CHAPTER XXII

THE SENSIBLE THING

When Miss Winthrop rose the next morning, she scarcely recognized the woman she saw in the glass as the woman she had glimpsed for a second last night when she had risen and lighted the gas. Her cheeks were somewhat paler than usual, and her eyes were dull and tired. She turned from the glass as soon as possible, and donned a freshly laundered shirt-waist. Then she swallowed a cup of coffee, and walked part way to the office, in the hope that the fresh air might do something toward restoring her color. In this she was successful, but toward noon the color began to fade again.

The problem that disturbed her the entire morning long had to do with luncheon. She recognized that here she must strike the keynote to all her future relations with Mr. Pendleton. If she was to eliminate him entirely and go back to the time when he was non-existent, then she must begin to-day. It was so she preferred to handle disagreeable tasks. She detested compromises. When she had anything to do, she liked to do it at once and thoroughly. If she had consulted her own wishes and her own interests alone, she would never have seen him again outside the office. But if she did this, what would become of him during this next month?

The trouble was that Don would get lonesome—not necessarily for her, but for that other. He was the sort of man who needed some one around all the time to take an interest in him. This deduction was based, not upon guesswork, but upon experience. For almost a year now she had seen him every day, and had watched him react to just such interest on her part. She was only stating a fact when she said to herself that, had it not been for her, he would have lost his position months before. She was only stating another fact when she said to herself that even now he might get side-tracked into some clerical job. Give him a month to himself now, and he might undo all the effort of the last six months. Worse than that, he might fall into the clutches of Blake and go to pieces in another way.

There was not the slightest use in the world in retorting that this, after all, was the affair of Don and his fiancee rather than hers. She had brought him through so far, and she did not propose to see her work wasted. No one would gain anything by such a course.

The alternative, then, was to continue to meet him and to allow matters to go on as before. It was toward the latter part of the forenoon that she reached this conclusion. All this while she had been taking letters from Mr. Seagraves and transcribing them upon her typewriter without an error. She had done no conscious thinking and had reached no conscious conclusion. All she knew was that in the early forenoon she had been very restless, and that suddenly the restlessness vanished and that she was going on with her typewriting in a sort of grim content. Half-past eleven came, and then twelve. She finished the letter, and went for her hat as usual, putting it on without looking in the glass.

Don met her a little way from the office, and she fell into step at his side.

"I was sort of worried about you last night," he said. "You looked tired."

"I guess I was," she answered.

"Don't you get a vacation before long?"

She could have had her vacation a month ago, but there seemed to be no reason for taking it. She had not been able to think of any place to which she wished to go. Then she had forgotten about it.

"I've decided to take it next month," she answered.

She decided that much on the spot.

"I suppose there's one due me, too," he said. "Blake said something about it a while ago. But I don't know what I'd do with a vacation if I took one."

"I should think you had something very important to do with it," she answered quickly.

"What do you mean?"

"Take it for your wedding trip."

The suggestion made him catch his breath. "Look here," he exclaimed. "That means getting married!"

"Surely it does," she nodded.

They had reached the little restaurant, and she hurried in. Without waiting for his assistance, she secured a cup of coffee and a sandwich for herself. Then she found a chair and sat down. She did not know how she was ever going to swallow anything, but she had to have something to do to occupy her hands.

"You put that up to a man as if it were the easiest thing in the world," he observed, sitting in the next chair.

"Well, it is, isn't it—once you've made up your mind?"

"Looks to me as if it was one thing to make up your mind to get married some day, and another really to get married."

"It's better to do it than to waste your time thinking about it," she declared. "When Farnsworth hands you that raise, believe me, he'll want you to have both feet on the ground."

"Eh?"

"He won't want you to be drifting in with only three hours' sleep, the way you did most of last winter. He has a lot more confidence in married men, anyhow."

Don laughed.

"That phrase makes a man feel ten years married."

She had been trying hard to eat her lunch, but without much success. He noticed this.

"What's the matter with you?" he inquired.

"I don't happen to be hungry, that's all," she answered.

"You didn't catch cold last night?"

"No."

"But look here—"

"Oh, I'm all right," she answered.

He went to the counter and returned with some doughnuts for himself and a piece of cake for her.

"This looked so good I thought you might like it," he said, as he placed it on the arm of her chair. "It's so much easier to talk when eating. I want to hear more about this scheme of yours for marrying me off."

"It isn't exactly my suggestion."

"You proposed it a minute ago."

"All I said was that if you mean to get married, you'd better do it right away and be done with it."

"During my vacation?"

She brought her lips together.

"Yes."

"Do you know, that rather appeals to me," he answered thoughtfully.

She turned aside her head.

"It's the only sensible thing," she assured him.

"It would give a man a chance to settle down and attend to business."

"And give his wife a chance to help him."

"By Jove, I'm going to propose that to Frances the day she lands!" he exclaimed.

He was finishing his last doughnut. Miss Winthrop rose. Once outside, she could breathe freely. She said:—

"Her—her name is Frances?"

"Frances Stuyvesant," he nodded.

"When do you expect her home?"

"The first of September."

"Then you'd better put in a bid to have your vacation the first two weeks in September," she advised. "Business will begin to pick up right after that, and Farnsworth will need you."



CHAPTER XXIII

LOOKING AHEAD

It was now the first week in August. If she could sustain his interest in the project for three weeks and get him married in the fourth, then she could settle back into the routine of her life. It was the only possible way of straightening out the tangle. Once he was safely married, that was the end. Their relations would cease automatically. The conventions would attend to that. As a married man he, of course, could not lunch with her or spend Saturday afternoons in the park with her, or Sunday in the country with her, or mid-week evenings anywhere with her. He would be exiled from her life as effectively as if he himself should go to Europe. In fact, the separation would be even more effective, because there would not be any possible hope of his coming back. For her it would be almost as if he died.

Back in her room that night, Miss Winthrop saw all these things quite clearly. And she saw that this was the only way. In no other way could she remain in the office of Carter, Rand & Seagraves. If he did not marry in September,—she had applied that afternoon for her own vacation to parallel his,—then she must resign. Unmarried, he would be as irresponsible this coming winter as he was last, and if she remained would be thrown back upon her. She could not allow that—she could not endure it.

She had lost so many things all at once. She did not realize until now how much dreaming she had done in these last few months. Dreams of which at the time she had scarcely been conscious returned to-night to mock her with startling vividness. It was not so much that she wished to be loved as that she wished to love. That was where she had deceived herself. Had Don made love to her, she would have recognized the situation and guarded herself. But this matter of loving him was an attack from a quarter she had not anticipated.

In the next three weeks she left him little chance to think of anything but of his work and of Frances. She talked of nothing else at lunch; she talked of nothing else on Saturday afternoons and on Sundays and whenever they met on other days. This had its effect. It accustomed him to associate together the two chief objectives in his life until in his thoughts they became synonymous. For the first time since their engagement, he began to think of Frances as an essential feature of his everyday affairs.

He began to think about what changes in the house would be necessary before she came. He talked this over with Miss Winthrop.

"I wish you could come up and look the place over before Frances gets here," he said to her one day.

If the color left her face for a second, it came back the next with plenty to spare. The idea was preposterous, and yet it appealed to her strangely.

"I wish I could," she answered sincerely.

"Well, why can't you?" he asked.

"It's impossible—of course," she said.

"I could arrange a little dinner and ask some one to chaperon," he suggested.

"It's out of the question," she answered firmly. "You can tell me all about it."

"But telling you about it isn't like letting you see it," he said.

"It is almost as good, and—almost as good is something, isn't it?"

There was a suppressed note in her voice that made him look up. He had caught many such notes of late. Sometimes, as now, he half expected to find her eyes moist when he looked up. He never did; he always found her smiling.

"I'd have Nora give everything a thorough cleaning before September," she advised.

"I'll do that," he nodded.

He wrote it down in his notebook, and that night spoke to Nora about it. She appeared decidedly interested.

"It's possible that in the fall you may have some one else besides me to look after," he confided to her in explanation.

"It's to be soon, sir?" she asked eagerly.

"In September, perhaps," he admitted.

"It would please your father, sir," she answered excitedly. "It's lonesome it's been for you, sir."

He did not answer, but he thought about that a little. No, it had not been exactly lonesome for him—not lately. That was because he was looking ahead. That was it.

"It hasn't seemed quite natural for you to be living on here alone, sir," she ventured.

"Dad lived here alone," he reminded her.

"Not at your age, sir," answered Nora.

From that moment there was much ado in the house. Don came home at night to find certain rooms draped in dusting clothes, later to appear as fresh and immaculate as if newly furnished. This gave him a great sense of responsibility. He felt married already. He came downtown in the morning a little more serious, and took hold of his work with greater vigor.

The next few weeks passed rapidly. Frances had finished her trip to Scotland and was on her way back to London. She was to sail in a few days now. He cabled her to let him know when she started, and three days later she answered. He showed her reply to Miss Winthrop.

Sail Monday on the Mauretania, but Dolly wants me to spend next two weeks after arrival in the Adirondacks with her.

Miss Winthrop returned the cable with a none too steady hand.

"She mustn't do that," she said firmly.

"Of course she mustn't," he agreed. "You see, she doesn't know she is to be married right away. Do you think I ought to cable her that?"

"I don't think I would," Miss Winthrop replied. "But I would let her know I didn't approve of her arrangement."

"Supposing I just say, 'Have other plans for you'?"

"That would do," she nodded.

So he sent her this message, and that evening at dinner Miss Winthrop spoke to him of another matter.

"I don't think you have shown much attention to her parents this summer. Oughtn't you to see them and let them know what you intend?"

"Tell Stuyvesant?" he exclaimed.

"Why should he object?" she asked.

"I don't know as he will. Then again he might. You see, I've never told him just how Dad tied things up."

