Introductory material

Blind Mice

I

The suburban train was crowded and the stops were frequent.

Two young men, who had secured seats near the end of their car, were occupied, one in reading an evening paper and the other in making some calculations in a note book. The one reading stopped often to quote a news item to his companion, or to make some remark. This was John Winter. He was rather short and well nourished, one of the men who indicate that in later years they will grow stout. He had very blue eyes and fair hair and his clear skin was smoothly shaven. His cheeks were pink and white, his lips very red. His clothing, which was of the latest cut, was dark blue. He wore, as was his invariable custom, a necktie the exact color of his eyes, which was for him a most becoming combination. With this exception, however, his dress showed a noticeable lack of care. He had a somewhat boisterous and affectionate manner, and a rather loud voice. When excited or interested he had a boyish way of removing his hat and running his fingers through his hair.

His friend, James Sprague, did not seem to mind John’s interruptions and replied good naturedly. Both appeared in the best of spirits and the good understanding between them was evident.

Sprague was tall and slender, with large hands and feet. An even color glowed through his darkly tinted skin. He had deep set brown eyes. The other features were large; the mouth straight. A brown moustache, closely cut as was his dark hair, shaded his heavy upper lip. He wore fastidiously selected clothing that displayed an exaggeratedly quiet taste; the cravat chosen in stripes too minute for good general effect, and the cuffs, shoes, and other details of attire immaculate and suggestive of extreme thought for appearance. Sprague’s voice was low pitched and subdued. He spoke slowly and smiled occasionally in an extraordinarily attractive manner.

It was raining. At one of the stations a pretty girl entered the car, her mackintosh and umbrella dripping. John Winter, although farthest from the aisle, jumped quickly to his feet to offer her his place. Sprague moved next to the window, to allow her to sit down without passing him, and at once resumed his figuring. Winter hung to a strap and continued the reading of his paper and his frequent remarks to his friend, glancing now and then at the girl’s profile which was particularly pleasing. She looked demurely at her gloves, smiling slightly at some of John’s conspicuously uttered sallies to Jim. After three stations were passed she arose, and, with a hasty glance at the pleasant boyish face of the young man standing, left the car. Winter’s gaze followed her to the door.

“Why don’t you sit down, John?” asked Sprague without lifting his eyes from his work. Winter sat down rather suddenly. “We ought to put cement into that cellar wall of Howland’s house,” Sprague continued. “I told him so today and it was included in the estimates.”

“I didn’t know he came to the office,” returned Winter. “When was he there?”

“Just before you got back from lunch,” answered his companion.

“I was looking at some designs for art tiles,” explained John, “and so I was late. I wanted to see Howland badly. Did he say anything about my decoration scheme for the interior?”

“I showed it to him,” responded Sprague, “but he said he couldn’t afford it.”

“I’m sorry we ever touched his rotten house!” exclaimed Winter. “He has no more taste than a billy goat.”

“He’s coming in again tomorrow.” Sprague smiled a little. “So you can talk with him yourself.” Then, after a pause, “Lucy is expecting her mother, you said. When does she get here?”

“Tomorrow,” replied John with a grimace, taking up his paper again.

Jim resumed his figuring.

“Here, wake up,” he said a few minutes later, glancing out of the window as the train slowed down at a small station. “This is Rosedene. Suppose we get off here.” And the two alighted from the car.

When they turned into the street where John lived the rain had ceased falling, and they saw Mrs. Winter and Dimmie waiting at the gate in front of the pretty yard.

Lucy Winter’s smile was of the slow but warming kind. Her child’s was also warm, but quicker, like his father’s. As Lucy kissed John, Dimmie (who was named for Sprague, “Jimmie” having been corrected into “Dimmie” by the young gentleman himself at a fabulously tender age) attacked Jim with such demonstrations of esteem as would have disconcerted a less robust and self-contained individual.

Lucy was of medium size, with hands and feet not too small. She had a rather generous figure, the waist large and bosom low. Her hair, fine in texture and not abundant, was of a nondescript shade of brown, and was arranged low over her ears. Her nose was extremely shapely, her mouth large, but so well cut as to be beautiful. Her grey eyes had a wonderful clarity and frankness of gaze. She could not be called pretty, partly because the impression of her personality suggested too much seriousness, and partly because the line from her ear to her chin was too long. She wore a simple house dress of wash goods. The gingham sleeve apron, which she had taken off before going to the front gate, hung over one arm. While not over strong physically Lucy suggested an atmosphere of wholesomeness. And she was direct, almost abrupt, in speech.

Dimmie was a slim child of four with features and complexion like John’s, but he had his mother’s fine grey eyes. Dressed in clean white blouse and breeches, white shoes and socks, his yellow hair bobbed in Dutch fashion, he made a picture of health and buoyancy.

“What a glorious rain, Lucy.” John chuckled exuberantly. “The train went through it like a ship in a storm.”

“Did it?” She smiled, feeling his coat sleeve to see if it was damp. “Are your feet wet, John? And you too, Jim?” shaking hands warmly with Sprague.

“No,” they both answered. “Just like chorus girls,” John added, at which they all laughed.

“Don’t step in the water, dear,” Lucy cautioned Dimmie as they turned to go into the house.

The first thing Jim did, after hanging his hat and rain coat in the hall, was to offer to help put the dinner on, as this was his usual task on such occasions.

“I don’t need any help,” said Lucy briskly, leading him back into the dining room. “You two boys fix yourselves some near cocktails while I finish. It’ll only take me a minute. You know where the ingredients are, Jim.”

Jim mixed the cocktails, going out in the kitchen to the refrigerator for ice, and swearing when he could not find the shaker.

“Where is it, Lucy?” he asked.

“Why don’t you look for it?”

“I have,” he protested.

“Here it is.” She brought it from the pantry where he had just been. “If it had been a snake it would have bitten you.”

“Say, but that soup smells good,” he exclaimed as she removed a cover and placed a tureen on the kitchen table. “What kind of soup is it?”

“Wait and see,” she replied. “You go and fix that cocktail or the soup will get cold—and call John.”

Jim obeyed. John came in from the living room, where he had been playing “The Evening Star” from Tannhäuser on the piano, with many mistakes in the execution, and Lucy put the soup on.

“Sit down,” she commanded. “You know your place, Jim. Where’s Dimmie?”

“I’ll get him,” offered Jim, going out through the kitchen. “There’s some cocktail left for you,” he called back.

Lucy took up the glass and tasted its contents gingerly. “I don’t like it,” she objected to John, making a face.

“Oh, women usually don’t like dry cocktails,” he laughed. “That’s a Martini. We make Manhattans for the ladies. But it’s almost as good as a real one. Old Jim’s supply of alcohol and synthetic flavors won’t last much longer though.”

Jim came in with Dimmie, and dinner was begun.

“I’ve been thinking a long time,” Jim looked alternately at Lucy and John as he spoke, “that we ought to combine with some such firm as Layard’s occasionally so that we can swing bigger things. They are close to all the supply companies.”

“Have some more soup,” urged Lucy.

“Believe I will.” Jim handed her his soup plate. “It’s as good as I suspected. What kind of soup is it anyway?”

“If you cant tell after eating it, I think its name would be wasted on you,” said Lucy, laughing.

“Now that contract for the new incinerator,” Jim continued unruffled, “might just as well have come our way. In fact it was offered to me, but we couldn’t consider it because we weren’t in touch with people handling the materials, and hadn’t capital to tackle it alone.”

“Do you mean going into partnership with Layard’s?” inquired Lucy, cutting up Dimmie’s meat for him.

“Oh, no.” Jim smiled. “We’re too small fry for that. Just an understanding, so we can have more leeway, agreeing of course to let them supply us in our other projects.”

“I see,” Lucy nodded. “Aren’t you hungry, dear?” she asked John. “You didn’t finish your soup.”

“Oh, I’m all right,” John assured her. “I was thinking out a color combination for Howland’s house. I don’t like the shade of the slate roof he wants. It doesn’t go well with Milwaukee brick.”

“Well, eat your dinner, dearie. You’ll have a headache if you don’t.”

John began to eat with appetite.

“What was that you were spouting about?” he asked Jim.

“The incinerator,” repeated his friend. “I want to get hold of such things. Otherwise we will have to stick to small dwellings, and there’s very little in them under present conditions, except of course on a large scale.”

“Incinerator!” John ran his fingers through his hair. “What a dream for an architect! I suppose you’d decorate it with conventionalized garbage cans.”

“Well,” insisted Jim, “there’s money in such things, and that’s what we’re after.”

“It sure is,” Lucy put in. Then, turning to Dimmie, “Don’t eat with your knife, baby. That’s not nice. Let mother show you. Hold your fork so. That’s right.”

“Money’s all right, but it’s not everything!” exclaimed John. “An artist has dreams that are more than meat and raiment. But it’s some job to achieve anything artistic in this country!”

“Or in any other country,” amended Jim.

“Well, ours is the limit,” John retorted. “That’s the reason I wanted to go to Europe—to drink in an atmosphere. To live and study where the almighty dollar isn’t supreme! I’ve tried to hang on to ideals, but grubbing for bread first drags you down to designing ugly cottages for fools and ends by offering you an incinerator. We’ll probably wind up on packing houses and the city dump yard.”

Jim laughed.

“Let’s get hold of the money, and then you can swim in early Tuscan and post-impressionism and dabble in water colors all you want to.”

“Yes, money means opportunity to do the things we want to—for us and for Dimmie,” Lucy added more seriously.

“You two will have us running a contracting and jobbing concern before long, instead of an architect’s studio.”

“I’d run a fertilizer plant if there was money in it,” declared Jim.

“Well I wouldn’t, and I don’t think my boy would want advantages purchased at the cost of his father’s soul. Would you, son?” John rumpled Dimmie’s hair.

“I want a balloon,” remarked Dimmie.

“Heredity,” chuckled Jim, and Lucy laughed.

“You’re all atavism,” John retorted.

“What’s atavizzen?” queried Dimmie.

“Ask your uncle Jim, son.”

Dimmie looked at Jim who said, “I’ll bring you some next time I come out, Dimmie.”

“By the way, Lucy,” resumed John, “that reminds me. What train does your mother come on tomorrow?”

