? I hoped maybe you could help me some way, but I never thought of that—your answering 'em, I mean. I supposed everybody had to answer their own letters. How'll you know what I want to say?"

Mr. Smith laughed a little.

"I shan't be answering what YOU want to say—but what I want to say. In this case, Miss Flora, I exceed the prerogatives of the ordinary secretary just a bit, you see. But you can count on one thing—I shan't be spending any money for you."

"You won't send them anything, then?"

"Not a red cent."

Miss Flora looked distressed.

"But, Mr. Smith, I want to send some of 'em something! I want to be kind and charitable."

"Of course you do, dear," spoke up Miss Maggie. "But you aren't being either kind or charitable to foster rascally fakes like that," pointing to the picture in Miss Flora's lap.

"Are they ALL fakes, then?"

"I'd stake my life on most of 'em," declared Mr. Smith. "They have all the earmarks of fakes, all right."

Miss Flora stirred restlessly.

"But I was having a beautiful time giving until these horrid letters began to come."

"Flora, do you give because YOU like the sensation of giving, and of receiving thanks, or because you really want to help somebody?" asked Miss Maggie, a bit wearily.

"Why, Maggie Duff, I want to help people, of course," almost wept Miss Flora.

Well, then, suppose you try and give so it will help them, then," said Miss Maggie. "One of the most risky things in the world, to my way of thinking, is a present of—cash. Don't you think so, Mr. Smith?"

"Er—ah—w-what? Y-yes, of course," stammered Mr. Smith, growing suddenly, for some unapparent reason, very much confused. "Yes—yes, I do." As Mr. Smith finished speaking, he threw an oddly nervous glance into Miss Maggie's face.

But Miss Maggie had turned back to Miss Flora.

"There, dear," she admonished her, "now, you do just as Mr. Smith says. Just hand over your letters to him for a while, and forget all about them. He'll tell you how he answers them, of course. But you won't have to worry about them any more. Besides they'll soon stop coming,—won't they, Mr. Smith?"

"I think they will. They'll dwindle to a few scattering ones, anyway,- -after I've handled them for a while."

"Well, I should like that," sighed Miss Flora. "But—can't I give anything anywhere?" she besought plaintively.

"Of course you can!" cried Miss Maggie. "But I would investigate a little, first, dear. Wouldn't you, Mr. Smith? Don't you believe in investigation?"

Once again, before he answered, Mr. Smith threw a swiftly questioning glance into Miss Maggie's face.

"Yes, oh, yes; I believe in—investigation," he said then. "And now, Miss Flora," he added briskly, as Miss Flora reached for her wraps, "with your kind permission I'll walk home with you and have a look at- -my new job of secretarying."



CHAPTER XIX

STILL OTHER FLIES

It was when his duties of secretaryship to Miss Flora had dwindled to almost infinitesimal proportions that Mr. Smith wished suddenly that he were serving Miss Maggie in that capacity, so concerned was he over a letter that had come to Miss Maggie in that morning's mail.

He himself had taken it from the letter-carrier's hand and had placed it on Miss Maggie's little desk. Casually, as he did so, he had noticed that it bore a name he recognized as that of a Boston law firm; but he had given it no further thought until later, when, as he sat at his work in the living-room, he had heard Miss Maggie give a low cry and had looked up to find her staring at the letter in her hand, her face going from red to white and back to red again.

"Why, Miss Maggie, what is it?" he cried, springing to his feet.

As she turned toward him he saw that her eyes were full of tears.

"Why, it—it's a letter telling me—-" She stopped abruptly, her eyes on his face.

"Yes, yes, tell me," he begged. "Why, you are—CRYING, dear!" Mr. Smith, plainly quite unaware of the caressing word he had used, came nearer, his face aglow with sympathy, his eyes very tender.

The red surged once more over Miss Maggie's face. She drew back a little, though manifestly with embarrassment, not displeasure.

"It's—nothing, really it's nothing," she stammered. "It's just a letter that—that surprised me."

"But it made you cry!"

"Oh, well, I—I cry easily sometimes." With hands that shook visibly, she folded the letter and tucked it into its envelope. Then with a carelessness that was a little too elaborate, she tossed it into her open desk. Very plainly, whatever she had meant to do in the first place, she did not now intend to disclose to Mr. Smith the contents of that letter.

"Miss Maggie, please tell me—was it bad news?"

"Bad? Why, of course not!" She laughed gayly.

Mr. Smith thought he detected a break very like a sob in the laugh.

"But maybe I could—help you," he pleaded.

She shook her head.

"You couldn't—indeed, you couldn't!"

"Miss Maggie, was it—money matters?"