"What difference does that make?" she demanded. "With the house and what you're earning, you have enough."

"It isn't as much as he expects a man to give his daughter, though,—not by a long shot."

"It's enough," she insisted. "Why, even without the house it would be enough."

"Yes," he answered, with a smile. "When you say it—it's enough. I wish Stuyvesant knew you."

The blood came into her cheeks. She wished he wouldn't say things like that.

"It seems to me you ought to see him and tell him," she said thoughtfully.

He shook his head.

"What's the use of seeing him until I've seen Frances?"

"It's all settled about her."

"That she'll marry me in September?"

"Of course," she answered excitedly. "Why, she's been waiting a whole year. Do you think she'll want to wait any longer? As soon as she knows how well you've done, why—why, that's the end of it. Of course that's the end of it."

"I wish I were as confident as you!"

"You must be," she answered firmly. "You mustn't feel any other way. The house is all ready, and you are all ready, and—that's all there is to it."

"And Frances is all ready?"

"When she promised to marry you she was ready," she declared. "You don't understand. I guess women are different from men. They—they don't make promises like that until they are quite sure, and when they are quite sure they are quite ready. This last year should have been hers. You made a mistake, but there's no sense in keeping on with the mistake. Oh, I'm quite sure of that."

She was wearing a light scarf,—this was at Jacques',—and she drew it over her shoulders. Somehow, the unconscious act reminded him of a similar act on the beach at Coney....



CHAPTER XXIV

VACATIONS

During this next week—the week Frances was on the ocean and sailing toward him—he gained in confidence day by day. Miss Winthrop was so absolutely sure of her point of view that it was difficult in her presence to have any doubts.

Frances was due to arrive on Monday, and for Sunday he had arranged at Jacques' a very special little dinner for Miss Winthrop. Miss Winthrop herself did not know how special it was, because all dinners there with him were special. There were roses upon the table. Their odor would have turned her head had it not been for the realization that her trunk was all packed and that to-morrow morning she would be upon the train. She had written to an aunt in Maine that she was coming—to this particular aunt because, of the three or four she knew at all, this aunt was the farthest from New York.

As for him, he had forgotten entirely that Monday marked the beginning of her vacation. That was partly her fault, because for the last week she had neglected to speak of it.

Ordinarily she did not permit him to come all the way back to the house with her; but this night he had so much to talk about that she did not protest. Yes, and she was too weak to protest, anyway. All the things he talked about—his fears, his hopes, speculations, and doubts—she had heard over and over again. But it was the sound of his voice to which she clung. To-morrow and after to-morrow everything would be changed, and she would never hear him talk like this again. He was excited to-night, and buoyant and quick with life. He laughed a great deal, and several times he spoke very tenderly to her.

They had reached her door, and something in her eyes—for the life of him he could not tell what—caused him to look up at the stars. They were all there in their places.

"Look at 'em," he said. "They seem nearer to-night than I've ever seen them."



She was a bit jealous of those stars. It had been when with her that he had first seen them.

"You aren't looking," he complained.

She turned her eyes to the sky. To her they seemed farther away than ever.

"Maybe Frances is looking at those same stars," he said.

She resented the suggestion. She turned her eyes back to the street.

"Where's the star I gave you?" he asked.

"It's gone," she answered.

"Have you lost it?"

"I can't see it."

"Now, look here," he chided her lightly. "I don't call that very nice. You don't have a star given you every night."

"I told you I didn't need to have them given to me, because I could take all I wanted myself. You don't own the stars too."

"I feel to-night as if I did," he laughed. "I'll have to pick out another for you." He searched the heavens for one that suited him. He found one just beyond the Big Dipper, that shone steadily and quietly, like her eyes. He pointed it out to her.

"I'll give you that one, and please don't lose it."

She was not looking.

"Do you see it?" he insisted.

She was forced to look. After all, he could afford to give her one out of so many, and it would be something to remember him by.

"Yes," she answered, with a break in her voice.

"That one is yours," he assured her.

It was as if he added, "All the rest belong to Frances."

She held out her hand to him.

"Thank you for your star," she said. "And—and I wish you the best of luck."

He took her hand, but he was confused by the note of finality in her voice.

"I don't see any need of being so solemn about saying good-night," he returned.

He continued to hold her hand firmly.

"But it's good-bye and—God-speed, too," she reminded him.

"How do you make that out?"

"You're going on a long journey, and I—I'm going on a little journey."

"You? Where are you going?"

He didn't want her to go anywhere. He wanted her to stay right where she was. Come to think of it, he always wanted her to stay right where she was. He always thought of her as within reach.

"My vacation begins to-morrow," she answered.

"And you're going away—out of town?"

She nodded.

"You can't do that," he protested. "Why, I was depending upon you these next few days."

It was difficult for her to tell at the moment whether the strain in her throat was joy or pain. That he needed her—that was joy; that he needed her only for the next few days—that was not joy.

"You mustn't depend upon any one these next few days but yourself," she answered earnestly. "And after that—just yourself and her."

"That's well enough if everything comes out all right."

"Make it come out right. That's your privilege as a man. Oh, that's why it's so good to be a man!"

"You ought to have been a man yourself," he told her.

She caught her breath at that, and insisted upon withdrawing her hand.

"I used to think I'd like to be," she answered.

"And now?"

She shook her head.

He had swung the talk back to her again, when the talk should have been all of him and Frances.

"It's in you to get everything in the world you want," she said. "I'm sure of that. All you have to do is to want it hard enough. And now there are so many things right within your grasp. You won't let go of them?"

"No," he answered.

"Your home, your wife, and your work—it's wonderful to make good in so many things all at once! So—good-bye."

"You talk as if you were not coming back again!"

"I'm coming back to Carter, Rand & Seagraves—if that's what you mean."

"And you're coming back here—to your home?"

"Yes; I'm coming back here."

"Then we'll just say s'long."

"No. We must say good-bye."

She had not wished to say this in so many words. She had hoped he would take the new situation for granted.

"When I come back you must look on me as—as Mr. Farnsworth does."

"That's nonsense."

"No; it's very, very good sense. It's the only thing possible. Can't you see?"

"No."

"Then Frances will help you see."

"She won't want to make a cad of me; I know that."

"I'm going in now."

She opened the door behind her.

"Wait a moment," he pleaded.

"No, I can't wait any longer. Good-bye."

She was in the dark hall now.

"Good-bye," she repeated.

"S'long," he answered.

Softly, gently, she closed the door upon him. Then she stumbled up the stairs to her room, and in the dark threw herself face down on her bed.



CHAPTER XXV

IN THE PARK

Either Frances had grown more beautiful in the last three months, or Don had forgotten how really beautiful she was when she left; for, when she stepped down the gangplank toward him, he was quite sure that never in his life had he seen any one so beautiful as she was then. Her cheeks were tanned, and there was a foreign touch in her costume that made her look more like a lady of Seville than of New York. As she bent toward him for a modest kiss, he felt for a second as if he were in the center of some wild plot of fiction. This was not she to whom he was engaged,—she whom he purposed to marry within the week,—but rather some fanciful figure of romance.

He stepped into her car,—he did not know even if he was asked,—and for a half-hour listened to her spirited narration of incidents of the voyage. It was mostly of people, of this man and that, this woman and that, with the details of the weather and deck sports. Under ordinary circumstances he might have enjoyed the talk; but, with all he had to tell her, it sounded trivial.

They reached the house. Even then, there was much talk of trunks and other things of no importance to him whatever. Stuyvesant hung around in frank and open admiration of his daughter; and Mrs. Stuyvesant beamed and listened and stayed. Don had a feeling that, in spite of his position in the family, they looked upon him at this moment as an intruder.

It was another half-hour before he found himself alone with her. She came to his side at once—almost as if she too had been awaiting this opportunity.

"Dear old Don," she said. "It's good to see you again. But you look tired."

"And you look beautiful!" he exclaimed.

Now that he was alone with her, he felt again as he had at the steamer—that this woman was not she to whom he was engaged, but some wonderful creature of his imagination. The plans he had made for her became commonplace. One could not talk over with her the matter-of-fact details of marrying and of housekeeping and of salaries. And those things that yesterday had filled him with inspiration, that had appeared to him the most wonderful things in life, that had been associated with the stars, seemed tawdry. She had been to London to see the Queen, and the flavor of that adventure was still about her.

"Don, dear, what's the matter?"

He was so long silent that she was worried. He passed his hand over his forehead.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "There were a lot of things I wanted to say to you, and now I can't think of them."

"Nice things?"

"Perhaps it's the house," he replied vaguely. "I wish we could get out of here for a little while. After lunch I want you to come to walk with me. Will you?"

"Where, Don?"

He smiled.

"In the park."

"What an odd fancy!" she answered.

"Here I get you all mixed up with your father and mother and the Queen," he ran on. "I want to talk to you alone."

He sounded more natural to her when he talked like that.

"All right, Don, though there are a hundred things I ought to do this afternoon. And I must decide about going to the mountains with Dolly. What were those other plans you cabled me about?"

"Those are what I want to talk over with you," he answered.

"What are they? I'm dying to know."

"I'll tell you in the park. Now I'll go, so that you'll have time to do some of the hundred things you want to do."

He turned.

"Don't you want to—to—"

She held out her arms to him. He kissed her lips. Then she seemed to come back to him as she had been before she sailed. He could have said all he wished to say then. But her mother was calling her.

"I'll be here at two. And, this once—you must cancel every other engagement."

"Yes, Don."

She came to the door with him, and stood there until he turned the corner. He did not know where to go, but unconsciously his steps took him downtown. He stopped at a florist's and ordered a dozen roses to be sent back to the house. He stopped to order a box of her favorite bonbons. Then he kept on downtown toward the office of Carter, Rand & Seagraves. But this was the first day of his vacation, and so he had no object in going there. He must find a place to lunch. He came to a dairy lunch, and then he knew exactly what it was he needed. He needed Sally Winthrop to talk over his complication with him.