“On the seven o’clock, I think.” Lucy rose and took a letter from a drawer in the table by the kitchen door. “Seven ten C. and W.,” she corrected, consulting the letter.

“Morning or evening?”

“She didn’t say.” Lucy glanced again through the letter. “We’ll have to get a time table.”

“Now isn’t that just like a woman?” John looked at Lucy teasingly.

“It’s the morning train,” Jim informed them. “There’s no through evening train on the C. and W. at seven ten and there is in the morning.”

“By George, you must be taking Professor Forgetproof’s correspondence course for strengthening the memory, Jim. You certainly do carry around a bunch of useless facts in your head.”

“This one wasn’t,” said Lucy smiling.

“I thought it wasn’t till night.” John sighed and lighted a cigarette.

“He wanted all day to talk Howland into a Byzantine decoration scheme for his interior,” Jim explained to Lucy, getting out his pipe meanwhile.

“That’s right,” admitted John, blowing smoke rings and poking his finger through them.

There was a moment’s silence. Jim’s pipe seemed to be out of order.

“I want to get down,” announced Dimmie, and a slight tension was broken.

“Let mother untie your bib first, dear. Where are you going, baby?”

“I’m goin’ to sit in Uncle Jim’s lap.”

“Why Uncle Jim hasn’t had his coffee yet, son.”

“Come on, kid,” invited Jim, moving his chair sidewise to the table. “I can attend to coffee and you too.”

“There’s no use getting self conscious about this matter of your mother, Lucy.” John returned to the unwelcome subject. “We’ve no desire to keep anything from Jim.”

“Of course not,” Lucy agreed quickly.

“This is our last evening alone, Jim.” John ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s all right for Lucy’s mother to forgive me, I suppose, but as my chief crime seems to have been marrying her daughter, I’m not so grateful as she probably imagines.”

“She felt unkindly toward me long before I ever met you, John,” Lucy said seriously, looking at Dimmie.

“But more since,” John insisted.

“To be sufficient for yourselves is the greatest crime toward other people,” remarked Jim, straightening Dimmie’s collar. “Believe it’s begun to rain again,” he added, glancing toward the window.

“You’ll be surprised when you see mother,” averred Lucy irrelevantly.

Jim laughed.

“I shouldn’t feel much anxiety about anybody kin to Lucy.”

“Joking aside,” interrupted John, “to be blamed as I was has been a pretty painful experience.”

Lucy smiled at him.

“I don’t think anybody was to blame,” she decided.

“You never do, Lucy,” returned Jim.

“That’s a fact,” John complained. “Now I think there are times when it’s up to a man’s self-respect to blame the other fellow a little.”

Jim puffed at his pipe, staring at the ceiling.

“Well, John, if Lucy can overlook things you ought to be able to. She’s the one who has been up against it. You shouldn’t kick.”

“Yes, he should, Jim,” put in Lucy hastily. “Anybody but John would feel resentment still.”

John lighted another cigarette.

“Oh, that’s nothing, Lucy. I couldn’t very well feel hard toward anyone who seems as cut up as your mother in—in her present situation.”

“Plenty of people could,” insisted Lucy.

“I guess she resented your father’s having been here,” said John, laughing uncomfortably.

“Well, Papa has done so much for me that nothing can make me turn against him,” declared Lucy.

John rumpled his hair again.

“Hang it all, you can’t blame me for not being crazy to have a stranger in the house indefinitely, no matter how nice she might prove to be!”

“Especially one who neglected to seek your acquaintance until she was in trouble,” put in Lucy with an unaccustomed approach to bitterness.

Jim knocked the ashes from his pipe.

“I don’t blame you for feeling a little sore toward your mother, Lucy,” he remarked.

“I try not to,” said Lucy impatiently, “but⁠⁠⸺”

Jim smiled.

“If it had been anyone else but John, eh?”

“If it had been anyone else but John,” she repeated; “exactly.”

“He’s an honor to the family,” Jim declared, reaching over and pulling John’s rebellious hair.

“He is.” Lucy was emphatic.

John arose and went around the table to Lucy.

“You’re a good kid, Lucy,” he said, leaning down and kissing her forehead.

She stood up and smoothed his rumpled hair.

“Where’s Dimmie gone to?” she asked.

“Here I am, Mamma,” Dimmie called from the floor on the opposite side of the table.

“Come and help Mother clear off the table, Sonny.”

“I’ll help too,” offered Jim.

“You can wipe the dishes,” she conceded.

II

It was eight o’clock in the morning.

In the dining room of the Winter home Lucy sat at the breakfast table with Jim who had remained at Rosedene overnight. John had gone to catch the early suburban train in order to bring Lucy’s mother from the station. Dimmie was out under an old elm tree in the yard, swinging. Lucy had been up since half past five, had served John’s breakfast at six, and disposed of Dimmie’s bath and appetite, preparing a second meal for herself and Jim. She now contemplated the disheveled table.

“I must get cleaned up before they come!” She rose and settled her apron more precisely, then began to clear away the dishes and brush the crumbs from the cloth.

Jim took out his pipe and filled it.

“Maybe your mother won’t have had breakfast,” he said.

Lucy shook her head.

“John is going to take her some place in town. It would make it too late for her to wait until she got out here.”

Jim rose to help with the remaining plates.

“You go on with something else,” he insisted. “I can finish these things in a jiffy.”

“No, you can’t!” Lucy motioned him away. “You must go on with the work you brought in the portfolio. John said he found you hard at it when he went after you yesterday evening.”

“All right, Lucy. Just as you say. I’m making some calculations on our new contract.” Jim moved toward the next room.

“I won’t disturb you in there but you’d better shut Dimmie out,” Lucy called after him.

“I’m nearly through with the estimates.” Jim turned in the doorway. Lucy had stopped her work and was gazing out the window with an abstraction unusual to her.

“You don’t see them?”

Lucy shook her head, her profile half averted.

“Lucy—you’re not crying?” Jim’s voice showed astonishment and more feeling than he commonly expressed. He had never before seen Lucy in tears.

She faced him, smiling uncertainly.

“Jim, I try so hard to be just to everybody!” she explained irrelevantly.

“Nothing infuriates people like receiving justice, Lucy.”

She glanced at him appreciatively.

“You can put things into words, Jim. When I was a little girl I used to think and think, trying to explain things to myself.” Her voice trailed off. “I know Mamma’ll want me to blame Papa, Jim, and I can’t.”

An automobile horn was heard outside and the sound of a machine stopping. Lucy started.

“Hello!” Jim turned to face Dimmie who ran into the room crying, “They’re here! They’re here!” and scurried out again.

Lucy seemed bewildered.

“Why the train never gets to Rosedene at this hour!”

Jim smiled encouragingly.

“Don’t borrow trouble, Lucy,” he said. “John’s brought your mother out in a machine. They can’t have made a very bad impression on each other.”

Lucy started for the hall but hesitated. There was the sound of a door opening and of several footsteps.

“Come right in, Nannie,” John’s voice was heard saying, and then, in direction to the chauffeur, “put the things inside.” In an instant John and Lucy’s mother entered the dining room followed by Dimmie who was unnoticed and looking rather rueful.

The new arrival, Mrs. Merwent, was petite, with quick undecided gestures. While giving an impression of prettiness and studied femininity, her features, with the exception of her eyes, were not remarkable. These eyes were the color of Lucy’s and unusually prominent. She was attired in a faultless traveling costume of a cut and shade too youthful for her, and she was conscientiously powdered, rouged, and penciled. She would have passed for thirty-odd years old among the unobservant.

She and Lucy regarded one another a moment in silence. They appeared not to know how to greet each other.

“Surprised you, did we?” John was almost boisterous.

Mrs. Merwent gave a tinkly nervous laugh.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me, Lucy?” she asked. Her lightness of manner was uncertain. Her eyes strayed over Lucy’s shoulder to Jim who leaned against the mantel shelf.

Lucy kissed her mother silently. Their lips barely brushed. In order to conceal her agitation Mrs. Merwent gave Lucy’s hair and shoulders meaningless pats.

“I’m glad you’ve come, Mamma.” Lucy’s voice was almost inaudible.

“Oh, dear, such a journey!” Mrs. Merwent twittered.

Lucy’s clear eyes looked at her mother steadfastly. John turned to Jim.

“Nannie, this is Jim Sprague, the best friend in the world, and the worst enemy.”

Jim came forward and shook hands.

“Forewarned is forearmed,” she said, smiling up at him. “I hope we’ll not be enemies.”

“No fear of it, Mrs. Merwent.” Jim smiled in reply.

“She says we must all call her Nannie, Jim,” broke in John. “That’s what everybody calls her.”

Jim bowed and smiled again.

Mrs. Merwent glanced first at Jim and then at her daughter.

“We thought you’d gone out,” she observed to Lucy.

Lucy answered quickly.

“I started for the door, but you came in so suddenly I didn’t get there in time. I didn’t expect you in an automobile, you know, and so didn’t pay any attention till you actually opened the door.”

“Were you upstairs?” John inquired.

“No, I was here,” returned Lucy.

Mrs. Merwent put her hand on her son-in-law’s arm.

“It’s all right,” she murmured; then to her daughter, “Now, Lucy, I think I’ll go up to my room, if you don’t mind, and make myself presentable after my journey.”

“Of course,” acquiesced Lucy. “Your things are in the hall, aren’t they? We’ll just⁠⁠⸺”

At this juncture Dimmie, who had slipped around to Lucy and hidden his face in her dress, began to cry. Lucy stooped down.

“What’s the matter, darling?” she inquired.

“She d—d—didn’t e—e—even⁠⁠⸺,” he sobbed.

“Why of course!” put in Mrs. Merwent. “How stupid of me! Come and kiss your Nannie now.”

Lucy pushed Dimmie forward.

“Come on.” He hung back.

“I’m afraid you’re a very sensitive little boy,” smiled Mrs. Merwent.

John frowned.

“Dimmie, kiss Nannie. What makes you act that way?”

“Don’t, John,” expostulated Mrs. Merwent. “It’s because I’m strange. He’ll be all right bye-and-bye.” Then, to the child, “Won’t you, Jimmie?”

Dimmie continued to cling to his mother’s hand and did not reply.