He had his answer in the telltale color that flamed instantly into her face—but her lips said:—

"It was—nothing—I mean, it was nothing that need concern you." She hurried away then to the kitchen, and Mr. Smith was left alone to fume up and down the room and frown savagely at the offending envelope tiptilted against the ink bottle in Miss Maggie's desk, just as Miss Maggie's carefully careless hand had thrown it.

Miss Maggie had several more letters from the Boston law firm, and Mr. Smith knew it—though he never heard Miss Maggie cry out at any of the other ones. That they affected her deeply, however, he was certain. Her very evident efforts to lead him to think that they were of no consequence would convince him of their real importance to her if nothing else had done so. He watched her, therefore, covertly, fearfully, longing to help her, but not daring to offer his services.

That the affair had something to do with money matters he was sure. That she would not deny this naturally strengthened him in this belief. He came in time, therefore, to formulate his own opinion: she had lost money—perhaps a good deal (for her), and she was too proud to let him or any one else know it.

He watched then all the more carefully to see if he could detect any NEW economies or new deprivations in her daily living. Then, because he could not discover any such, he worried all the more: if she HAD lost that money, she ought to economize, certainly. Could she be so foolish as to carry her desire for secrecy to so absurd a length as to live just exactly as before when she really could not afford it?

It was at about this time that Mr. Smith requested to have hot water brought to his room morning and night, for which service he insisted, in spite of Miss Maggie's remonstrances, on paying three dollars a week extra.

There came a strange man to call one day. He was a member of the Boston law firm. Mr. Smith found out that much, but no more. Miss Maggie was almost hysterical after his visit. She talked very fast and laughed a good deal at supper that night; yet her eyes were full of tears nearly all the time, as Mr. Smith did not fail to perceive.

"And I suppose she thinks she's hiding it from me—that her heart is breaking!" muttered Mr. Smith savagely to himself, as he watched Miss Maggie's nervous efforts to avoid meeting his eyes. "I vow I'll have it out of her. I'll have it out—to-morrow!"

Mr. Smith did not "have it out" with Miss Maggie the following day, however. Something entirely outside of himself sent his thoughts into a new channel.

He was alone in the Duff living-room, and was idling over his work, at his table in the corner, when Mrs. Hattie Blaisdell opened the door and hurried in, wringing her hands. Her face was red and swollen from tears.

"Where's Maggie? I want Maggie! Isn't Maggie here?" she implored.

Mr. Smith sprang to his feet and hastened toward her.

"Why, Mrs. Blaisdell, what is it? No, she isn't here. I'm so sorry! Can't I do—anything?"

"Oh, I don't know—I don't know," moaned the woman, flinging herself into a chair. "There can't anybody do anything, I s'pose; but I've GOT to have somebody. I can't stay there in that house—I can't—I can't— I CAN'T!"

"No, no, of course not. And you shan't," soothed the man. "And she'll be here soon, I'm sure—Miss Maggie will. But just let me help you off with your things," he urged, somewhat awkwardly trying to unfasten her heavy wraps. "You'll be so warm here."

"Yes, I know, I know." Impatiently she jerked off the rich fur coat and tossed it into his arms; then she dropped into the chair again and fell to wringing her hands. "Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?"

"But what is it?" stammered Mr. Smith helplessly. "Can't I do— something? Can't I send for—for your husband?"

At the mention of her husband, Mrs. Blaisdell fell to weeping afresh.

"No, no! He's gone—to Fred, you know."

"To—Fred?"

"Yes, yes, that's what's the matter. Oh, Fred, Fred, my boy!"

"Fred! Oh, Mrs. Blaisdell, I'm so sorry! But what—IS it?"

The woman dropped her hands from her face and looked up wildly, half defiantly.

"Mr. Smith, YOU know Fred. You liked him, didn't you? He isn't bad and wicked, is he? And they can't shut him up if—if we pay it back—all of it that he took? They won't take my boy—to PRISON?"

"To PRISON—FRED!"

At the look of horror on Mr. Smith's face, she began to wring her hands again.

"You don't know, of course. I'll have to tell you—I'll have to," she moaned.

"But, my dear woman,—not unless you want to."

"I do want to—I do want to! I've GOT to talk—to somebody. It's this way." With a visible effort she calmed herself a little and forced herself to talk more coherently. "We got a letter from Fred. It came this morning. He wanted, some money—quick. He wanted seven hundred dollars and forty-two cents. He said he'd got to have it—if he didn't, he'd go and KILL himself. He said he'd spent all of his allowance, every cent, and that's what made him take it—this other money, in the first place."