As he made his way to the counter for his sandwich and coffee, he frowned. He had told her that he would surely need her. Now she was gone. He suddenly recalled that she had not even left her address.

Only two days before he had been discussing with her the final details of the house awaiting Frances, and she had made him feel that everything was perfect.

"She will love it," she had assured him.

It was as if he heard her voice again repeating that sentence. Once again he reacted to her enthusiasm and saw through her eyes. She had made him feel that money—the kind of money Stuyvesant stood for—was nonsense. A salary of twelve hundred a year was enough for the necessities, and yet small enough to give his wife an opportunity to help.

"When the big success comes," she had said to him, "then Frances can feel that it is partly her success too. A woman doesn't become a wife by just marrying a man, does she? It's only when she has a chance to help that she can feel herself really a wife."

As she said it he felt that to be true, although to him it was a brand-new point of view.

And Sally Winthrop had given him, in her own life, a new point of view on woman. He understood that she had never married because she had never happened to fall in love. She had always been too busy. But if ever she did fall in love, what a partner she would make! Partner—that was the word.

"It's in you to get everything in the world you want," she had said last night, when she was leaving him.

So it was. He gulped down the rest of his coffee and glanced at his watch. It was shortly after one. He must stay down here another half-hour—stay around these streets where he had walked with her and where she had made him see straight—until he had just time to meet Frances.

He went out and walked past the office of Carter, Rand & Seagraves, and then walked to the Elevated station where she took the train at night for home. The sight of the steps up which they had climbed together made him almost homesick. He wished to Heaven that she had postponed her vacation another day. If only he could see her a few minutes right now, he would be absolutely sure of himself.

It was after two when he reached the house, but Frances was not ready. She was never quite ready.

"I'll wait outside," he told the maid.

The maid raised her brows a trifle, but answered civilly:—

"Very well, sir."

As he walked back and forth the Stuyvesant machine also drew up before the door and waited. He viewed it with suspicion. He could not say what he had to say in that. She must be afoot, as Sally Winthrop always was.

He was making his turn at the end of the street when she came down the steps and before he could reach her stepped into the machine.

"I have several little things to do after we've had our walk," she explained to Don, as he came up.

She made room for him by her side. Because he did not wish to argue before the chauffeur, he took his allotted place; but he himself gave the order to the driver:—

"Central Park."

Then he turned to her.

"When we get there we must get out and walk."

"Very well, Don," she submitted; "but I think we'd be much more comfortable right here."

She regarded him anxiously.

"Is anything worrying you, Don?"

"Only you," he answered.

"I?" she exclaimed. "If it's because of Jimmy Schuyler, you needn't worry any more. He was very nice at first, but later—well, he was too nice. You see, he forgot I was engaged."

"The little cad!" exclaimed Don.

"You mustn't blame him too much. He just forgot. And now he is very attentive to Dolly."

"She allows it?"

"I think she rather likes him. She has invited him up to camp. And, Don, dear, she wants you to come too. It would be very nice if we could all go. Can't you manage it?"

"It doesn't appeal to me just now," he answered.

The machine had swung into the park. He ordered the chauffeur to stop.

"Come," he said to Frances.

He found the path from the drive where the children played, and he found the bench where he had sat with Sally Winthrop. Then all she had told him came back to him, as it had in the dairy lunch.

"It's about the other plans I want to tell you out here," he began eagerly.

"Yes, Don."

"I've done a lot of work while you were away," he said proudly.

"It seems a pity it was necessary," she answered.

"It's been the best thing that ever happened to me," he corrected her. "It has made me see straight about a lot of things. And it's helped me to make good in the office."

She looked puzzled.

"You mean you've been made a partner or something?"

"Hardly that—yet," he smiled. "But it's pretty sure I'll be put to selling when I come back."

"You're going away?"

"I'm on my vacation," he explained. "This is the first day of my vacation."

"Oh, then you can come with us?"

"I'd rather you came with me."

"With you, Don? But where?"

"Anywhere you wish, as long as we go together and alone. Only we must get back in two weeks."

"Don, dear!"

"I mean it," he went on earnestly. "I want to marry you to-morrow or next day. Your trunks are all packed, and you needn't unpack them. We'll spend all the time we can spare in the mountains, and then come back—to the house. It's all ready for you, Frances. It's waiting for you."

She stared about in fear lest some one might be overhearing his rambling talk.

"Don," she gasped.

"Nora has cleaned every room," he ran on, "and I've saved a hundred dollars for the trip. And Farnsworth is going to give me a raise before December. He hasn't promised it, but I know he'll do it, because I'm going to make good. You and I together will make good."

She did not answer. She could not. She was left quite paralyzed. He was leaning forward expectantly.

"You'll come with me?"

It was a full minute before she could answer. Then she said:—

"It's so impossible, Don."

"Impossible?"

"One doesn't—doesn't get married that way!"

"What does it matter how one gets married?" he answered.

"What would people say?"

"I don't care what they'd say."

"You mustn't get like that, Don, dear," she chided him. "Why, that's being an anarchist or something, isn't it?"

"It's just being yourself, little girl," he explained more gently. "The trouble with us is, we've thought too much about other people and—other things. It's certain that after we're married people aren't going to worry much about us, so why should we let them worry us before that? No, it's all our own affair. As for the salary part of it, we've been wrong about that, too. We don't need so much as we thought we did. Why, do you know you can get a good lunch downtown for fifteen cents? It's a fact. You can get an egg sandwich, a chocolate eclair, and a cup of coffee for that. I know the place. And I've figured that, with the house all furnished us, we can live easy on twenty-five a week until I get more. You don't need your ten thousand a year. It's a fact, Frances."

She did not answer, because she did not quite know what he was talking about. Yet, her blood was running faster. There was a new light in his eyes—a new quality in his voice that thrilled her. She had never heard a man talk like this before.

"You'll have to trust me to prove all those things," he was running on. "You'll have to trust me, because I've learned a lot this summer. I've learned a lot about you that you don't know yourself yet. So what I want you to do is just to take my hand and follow. Can you do that?"

At that moment it seemed that she could. On the voyage home she had sat much on the deck alone and looked at the stars, and there had been many moments when she felt exactly as she felt now. Thinking of him and looking at the stars, nothing else had seemed to matter but just the two of them.

There had been a child on board who had taken a great fancy to her—a child about the age of one that was now running about the grass under the watchful eyes of a nurse. His name was Peter, and she and Peter used to play tag together. One afternoon when he was very tired he had crept into her arms, and she had carried him to her steamer-chair and wrapped him in her steamer-rug and held him while he slept. Then she had felt exactly as when she looked at the stars. All the things that ordinarily counted with her did not at that moment count at all. She had kissed the little head lying on her bosom and had thought of Don—her heart pounding as it pounded now.

"Oh, Don," she exclaimed, "it's only people in stories who do that way!"

"It's the way we can do—if you will."

"There's Dad," she reminded him.

"He let you become engaged, didn't he?"

"Yes; but—you don't know him as well as I."

"I'll put it up to him to-day, if you'll let me. Honest, I don't think it's as much his affair as ours, but I'll give him a chance. Shall I?"

She reached for his hand and pressed it.

"I'll give him a chance, but I can't wait. We haven't time to bother with a wedding—do you mind that?"

"No, Don."

"Then, if he doesn't object—it's to-morrow or next day?"

"You—you take away my breath," she answered.

"And if he does object?"

"Don't let's think of that—now," she said. "Let's walk a little—in the park. It's wonderful out here, Don."

Yes, it was wonderful out there—how wonderful he knew better than she. She had not had his advantages. She had not had Sally Winthrop to point out the wonders and make a man feel them. Of course, it was not the place itself—not the little paths, the trees, or even the big, bright sky that Frances meant or he meant. It was the sense of individuality one got here: the feeling of something within bigger than anything without. It was this that permitted Sally Winthrop to walk here with her head as high as if she were a princess. It was this that made him, by her side, feel almost like a prince. And now Frances was beginning to sense it. Don felt his heart quicken.

"This is all you need," he whispered. "Just to walk out here a little."



CHAPTER XXVI

ONE STUYVESANT

That evening, before Frances left Don alone in the study, she bent over him and kissed him. Then she heard her father's footsteps and ran. Don was remarkably cool. So was Stuyvesant; but there was nothing remarkable about that. When his daughter told him that Don was waiting to see him, his eyes narrowed the least bit and he glanced at his watch. He had a bridge engagement at the club in half an hour. Then he placed both hands on his daughter's shoulders and studied her eyes.

"What's the matter, girlie?" he asked.

"Nothing, Dad," she answered. "Only—I'm very happy."

"Good," he nodded. "And that is what I want you to be every minute of your life."

Entering his study, Stuyvesant sat down in a big chair to the right of the open fire and waved his hand to another opposite him.

"Frances said you wished to talk over something with me," he said.

"Yes, sir," answered Don. He did not sit down. He could think better on his feet. "It's about our marriage."

Stuyvesant did not answer. He never answered until the other man was through. Then he knew where he stood.

"I don't know whether or not you know the sort of will father left," began Don.

Stuyvesant did know, but he gave no indication of the fact. He had been waiting a year for something of this sort.

"Anyhow," Don went on, "he took a notion to tie up most of the estate. Except for the house—well, he left me pretty nearly strapped. Before that, he'd been letting me draw on him for anything I wanted. When I asked you for Frances I expected things would go on as they were.

"When the change came, I had a talk with Frances, and we agreed that the thing to do was for me to go out and earn about the same sum Dad had been handing to me. Ten thousand a year seemed at the time what we needed. She said that was what her allowance had been."

Again Don paused, in the hope that Stuyvesant might wish to contribute something to the conversation. But Stuyvesant waited for him to continue.