“Dimmie,” ordered John sternly, “answer Nannie.”

“Now, John,” put in Mrs. Merwent again, “let the poor child be. It’s such a trifle.”

“I’ll show you to your room now, Mamma,” Lucy offered quietly.

Mrs. Merwent glanced questioningly at John and then followed her daughter. Dimmie accompanied them, still holding his mother’s hand.

“You sure did it up in style,” Jim remarked as the two women mounted the stairs.

“Yes,” admitted John. “It seemed so mean to bring her in the train after such a long trip. You know she’s been used to all sorts of things—comforts I mean.”

Jim relighted his pipe in silence.

The men smoked and discussed their new contract until the women reappeared. Both avoided any further reference to the addition to their circle. When Lucy and her mother came down, the elder woman was tastefully arrayed in a charming house dress of some pale green sheer material that was a miracle in its sophisticated simplicity. John expressed his admiration and Mrs. Merwent gave a silvery laugh.

“Oh, this! It’s an old easy dress I wear around the house. Mr. Sprague will have to get used to seeing me in such things. I hear he’s quite one of the family.”

Jim, who had been watching Lucy as she passed to and fro from the kitchen, answered, “I’m sure it’s very becoming, Mrs. Merwent.”

Nannie made a little moue at John while Jim continued:

“We’d better get down town, John. You know Howland is coming at ten o’clock to look over the final plans for his house and sign the papers, and you especially wanted to talk to him about that decoration scheme of yours.”

“Do you think my trunks are safe with that express company, John?” interrupted Mrs. Merwent.

“Why, yes, perfectly, Nannie. They’ll probably be here before night.”

“Well, would you mind going to the express office and asking if they’ve been sent? I’m so worried about them.”

“Sure. I’ll call them up as soon as I get to the office,” agreed John heartily.

Nannie sighed a trifle resignedly.

When the two men were seated in a car of the train bound for the city John commented enthusiastically on the incidents of Mrs. Merwent’s arrival.

“I’m glad the strained feeling is over with. It’ll be fine for Lucy to have her mother with her,” he said.

Jim did not answer.

“Mrs. Merwent’s all alone now,” pursued John. “She’s been very badly treated. A woman needs a man to look after her.”

For reply Jim grunted.

III

Mrs. Merwent had watched John and Jim until they turned the corner. When they were out of sight she came and sat by the kitchen table where Lucy was washing the breakfast dishes.

“Let me help you, dear,” Nannie offered.

“No, thank you, Mamma. It isn’t much and it’ll be done in a minute.”

“Now you mustn’t hesitate to ask me to do anything I can,” went on the older woman. “I don’t want to be a burden on John and you. I want you to realize that I am willing to help and that I cherish no ill feeling about anything that has happened.”

Lucy looked at her in surprise.

“Well, you rest up today from your journey,” she answered after a moment. She was placing dishes in the china cupboard. “You must be tired.”

“I never saw such a poor service on any railway,” resumed Mrs. Merwent, having interrupted the conversation by going into the dining room and bringing a rocking chair out into the kitchen for herself. “There were no sterilized drinking cups and no electric lights in the berths. I don’t think they should be allowed to run such old, out-of-date cars.”

Lucy worked a moment in silence.

“But I must say the service on the diner was good,” pursued Nannie. “I had some fried spring chicken that was so tender and juicy it fairly melted in your mouth.”

“I haven’t been on any but a suburban train since our wedding journey,” Lucy observed.

“Oh, Lucy, what a terrible time that was for me!” Mrs. Merwent drew out her handkerchief.

“I thought you said in your letter that we wouldn’t discuss what happened, Mamma,” Lucy accused gently.

“Oh, Lucy, anyone who went through what I did can’t forget it all at once,” Mrs. Merwent protested.

Lucy was silent again.

“But I cherish no hard feelings,” Nannie went on, “although poor Mother never got over your going away.”

After a few moments Nannie returned to the subject of travel.

“Don’t you ever go away from the city, Lucy? I should think it would be dull staying in one place so long.”

“We can’t afford travelling.” Lucy spoke emphatically.

“Well, I can’t either, now.” Mrs. Merwent settled herself more comfortably in the rocking chair. “It was only the kindness of my dear friend, Professor Walsh, that made it possible for me to have any comfort at all on the way. He came part way with me and arranged that I was to be looked after until the end of my journey.”

Lucy busied herself with the preparations for luncheon.

“I do wonder if my trunks are safe!” exclaimed Nannie after a short pause. “I didn’t like the looks of the man who took the checks.”

“They’re safe,” Lucy assured her. “Don’t worry about them.”

“Have you got a cup of coffee made, Lucy?” her mother then asked, surveying the kitchen.

“Why, I thought you and John had had breakfast,” Lucy apologised.

“We did, but it was so early and I was so excited I hardly ate a bite. If you could let me have a cup of coffee and a tea cake or two—I’m afraid it will give me the headache if I eat nothing until luncheon.”

“Why, of course, Mamma. It’ll only take me a minute to make coffee.” Lucy measured the water as she spoke.

“I thought it was already fixed or I wouldn’t have asked for it,” protested Nannie. “I don’t want to make any extra work.”

“Oh, that’s nothing.” Lucy put cup, saucer, spoon, and plate on the kitchen table.

“Now you must let me wait on myself,” Mrs. Merwent objected as Lucy placed the sugar bowl and cream pitcher before her.

“It’s all ready, Mamma.”

“I had no idea you’d do all this,” Nannie remarked as she resigned herself to the consumption of coffee, cookies, and some muffins left from breakfast.

“We’ll be all alone for luncheon. John never comes home at midday,” Lucy informed her mother. An inviting odor rose from the range as she raised the lid of a pot.

“Let’s have strawberries and ice cream,” suggested Nannie. “I just love strawberries. It makes me fairly tremble with delight when they go down my throat.”

“I don’t know whether they’re in yet,” said Lucy.

“Oh, yes, they are. I saw some in a big fruit store in the city, and John got me some for breakfast.”

“I doubt whether we can get any out here, but I’ll send Dimmie to the store around the corner with a note to see.”

“Now don’t let me interfere with your arrangements. It doesn’t make any difference what I eat. I don’t want to make any bother while I’m here.”

“It’s no bother,” disclaimed Lucy.

She had already planned the dessert but did not know what else to say.

When Dimmie returned from the fruiterer’s he came into the kitchen and, with great pride, delivered the parcel to his mother.

“The man only had two boxes,” he announced, “an’ he said the money wasn’t enough for ’em, but it was all right. It’s all wrote in the note.”

“Thank you, darling,” said Lucy, kissing him.

“You should wipe your feet before you come into the house, Jimmie,” remonstrated his grandmother. “See how you have brought dirt into the kitchen. Little boys should learn to be thoughtful of others and not make work unnecessarily. That’s not helping.”

“Oh, it’s not mud. It will sweep out easily,” explained Lucy, smiling at Dimmie whose face had grown troubled.

“Well, I’m sure I didn’t mean to interfere, Lucy,” said Nannie. “I was only trying to help. You’re the one who has to clean up after him, not I. You are so different from what you used to be. We never used to have the slightest difference of opinion.”

Lucy continued to smile.

“I don’t think I am any different,” she replied.

“Yes, you are,” insisted her mother. “Getting married has changed you. I must say, though, I was agreeably surprised in your husband. John is really delightful, so kind and considerate. I overlooked everything and we became friends in no time. How much does he make?”

Lucy opened her eyes wide.

“He and Mr. Sprague are in partnership in business for themselves. Some months they make more than others.”

“What a sweet little house you have,” went on Nannie, whose conversation consisted mostly of beginnings. “How I long to have a home again!”

“John and Jim and I planned it out together,” explained Lucy, ignoring the last remark. “All those water colors in the dining room and sitting room are John’s. I think they make the house look intimate and homelike.”

“This Mr. Sprague seems to be quite at home here,” Nannie interrupted. “Aren’t you afraid people will say things?”

Lucy gazed at her mother a moment without answering.

“Let me tell you about the house,” she suggested finally.

“You really must have a sideboard in your dining room, Lucy. It looks so bare. Do you remember the rosewood sideboard that Papa bought for Mamma when I was born? Cousin Minnie has gotten a table and chairs from an antique store and they match it beautifully.”

Lucy’s sense of humor came to her rescue.

“When we get rich we’ll have rosewood sideboards and lots of other things,” she said laughingly.

“Now you’re making fun of me, Lucy,” her mother complained in a hurt tone. “I only thought you might have a little interest in the furnishings of my old home. I didn’t mean that you could get one like it.”

Lucy went up and put her arms around Nannie.

“No, I wasn’t making fun of you, Mamma. Come into the sitting room and I’ll show you Dimmie’s baby pictures.”

“Really I’m so tired I think I’ll look at them later. I think I’ll lie down till luncheon is ready, if you don’t mind. I always make it a point to rest thoroughly for a few minutes during each day. You have no idea what a difference it would make in your looks, Lucy. You ought to make that a rule which nothing should interfere with. I think we owe it to others to keep ourselves attractive.”

“I’m afraid that’s easier said than done, Mamma. But try to get your nap. It will refresh you. I’ll call you when luncheon is ready.” Lucy spoke with determined good humor.

“Are you sure those trunks of mine are in safe hands, Lucy?” Nannie questioned again as she rose to go. “I have a presentiment that something will happen to them.”

“Now please don’t worry any more about them, Mamma. John wouldn’t employ any firm that was not perfectly reliable.”

“Well, I hope so,” sighed Nannie, moving toward the hall.

When, at six o’clock, the gate clicked and John’s step sounded on the walk, Lucy was occupied in making a gravy that Nannie had suggested, and so was unable to run with Dimmie to meet him as she usually did. She was conscious of a queer feeling of being left out as she heard him and Nannie come into the dining room together.

Mrs. Merwent had on a gown of lavender organdie, open at the throat, and a net fichu was draped about her shoulders. In the less trying light she looked more out of place in her maternal rôle than on the occasion of her arrival in the morning.

“Where’s Lucy?” John asked. He appeared to be tired and there was perspiration on his forehead. He smiled on Nannie’s fresh appearance.