"You mean—money that didn't belong to him?" Mr. Smith's voice was a little stern.

"Yes; but you mustn't blame him, you mustn't blame him, Mr. Smith. He said he owed it. It was a—a debt of honor. Those were his very words."

"Oh! A debt of honor, was it?" Mr. Smith's lips came together grimly.

"Yes; and—Oh, Maggie, Maggie, what shall I do? What shall I do?" she broke off wildly, leaping to her feet as Miss Maggie pushed open the door and hurried in.

"Yes, I know. Don't worry. We'll find something to do." Miss Maggie, white-faced, but with a cheery smile, was throwing off her heavy coat and her hat. A moment later she came over and took Mrs. Hattie's trembling hands in both her own. "Now, first, tell me all about it, dear."

"You KNOW, then?"

"Only a little," answered Miss Maggie, gently pushing the other back into her chair. "I met Frank. Jim telephoned him something, just before he left. But I want the whole story. Now, what is it?"

"I was just telling Mr. Smith." She began to wring her hands again, but Miss Maggie caught and held them firmly. "You see, Fred, he was treasurer of some club, or society, or something; and—and he—he needed some money to—to pay a man, and he took that—the money that belonged to the club, you know, and he thought he could pay it back, little by little. But something happened—I don't know what—a new treasurer, or something: anyhow, it was going to be found out—that he'd taken it. It was going to be found out to-morrow, and so he wrote the letter to his father. And Jim's gone. But he looked so—oh, I never saw him look so white and terrible. And I'm so afraid—of what he'll do—to Fred. My boy—my boy!"

"Is Jim going to give him the money?" asked Miss Maggie.

"Yes, oh, yes. Jim drew it out of the bank. Fred said he must have cash. And he's going to give it to him. Oh, they can't shut him up— they CAN'T send him to prison NOW, can they?"

"Hush, dear! No, they won't send him to prison. If Jim has gone with the money, Fred will pay it back and nobody will know it. But, Hattie, Fred DID it, just the same."

"I—I know it."

"And, Hattie, don't you see? Something will have to be done. Don't you see where all this is leading? Fred has been gambling, hasn't he?"

"I—I'm afraid so."

"And you know he drinks."

"Y-yes. But he isn't going to, any more. He said he wasn't. He wrote a beautiful letter. He said if his father would help him out of this scrape, he'd never get into another one, and he'd SHOW him how much he appreciated it."

"Good! I'm glad to hear that," cried Miss Maggie. "He'll come out all right, yet."

"Of course he will!" Mr. Smith, over at the window, blew his nose vigorously. Mr. Smith had not sat down since Miss Maggie's entrance. He had crossed to the window, and had stood looking out—at nothing— all through Mrs. Hattie's story.

"You do think he will, don't you?" choked Mrs. Hattie, turning from one to the other piteously. "He said he was ashamed of himself; that this thing had been an awful lesson to him, and he promised—oh, he promised lots of things, if Jim would only go up and help him out of this. He'd never, never have to again. But he will, I know he will, if that Gaylord fellow stays there. The whole thing was his fault—I know it was. I hate him! I hate the whole family!"

"Why, Hattie, I thought you liked them!"

"I don't. They're mean, stuck-up things, and they snub me awfully. Don't you suppose I know when I'm being snubbed? And that Gaylord girl—she's just as bad, and she's making my Bessie just like her. I got Bess into the same school with her, you know, and I was so proud and happy. But I'm not—any longer. Why, my Bess, my own daughter, actually looks down on us. She's ashamed of her own father and mother- -and she shows it. And it's that Gaylord girl that's done it, too, I believe. I thought I—I was training my daughter to be a lady—a real lady; but I never meant to train her to look down on—on her own mother!"

"I'm afraid Bessie—needs something of a lesson," commented Miss Maggie tersely. "But Bessie will be older, one of these days, Hattie, and then she'll—know more."

"But that's what I've been trying to teach her—'more,' something more all the time, Maggie," sighed Mrs. Hattie, wiping her eyes. "And I've tried to remember and call her Elizabeth, too.—but I can't. But, somehow, to-day, nothing seems of any use, any way. And even if she learns more and more, I don't see as it's going to do any good. I haven't got ANY friends now. I'm not fine enough yet, it seems, for Mrs. Gaylord and all that crowd. They don't want me among them, and they show it. And all my old friends are so envious and jealous since the money came that THEY don't want me, and THEY show it; so I don't feel comfortable anywhere."

"Never mind, dear, just stop trying to live as you think other folks want you to live, and live as YOU want to, for a while."

Mrs. Hattie smiled faintly, wiped her eyes again, and got to her feet.