"So I went out to earn it. Barton found a position for me with Carter, Rand & Seagraves, and I started in. It's a fact I expected to get that ten thousand inside of a year."

Don lighted a cigarette. The further he went, the less interest he was taking in this explanation. Stuyvesant's apparent indifference irritated him.

"That was a year ago," Don resumed. "To-day I'm drawing the same salary I started with—twelve hundred. I expect a raise soon—perhaps to twenty-five hundred. But the point is this: I figure that it's going to take me some five years to get that ten thousand. I don't want to wait that long before marrying Frances. Another point is this: I don't think any longer that it's necessary. I figure that we can live on what I'm earning now. So I've put it up to her."

Don had hurried his argument a little, but, as far as he was concerned, he was through. The whole situation was distasteful to him. The longer he stayed here, the less it seemed to be any of Stuyvesant's business.

"You mean you've asked my daughter to marry you on that salary?" inquired Stuyvesant.

"I asked her this afternoon," nodded Don. "I suggested that we get married to-morrow or next day. You see, I'm on my vacation, and I have only two weeks."

Stuyvesant flicked the ashes from his cigar. "What was her reply?"

"She wanted me to put the proposition before you. That's why I'm here."

"I see. And just what do you expect of me?"

"I suppose she wants your consent," answered Don. "Anyhow, it seemed only decent to let you know."

Stuyvesant was beginning to chew the end of his cigar—a bit of nervousness he had not been guilty of for twenty years. "At least, it would have been rather indecent not to have informed me," he answered. "But, of course, you don't expect my consent to such an act of idiocy."

It was Don's turn to remain silent.

"I've no objection to you personally," Stuyvesant began. "When you came to me and asked for my daughter's hand, and I found that she wanted to marry you, I gave my consent. I knew your blood, Pendleton, and I'd seen enough of you to believe you clean and straight. At that time also I had every reason to believe that you were to have a sufficient income to support the girl properly. If she had wanted to marry you within the next month, I wouldn't have said a word at that time. When I learned that conditions had been changed by the terms of your father's will, I waited to see what you would do. And I'll tell you frankly, I like the way you've handled the situation up to now."

"I don't get that last," Don answered quietly.

"Then let me help you," Stuyvesant resumed grimly. "In the first place, get that love-in-a-cottage idea out of your head. It's a pretty enough conceit for those who are forced to make the best of their personal misfortunes, but that is as far as it goes. Don't for a moment think it's a desirable lot."

"In a way, that's just what I am thinking," answered Don.

"Then it's because you don't know any better. It's nonsense. A woman wants money and wants the things she can buy with money. She's entitled to those things. If she can't have them, then it's her misfortune. If the man she looks to to supply them can't give them to her, then it's his misfortune. But it's nothing for him to boast about. If he places her in such a situation deliberately, it's something for him to be ashamed of."

"I can see that, sir," answered Don, "when it's carried too far. But you understand that I'm provided with a good home and a salary large enough for the ordinary decent things of life."

"That isn't the point," broke in Stuyvesant. "We'll admit the girl won't have to go hungry, but she'll go without a lot of other things that she's been brought up to have, and, as long as I can supply them, things she's entitled to have. On that salary you won't supply her with many cars, you won't supply her with the kind of clothes she is accustomed to, you won't supply her with all the money she wants to spend. What if she does throw it away? That's her privilege now. I've worked twenty-five years to get enough so that she can do just that. There's not a whim in the world she can't satisfy. And the man who marries her must give her every single thing I'm able to give her—and then something more."

"In money?" asked Don.

"The something more—not in money."

He rose and stood before Don.

"I've been frank with you, Pendleton, and I'll say I think the girl cares for you. But I know Frances better than you, and I know that, even if she made up her mind to do without all these things, it would mean a sacrifice. As far as I know, she's never had to make a sacrifice since she was born. It isn't necessary. Get that point, Pendleton. It isn't necessary, and I'll not allow any man to make it necessary if I can help it."

He paused as if expecting an outburst from Don. The latter remained silent.

"I've trusted you with the girl," Stuyvesant concluded. "Up to now I've no fault to find with you. You've lost your head for a minute, but you'll get a grip on yourself. Go ahead and make your fortune, and come to me again. In the mean while, I'm willing to trust you further."

"If that means not asking Frances to marry me to-morrow, you can't, sir."

"You—you wouldn't ask her to go against my wishes in the matter?"

"I would, sir."

"And you expect her to do so?"

"I hope she will."

"Well, she won't," Stuyvesant answered. He was chewing his cigar again.

"You spoke of the something more, sir," said Don. "I think I know what that means, and it's a whole lot more than anything your ten thousand can give. When I found myself stony broke, I was dazed for a while, and thought a good deal as you think. Then this summer I found the something more. I wouldn't swap back."

"Then stay where you are," snapped Stuyvesant. "Don't try to drag in Frances."

Don prepared to leave.

"It's a pity you aren't stony broke too," he observed.

"Thanks," answered Stuyvesant. "But I'm not, and I don't intend to have my daughter put in that position."

"You haven't forgotten that I have a house and twelve hundred?"

"I haven't forgotten that is all you have."

"You haven't forgotten the something more?"

Stuyvesant looked at his watch.

"I must be excused now, Pendleton," he concluded. "I think, on the whole, it will be better if you don't call here after this."

"As you wish," answered Pendleton. "But I hope you'll come and see us?"

"Damn you, Pendleton!" he exploded.

Then he turned quickly and left the room. So, after all, it was he in the end who lost his temper.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE STARS AGAIN

Don went to the nearest telephone and rang up Frances.

"Your father lost his temper," he explained. "He ordered me not to call again; so will you please to meet me on the corner right away?"

"I've just seen him," she answered. "Oh, Don, it was awful!"

"It is the best thing that could have happened," he said. "We have to meet in the park now. It's the only place left."

"Don, dear, he told me not to meet you anywhere again. He—he was quite savage about it."

"He had no right to tell you that," Don answered. "Anyhow, I must see you. We'll talk it over under the stars."

"But, Don—"

"Please to hurry," he said.

She slipped a scarf over her hair and a cape over her shoulders, and walked to the corner, looking about fearfully. He gripped her arm and led her confidently away from the house and toward the park. The sky was clear, and just beyond the Big Dipper he saw shining steadily the star he had given Sally Winthrop. He smiled. It was as if she reassured him.

"What did you say to him, Don?" she panted.

"I told him I wished to marry you to-morrow," he answered.

"And he—"

"He said I shouldn't. He said he could give you more with his ten thousand than I could give you with my twelve hundred. I told him I could give you more with my twelve hundred than he could with his ten thousand."

"I've never seen him so angry," she trembled.

"I'd never before seen him angry at all," he admitted. "But, after all, that isn't important, is it? The important thing is whether or not he's right. That's what you and I must decide for ourselves."

She did not quite understand. She thought her father had already decided this question. However, she said nothing. In something of a daze, she allowed herself to be led on toward the park—at night a big, shadowy region with a star-pricked sky overhead. Like one led in a dream she went, her thoughts quite confused, but with the firm grip of his hand upon her arm steadying her. He did not speak again until the paved street and the stone buildings were behind them—until they were among the trees and low bushes and gravel paths. He led her to a bench.

"See those stars?" he asked, pointing.

"Yes, Don."

"I want you to keep looking at them while I'm talking to you," he said.

Just beyond the Big Dipper he saw the star he had given Sally Winthrop. It smiled reassuringly at him.

"What I've learned this summer," he said, "is that, after all, the clear sky and those stars are as much a part of New York as the streets and high buildings below them. And when you live up there a little while you forget about the twelve hundred or the ten thousand. Those details don't count up there. Do you see that?"

"Yes, Don."

"The trouble with your father, and the trouble with you, and the trouble with me, until a little while ago, is that we didn't get out here in the park enough where the stars can be seen. I'm pretty sure, if I'd been sitting here with your father, he'd have felt different."

She was doing as he bade her and keeping her eyes raised. She saw the steady stars and the twinkling stars and the vast purple depths. So, when she felt his arm about her, that did not seem strange.

"It's up there we'll be living most of the time," he was saying.

"Yes, Don."

"And that's all free. The poorer you are, the freer it is. That's true of a lot of things. You've no idea the things you can get here in New York if you haven't too much money. Your father said that if you don't have cash you go without, when as a matter of fact it's when you have cash you go without."

She lowered her eyes to his. What he was saying sounded topsy-turvy.

"It's a fact," he ran on. "Why, you can get hungry if you don't have too much money; and, honest, I've had better things to eat this summer, because of that, than I ever had in my life. Then, if you don't have too much money, you can work. It sounds strange to say there's any fun in that, but there is. I want to get you into the game, Frances. You're going to like it. Farnsworth is going to let me sell next month. It's like making the 'Varsity. I'm going to have a salary and commission, so you see it will be partly a personal fight. You can help me. Why, the very things we were planning to get done with before we married are the very things that are worth while. We can stand shoulder to shoulder now and play the game together. You can have part of the fun."

She thrilled with the magic of his voice, but his words were quite meaningless.

"You aren't looking at the stars," he reminded her. She looked up again.

"So," he said, "there's no sense in waiting any longer, is there? The sooner we're married, the sooner we can begin. If we're married to-morrow, we'll have almost two weeks in the mountains. And then—"

She appeared frightened.

"Oh, Don, we—we couldn't get married like that, anyway."

"Why not?" he demanded.

"It—it isn't possible."

"Certainly it's possible."

She shook her head.

"No, no. I—I couldn't. Oh, Don, you'll have to give me time to think."

"There isn't time," he frowned.

"We must take time. I'm—I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid of myself," she answered quickly. "Afraid of Dad. Oh, I'm afraid of every one."

"Of me?" He took her hand.

"When you speak of to-morrow I am," she admitted. "While you were talking, there were moments when—when I could do as you wish. But they didn't last."