“In the kitchen, I believe,” Nannie answered. “I’ve been busy getting the table ready.” She held some flowers in her hand, and as she spoke she was occupied in placing them in a vase. One half-opened rose she laid by John’s plate.

He went into the kitchen and kissed Lucy as usual. Her muslin dress was covered by an apron. Her face was flushed and a loose strand of hair brushed her cheek as she bent over her cooking. She replied to his greeting without stopping her work. Instead of sitting across the old rush bottomed kitchen chair with his arms over the back and talking about his experiences in the city, as was his custom, he returned at once to the dining room.

Notwithstanding John’s water colors on the walls, it was rather a bare little place, as Nannie had said. The twilight entered between the muslin curtains, however, and the modest array of silver and glassware glittered on the table. A breeze scattered the odor of the small bouquet of flowers.

As John entered Nannie switched on the electric light.

Lucy placed the food on the dishes and Nannie carried them to the table.

“My, that smells good!” John exclaimed boyishly. “What have you got for us?” He and Nannie had seated themselves.

“It’s a steak en casserole with mushrooms,” explained Nannie, picking a tiny bit of lint from his sleeve. “I hope you enjoy it. Poor boy, how hungry you must be working until this hour of the day!”

“I’m hungry, too,” announced Dimmie, who had come in and seated himself unnoticed.

Lucy now appeared, her apron removed. “Are you, dear?” She hesitated by the table without seating herself.

“Why don’t you sit down, Lucy?” John asked.

Lucy seated herself.

“Will you hand me my napkin ring, Mamma,” she requested, at the same time passing a folded napkin without a ring to her mother.

“Why, is this your place?” exclaimed Nannie, rising. “Come, let’s change. I didn’t notice.”

“It makes no difference, Nannie,” put in John. “Sit down and let’s have dinner.”

“No, it makes no difference,” acquiesced Lucy, and Mrs. Merwent reseated herself.

“Well, as I’m here, I might as well serve the plates,” remarked Nannie. “I want to do something to help.”

During the meal John talked of art, his manner youthfully eager, and his hair falling over his forehead from which he pushed it back with the graceful gesture peculiar to him.

“I have to design cheap houses, Nannie,” he bewailed whimsically, “instead of listening to the voices of the unseen that are calling to me.”

“It’s a pity you haven’t money so you could follow your natural bent and be an artist,” said Nannie.

“I am an artist,” John rejoined, rather warmly. “One doesn’t need to hold oneself aloof from common life to be an artist. On the other hand one must learn not to despise common things, but to see beauty in them.”

“I only meant I wished you didn’t have to worry about money,” she persisted.

“Of course, I know you understand, Nannie, but one doesn’t need to crowd his soul with small things just because he’s poor. If he will he can see beauty that is not for the eye of his senses.” John glanced up at his pictures.

“Lucy tells me all these beautiful water colors are yours, John.” Nannie let her gaze travel about the room. “They’re simply exquisite.”

“Well,” John’s tone was deprecating, “if I’d had a chance I might have done something at it.”

“It’s too bad you don’t have time to be more with artistic people, John,” Lucy put in with an affectionate look at her husband.

“I love pretty things too, John,” Nannie said quickly. Lucy glanced at her mother, who was regarding John.

“I’ll have to play for you after dinner,” Nannie offered a few minutes later.

“I remember Lucy told me you played,” he answered. “We got the piano over a year ago, but Lucy never has time to touch it, and I can’t do anything but drum.”

“It takes a lot of will power to practice regularly,” replied Nannie, “but then I love my music so. I never let a day go by without practicing.”

“We’ll have to go to some concerts next winter,” John continued.

“How nice,” Nannie smiled, “but I don’t know whether I shall be here next winter. There may be somebody else who’ll have something to say about that.” She glanced down demurely.

“Listen to that, Lucy!”

“Of course you’ll be here next winter, Mamma.” Lucy spoke with an effort.

“And we’ll go to the symphony concerts.” John was enthusiastic. “It’ll be great, Nannie. Lucy and I went to some of them, but it’s hard to drag her out of the house in cold weather. You remember, Lucy, we heard Beethoven’s Symphony in C Minor. It was simply grand, Nannie.”

“It must have been,” Nannie agreed sweetly.

“The allegro makes me think of the human soul struggling against its fate.” John’s gaze was rapt. “The andante is—is the doubt and questionings of the heart—and their answer.” His face was flushed. Dimmie, his mouth open, stared at his father with a fascinated look.

“Music makes me feel just that way, John,” Nannie confided, “but I can’t express myself as well as you.”

“It takes me right off my feet, Nannie. There’s the scherzo of that C Minor. There’s where the struggle gets breathless. The trio and recapitulation sort of wonder about the struggle and tragedy. Then there’s a little pianissimo that is near the answer. Then the finale comes along and takes it up till it winds up in a kind of shout of victory. It’s great, Nannie!”

Lucy watched John admiringly.

“You ought to have been a critic, John,” Nannie declared. “Music means so much to me, too.”

“I’m nutty about it, Nannie,” John vowed boisterously. “We’ll go to all the concerts that come along and have a general good time.”

Lucy said nothing.

“Can I have a good time, too?” asked Dimmie suddenly.

“Sure, Son,” John agreed. “Now Nannie’s here we’ll all have a good time, won’t we?”

After dinner John and Nannie went into the living room where John smoked while she played to him. The Winters had a good piano but Lucy played indifferently and, being very busy and not strong, had discontinued practice. They had often talked of buying a player piano, but the amount asked by the dealer above the value of their own instrument had put the luxury out of their reach.

Dimmie helped his mother clear the table and wash the dishes, and when the tasks were done these two joined John and Nannie. However, Dimmie soon grew sleepy and Lucy led him away to bed, remaining with him to tell stories and sing lullabies until he was sound asleep.

When she returned to the living room John and her mother were talking earnestly.

“Come here, Lucy,” John called from the lounge. “Nannie has been telling me more about her trouble with your father. I had no idea how badly he had treated her. It’s a real shame!”

“I can’t talk about Papa, John. I thought we weren’t going to discuss the past, Mamma.” Lucy’s tone was strained.

“She wasn’t accusing anyone.” John drew Lucy to the lounge beside him. “Don’t be so touchy,” and he put his arm around her and kissed her forehead.

Lucy began to smooth back his disheveled hair.

“Cooing doves,” murmured Nannie, smiling. “I certainly hope it will always be so with you.” She put her hand to her eyes. “My life has turned into nothing but unhappiness—nothing but a tragedy—that is if it had not been for the friendship and understanding of—the person whom neither of you know⁠⁠⸺” She stopped.

“Poor Nannie!” John reached and took her hand.

“I want some affection, too,” she pleaded, pressing his hand. John drew her from her chair and down to the lounge, so that he was between her and Lucy.

“You will be happy here with us and forget your trouble. We must go out more, Lucy, now that Nannie is here. It will take her mind off the past and keep her from dwelling on it.”

Lucy gently disengaged herself from John’s embrace and rose.

“Where are you going, Lucy?” he asked.

“I forgot to count the clothes. The washerwoman is coming for them early in the morning.”

“Poor Lucy! She don’t realize that this is your only time to relax, John. I could easily have counted the clothes before dinner if she had told me about it,” remarked Nannie when she and John were alone.

After some time Lucy was heard ascending the stairs and John called out, “Why don’t you come in here, Lucy?”

“I am going to bed early,” she answered. “I’ve a lot to do tomorrow. Is there anything I can do for you, Mamma? You know where everything is, don’t you?”

“Why of course I do,” responded her mother, coming out into the hall. “I can look after myself. I don’t want you to ever worry about me. Kiss me good night.” Lucy leaned over the balustrade and kissed her.

“I hope you rest well. You’ve been working too hard. I’m glad I’m here to help you now. I used to think when we were separated how much you needed my care. Poor Mother often spoke of it. You must get strong again.”

“I’ll be up in a little while,” called John.

Lucy undressed herself and lay down. The murmur of the voices of her mother and her husband came to her faintly. She lay and thought.

When John came to bed he supposed her to be asleep, and tip-toed about the room, undressing in silence without a light and getting into bed with the greatest gentleness to avoid waking her. Before reclining on his pillow he leaned over her and saw her eyes wide open.

“Why, Lucy, I thought you had gone to bye-bye,” he said, and, lying down, took her in his arms.

She drew away from him.

“Why, Lucy, what’s the matter?” he asked in a hurt tone.

She made no answer but he could feel that she was silently sobbing. He took her in his arms again. This time she did not resist.

“Tell me what it is, darling,” he pleaded.

“Oh, John, do you want anybody but me?” She wept.

“Of course I don’t,” he returned vehemently. “What made you think that?”

“I don’t know,” she answered evasively, vaguely comforted by his ardent denial.

“Was that what you were crying about?” he asked.

“No.”

“Well, what was it? Won’t you tell me, sweetheart?”

“Oh, John, it wasn’t anything—except I’m—so tired.”

“I know you must be,” he whispered. “It’s been an exciting day for you. But now that Nannie’s here she can take a lot of things off your hands. It will make things easier for you. You poor little girl, you have had to work so hard, and you aren’t strong.”

“I don’t think so, John.”

“Don’t think what?”

“That she will make it easier.”

He considered a minute.

“Lucy.”

“Yes?”

“Were you crying because I stayed and talked with Nannie instead of coming upstairs with you?”

“No—not that alone. I⁠⁠⸺”

He caught her tightly to him.

“You dear, sweet, foolish, jealous little thing,” he whispered, laughing. “The idea! Why you precious darling, I was only trying to be nice to your mother on her first day for your sake. Lucy, don’t you ever, ever dream for a second that any one could take your place for a tiny instant. Why, sweetheart, I love you. I only like other people.”

Lucy kissed him.

Soon they were asleep in each other’s arms.

IV

Mrs. Merwent’s maiden name was Anna Lockhart. She was born in a southern state, of a family that was considered to be aristocratic and distinguished. None of its members had ever accomplished anything noteworthy, but they had lived a long time in Russellville, there were a large number of them, and they had usually raised sugar and cotton instead of corn and tobacco.

Her earliest memories were of a large, square, white house with a front porch supported by Corinthian pillars, a long drive-way lined with great trees on either side, and much display of lavish hospitality.