"You talk just like Jim. He's always saying that."

"Well, just try it," smiled Miss Maggie, helping her visitor into the luxurious fur coat. "You've no idea how much more comfort you'll take."

"Would I?" Mrs. Hattie's eyes were wistful, but almost instantly they showed an alert gleam of anger.

"Well, anyhow, I'm not going to try to do what those Gaylords do any longer. And—and you're SURE Fred won't have to go to prison?"

"I'm very sure," nodded Miss Maggie.

"All right, then. I can go home now with some comfort. You always make me feel better, Maggie, and you, too, Mr. Smith. I'm much obliged to you. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," said Mr. Smith.

"Good-bye," said Miss Maggie. "Now, go home and go to bed, and don't worry any more or you'll have one of your headaches."

As the door closed behind her visitor, Miss Maggie turned and sank into a chair. She looked worn and white, and utterly weary.

"I hope she won't meet Frank or Jane anywhere." She sighed profoundly.

"Why? What do you mean? Do you think they'd blame her—about this unfortunate affair of Fred's?"

Miss Maggie sighed again.

"I wasn't thinking of that. I was thinking of another matter. I just came from Frank's, and—"

"Yes?" Something in her face sent a questioning frown to Mr. Smith's own countenance.

"Do you remember hearing Flora say that Jane had bought a lot of the Benson gold-mine stock?"

"Yes."

"Well, Benson has failed; and they've just found out that that gold- mine stock is worth—about two cents on a dollar."

"Two cents! And how much—"

"About forty thousand dollars," said Miss Maggie wearily.

Mr. Smith sat down.

"Well, I'll be—"

He did not finish his sentence.



CHAPTER XX

FRANKENSTEIN: BEING A LETTER FROM JOHN SMITH TO EDWARD D. NORTON, ATTORNEY AT LAW

DEAR NED:—Wasn't there a story written once about a fellow who created some sort of a machine man without any soul that raised the very dickens and all for him? Frank—Frankenstein?—I guess that was it. Well, I've created a Frankenstein creature—and I'm dead up against it to know what to do with him.

Ned, what in Heaven's name am I going to do with Mr. John Smith? Mr. John Smith, let me tell you, is a very healthy, persistent, insistent, important person, with many kind friends, a definite position in the world, and no small degree of influence. Worse yet (now prepare for a stunning blow, Ned!), Mr. Smith has been so inconsiderate as to fall in love. Yes, he has. And he has fallen in love as absolutely and as idiotically as if he were twenty-one instead of fifty-two. Now, will you kindly tell me how Mr. John Smith is going to fade away into nothingness? And, even if he finds the way to do that, shall he, before fading, pop the question for Mr. Stanley G. Fulton, or shall he trust to Mr. Stanley G. Fulton's being able to win for himself the love Mr. John Smith fondly hopes is his?

Seriously, joking aside, I'm afraid I've made a mess of things, not only for myself, but for everybody else.

First, my own future. I'll spare you rhapsodies, Ned. They say, anyway, that there's no fool like an old fool. But I will admit that that future looks very dark to me if I am not to have the companionship of the little woman, Maggie Duff. Oh, yes, it's "Poor Maggie." You've probably guessed as much. As for Miss Maggie herself, perhaps it's conceited, but I believe she's not entirely indifferent to Mr. John Smith. How she'll like Mr. Stanley G. Fulton I have my doubts; but, alas! I have no doubts whatever as to what her opinion will be of Mr. Stanley G. Fulton's masquerading as Mr. John Smith! And I don't envy Mr. Stanley G. Fulton the job he's got on his hands to put himself right with her, either. But there's one thing he can be sure of, at least; if she does care for Mr. John Smith, it wasn't Mr. Stanley G. Fulton's money that was the bait.

Poor Maggie! (There! you see already I have adopted the Hillerton vernacular.) But I fear Miss Maggie is indeed "poor" now. She has had several letters that I don't like the looks of, and a call from a villainous-looking man from Boston—one of your craft, I believe (begging your pardon). I think she's lost some money, and I don't believe she had any extra to lose. She's as proud as Lucifer, however, and she's determined no one shall find out she's lost any money, so her laugh is gayer than ever. But I know, just the same. I can hear something in her voice that isn't laughter.

Jove! Ned, what a mess I HAVE made of it! I feel more than ever now like the boy with his ear to the keyhole. These people are my friends- -or, rather, they are Mr. John Smith's friends. As for being mine—who am I, Smith, or Fulton? Will they be Fulton's friends, after they find he is John Smith? Will they be Smith's friends, even, after they find he is Fulton? Pleasant position I am in! What?