"That's because you didn't keep your eyes on the stars," he assured her gently.

"That's what I'm afraid of—that I shouldn't be able to keep them there. Don, dear, you don't know how selfish I am and—and how many things I want."

She was seeing herself clearly now and speaking from the depths of her soul.

"Maybe it isn't all my fault. And you're wonderful, Don. It's that which makes me see myself."

He kissed her hand. "Dear you," he whispered, "I know the woman 'way down deep in you, and it's she I want."

She shook her head.

"No," she answered. "It's some woman you've placed there—some woman who might have been there—that you see. But she isn't there, because—because I can't go with you."

Some woman he had put there. He looked at the stars, and the little star by the Big Dipper was shining steadily at him. He passed his hand over his forehead.

"If she were really in me, she'd go with you to-morrow," Frances ran on excitedly. "She'd want to get into the game. She'd want to be hungry with you, and she wouldn't care about anything else in the world but you. She—she'd want to suffer, Don. She'd be almost glad that you had no money. Her father wouldn't count, because she'd care so much."

She drew her cape about her shoulders.

"Yes," he answered in a hoarse whisper; "she's like that."

"So, don't you see—"

"Good Lord, I do see!" he exclaimed.

Now he saw.

With his head swimming, with his breath coming short, he saw. But he was as dazed as a man suddenly given sight in the glare of the blazing sun.

Frances was frightened by his silence.

"I—I think we'd better go back now," she said gently.

He escorted her to the house without quite knowing how he found the way. At the door she said:—

"Don't you understand, Don?"

"Yes," he answered; "for the first time."

"And you'll not think too badly of me?"

"It isn't anything you can help," he answered. "It isn't anything I can help, either."

"Don't think too badly of Dad," she pleaded. "He'll cool down soon, and then—you must come and see me again."

She held out her hand, and he took it. Then swiftly she turned and went into the house. He hurried back to the path—to the path where on Saturday afternoons he had walked with Sally Winthrop.



CHAPTER XXVIII

SEEING

He saw now. Blind fool that he had been, month after month! He sank on a bench and went back in his thoughts to the first time he had ever seen Sally Winthrop. She had reminded him that it was luncheon time, and when he had gone out she had been waiting for him. She must have been waiting for him, or he never would have found her. And she had known he was hungry.

"She'd want to be hungry with you," Frances had said.

How had Sally Winthrop known that he was hungry? She had known, and had shared with him what she had.

Then incident after incident in the office came back to him. It was she who had taught him how to work. It was for her that he had worked.

Frances had used another phrase: "She'd be almost glad you had no money."

There was only one woman in the world he knew who would care for a man like that—if she cared at all. That brought him to his feet again. He glared about as if searching for her in the dark. Why wasn't she here now, so that he might ask her if she did care? She had no business to go off and leave him like this! He did not know where she was.

Don struck a match and looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty. Somehow, he must find her. He had her old address, and it was possible that she had left word where she had gone. At any rate, this was the only clue he had.

He made his way back to the Avenue, and, at a pace that at times almost broke into a run, went toward the club and the first taxi he saw. In twenty minutes he was standing on the steps where he had last seen her. She had wished him to say "good-bye"; but he remembered that he had refused to say "good-bye."

The landlady knew Miss Winthrop's address, but she was not inclined to give it to him. At first she did not like the expression in his eyes. He was too eager.

"Seems to me," she argued, "she'd have told parties where she was going if she wanted them to know."

"This is very important," he insisted.

"Maybe it's a lot more important to you than it is to her," she replied.

"But—"

"You can leave your name and address, and I'll write to her," she offered.

"Look here," Don said desperately. "Do you want to know what my business is with her?"

"It's none of my business, but—"

"I want to ask her to marry me," he broke in. "That's a respectable business, isn't it?"

He reached in his pocket and drew out a bill. He slipped it into her hand.

"Want to marry her?" exclaimed the woman. "Well, now, I wouldn't stand in the way of that. Will you step in while I get the address?"

"I'll wait here. Only hurry. There may be a late train."

She was back in a few seconds, holding a slip of paper in her hand.

"It's to Brenton, Maine, she's gone."

Don grabbed the paper.

"Thanks."

He was halfway down the steps when she called after him:—

"Good luck to ye, sir."

"Thanks again," he called back.

Then he gave his order to the driver:—

"To the Grand Central."

Don found that he could take the midnight train to Boston and connect there with a ten-o'clock train next morning. This would get him into Portland in time for a connection that would land him at Brenton at four that afternoon. He went back to the house to pack his bag. As he opened the door and went in, it seemed as if she might already be there—as if she might be waiting for him. Had she stepped forward to greet him and announce that dinner was ready, he would not have been greatly surprised. It was as if she had been here all this last year. But it was only Nora who came to greet him.

"I'm going away to-night for a few days—perhaps for two weeks," he told Nora.

"Yes, sir."

"I'll wire you what my plans are—either to-morrow or next day."

"And it is to be soon, sir?"

"I can't tell you for sure, Nora, until I've cleared up one or two little matters; but—you can wish me luck, anyway."

"I'll do that, sir."

"And the house is ready, isn't it?"

"Everything is ready, sir."

"That's fine. Now I'm going to pack."

His packing finished, Don went downstairs with still an hour or more on his hands before train-time. But he did not care to go anywhere. He was absolutely contented here. He was content merely to wander from room to room. He sat down at the piano in the dark, and for a long while played to her—played to her just the things he knew she would like.

It was half-past eleven before he left the house, and then he went almost reluctantly. She was more here than anywhere in the world except where he was going. He found himself quite calm about her here. The moment he came out on the street again he noticed a difference. His own phrase came back to frighten him:—

"She'd care like that—if she cared at all."

Supposing that after he found her, she did not care?

At the station he wondered if it were best to wire her, but decided against it. She might run away. It was never possible to tell what a woman might do, and Sally Winthrop was an adept at concealing herself. He remembered that period when, although he had been in the same office with her, she had kept herself as distant as if across the ocean. She had only to say, "Not at home," and it was as if she said, "I am not anywhere."

He went to his berth at once, and had, on the whole, a bad night of it. He asked himself a hundred questions that he could not answer—that Sally Winthrop alone could answer. Though it was only lately that he had prided himself on knowing her desires in everything, he was forced to leave all these questions unanswered.

At ten the next morning he took the train for Portland. At two he was on the train for Brenton and hurrying through a strange country to her side.

When he reached Brenton he was disappointed not to find her when he stepped from the train. The station had been so closely identified with her through the long journey that he had lost sight of the fact that it existed for any other purpose. But only a few station loafers were there to greet him, and they revealed but an indifferent interest. He approached one of them.

"Can you tell me where Miss Winthrop is stopping?"

The man looked blank.

"No one of that name in this town," he finally answered.

"Isn't this Brenton?"

"It's Brenton, right enough."

"Then she's here," declared Don.

"Is she visitin'?" inquired the man.

Don nodded.

"A cousin, or something."

A second man spoke up:—

"Ain't she the one who's stopping with Mrs. Halliday?"

"Rather slight, with brown eyes," volunteered Don.

"Dunno the color of her eyes," answered the first man, with a wink at the second. "But thar's some one stoppin' thar. Been here couple days or so."

"That's she," Don decided.

He drew a dollar bill from his pocket.

"I want one of you to take a note to her from me."

He wrote on the back of a card:—

I'm at the station. I must see you at once.

DON.

"Take that to her right away and bring me an answer," he ordered.

The man took both bill and card and disappeared.



CHAPTER XXIX

MOSTLY SALLY

It was an extremely frightened girl who within five minutes appeared upon the station platform. She was quite out of breath, for she had been running. As he came toward her with outstretched hands, she stared at him from head to foot, as if to make sure he was not minus an arm or a leg.

"Won't you even shake hands with me?" he asked anxiously.

"You—you gave me such a fright," she panted.

"How?"

"I thought—I thought you must have been run over."

He seemed rather pleased.

"And you cared?" he asked eagerly.

She was fast recovering herself now.

"Well, it wouldn't be unnatural to care, would it, if you expected to find a friend all run over?"

"And, now that you find I'm not a mangled corpse, you don't care at all."

Of course he wouldn't choose to be a corpse, because he would not have been able to enjoy the situation; but, on the whole, he was sorry that he did not have a mangled hand or something to show. Evidently his whole hand did not interest her—she had not yet offered to take it.

"How in the world did you get here?" she demanded.

"I took the train."

"But—has anything happened?"

"Lots of things have happened," he said. "That's what I want to tell you about."

He looked around. His messenger was taking an eager interest in the situation.

"That's why I came to see you," he explained. "Of course, if it's necessary to confide also in your neighbor over there, I'll do it; but I thought that perhaps you could suggest some less public place."

She appeared frightened in a different sort of way now.

"But, Mr. Pendleton—"

"I'm going to remain here perhaps a day or two," he interrupted.

To him the most obvious course was for her to ask him to meet her aunt and invite him to remain there.

"Is there a hotel in town?" he asked.

"I—I don't think so," she faltered.

"Then," he decided, "I must find some sort of camping-place. If you know a bit of woods where I can spend the night, you might direct me."

He was quite himself now. It was a relief to her. It put her quite off her guard.

"Won't you come and meet my aunt?" she invited.

He picked up his suitcase at once.

"It will be a pleasure," he answered.

She could not imagine what her aunt would think when she appeared so abruptly escorting a young man with a suitcase, but that did not seem to matter. She knew no better than her aunt what had brought him here; but, now that he was here, it was certain that she must take care of him. She could not allow him to wander homelessly around the village or permit him to camp out like a gypsy. It did not occur to her to reason that this predicament was wholly his fault. All the old feeling of responsibility came back.