From early childhood her whims were gratified and it never occurred to her that the numerous things given to her, the clothes, the pony, the negress who nursed her, the rings and brooches, were not a part of her own charm and importance.

Her first pleasure was to attract attention; whether by doing things that earned her the name of “Tomboy,” by being able to show dresses and ribbons finer than her playmates, or by any other device her ingenuity could discover.

She liked negroes because they were obsequious, and she was saucy to white children supposed not to be her social equals whom, in imitation of her elders, she designated as “trash.”

Anna, or Nannie as she was called, delighted in showing her power, and was relentless in exacting notice and recognition of her position. She stuck pins into the arms of Aunt Martha, her nurse, while the old negress was dressing her; she stepped on the bare toes of the small black children on her father’s place, and invented punishments for the dogs, cats, and other domestic animals that happened to be at her mercy.

Especially she enjoyed her tyranny over Troupe, as the large family dog was named. It pleased her to see him grovel before her when she scolded him. She often played a game that she called “circus.” She would tie the dog with a rope that had a loop which she could slip over a stake driven into the ground, and with a buggy whip she would make him run round and round. He would look back at her with pleading eyes, his tail clamped to his body, but she did not pity him. When he was completely exhausted he would lie down, his tongue lolling and the saliva dripping from his mottled black gums. After she untied him he would run about, crazy with joy, barking and licking at her hands and ankles. She paid no attention to these demonstrations.

Nannie was called stingy, as she seldom divided her sweetmeats or other good things with her playmates, and would not allow them to touch her toys. But occasionally, when glory could be gotten out of giving, she would bestow some old or broken plaything, always demanding profuse expressions of gratitude, however, from the recipient.

No attempt was made to teach Nannie any useful occupation, and, as she cared neither for stories nor for books, the task of amusing her became no sinecure.

As she grew older she loved to go shopping with her mother in the little town. They always went in the family carriage and Mrs. Lockhart, who considered that she could insult salespeople with impunity, invariably asked for the best in a haughty voice and inquired the price after she had decided on the article.

Nannie’s desire to attract notice increased with the years. She was fond of having her picture taken in fancy dress in imitation of various popular actresses. One, in which she was represented as Iphigenia, was most flattering and was displayed for some months in the windows of the establishment of the local photographer.

She begged a riding horse from her father, and she liked to be seen in elegant riding habits, and at parties in sumptuous gowns too old for her. She adopted a pertness and flippancy of speech that was described as “smart” and assumed a domineering manner toward the servants which was, it is true, less marked as regarded the “house boy” who was a handsome young mulatto.

She also picked out for condescending notice an admiring girl friend at the private school which they both attended and made a chum of her. This girl, Roberta White, was far from pretty, and could be patronized, but was not unintelligent, and possessed considerable personality. Unfortunately Nannie’s first boy admirer soon transferred his callow devotion to “Bob White,” as Nannie had dubbed Roberta. There was a curious scene in which Bob White was forever disowned, and Nannie ever after, in referring to it, spoke of Roberta’s “ingratitude.”

Nannie was eighteen years old when she left school. It was a disastrous year for her father. He had inherited money which he invested and spent with equal display and absence of judgment, but he awoke one day to find that creditors were impervious both to the dignity of the Lockhart name and the impressiveness of the ancestral mansion. Mrs. Lockhart was an efficient person, however, and brought to bear upon the situation many of the practical qualities in which her husband was lacking. The same could not be said of Nannie, who had absorbed from those around her what seemed a tacit recognition of divine right as regarded the members of her family. If she had been subject to her father alone it is probable that only the jolt of an absolute downfall would have aroused her to an appreciation of financial values, but fortunately Mrs. Lockhart exercised her authority as decisively as was her custom and gave Nannie to understand that, for the time being at least, she might enjoy few dresses and fewer parties.

Not to be cut out of the gaieties in which the once envious Bob White was participating, Nannie astonished no one more than her mother by displaying considerable taste and talent in the improvization of very effective frocks with the simplest means. Nannie was not a good seamstress. The hastily devised costumes were never neatly made and were often in actual danger of falling apart, but a ribbon here or a flower there was applied with a discrimination that Russellville was not too provincial to recognize as “chic.”

Though such haphazard dressmaking was her only contribution to the household economy, it had a value that was more than apparent, and Mrs. Lockhart recognized it. She had determined that Nannie should find salvation for the family by attracting a husband whose pretensions to that distinction should rest on a solid financial basis.

It seemed almost a divine intervention to insure the Lockharts’ future when Arthur Merwent, a young lawyer from the north, came to the home town.

Young Merwent rented an office and bought some furniture. He purchased steel engravings of famous jurists to decorate his walls, unpacked his law books, and had a sign painted and hung over his door.

Mrs. Lockhart knew, by hearsay at least, that Merwent held expectations of inheriting some money, and, as the young man was attractive and a stranger, it was soon arranged that Arthur should live at the Lockhart home. He insisted on paying for his board and, after some perfunctory objections which embarrassed Nannie and Mr. Lockhart but did not disturb the mother, this was agreed to.

Arthur was agreeable but uncommunicative. His reserve pleased Nannie’s father, who was pompous of manner and weak of purpose, but invariably inclined to be enthusiastic about a new acquaintance.

“That young man can keep his mouth shut. He’ll rise,” Mr. Lockhart often said.

From the beginning Nannie assumed a light and jesting attitude toward Arthur. She was saucy and capricious, demanding services and attentions calculated to convince him of her superior birth and position, and suggesting with unconscious skill potentialities that she neither possessed nor appreciated. He said little, as was his wont, but Nannie was clever enough to perceive the favorable impression she was making.

Thrown into a continuous semi-intimacy the two young people reacted as might have been expected and soon the imperturbable Arthur gravely declared himself. Mrs. Lockhart preserved a grim neutrality in the affair. True, his financial prospects were inclined to soften her, but with all that he was a Yankee and there existed a grave doubt as to the aristocracy of his connections. Her husband, who had visited the Merwents and had been considerably impressed by the prosperity evinced in their domestic establishment, was, however, positive in his approbation. This did not alter his wife’s opinion or change her attitude, for she was not accustomed to take his point of view seriously; but when a friend made a self imposed pilgrimage to the Merwent home and returned with enthusiastic corroboration of Mr. Lockhart’s report, Mrs. Lockhart relented and her negative aloofness became encouragement.

Nannie, who shared the common conviction that Arthur was a rising young lawyer and a desirable catch, consented to become engaged.

This did not hinder her from indulging in coquettish tricks of a number and variety that her fiancé found disconcerting.

Finally he brought things to an issue, refusing to be played with longer, and, after exhausting her ingenuity in the endeavor to gain more delay, she fixed the wedding day for a date four months ahead.

Twice in the midst of the work on the extensive trousseau, Nannie and Arthur quarrelled, and on each occasion she returned his ring. But the misunderstandings were adjusted and the wedding morning finally arrived.

Nannie had shown much interest in the more obvious preparations for the ceremony, insisting that her gowns must be of such and such a price, that her bridesmaids outnumber those of her previously married friends, and that the affair as a whole be conducted with an éclat which strained the resources of the Lockharts’ reduced finances to the uttermost.

Nevertheless, on the day before the wedding she showed herself to the household in a state of extraordinary depression, wandering listlessly from room to room, striking discordant notes on the piano, and finally, having fled from Arthur’s presence, she was discovered face downwards on an old horsehair sofa in a violent paroxysm of weeping.

Mrs. Lockhart, who had gone to seek her, was unable to elicit any explanation of her distress and called Merwent. But it was a mistake. Nannie turned on him with a storm of accusations.

“You’ve wrecked my life! I don’t know what’s to become of me!” she wailed.

“It’s not too late yet, Nannie,” Arthur answered. His voice was slightly unsteady and his eyes shone dangerously, but his manner was quiet.

“Oh! Oh! How dare you! I was never so insulted in my life! You don’t care how much disgrace and humiliation you heap on me! It doesn’t make any difference to you what they say about me!”

Arthur was left alone. He sat on the sofa Nannie had quitted and held his head in his hands. After a few moments he rose and lighted a cigar. He was smoking when Mrs. Lockhart came in search of him a quarter of an hour later. She brought with her a glass of hot eggnog which she had made to comfort him.

“It’s all the perfectly natural result of her high strung state,” remarked Mrs. Lockhart emphatically. “You must remember this is the last day of her girlhood,” she added in a significant manner.

Arthur drank the eggnog and said nothing.

The next day, however, Nannie was radiant. Her mother and her cousin, Mrs. Sheldon, had helped to dress her. The wedding gown bore the mark of an expensive Louisville house, the bouquet was of white orchids, and the diamond pendant which Arthur had given her, though modestly small and fragile, glittered becomingly on her plump throat.

Arthur entered the church gravely, his head bent, and even as Nannie came toward him at the chancel rail he did not lift his eyes. It was only as they stood side by side that he glanced at her face. Every trace of depression had vanished. She held her head high with the slightly insolent air that she had so often been told was aristocratic, and she really looked prettier than he had ever seen her.

The recessional was played. As the bridal couple emerged from the church he turned slightly toward her.

“Well, Nannie,” he whispered, smiling a little.

They were close to the carriage steps. Arthur moved back to assist her. By some chance awkwardness his heel caught in a loop of satin. There was a tearing sound and Nannie flung herself from his grasp.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

An impassioned but enigmatic “Ah!” was her only reply, and until the house was reached she sat far away from him on the carriage cushions, replying in monosyllables until Arthur relapsed into moody silence. When they arrived at their destination Nannie left the carriage hurriedly and unassisted.

A supper had been planned but the hour of the departure of the train they were to take prevented their presence. There was, however, no way to escape the brief reception. At this function Nannie, who had looked almost defiantly spirited during the ceremony, assumed a sudden appearance of disconcerting melancholy. The pair stood under an arch of smilax, and Nannie could see herself quite plainly in the long pier glass opposite and appreciated how large and dark her eyes seemed in the shadows that fell on her face.