Oh, yes, I can hear you say that it serves me right, and that you warned me, and that I was deaf to all remonstrances. It does. You did. I was. Now, we'll waste no more time on that. I've admitted all you could say. I've acknowledged my error, and my transgression is ever before me. I built the box, I walked into it, and I deliberately shut the cover down. But now I want to get out. I've got to get out—some way. I can't spend the rest of my natural existence as John Smith, hunting Blaisdell data—though sometimes I think I'd be willing to, if it's the only way to stay with Miss Maggie. I tell you, that little woman can make a home out of—

But I couldn't stay with Miss Maggie. John Smith wouldn't have money enough to pay his board, to say nothing of inviting Miss Maggie to board with him, would he? The opening of Mr. Stanley G. Fulton's last will and testament on the first day of next November will effectually cut off Mr. John Smith's source of income. There is no provision in the will for Mr. John Smith. Smith would have to go to work. I don't think he'd like that. By the way, I wonder: do you suppose John Smith could earn—his salt, if he was hard put to it? Very plainly, then, something has got to be done about getting John Smith to fade away, and Stanley G. Fulton to appear before next November.

And I had thought it would be so easy! Early this summer John Smith was to pack up his Blaisdell data, bid a pleasant adieu to Hillerton, and betake himself to South America. In due course, after a short trip to some obscure Inca city, or down some little-known river, Mr. Stanley G. Fulton would arrive at some South American hotel from the interior, and would take immediate passage for the States, reaching Chicago long before November first.

There would be a slight flurry, of course, and a few annoying interviews and write-ups; but Mr. Stanley G. Fulton always was known to keep his affairs to himself pretty well, and the matter would soon be put down as merely another of the multi-millionaire's eccentricities. The whole thing would then be all over, and well over. But—nowhere had there been taken into consideration the possibilities of—a Maggie Duff. And now, to me, that same Maggie Duff is the only thing worth considering—anywhere. So there you are!

And even after all this, I haven't accomplished what I set out to do— that is, find the future possessor of the Fulton millions (unless Miss Maggie—bless her!—says "yes." And even then, some one will have to have them after us). I have found out one thing, though. As conditions are now, I should not want either Frank, or James, or Flora to have them—not unless the millions could bring them more happiness than these hundred thousand apiece have brought.

Honest, Ned, that miserable money has made more—But, never mind. It's too long a story to write. I'll tell you when I see you—if I ever do see you. There's still the possibility, you know, that Mr. Stanley G. Fulton is lost in darkest South America, and of course John Smith CAN go to work!

I believe I won't sign any name—I haven't got any name—that I feel really belongs to me now. Still I might—yes, I will sign it

"FRANKENSTEIN."



CHAPTER XXI

SYMPATHIES MISPLACED

The first time Mr. Smith saw Frank Blaisdell, after Miss Maggie's news of the forty-thousand-dollar loss, he tried, somewhat awkwardly, to express his interest and sympathy. But Frank Blaisdell cut him short.

"That's all right, and I thank you," he cried heartily. "And I know most folks would think losing forty thousand dollars was about as bad as it could be. Jane, now, is all worked up over it; can't sleep nights, and has gone back to turning down the gas and eating sour cream so's to save and help make it up. But me—I call it the best thing that ever happened."

"Well, really," laughed Mr. Smith; "I'm sure that's a very delightful way to look at it—if you can."

"Well, I can; and I'll tell you why. It's put me back where I belong— behind the counter of a grocery store. I've bought out the old stand. Oh, I had enough left for that, and more! Closed the deal last night. Gorry, but I was glad to feel the old floor under my feet again!"

"But I thought you—you were tired of work, and—wanted to enjoy yourself," stammered Mr. Smith.

Frank Blaisdell laughed.

"Tired of work—wanted to enjoy myself, indeed! Yes, I know I did say something like that. But, let me tell you this, Mr. Smith. Talk about work!—I never worked so hard in my life as I have the last ten months trying to enjoy myself. How these folks can stand gadding 'round the country week in and week out, feeding their stomachs on a French dictionary instead of good United States meat and potatoes and squash, and spending their days traipsing off to see things they ain't a mite interested in, and their nights trying to get rested so they can go and see some more the next day, I don't understand."

Mr. Smith chuckled.

"I'm afraid these touring agencies wouldn't like to have you write their ads for them, Mr. Blaisdell!"

"Well, they hadn't better ask me to," smiled the other grimly. "But that ain't all. Since I come back I've been working even harder trying to enjoy myself here at home—knockin' silly little balls over a ten- acre lot in a game a healthy ten-year-old boy would scorn to play."