As they walked side by side down the street, he was amazed to see how much good even these two days in the country had done her. There was more color in her cheeks and more life in her walk. She was wearing a middy blouse, and that made her look five years younger.

She looked up at him.

"I—I thought you had something very important to do in these next few days," she reminded him.

"I have," he answered.

"Then—I don't understand how you came here."

On the train it had seemed to him that he must explain within the first five minutes; but, now that she was actually within sound of his voice, actually within reach, there seemed to be no hurry. In her presence his confidence increased with every passing minute. For one thing, he could argue with her, and whenever in the past he had argued with her he had succeeded.

"I needed you to explain certain things to me," he replied.

She looked away from him.

"About what?" she asked quickly.

"About getting me married."

"Oh!" she exclaimed.

He could not tell what she meant by the little cry. He would have asked her had they not at that moment turned into a gate that led through an old-fashioned garden to a small white cottage.

"I'll have to run ahead and prepare Mrs. Halliday," she said.

So she left him upon the doorstep, and he took off his hat to the cool, pine-laden breeze that came from a mountain in the distance. He liked this town at once. He liked the elm-lined village street, and the snug white houses and the quiet and content of it. Then he found himself being introduced rather jerkily to Mrs. Halliday—a tall, thin New England type, with kindly eyes set in a sharp face. It was evident at once that after her first keen inspection of this stranger she was willing to accept him with much less suspicion than Miss Winthrop.

"I told Sally this morning, when I spilled the sugar, that a stranger was coming," she exclaimed. "Now you come right upstairs. I reckon you'll want to wash up after that long ride."

"It's mighty good of you to take me in this way," he said.

"Laws sake, what's a spare room for?"

She led the way to a small room with white curtains at the windows and rag rugs upon the floor and a big silk crazy-quilt on an old four-poster bed. She hurried about and found soap and towels for him, and left him with the hope that he would make himself at home.

And at once he did feel at home. He felt at home just because Sally Winthrop was somewhere in the same house. That was the secret of it. He had felt at home in the station as soon as she appeared; he had felt at home in the village because she had walked by his side; and now he felt at home here. And by that he meant that he felt very free and very happy and very much a part of any section of the world she might happen to be in. It had been so in New York, and it was so here.

He was downstairs again in five minutes, looking for Sally Winthrop. It seemed that Mrs. Halliday's chief concern now was about supper, and that Sally was out in the kitchen helping her. He found that out by walking in upon her and finding her in a blue gingham apron. Her cheeks turned very red and she hurriedly removed the apron.

"Don't let me disturb you," he protested.

That was very easy to say, but he did disturb her. Then Mrs. Halliday shooed her out of the kitchen.

"You run right along now; I can attend to things myself."

"I'd like to help, too," said Don.

"Run along—both of you," insisted Mrs. Halliday. "You'd be more bother than help."

So the two found themselves on the front steps again, and Don suggested they remain there. The sun was getting low and bathing the street in a soft light.

"I have something very important to say to you," he began.

"To me?" she exclaimed.

Again there was the expression of astonishment and—something more.

"It's about my getting married," he nodded.

"But I thought that was all settled!"

"It is," he admitted.

"Oh!"

"I think it was settled long before I knew it."

"Then you're to be married right away?"

"I hope so."

"That will be nice."

"It will be wonderful," he exclaimed. "It will be the most wonderful thing in the world!"

"But why did you come 'way down here?"

"To talk it over with you. You see, a lot depends upon you."

"Me?"

Again that questioning personal pronoun.

"A great deal depends upon you. You are to say when it is to be."

"Mr. Pendleton!"

"I wish you'd remember I'm not in the office of Carter, Rand & Seagraves now. Can't you call me just Don?"

She did not answer.

"Because," he explained, "I mean to call you Sally."

"You mustn't."

"I mean to call you that all the rest of my life," he went on more soberly. "Don't you understand how much depends upon you?"

Startled, she glanced up swiftly. What she saw in his eyes made her catch her breath. He was speaking rapidly now:—

"Everything depends upon you—upon no one else in all the world but you. I discovered that in less than a day after you left. It's been like that ever since I met you. I love you, and I've come down here to marry you—to take you back with me to the house that's all ready—back to the house you've made ready."

She gave a little cry and covered her face with her hands.

"Don't do that," he pleaded.



She looked as if she were crying.

"Sally—Sally Winthrop, you aren't crying?"

He placed a hand upon her arm.

"Don't touch me!" she sobbed.

"Why shouldn't I touch you?"

"Because—because this is all a horrible mistake."

"I'm trying to correct a horrible mistake," he answered gently.

"No—no—no. You must go back to her—right away."

"To Frances?"

She nodded.

"You don't understand. She doesn't want to marry me."

"You asked her?"

"Yes."

"And then—and then you came to me?"

"Yes, little girl. She sent me to you. She—why, it was she that made me see straight!"

Her face was still concealed.

"I—I wish you'd go away," she sobbed.

"You don't understand!" he answered fiercely. "I'm not going away. I love you, and I've come to get you. I won't go away until you come with me."

She rose to her feet, her back toward him.

"Go away!" she cried.

Then she ran into the house, leaving him standing there dazed.



CHAPTER XXX

DON EXPLAINS

It seemed that, in spite of her business training and the unsentimental outlook on life upon which she had rather prided herself, Sally Winthrop did not differ greatly from other women. Shut up in her room, a deep sense of humiliation overwhelmed her. He had asked this other girl to marry him, and when she refused he had come to her! He thought as lightly of her as that—a mere second choice when the first was made impossible. He had no justification for that. This other had sent him to her—doubtless with a smile of scorn upon her pretty lips.

But what was she crying about and making her nose all red? She should have answered him with another smile and sent him back again. Then he would have understood how little she cared—would have understood that she did not care enough even to feel the sting of such an insult as this. For the two days she had been here awaiting the announcement of his marriage she had said over and over again that she did not care—said it the first thing upon waking and the last thing upon retiring. Even when she woke up in the night, as she did many times, she said it to herself. It had been a great comfort to her, for it was a full and complete answer to any wayward thoughts that took her unaware.

She did not care about him, so what was she sniveling about and making her nose all red? She dabbed her handkerchief into her eyes and sought her powder-box. If he had only kept away from her everything would have been all right. Within the next ten or eleven days she would have readjusted herself and been ready to take up her work again, with another lesson learned. She would have gone back to her room wiser and with still more confidence in herself. And now he was downstairs, waiting for her. There was no way she could escape him. She must do all those things without the help of seclusion. She must not care, with him right before her eyes.

She began to cry again. It was not fair. It was the sense of injustice that now broke her down. She was doing her best, and no one would help her. Even he made it as hard for her as possible. On top of that he had added this new insult. He wished a wife, and if he could not have this one he would take that one—as Farnsworth selected his stenographers. He had come to her because she had allowed herself to lunch with him and dine with him and walk with him. He had presumed upon what she had allowed herself to say to him. Because she had interested herself in him and tried to help him, he thought she was to be as lightly considered as this. He had not waited even a decent interval, but had come to her direct from Frances—she of the scornful smile.

Once again Sally stopped crying. If only she could hold that smile before her, all might yet be well. Whenever she looked into his eyes and thought them tender, she must remember that smile. Whenever his voice tempted her against her reason, she must remember that—for to-night, anyhow; and to-morrow he must go back. Either that or she would leave. She could not endure this very long—certainly not for eleven days.

"Sally—where are you?"

It was Mrs. Halliday's voice from downstairs.

"I'm coming," she answered.

The supper was more of an epicurean than a social success. Mrs. Halliday had made hot biscuit, and opened a jar of strawberry preserves, and sliced a cold chicken which she had originally intended for to-morrow's dinner; but, in spite of that, she was forced to sit by and watch her two guests do scarcely more than nibble.

"I declare, I don't think young folks eat as much as they useter in my days," she commented.

Don tried to excuse himself by referring to a late dinner at Portland; but Sally, as usual, had no excuse whatever. She was forced to endure in silence the searching inquiry of Mrs. Halliday's eyes as well as Don's. For the half-hour they were at table she heartily wished she was back again in her own room in New York. There, at least, she would have been free to shut herself up, away from all eyes but her own. Moreover, she had to look forward to what she should do at the end of the meal. For all she saw, she was going to be then in even a worse plight than she was now. For he would be able to talk, and she must needs answer and keep from crying. Above all things else, she must keep from crying. She did not wish him to think her a little fool as well as other things.

She was forced to confess that after the first five minutes Don did his best to relieve the tension. He talked to Mrs. Halliday about one thing and another, and kept on talking. And, though it was quite evident to her that he had no appetite, he managed to consume three of the hot biscuit. After supper, when she rose to help her aunt in the kitchen, he wished also to help. But Mrs. Halliday would have neither of them. That made it bad for her again, for it left her with no alternative but to sit again upon the front porch with him. So there they were again, right back where they started.

"What did you run into the house for?" he demanded.

"Please let's not talk any more, of that," she pleaded.

"But it's the nub of the whole matter," he insisted.

"I went in because I did not want to talk any more."

"Very well. Then you needn't talk. But you can listen, can't you?"

"That's the same thing."

"It's exactly the opposite thing. You can listen, and just nod or shake your head. Then you won't have to speak a word. Will you do that?"

It was an absurd proposition, but she was forced either to accept it or to run away again. Somehow, it did not appear especially dignified to keep on running away, when in the end she must needs come back again. So she nodded.

"Let's go back to the beginning," he suggested. "That's somewhere toward the middle of my senior year. I'd known Frances before that, but about that time she came on to Boston, and we went to a whole lot of dances and things together."

He paused a moment.

"I wish I'd brought a picture of her with me," he resumed thoughtfully, "because she's really a peach."

Miss Winthrop looked up quickly. He was apparently serious.