The affair as a whole was not gay. Mrs. Lockhart shed a few impressive tears, glancing somewhat apprehensively from time to time at her daughter’s unresponsive features. Bob White had come to the reception, being herself engaged. Nannie greeted her with effusive sadness and clasped her in an embrace that was like a despairing renewal of devotion. The two girls talked in low tones, and Arthur was conscious of being ignored. A few moments later Nannie went off to prepare for travel and he was able to excuse himself.

It was half past eleven at night. The Pullman was dimly lighted. Merwent had avoided a stateroom and every appearance that might indicate that he and Nannie were a bridal couple, but he felt that the fresh modishness of Nannie’s costume betrayed them. They sat down in a vacant seat while the beds were being made up. Arthur kept an unresponsive profile turned to his wife. He had resolved not to make any more advances.

The two swayed stiffly with the motion of the car. The woodwork creaked. Long shadows moved up and down at the end of the passage. Snoring from a curtained berth was audible.

Nannie touched Arthur’s arm lightly. He looked down at her in surprise. She was regarding him with a new and softened expression.

“Arthur!” Her voice shook slightly.

His face cleared.

“Nannie!” They kissed stealthily.

When the conductor came down the aisle they were sitting consciously far apart and Arthur’s face was flushed.

V

Lucy was born about a year after the Merwent wedding.

Although everything was normal and the baby a fine healthy child, Nannie persistently vowed that she had gone through an experience never before equalled and that she could never have another child.

Toward the end of their wedding journey, over some slight misunderstanding at a hotel, Nannie had given way to a hysterical fit of passion that amazed and dismayed her husband, but this was nothing compared with the scene when she discovered that she was pregnant. Tears, screams, striking Arthur in the face, with threats of killing herself, him, and the child were only the beginnings of the drama. However, Arthur had by this time begun to perfect his attitude of non-reaction to the stimuli she employed, and went to his office unworried.

Nannie afterward in a thousand ways suggested that the coming of the child was in the nature of a crime and a calamity, and that Arthur was to blame for it. Nannie’s father died a month before her confinement and she even implied that Arthur was responsible for this coincidence. To add to her sense of disappointment and injury Mr. Merwent senior, who had been ill for some time, died also, leaving an involved estate, and the hope that Nannie had secretly treasured of inheriting his money died with him. Arthur’s future, from the Lockhart standpoint, had ceased to be. Mrs. Lockhart, calling to ascertain the truth of the rumor already circulated by gossiping neighbors, met Nannie’s tearful announcement with, “I always thought so!” and when Arthur entered the house a few moments later, she greeted him with marked coldness. After her mother’s departure Nannie turned on him with fresh reproaches.

“Now we are penniless and you don’t seem to care!” she exclaimed.

Arthur did not reply.

“I seem to be the only one who ever thinks about the baby’s future. You haven’t opened your mouth since we got the letter!”

Arthur took out a cigar and lighted it.

“O—oh! Why don’t you say something? I’ll go crazy!” she almost screamed.

“I don’t see just what there is to say,” Arthur answered quietly, and left the room.

Nannie’s bitterness was accentuated by the fact that Arthur could not afford to buy the Lockhart residence which had to be sold to clear her own father’s estate, and she was forced to see the property pass into the hands of “Cousin Minnie Sheldon” whom she cordially hated. The spirit of rivalry between Nannie and her cousin, the fruit of a childhood antipathy, had reached its climax in a contest for the affections of the well-to-do young business man who afterward became Minnie’s husband, and when he and his wife took formal possession of Nannie’s ancestral home she felt it as the cruel affirmation of her first defeat.

Mrs. Lockhart, who on previous occasions had not hesitated to express her own disapproval of “Cousin Minnie,” after feeble and unconvincing protestations to the effect that she did not wish to inconvenience her prosperous relatives, accepted a grudging offer which allowed her to remain in the old place on the bounty of its new owner.

Little Lucy was weaned soon after she was born, for Nannie declared that she could not nurse a baby. By great good fortune, however, sterilized cow’s milk agreed with the child and she thrived, thanks to the devoted care of old Martha who came to live with Nannie and Arthur and “bring up” their baby. Nannie continually quarreled with the old negress but Aunt Martha stayed on, partly from a habit of allegiance to the family and partly from real devotion to little Lucy.

Nannie gave scant attention to her baby until other people began to notice and praise the child, when she promptly asserted her proprietorship, pointing out with great pride the little thing’s remarkable feats and insisting that Lucy be given to her whenever visitors were present. Nevertheless, the child preferred Aunt Martha and even Arthur, as the latter often held his daughter during the evenings and sang lullabies to her. Nannie resented this deeply, and it made her secretly furious to see Lucy toddle toward him as he came into the room. She often said things to drive Arthur out of the house so that he need not divide the child’s affections.

Lucy did not begin to go to school until she was eight years old. Even then her mother objected to the separation, and in the little girl’s absence wandered restlessly about the house. Lucy, on her return, was covered with kisses. Acquaintances remarked on the unusual affection between the two, although Nannie spoke crossly and often cruelly to the child when they were alone, and not infrequently struck her. In attitude she placed herself on an equality with Lucy and at times depended on the little girl’s judgment and ideas.

Nannie could never help Lucy with her lessons at night, saying that the figures in the book made her head ache, and if Arthur attempted to offer any assistance a situation was usually precipitated that resulted in driving him from the house. Left alone with the little girl, Nannie played and sang, or produced candy from some hiding place, while she persuaded the child to talk to her about teachers and schoolmates. She enjoyed giving her piano lessons because Arthur knew nothing of music. However, she never wanted Lucy to try to sing and always insisted that her daughter had no voice for singing.

Nannie, however, resented Lucy’s growing self-sufficiency as the girl became graver of manner and expressed herself positively on all sorts of subjects.

Arthur’s law practice did not increase and, as there were no more expectations from his father’s estate, it was decided to discharge Aunt Martha. After the old woman had gone Nannie made a few half-hearted experiments at cooking, but soon relegated this undertaking to her daughter, who at sixteen was virtually the head of the domestic establishment.

But, though Lucy was responsible under this arrangement for the selection and quantity of food bought for the family, Mrs. Merwent reserved for herself the prerogative of giving orders to the groceryman. The young solicitor, who always made a punctual appearance, had soft brown eyes and a beautiful complexion. Nannie never opened the back door to him without first looking into the mirror.

“Are you sure your eggs are fresh today?” she would ask coquettishly. She tapped him on the arm with the pencil she held as she objected to the exorbitant price of bacon.

Lucy, who was annoyed by his habit of staring, expressed her dislike.

“Well, you don’t have to give the orders to him!” was her mother’s pettish answer.

Lucy worked too hard and, as a result, became ill. Arthur was away at the time. Nannie called the family physician and annoyed the girl with useless attentions. The doctor telegraphed Merwent that his daughter’s condition was serious. Arthur returned on the first train and, arriving at the house, found Nannie walking the floor with senseless gestures. He went into the sick room and seated himself beside Lucy’s bed. His quiet, emotionless manner seemed to drive Nannie to distraction. Her chief resentment, however, seemed to arise from the fact that he did not comfort her but only concerned himself with Lucy.

“Are you going to eat your dinner, or sit there all night?” she asked, her voice trembling with vindictiveness.

Arthur went into the dining room without answering. Nannie shut the door between them. She would not eat because she did not want to leave Arthur and Lucy alone together, and the doctor was obliged to order her to begin her meal. When she did go, however, her appetite was as hearty as usual.

After a few critical days Lucy’s condition improved and on the fourth morning, when the crisis was passed, she smiled at Arthur. Nannie, in the room at the time, bent over the bed.

“Why don’t you smile at Nannie?” she asked accusingly, and Lucy smiled at her mother too.

Arthur, as was his wont when he saw the approach of a useless scene, left the room.

During the convalescence Nannie invented a thousand meaningless attentions with which she endeavored to fix upon herself the regard of the invalid, but as Lucy grew stronger and began to walk about Nannie forgot to flutter around her and their life together resumed its former course.

VI

Even after reaching the age when young girls begin to notice the opposite sex, Lucy preferred girls to men. She also delighted in caring for younger children and babies. Nannie laughed at Lucy for not having beaux.

“I had dozens at your age,” she would say.

The most common cause of misunderstanding between the mother and daughter was Nannie’s trick of regarding every remark about other people, or about human nature in general, as a covert slur on herself. Each mention of an ignoble quality brought forth, “That’s just like me,” from Nannie, while any reference to an admirable characteristic was greeted with, “I haven’t got that.”

“I wish Mamma wasn’t that way,” Lucy confided to her father one night, after a number of irritating experiences with this mania. “It makes things so unpleasant.” The evening had ended in a quarrel and Nannie had gone upstairs to cry.

“Your mother has every defect of character that can be mentioned,” Arthur replied, “so I suppose she shouldn’t be blamed for being sensitive.”

Lucy was surprised by the bitter feeling in the tone of her usually silent and impassive father, and remembered his remark.

Nannie spent a great deal of time in beauty culture. She tried all sorts of exercises and devices for preserving her figure and warding off wrinkles. Every recipe she saw in the women’s columns of the newspapers she tested carefully. Each day a large part of the morning was devoted to a faithful observance of these rites, and she never neglected to take her “beauty nap” during the afternoon. Often she would gaze with envy at Lucy’s charming color and clear eyes.

“I don’t want to grow old and ugly, Lucy,” she would say. “I’m so afraid of growing old! Do you think I am beginning to show my age?”

“Why, Mamma, what nonsense! You look like a girl,” Lucy would reply, for Nannie’s efforts were not without a certain kind of effect.

“Do you really think so?” she would ask happily. “Don’t tell anybody I use rouge, will you?”

“I won’t,” Lucy always promised.

After taking up her residence with “Cousin Minnie Sheldon” Mrs. Lockhart seldom visited her daughter.

One summer afternoon, however, a carriage stopped before the Merwents’ gate.

“Why, I believe that’s Mamma coming here,” Nannie whispered excitedly, as the carriage door was opened. “There’s a young man with her!” she added. “Who in the world can it be? You stay here to receive them, Lucy. Tell Mamma I’ll be down in a minute,” and she ran upstairs to change her dress and improve her complexion.

“Well, well, is this my grandbaby?” Mrs. Lockhart ejaculated as she entered the hall and offered her cheek for Lucy to kiss. “You’re a young lady already,” and she surveyed Lucy’s reddened cheeks and well developed figure with approval.