"But how about your new car? Didn't you enjoy riding in that?" bantered Mr. Smith.

"Oh, yes, I enjoyed the riding well enough; but I didn't enjoy hunting for punctures, putting on new tires, or burrowing into the inside of the critter to find out why she didn't go! And that's what I was doing most of the time. I never did like machinery. It ain't in my line."

He paused a moment, then went on a little wistfully:—

"I suspect, Mr. Smith, there ain't anything in my line but groceries. It's all I know. It's all I ever have known. If—if I had my life to live over again, I'd do different, maybe. I'd see if I couldn't find out what there was in a picture to make folks stand and stare at it an hour at a time when you could see the whole thing in a minute—and it wa'n't worth lookin' at, anyway, even for a minute. And music, too. Now, I like a good tune what is a tune; but them caterwaulings and dirges that that chap Gray plays on that fiddle of his—gorry, Mr. Smith, I'd rather hear the old barn door at home squeak any day. But if I was younger I'd try to learn to like 'em. I would! Look at Flora, now. She can set by the hour in front of that phonygraph of hers, and not know it!"

"Yes, I know," smiled Mr. Smith.

"And there's books, too," resumed the other, still wistfully. "I'd read books—if I could stay awake long enough to do it—and I'd find out what there was in 'em to make a good sensible man like Jim Blaisdell daft over 'em—and Maggie Duff, too. Why, that little woman used to go hungry sometimes, when she was a girl, so she could buy a book she wanted. I know she did. Why, I'd 'a' given anything this last year if I could 'a' got interested—really interested, readin'. I could 'a' killed an awful lot of time that way. But I couldn't do it. I bought a lot of 'em, too, an' tried it; but I expect I didn't begin young enough. I tell ye, Mr. Smith, I've about come to the conclusion that there ain't a thing in the world so hard to kill as time. I've tried it, and I know. Why, I got so I couldn't even kill it EATIN'— though I 'most killed myself TRYIN' to! An' let me tell ye another thing. A full stomach ain't in it with bein' hungry an' knowing a good dinner's coming. Why, there was whole weeks at a time back there that I didn't know the meaning of the word 'hungry.' You'd oughter seen the jolt I give one o' them waiter-chaps one day when he comes up with his paper and his pencil and asks me what I wanted. 'Want?' says I. 'There ain't but one thing on this earth I want, and you can't give it to me. I want to WANT something. I'm tired of bein' so blamed satisfied all the time!'"

"And what did—Alphonso say to that?" chuckled Mr. Smith appreciatively.

"Alphonso? Oh, the waiter-fellow, you mean? Oh, he just stared a minute, then mumbled his usual 'Yes, sir, very good, sir,' and shoved that confounded printed card of his a little nearer to my nose. But, there! I guess you've heard enough of this, Mr. Smith. It's only that I was trying to tell you why I'm actually glad we lost that money. It's give me back my man's job again."

"Good! All right, then. I won't waste any more sympathy on you," laughed Mr. Smith.

"Well, you needn't. And there's another thing. I hope it'll give me back a little of my old faith in my fellow-man."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Just this. I won't suspect every man, woman, and child that says a civil word to me now of having designs on my pocketbook. Why, Mr. Smith, you wouldn't believe it, if I told you, the things that's been done and said to get a little money out of me. Of course, the open gold-brick schemes I knew enough to dodge, 'most of 'em (unless you count in that darn Benson mining stock), and I spotted the blackmailers all right, most generally. But I WAS flabbergasted when a WOMAN tackled the job and began to make love to me—actually make love to me!—one day when Jane's back was turned. Gorry! DO I look such a fool as that, Mr. Smith? Well, anyhow, there won't be any more of that kind, nor anybody after my money now, I guess," he finished with a sage wag of his head as he turned away.

To Miss Maggie that evening Mr. Smith said, after recounting the earlier portion of the conversation: "So you see you were right, after all. I shall have to own it up. Mr. Frank Blaisdell had plenty to retire upon, but nothing to retire to. But I'm glad—if he's happy now."

"And he isn't the only one that that forty-thousand-dollar loss has done a good turn to," nodded Miss Maggie. "Mellicent has just been here. You know she's home from school. It's the Easter vacation, anyway, but she isn't going back. It's too expensive."

Miss Maggie spoke with studied casualness, but there was an added color in her cheeks—Miss Maggie always flushed a little when she mentioned Mellicent's name to Mr. Smith, in spite of her indignant efforts not to do so.

"Oh, is that true?"