"She's tall and dark and slender," he went on, "and when she's all togged up she certainly looks like a queen. She had a lot of friends in town, and we kept going about four nights a week. Then came the ball games, and then Class Day. You ever been to Class Day?"

Miss Winthrop shook her head with a quick little jerk.

"It's all music and Japanese lanterns, and if you're sure of your degree it's a sort of fairyland where nothing is quite real. You just feel at the time that it's always going to be like that. It was then I asked her to marry me."

Miss Winthrop was sitting with her chin in her hands, looking intently at the brick path leading to the house.

"You listening?"

She nodded jerkily.

"It seemed all right then. And it seemed all right after that. Stuyvesant was agreeable enough, and so I came on to New York. Then followed Dad's death. Dad was a queer sort, but he was square as a die. I'm sorry he went before he had a chance to meet you. I didn't realize what good pals we were until afterward. But, anyway, he died, and he tied the property all up as I've told you. Maybe he thought if he didn't I'd blow it in, because I see now I'd been getting rid of a good many dollars. I went to Frances and told her all about it, and offered to cancel the engagement. But she was a good sport and said she'd wait until I earned ten thousand a year. You listening?"

She nodded.

"Because it's right here you come in. I was going to get it inside a year, and you know just about how much chance I stood. But it looked easy to her, because her father was pulling down about that much a month, and not killing himself either. I didn't know any more about it than she did; but the difference between us was that as soon as I was on the inside I learned a lot she didn't learn. I learned how hard it is to get ten thousand a year; more than that, I learned how unnecessary it is to get it. That's what you taught me."

"I—I didn't mean to," she interrupted.

"You're talking," he reminded her.

She closed her lips firmly together.

"Whether you meant to or not isn't the point. You did teach me that and a lot of other things. I didn't know it at the time, and went plugging ahead, thinking everything was just the same when it wasn't at all. Frances was headed one way and I was headed another. Then she went abroad, and after that I learned faster than ever. I learned what a home can be made to mean, and work can be made to mean, and life can be made to mean. All those things you were teaching me. I didn't know it, and you didn't know it, and Frances didn't know it. That ten thousand grew less and less important to me, and all the while I thought it must be growing less and less important to her. I thought that way after the walks in the park and the walks in the country and that night at Coney."

She shuddered.

"I thought it even after she came back—even after my talk with Stuyvesant. He told me I was a fool and that Frances wouldn't listen to me. I didn't believe him and put it up to her. And then—for the first time—I saw that what I had been learning she had not been learning."

Don turned and looked at the girl by his side. It was growing dark now, so that he could not see her very well; but he saw that she was huddled up as he had found her that day in the little restaurant.

"Frances didn't have the nerve to come with me," he said. "Her father stood in the way, and she couldn't get by him. I want to be fair about this. At the beginning, if she'd come with me I'd have married her—though Lord knows how it would have worked out. But she didn't dare—and she's a pretty good sport, too. There's a lot in her she doesn't know anything about. It would do her good to know you."

Again he paused. It was as if he were trying hard to keep his balance.

"I want her to know you," he went on. "Because, after all, it was she who made me see you. There, in a second, in the park, she pointed you out to me, until you stood before me as clear as the star by the Big Dipper. She said, 'It's some other girl you're seeing in me—a girl who would dare to go hungry with you.' Then I knew. So I came right to you."

She was still huddled up.

"And here I am," he concluded.

There he was. He did not need to remind her of that. Even when she closed her eyes so that she might not see him, she was aware of it. Even when he was through talking and she did not hear his voice, she was aware of it. And, though she was miserable about it, she would have been more miserable had he been anywhere else.

"I'm here, little girl," he said patiently.

"Even after I told you to go away," she choked.

"Even after you told me to go away."

"If you only hadn't come at all!"

"What else was there for me to do?"

"You—you could have gone to that camp with her. She wanted you to go."

"I told her I couldn't go there—long before I knew why."

"You could have gone—oh, there are so many other places you could go! And this is the only place I could go."

"It's the only place I could go, too. Honest, it was. I'd have been miserable anywhere else, and—well, you aren't making it very comfortable for me here."

It seemed natural to have him blame her for his discomfort when it was all his own fault. It seemed so natural, in the midst of the confusion of all the rest of the tangle, that it was restful.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"That's something," he nodded.

"I—I guess the only thing for me to do is to go away myself."

"Where?"

"Back to New York. Oh, I wish I hadn't taken a vacation!"

"We'll go back if you say so; but it seems foolish after traveling all this distance."

"I meant to go back alone," she hastened to correct him.

"And leave me with Mrs. Halliday?"

"Please don't mix things all up!"

"It's you who are mixing things all up," he said earnestly. "That isn't like you, little girl. It's more like you to straighten things out. There's a straight road ahead of us now, and if you'll only take it we'll never leave it again. All we've got to do is to hunt up a parson and get married, and then we'll go anywhere you say, or not go anywhere at all. It's as simple as that. Then, when our vacation is up, I'll go back to Carter, Rand & Seagraves, and I'll tell Farnsworth he'll have to get a new stenographer. Maybe he'll discharge me for that, but if he doesn't I'll tell him I want to get out and sell. And then there's nothing more to it. With you to help—"

He tried to find her hands, but she had them pressed over her eyes.

"With you back home to help," he repeated—"there's not anything in the world we won't get."

And the dream woman in Sally answered to the woman on the steps:—

"There's not anything more in the world we'll want when we're home."

But Don did not hear that. All he heard was a sigh. To the dream woman what he said sounded like music; but the woman on the steps answered cynically:—

"All he is saying to you now he said to that other. There, where the music was playing and the Japanese lanterns were bobbing, he said it to her. That was a fairy world, as this is a fairy night; but back in New York it will all be different. There are no fairies in New York. Every time you have thought there were, you have been disappointed."

She rose swiftly to her feet.

"Oh, we mustn't talk about it!" she exclaimed.

He too rose, and he placed both his hands upon her shoulders.

"I don't understand," he said quickly. "What is it you don't believe?"

"I don't believe in fairies," she answered bitterly.

"Don't you believe that I love you?"

"To-night—perhaps," she answered.

Her eyes were not meeting his.

"You don't believe my love will last?"

"I—I don't know."

"Because of Frances?"

"Everything is so different in New York," she answered.

"Because of Frances?"

She was not sure enough herself to answer that. She did not wish to be unfair. He removed his hands from her shoulders and stood back a little.

"I thought you'd understand about her. I thought you were the one woman in the world who'd understand."

She looked up quickly.

"Perhaps it's easier for men to understand those things than women," she said.

"There's so little to understand."

As he spoke, truly it seemed so. But it was always that way when she was with him. Always, if she was not very careful, he made her see exactly as he saw. It was so at Jacques'; it was so at Coney. But her whole life was at stake now. If she made a mistake, one way or the other, she must live it out—in New York. She must be by herself when she reached her decision.

"In the morning," she gasped.

"All right," he answered.

He took her hand—catching her unawares.

"See," he said. "Up there is the star I gave you. It will always be there—always be yours. And, if you can, I want you to think of me as like that star."

Upstairs in her room that night, Miss Winthrop sat by her window and tried to place herself back in New York—back in the office of Carter, Rand & Seagraves. It was there, after all, and not up among the stars, that she had gained her experience of men.

From behind her typewriter she had watched them come and go, or if they stayed had watched them in the making. It was from behind her typewriter she had met Don. She remembered every detail of that first day: how he stood at the ticker like a boy with a new toy, waiting for Farnsworth; how he came from Farnsworth's office and took a seat near her, and for the next half-hour watched her fingers until she became nervous. At first she thought he was going to be "fresh." Her mind was made up to squelch him at the first opportunity. Yet, when it had come lunch-time and he sat on, not knowing what to do, she had taken pity on him. She knew he would sit on there until night unless some one showed an interest in him. She was glad now that she had, because he had been hungry. Had it not been for her, he would not have had anything to eat all day—possibly not all that week. She would never cease being glad that she had discovered this fact in time.

But she had intended that her interest should cease, once she had made sure that he was fed and in receipt of his first week's salary. That much she would do for any man, good, bad, or indifferent. That was all she had intended. She could say that honestly. When he had appeared at her lunch-place the second and third time, she had resented it. But she had also welcomed his coming. And, when she had bidden him not to come, she had missed him.

Right here she marked a distinction between him and the others. She missed him outside the office—not only at noon, but at night. When she had opened that absurd box of flowers, she brought him into her room with her. She saw now that at the precise moment she opened that box she had lost her point of view. If she had wished to maintain it, she should have promptly done the box up again and sent it back to him.

After this their relation had changed. There could be no doubt about that. However, except for the initial fault of not returning the roses, she could not see where it was distinctly her fault. She had gone on day after day, unaware that any significant change was taking place. There had been the dinner at Jacques', and then—

With her chin in her hands, she sat by the open window and lived over again those days. Her eyes grew afire and her cheeks grew rosy and a great happiness thrilled her. So—until they reached that night at Coney and Frances smiled through the dark at her.

Then she sprang to her feet and paced the floor, with the color gone from her cheeks. During all those glorious days this other girl had been in the background of his thoughts. It was for her he had been working—of her he had been thinking. She clenched her hands and faced the girl.

"Why didn't you stay home with him, then?" she cried. "You left him to me and I took care of him. He'd have lost his position if it hadn't been for me.

"I kept after him until he made good," she went on. "I saw that he came to work on time, I showed him what to learn. It was I, not you, that made him."

She was speaking out loud—fiercely. Suddenly she stopped. She raised her eyes to the window—to the little star by the Big Dipper. Gently, as a mother speaks, she said again:—

"I made him—not you."

Sally Winthrop sank into a chair. She began to cry—but softly now.

"You're mine, Don," she whispered. "You're mine because I took care of you."

A keen breeze from the mountains swept in upon her. She rose and stole across the hall to Mrs. Halliday's room. That good woman awoke with a start.