The young man remained in the background, ill at ease.

“This is Kingsley Dodd,” Mrs. Lockhart announced, waving him forward. “He saw you at your father’s office and has given me no peace till I brought him over to call on you.”

Young Dodd, red to his hair, bowed and shook hands awkwardly.

“Where’s Nannie?” Mrs. Lockhart asked, entering the parlor and seating herself. “Sit down, Kingsley,” she commanded her follower.

“Mamma will be down in a minute,” explained Lucy.

Nannie delayed many minutes, and Lucy became more and more self-conscious under the influence of her grandmother’s continued scrutiny and the confusion of the new acquaintance, answering briefly his timid observations and Mrs. Lockhart’s peremptory questions.

At last Nannie appeared on the stairs in her best afternoon frock.

“Why, Mamma,” she exclaimed, “how nice of you! I’m so glad to see you.”

“You kept us waiting long enough if you are glad.”

“I was in my bath,” lied Nannie, “and couldn’t come sooner.”

Lucy looked at her mother.

“Well, I’m glad you still take baths,” remarked Mrs. Lockhart as Nannie kissed her.

Nannie laughed.

“We’re not that poor,” she tittered.

“This is Mr. Kingsley Dodd.” Mrs. Lockhart motioned her companion forward again. “Judge Dodd’s only son. You remember Judge Dodd, Nannie.”

“Yes indeed!” Nannie smiled her sweetest and shook hands with Kingsley. “We’re delighted to know you, too,” she declared as she beamed on the youth.

“Nannie, I want to see that old dresser your father gave you. We’re furnishing a guest room in antiques and maybe it will just fit in. If it does, I’ll give you another,” said Mrs. Lockhart after a brief conversation.

“But, Mamma⁠⁠⸺” Nannie began.

Mrs. Lockhart frowned at her meaningly.

“All right,” Nannie acquiesced hastily, and the two women ascended the stairs.

“Young Kingsley is greatly taken with Lucy,” explained Mrs. Lockhart, coming to the point at once as soon as they were out of hearing of Lucy and her guest. “You know all Judge Dodd’s money will go to Kingsley. It’s Lucy’s great chance. I don’t know how she did it. He’s just come back from college and all the girls in town have set their caps for him. Now I am going to look to you to see that Lucy doesn’t do anything foolish.”

Nannie nodded obediently.

“I’ll do all I can,” she agreed, “but Lucy is hard to manage. She⁠⁠⸺”.

“Nonsense!” interrupted Mrs. Lockhart. “If you will only use sense and firmness she will do anything you want her to. You made a mess of your own marriage. If you marry your daughter to the heir of Judge Dodd it isn’t too late to get back where you ought to be.”

“I will,” put in Nannie enthusiastically.

“Well, let’s go down again,” ordered her mother, after a few minutes further consultation. “We shouldn’t make things too marked the first visit.”

“We must go, Kingsley.” Mrs. Lockhart spoke imperatively as she reëntered the room where the two young people were seated.

The docile youth rose.

“You must come again.” Nannie smiled invitingly.

“Thank you,” he replied, glancing first at her and then at Lucy. “I’ve had a mighty nice time. What evening can I come?” He glanced at Lucy again.

“You haven’t anything for Thursday evening, have you, Lucy?” inquired Nannie, assisting him.

“No,” returned Lucy, who indeed had no engagements for any evening.

“Thanks,” Dodd said quickly, “then I’ll come Thursday.”

“Come early and have tea with us,” urged Nannie in response to a nod from her mother.

“Thanks,” he repeated, “I will. Good-bye,” shaking hands with Lucy. Then, “Good-bye, Mrs. Merwent. Thank you so much.”

“Oh, the pleasure will be ours,” Nannie declared.

Mrs. Lockhart kissed Nannie and Lucy, pinching the latter’s cheek.

“We’ll have to give a little party for my grandbaby. She’s the picture of her grandpapa,” the old lady declared, smiling.

“Did you hear what she said, Lucy?” Nannie asked delightedly as soon as their callers were gone.

“Yes,” answered Lucy.

“Isn’t it just grand?” continued Nannie with enthusiasm.

“What? The party?”

“Why, no—yes—the party and everything.”

“I don’t think so, Mamma. As for the party, I won’t have it. So far as the rest goes, you already have been invited to Cousin Minnie’s and I don’t want to be invited, so I don’t see what you have gained.”

“I!” exclaimed Nannie indignantly. “Why, Lucy, I wasn’t thinking of myself at all. It’s you I’m glad for.”

“But I don’t see what I have to do with it, Mamma. Cousin Minnie and Grandmamma have never paid any attention to me before and I wouldn’t thank them for their attention now.”

“But, Lucy⁠⁠⸺”

“What, Mamma?”

“Lucy, it isn’t only Mamma and Cousin Minnie. It means that—it means⁠⁠⸺” Lucy’s steady eyes were upon Nannie, “It means that others—that we will be⁠⁠⸺”

“If you mean that you want me to go around with Kingsley Dodd so as to be taken up by the people who dropped us when Papa failed to make money, I won’t do it, that’s all.”

“Why, Lucy!”

“Our own relatives have treated Papa like dirt and the others have followed them, so I, for one, don’t want anything to do with them.”

Nannie assumed a maternal and authoritative tone.

“Lucy, you don’t realize what you are saying. I won’t allow you to ruin your chances in any such manner. You told Kingsley Dodd that he could come Thursday night and⁠⁠⸺”

“You mean you invited him, Mamma.”

“Well, you agreed and it’s the same thing.”

“I’ll see him when he comes Thursday,” Lucy conceded, “but I won’t again, and I won’t go to the party, so you had better tell Grandmamma not to count on it.”

“What in the world have you got against Kingsley?” Nannie demanded, now on the defensive.

“I don’t like him, and if I did I wouldn’t have anything to do with him under the circumstances.”

Nannie lost her temper.

“You shan’t act this way!” she almost screamed.

Lucy’s gaze did not waver. “Yes, I shall,” she said steadily.

Nannie burst into tears. Lucy hesitated a moment before she continued.

“I’m sorry, Mamma, but I can’t help feeling this way,” she said at last.

Nannie made no reply and went on sobbing. Looking rather miserable, Lucy left her and went to the kitchen to prepare supper.

The day after Kingsley Dodd’s presentation Nannie paid a visit to her mother.

“Lucy, your grandmother wants you to go over and see her in the morning,” Nannie announced on her return.

“All right, Mamma,” Lucy acceded without hesitation.

The following morning Lucy made her appearance at the Sheldon home with her customary punctuality.

“Well, well, it’s a long time since my grandbaby came to see me,” began Mrs. Lockhart kindly as Lucy entered the library where she sat tatting.

“It’s been a long time since I was asked,” Lucy answered simply.

“Yes, of course,” agreed her grandmother hastily. “I haven’t a home of my own, as you know, Lucy, and can’t always do as I would like to.”

Lucy did not reply to this but continued to regard her grandmother expectantly.

“You remember what I said yesterday?” resumed Mrs. Lockhart briskly. “Well, we’ve begun to make the arrangements for a little dance in your honor. It’s high time you were introduced to society.”

“I don’t know whom you want to introduce me to, Grandmamma. Everybody in town knows me already.”

“Oh, you know what I mean, Lucy. You ought to take your place as a young lady, and this is the nicest way to do it.”

“Thank you, Grandmamma, but I’d rather not have the dance.”

“Stuff and nonsense! I never saw a young girl yet who didn’t love parties and attentions. We’ll consider it all settled then.”

“No, we won’t, Grandmamma. I am not going to have a party of any kind.”

“Lucy, you’re crazy, my child. Why people will think you’re queer. I’ve already told several people of our plans.”

“I don’t dance, Grandmamma.”

“What? Well, Nannie must have paid lots of attention to your education! I’ll have a little talk with her. The idea of a young lady who can’t dance! Well, we’ll have a little bridge party then.”

“I don’t play bridge, either.”

“Don’t play bridge!” Mrs. Lockhart eyed her granddaughter quizzically. “Then we’ll have just an old fashioned party,” she said at length.

“Thank you, Grandmamma, but I don’t want the party,” reiterated Lucy.

“I really believe you don’t,” admitted Mrs. Lockhart with a grim smile, “but we’ll have it anyway. What night next week shall we decide on?”

“I don’t want to seem ungrateful, Grandmamma, but I’m not coming to any party.”

Mrs. Lockhart stared at Lucy only to encounter a gaze as firm as her own.

“Very well, Lucy,” she said at last in an icy tone. “I had intended to do a great many things for you, but if you want to throw away your chances like this I can do nothing. You evidently don’t want either friends or relations. You must excuse me now as I’m going out.” And Mrs. Lockhart rose and left the room.

Lucy made her way through the hall alone and went into the street.

Thursday evening came and Kingsley Dodd appeared very promptly. The day had been rainy and the remaining clouds were tinged crimson by the setting sun. The windows of the Merwents’ house were open and as the visitor went up the walk he saw Lucy lighting the gas jets in the parlor. She was the only one ready to receive him, for Nannie had not yet completed her careful toilette and Arthur was away from home, being engaged on a legal case out of town.

Nannie soon descended the stairs, however, and the three sat down to supper. During the meal she and young Dodd became such friends that it was with an obvious effort that she excused herself, when they had risen from the table, and returned to her bedroom, leaving the young people together.

“We’re going to have an all-day picnic out at Dad’s country place next Saturday,” Dodd observed, after some ordinary conversation, “and I want you to come. Your grandmother and Colonel and Mrs. Mainter and Dad and Aunt Sally are going to be the chaperones, and we’ll have a great time. I’ll come around with a single buggy and my bays and drive you out. The rest are going in surreys and on horseback. We better start early so as to⁠⁠⸺”

“Thank you, Mr. Dodd,” Lucy stopped him, “but I shan’t be able to go.”

“Why, have you got something on for Saturday?” he asked. “Well, I’ll have the thing put off till next week.”

“No, it’s not another engagement but I can’t go because⁠⁠⸺”

“Because you don’t like picnics,” he laughed. “All right. We’ll get up something at the house here in town. What shall it be?”