"Yes. Well, the Pennocks had a dance last night, and Mellicent went. She said she had to laugh to see Mrs. Pennock's efforts to keep Carl away from her—the loss of the money is known everywhere now, and has been greatly exaggerated, I've heard. She said that even Hibbard Gaylord had the air of one trying to let her down easy. Mellicent was immensely amused."

"Where was Donald Gray?"

"Oh, he wasn't there. He doesn't move in the Pennock crowd much. But Mellicent sees him, and—and everything's all right there, now. That's why Mellicent is so happy."

"You mean—Has her mother given in?"

"Yes. You see, Jane was at the dance, too, and she saw Carl, and she saw Hibbard Gaylord. And she was furious. She told Mellicent this morning that she had her opinion of fellows who would show so plainly as Carl Pennock and Hibbard Gaylord did that it was the money they were after."

"I'm afraid—Mrs. Jane has changed her shoes again," murmured Mr. Smith, his eyes merry.

"Has changed—oh!" Miss Maggie's puzzled frown gave way to a laugh. "Well, yes, perhaps the shoe is on the other foot again. But, anyway, she doesn't love Carl or Hibbard any more, and she does love Donald Gray. He HASN'T let the loss of the money make any difference to him, you see. He's been even more devoted, if anything. She told Mellicent this morning that he was a very estimable young man, and she liked him very much. Perhaps you see now why Mellicent is—happy."

"Good! I'm glad to know it," cried Mr. Smith heartily. "I'm glad—" His face changed suddenly. His eyes grew somber. "I'm glad the LOSS of the money brought them some happiness—if the possession of it didn't," he finished moodily, turning to go to his own room. At the hall door he paused and looked back at Miss Maggie, standing by the table, gazing after him with troubled eyes. "Did Mellicent say— whether Fred was there?" he asked.

"Yes. She said he wasn't there. He didn't come home for this vacation at all. She said she didn't know why. I suspect Mellicent doesn't know anything about that wretched affair of his."

"We'll hope not. So the young gentleman didn't show up at all?"

"No, nor Bessie. She went home with a Long Island girl. Hattie didn't go to the Pennocks' either. Hattie has—has been very different since this affair of Fred's. I think it frightened her terribly—it was so near a tragedy; the boy threatened to kill himself, you know, if his father didn't help him out."

"But his father DID help him out!" flared the man irritably.

"Yes, I know he did; and I'm afraid he found things in a pretty bad mess—when he got there," sighed Miss Maggie. "It was a bad mess all around."

"You are exactly right!" ejaculated Mr. Smith with sudden and peculiar emphasis. "It is, indeed, a bad mess all around," he growled as he disappeared through the door.

Behind him, Miss Maggie still stood motionless, looking after him with troubled eyes.

As the spring days grew warmer, Miss Maggie had occasion many times to look after Mr. Smith with troubled eyes. She could not understand him at all. One day he would be the old delightful companion, genial, cheery, generously donating a box of chocolates to the center-table bonbon dish or a dozen hothouse roses to the mantel vase. The next, he would be nervous, abstracted, almost irritable. Yet she could see no possible reason for the change.

Sometimes she wondered fearfully if Mellicent could have anything to do with it. Was it possible that he had cared for Mellicent, and to see her now so happy with Donald Gray was more than he could bear? It did not seem credible. There was his own statement that he had devoted himself to her solely and only to help keep the undesirable lovers away and give Donald Gray a chance.

Besides, had he not said that he was not a marrying man, anyway? To be sure, that seemed a pity—a man so kind and thoughtful and so delightfully companionable! But then, it was nothing to her, of course—only she did hope he was not feeling unhappy over Mellicent!

Miss Maggie wished, too, that Mr. Smith would not bring flowers and candy so often. It worried her. She felt as if he were spending too much money—and she had got the impression in some way that he did not have any too much money to spend. And there were the expensive motor trips, too—she feared Mr. Smith WAS extravagant. Yet she could not tell him so, of course. He never seemed to realize the value of a dollar, anyway, and he very obviously did not know how to get the most out of it. Look at his foolish generosity in regard to the board he paid her!

Miss Maggie wondered sometimes if it might not be worry over money matters that was making him so nervous and irritable on occasions now. Plainly he was very near the end of his work there in Hillerton. He was not getting so many letters on Blaisdell matters from away, either. For a month now he had done nothing but a useless repetition of old work; and of late, a good deal of the time, he was not even making that pretense of being busy. For days at a time he would not touch his records. That could mean but one thing, of course; his work was done. Yet he seemed to be making no move toward departure. Not that she wanted him to go. She should miss him very much when he went, of course. But she did not like to feel that he was staying simply because he had nowhere to go and nothing to do. Miss Maggie did not believe in able-bodied men who had nowhere to go and nothing to do— and she wanted very much to believe in Mr. Smith.