"What is it?" she exclaimed.

"Oh, I'm sorry if I woke you," answered the girl. "But it's turned cold, and I wondered if Don—if Mr. Pendleton had enough bedclothes."

"Laws sake," answered Mrs. Halliday. "I gave him two extra comforters, and if that ain't enough he deserves to freeze."



CHAPTER XXXI

SALLY DECIDES

The clarion call of Mrs. Halliday's big red rooster announcing fervently his discovery of a thin streak of silver light in the east brought Don to his elbow with a start. For a moment he could not place himself, and then, as he realized where he was and what this day meant for him, he took a long deep breath.

"In the morning," she had said.

Technically it was now morning, though his watch informed him that it was not yet five. By now, then, she had made her decision. Somewhere in this old house, perhaps within sound of his voice, she was waiting with the verdict that was to decide whether he was going back to New York the happiest or the unhappiest man in all Christendom. No, that was not quite right either. Even if she said "No" that would not decide it. It would mean only another day of waiting, because he was going to keep right on trying to make her understand—day after day, all summer and next winter and the next summer if necessary. He was going to do that because, if he ever let go of this hope, then he would be letting go of everything.

He found it quite impossible to sleep again and equally impossible to lie there awake. Jumping from bed he dressed, shaved, and went downstairs, giving Mrs. Halliday the start of her life when he came upon her as she was kindling the kitchen fire.

"Land sakes alive," she gasped, "I didn't expect to see you for a couple hours."

"I know it's early," he answered uncomfortably; "I don't suppose Sally is up?"

Mrs. Halliday touched a match to the kindling and put the stove covers back in place.

"There isn't anything lazy about Sally, but she generally does wait until the sun is up," she returned.

She filled the teakettle and then, adjusting her glasses, took a more critical look at Don.

"Wasn't ye warm enough last night?" she demanded.

"Plenty, thank you," he answered.

"Perhaps bein' in new surroundings bothered you," she suggested; "I can't ever sleep myself till I git used to a place."

"I slept like a log," he assured her.

"Is this the time ye ginerally git up in New York?"

"Not quite as early as this," he admitted. "But, you see, that rooster—"

"I see," she nodded. "And ye kind of hoped it might wake up Sally too?"

"I took a chance," he smiled.

"Well, now, as long as ye seem so anxious I'll tell ye something; maybe it did. Anyhow, I heard her movin' round afore I came down. Draw a chair up to the stove and make yourself comfortable."

"Thanks."

The dry heat from the burning wood was already warming the room. Outside he heard the morning songs of the birds. It no longer seemed early to him. It was as though the world were fully awake, just because he knew now that Sally was awake. For a few minutes Mrs. Halliday continued her tasks as though unmindful that he was about. It was such a sort of friendly acceptance of him as part of the household that he began to feel as much at home here as though it were his usual custom to appear at this hour. There was something more friendly about even Mrs. Halliday's back than about the faces of a great many people he knew. It looked as though it had borne a great many burdens, but having borne them sturdily was ready for more. It invited confidences. Then the teakettle began to bubble and sing and that invited confidences too. He was choking with things he wished to say—preferably to Sally herself, but if that were not possible, then Mrs. Halliday was certainly the next best confidante. Besides, being the closest relative of Sally's it was only fitting and proper that she should be told certain facts. Sooner or later she must know and now seemed a particularly opportune time. Don rose and moved his chair to attract her attention.

"Mrs. Halliday—" he began.

"Wal?" she replied, without turning. She was at that moment busy over the biscuit board.

"There's something I think I ought to tell you."

She turned instantly at that—turned, adjusted her spectacles, and waited.

"I—I've asked Sally to marry me," he confessed.

For a moment her thin, wrinkled face remained immobile. Then he saw a smile brighten the shrewd gray eyes.

"You don't say!" she answered. "I've been wonderin' just how long ye'd be tellin' me that."

"You knew? Sally told you?" he exclaimed.

"Not in so many words, as ye might say," she answered. "But laws sake, when a girl wakes me up to say she doesn't think a young man has blankets enough on his bed in this kind of weather—"

"She did that?" interrupted Don.

"Thet's jest what she did. But long afore thet you told me yourself."

"I?"

"Of course. It's jest oozin' out all over you."

She came nearer. For a second Don felt as though those gray eyes were boring into his soul.

"Look here, young man," she said. "What did Sally say?"

"She said she'd let me know this morning," he answered.

"And you've been blamin' my old rooster for gettin' you up?"

"Not blaming him exactly," he apologized.

"And you aren't sure whether she's goin' to say yes or goin' to say no?"

Don's lips tightened.

"I'm not sure whether she's going to say yes or no this morning. But, believe me, Mrs. Halliday, before she dies she's going to say yes."

Mrs. Halliday nodded approvingly. She went further; she placed a thin hand on Don's shoulder. It was like a benediction. His heart warmed as though it had been his mother's hand there.

"Don," she said, as naturally as though she had been saying it all her life, "I don't know much about you in one way. But I like your face and I like your eyes. I go a lot by a man's eyes. More'n that, I know Sally, and there was never a finer, honester girl made than she is. If she has let you go as far as this, I don't think I'd worry myself to death."

"That's the trouble," he answered. "She didn't let me go as far as this. I—I just went."

Mrs. Halliday smiled again.

"Mebbe you think so," she admitted.

"You see—" he stammered.

But at that moment he heard a rustle of skirts behind him. There stood Sally herself—her cheeks very red, with a bit of a frown above her eyes. It was Mrs. Halliday who saved the day.

"Here, now, you two," she stormed as she went back to her biscuit board. "Both of you clear out of here until breakfast is ready. You belong outdoors where the birds are singing."

"I'll set the table, Aunty," replied Sally grimly.

"You'll do nothing of the kind," replied Mrs. Halliday.

She crossed the room and, taking Sally by one arm she took Don by the other. She led them to the door.

"Out with you," she commanded.

Alone with her Don turned to seek Sally's eyes and saw the frown still there.

"I—I told her," he admitted; "I couldn't help it. I've been up for an hour and I had to talk to some one."

He took her arm.

"You've decided?" he asked.

His face was so tense, his voice so eager, that it was as much as she could do to remain vexed. Still, she resented the fact that he had spoken to her aunt without authority. It was a presumption that seemed to take for granted her answer. It was as though he thought only one answer possible.

"Heart of me," he burst out, "you've decided?"

"You—you had no right to tell her," she answered.

"Come down the road a bit," he pleaded.

He led her down the path and along the country road between fields wet with dew. The air was clean and sweet and the sky overhead a spotless blue. It was the freshest and cleanest world he had ever seen and she was one with it.

"I only told her what she already knew," he said.

"She knew?"

He spoke in a lower voice—a voice gentle and trembling.

"She said you came in last night after she had gone asleep—"

Sally covered her face with her hands.

"Oh," she gasped, "she—she told you that?"

He reached up and gently removed her hands. He held them tight in both of his.

"It was good of you to think of me like that. It was like you," he said.

All the while he was drawing her nearer and nearer to him. She resisted. At least she thought she was resisting, but it didn't seem to make any difference. Nearer his eyes came to hers; nearer his lips came to hers. She gave a quick gasp as one before sudden danger. Then she felt his warm lips against hers and swayed slightly. But his arms were about her. They were strong about her, so that, while she felt as though hanging dizzily over a precipice, she at the same moment never felt safer in her life. With his lips against her lips, she closed her eyes until, to keep from losing herself completely, she broke free. Her cheeks scarlet, her breath coming short, her eyes like stars, she stared at him a moment, and then like a startled fawn turned and ran for the house. He followed, but her feet were tipped with wings. He did not catch her until she had burst into the kitchen, where in some fear Mrs. Halliday gathered her into her arms.

"She hasn't answered me even yet," he explained to Mrs. Halliday.

"Oh, Don," cried the trembling girl, her voice smothered in Mrs. Halliday's shoulder. "You dare say that after—"

"Well, after what?" demanded Mrs. Halliday.



CHAPTER XXXII

BARTON APPEARS

The details of the wedding Mrs. Halliday decided to take over into her own hands.

"You two can just leave that to me," she informed them.

"But look here," protested Don, "I don't see why we need bother with a lot of fuss and—"

"What business is this of yours?" Mrs. Halliday challenged him.

"Only we haven't much time," he warned.

"There's going to be time enough for Sally to be married properly," she decided.

That was all there was to it. It seems that tucked away up in the attic there was an old trunk and tucked away in that a wedding dress of white silk which had been worn by Sally's mother.

"It's been kept ag'in' this very day," explained Mrs. Halliday, "though I will say that I was beginnin' to git discouraged."

The dress was brought out, and no more auspicious omen could have been furnished Mrs. Halliday than the fact that, except in several unimportant details, Sally could have put it on and worn it, just as it was. Not only did it fit, but the intervening years had brought back into style again the very mode in which it had been designed, so that, had she gone to a Fifth Avenue dressmaker, she could have found nothing more in fashion. Thus it was possible to set the wedding date just four days off, for Saturday. That was not one moment more of time than Mrs. Halliday needed in which to put the house in order—even with the hearty cooperation of Don, who insisted upon doing his part, which included the washing of all the upper windows.

Those were wonderful days for him. For one thing he discovered that not only had there been given into his keeping the clear-seeing, steady-nerved, level-headed woman who had filled so large a share of his life this last year, but also another, who at first startled him like some wood nymph leaping into his path. She was so young, so vibrant with life, so quick with her smiles and laughter—this other. It was the girl in her, long suppressed, because in the life she had been leading in town there had been no playground. Her whole attention there had been given to the subjection of the wild impulses in which she now indulged. She laughed, she ran, she reveled in being just her care-free, girlish self. Don watched her with a new thrill. He felt as though she were taking him back to her early youth—as though she were filling up for him all those years of her he had missed.