Lucy opened her lips to speak, but hesitated. At the same instant a gust of wind blew through the room and one of the window curtains fluttered out and threatened to overturn some ornaments on a nearby table. She hastened to secure the drapery.

“Let me fix it!” he offered, starting toward her. Lucy turned to face him as he reached her side.

“It’s fixed, thank you,” she began, then hesitated, flushing painfully. “Mr. Dodd,” she met his eyes steadily, “I know you mean to be nice in giving me the picnic, and coming here to see me, and all that. We are glad to have you and I hope we shall always be friends, but Grandmamma is trying to throw us at each other’s heads, and I won’t have it!”

Kingsley stared at her a moment. His glance fell.

“I couldn’t help it,” she resumed, finally. “I had to say it. I hope we will be friends, but if you are angry I can’t help that either.”

“I guess I’d better go.” Kingsley’s face was a dull brick red. Lucy stood in the same place while he took his hat from the hall tree, and she did not move until the front door had closed behind him.

“Lucy! Lucy!” Nannie called almost instantly, as she leaned over the stair rail in the upper hall, “Are you and Mr. Dodd going out?”

“He’s gone,” Lucy announced, coming out of the parlor and looking up into her mother’s anxious face.

“Why, what in the world’s the matter?” Nannie asked agitatedly, descending the stairs as she spoke.

“Nothing’s the matter, Mamma, except that I don’t intend to let you and Grandmamma dispose of me as though I were an animal.”

“Did you say such an awful thing to Kingsley?” gasped Nannie, wringing her hands.

“Not exactly,” replied Lucy, almost smiling in spite of herself. “I told him we were being thrown at each other and I wouldn’t permit it.”

“Why, how could you say such a thing as that!” she protested. “Was he mad?” Then, before Lucy could answer, “Why couldn’t you have waited till you saw whether you liked him or not?”

“I don’t need to wait, Mamma.”

“But, Lucy, there are other things to be considered.”

“No, there aren’t, Mamma.”

Nannie’s tone changed.

“Well, I think you might consider me a little at any rate!”

Lucy eyed her mother squarely.

“I don’t, Mamma—not in this matter. I’m willing to work for you.”

“You are certainly an ungrateful child, Lucy!” Lucy winced. “Nobody knows what I sacrificed when I married your father. He has done nothing and nobody pays any attention to him. His father died with everything in a muddle and he’s never made anything for himself. All the society or notice I get is through my own people, and now when they are disposed to take you up, and give us a chance to be somebody, you won’t even look at one of their friends! I should think you would be glad of the chance to help your family. You would if you had any feelings at all!”

Lucy was white. Without answering she walked past her mother and went upstairs to her room.

VII

Late on the night of Kingsley Dodd’s visit Arthur returned from his trip, and the next morning he had only time for a hasty greeting to his family before leaving to keep an early appointment with the out-of-town client who engaged his services at the moment. An hour after his departure Lucy appeared in the hall with her hat on and her gloves and sun-shade in her hand.

“Where are you going, Lucy?” Nannie demanded.

“I’m going to Papa’s office,” replied Lucy as she passed out the door.

When Lucy reached her father’s place of business she found Mr. Merwent alone. As his daughter entered he was reading a letter. He put it into a drawer in his desk and turned the lock.

“Well, Lucy?” He leaned back in his chair and smiled his slow smile as he spoke.

She gazed around on the dingy furniture, the old books, the discolored steel engravings, the dusty floor, and other signals of her father’s run-down law practice. Her heart almost failed her, but the memory of the preceding day rushed back upon her.

“Papa,” she began, “I want to earn my own living.”

Her father scrutinized her face kindly.

“I don’t blame you, speaking in general,” he observed, “but why have you so suddenly decided it?”

“Mamma and Grandmamma are trying to marry me to Kingsley Dodd in spite of myself, and Mamma thinks I am ungrateful because I object. I don’t think I ought to be dependent on any one any longer.”

“You seem to have all the self respect in the family, Lucy,” Mr. Merwent commented, “but what can you do?”

“I can learn book binding,” she responded without hesitation. “The pay for fine tooled hand binding is good. Mamie Willis, who used to be in my class at high school, has been to Chicago Art School to learn it. I think I should like to go there. I want to go right away.”

“Let me think, Daughter,” he said meditatively. “I have a friend I should like to consult about it. It is very possible that it may be the best thing. We’ll talk it over again tomorrow. Come down here about this time and we’ll decide.”

Lucy kissed her father, amazed at his complaisance.

“I wonder who the friend he spoke of is,” she said to herself as she went back to the house. “Papa’ll probably have to borrow money of him to send me away.”

The following day Mrs. Merwent preserved an air of gentle sadness and grief, replying softly to her daughter’s remarks but avoiding any reference to what had happened. When Lucy went out a little before the hour appointed for the conference at the office, Nannie did not ask her errand, but returned the girl’s kiss and volunteered a statement that she would not be gone long, with a look of patient melancholy.

“Well, it is all arranged,” were Arthur’s first words, as he greeted Lucy. “You are to go to Chicago where I have planned for you to stay with the relative of a friend. We agree—that is, I agree that you couldn’t do better than go to the Art School, as it is a recognized institution and the courses are reliable.”

“Oh, Papa, thank you so much!”

“The thanks are due to someone else, Lucy, and I hope some day you can thank the friend who has made it possible.”

“Who is it, Papa? Is it someone I know?”

Mr. Merwent looked at her a moment before replying.

“It’s a woman friend, Lucy, Mrs. Ellen Low.”

He continued to regard his daughter. Lucy’s face turned pink.

“I didn’t know you knew her, Papa,” she said.

Mr. Merwent, though he did not take his eyes from the young girl’s, seemed, in his turn, somewhat embarrassed.

“Yes, I’ve known her quite a while. When her husband died I was retained with Mr. Blair to settle up the estate,” he answered.

“Oh!” Lucy relapsed into thoughtful silence.

She knew Mrs. Low by sight and in spite of herself rather liked the pleasant homely face with its strongly marked features, though she had, almost against her will, absorbed some of the prejudiced tone in which she had heard her mother and grandmother make occasional references to the woman.

Mrs. Low was the widow of a handsome man, who had been very fond of the ladies, and she had not lived happily with him. She appeared, in a whimsical way, to hold men in little awe. The unpopularity of her outspoken manner, which voiced a point of view that Russellville found unbecoming in a lady, had sent her to seek a more congenial atmosphere with relatives in Chicago. However, she continued to spend several months of each year in her native town.

“I expect you have accepted the family’s hostility to Mrs. Low, Lucy,” Arthur went on after a minute.

“I’ve hardly ever heard Mamma speak of her,” Lucy returned, her glance drooping before the bitter, slightly amused expression that crept into her father’s face.

“Mrs. Low is too big a woman for her environment. She’s got too much self respect to be understood by the people in this place. It’s because she’s too big-hearted to be prudent, she’s let herself be unpleasantly criticised!” Mr. Merwent’s manner was warm.

Lucy, surprised at her father’s outburst, stared at him in silence, her lips slightly parted. He rose from his chair and walked over to the open window. He stood there for a moment with his back turned, and when he finally reseated himself he appeared as self-contained and emotionless as usual.

“Are—are the people you want me to stay with Mrs. Low’s friends?” Lucy paused, once more embarrassed by her father’s calm scrutiny.

“Her cousin, Miss Storms,” he explained. “She is very well known in Chicago and could do a lot for you, we think.” This time he used the plural pronoun without hesitation. “You haven’t told your mother anything about this yet?”

“No, Papa, I’m afraid Mamma won’t like it.”

“So am I, Daughter. We’ll have to talk it over with her tonight.”

Lucy looked troubled.

“I’m afraid she won’t consent.”

“Yes, she will. You go on back now, and we’ll see after supper.”

Lucy was very thoughtful as she walked home. She had been much astonished to learn that Mrs. Low and her father were acquainted.

“Lucy is going to Chicago to school,” Mr. Merwent announced that night without preamble, toward the end of the evening meal.

Nannie looked up from her plate with a startled expression.

“What in the world are you talking about, Arthur?”

“About Lucy going away to school, as my words implied,” returned Mr. Merwent.

“But who said Lucy was going away?” insisted Nannie.

“I did,” responded her husband shortly.

“Lucy, what is all this about?” asked Nannie, appealing to her daughter.

“It’s about Lucy going away to school. Do you think you can manage to understand or shall I repeat it a few more times?” interrupted Arthur almost menacingly.

Nannie studied the face of her long silent husband and read in it something that experience taught her to be the signal of an occasion when tears, arguments, and tantrums would avail nothing. She rose suddenly and left the table and not long after they heard the front door close as she went out.

“A council of war,” remarked Arthur with a wry smile.

Lucy shut herself in her room and cried.

About nine o’clock Nannie returned from the “big house” as the Sheldon home was called, where she had received neither comfort nor suggestion.

“Don’t ask me to take over the management of your husband too, Nannie!” Mrs. Lockhart had exclaimed with asperity. “Any effort to help you is wasted because you make no attempt to coöperate.” And Nannie had left in tears.

When it became apparent that both Arthur and her daughter must be taken at their word, curiosity got the better of the secret resolve Nannie had made to show no interest in the matter of Lucy’s future.

“Of course it’s none of my business, Lucy, but I should think you and your father would at least tell me where you are going to stay when you get to Chicago. You don’t know a soul there and you’ve never been away from home in your life.”

“I told you I was going to stay with Miss Storms,” replied Lucy, repeating information she had previously offered, to which Nannie, being in a temper at the time, had refused to listen. “She is the friend of somebody Papa knows,” Lucy hesitated and flushed, “and he wrote and asked her if she’d take me.”

“I don’t know what your father is thinking about to let you go off like this to people he knows nothing of. She may be as common as dirt for all we know. I’d like to find out who the mutual friend is. I notice he don’t mention his name,” Nannie finished with a sneering intonation.

Lucy, her cheeks still scarlet, glanced away but said nothing.

During the days in which Lucy was preparing for departure Nannie relapsed into tearful silence and repelled her daughter’s advances and demonstrations until the girl, still not much more than a child in experience, was almost ill and about to relinquish her plan.