She had been under the impression that he was getting the Blaisdell material together for a book, and that he was intending to publish it himself. He had been very happy and interested. Now he was unhappy and uninterested. His book must be ready, but he was making no move to publish it. To Miss Maggie this could mean but one thing: some financial reverses had made it impossible for him to carry out his plans, and had left him stranded with no definite aim for the future.

She was so sorry!—but there seemed to be nothing that she could do. She HAD tried to help by insisting that he pay less for his board; but he had not only scouted that idea, but had brought her more chocolates and flowers than ever—for all the world as if he had divined her suspicions and wished to disprove them.

That Mr. Smith was trying to keep something from her, Miss Maggie was sure. She was the more sure, perhaps, because she herself had something that she was trying to keep from Mr. Smith—and she thought she recognized the symptoms.

Meanwhile April budded into May, and May blossomed into June; and June brought all the Blaisdells together again in Hillerton.



CHAPTER XXII

WITH EVERY JIM A JAMES

Two days after Fred Blaisdell had returned from college, his mother came to see Miss Maggie. Mr. Smith was rearranging the books on Miss Maggie's shelves and trying to make room for the new ones he had brought her through the winter. When Mrs. Hattie came in, red-eyed and flushed-faced, he ceased his work at once and would have left the room, but she stopped him with a gesture.

"No, don't go. You know all about it, anyway,—and I'd just as soon you knew the rest. So you can keep right to work. I just came down to talk things over with Maggie. I—I'm sure I don't know w-what I'm going to do—when I can't."

"But you always can, dear," soothed Miss Maggie cheerily, handing her visitor a fan and taking a chair near her.

Mr. Smith, after a moment's hesitation, turned quietly back to his bookshelves.

"But I can't," choked Mrs. Hattie. "I—I'm going away."

"Away? Where? What do you mean?" cried Miss Maggie. "Not to—live!"

"Yes. That's what I came to tell you."

"Why, Hattie Blaisdell, where are you going?"

"To Plainville—next month."

"Plainville? Oh, well, cheer up! That's only forty miles from here. I guess we can still see each other. Now, tell me, what does all this mean?"

"Well, of course, it began with Fred—his trouble, you know."

"But I thought Jim fixed that all up, dear."

"Oh, he did. He paid the money, and nobody there at college knew a thing about it. But there were—other things. Fred told us some of them night before last. He says he's ashamed of himself, but that he believes there's enough left in him to make a man of him yet. But he says he can't do it—there."

"You mean—he doesn't want to go back to college?" Miss Maggie's voice showed her disappointment.

"Oh, he wants to go to college—but not there."

"Oh," nodded Miss Maggie. "I see."

"He says he's had too much money to spend—and that 't wouldn't be easy not to spend it—if he was back there, in the old crowd. So he wants to go somewhere else."

"Well, that's all right, isn't it?"

"Y-yes, oh, yes. Jim says it is. He's awfully happy over it, and—and I guess I am."

"Of course you are! But now, what is this about Plainville?" "Oh, that grew out of it—all this. Mr. Hammond is going to open a new office in Plainville and he's offered Jim—James—no, JIM—I'm not going to call him 'James' any more!—the chance to manage it."

"Well, that's fine, I'm sure."

"Yes, of course that part is fine—splendid. He'll get a bigger salary, and all that, and—and I guess I'm glad to go, anyway—I don't like Hillerton any more. I haven't got any friends here, Maggie. Of course, I wouldn't have anything to do with the Gaylords now, after what's happened,—that boy getting my boy to drink and gamble, and— and everything. And yet—YOU know how I've strained every nerve for years, and worked and worked to get where my children could—COULD be with them!"

"It didn't pay, did it, Hattie?"

"I guess it didn't! They're perfectly horrid—every one of them, and I hate them!"

"Oh, Hattie, Hattie!"

"Well, I do. Look at what they've done to Fred, and Bessie, too! I shan't let HER be with them any more, either. There aren't any folks here we can be with now. That's why I don't mind going away. All our friends that we used to know don't like us any more, they're so jealous on account of the money. Oh, yes, I know you think I'm to blame for that," she went on aggrievedly. "I can see you do, by your face. Jim says so, too. And maybe I am. But it was just so I could get ahead. I did so want to BE somebody!"

"I know, Hattie." Miss Maggie looked as if she would like to say something more—but she did not say it.

Over at the bookcase Mr. Smith was abstractedly opening and shutting the book in his hand. His gaze was out the window near him. He had not touched the books on the shelves for some time.