Front matter (continued 2)

Katherine laughed. "I didn't know you could climb like that."

"I can't. That wasn't a climb. 'Twas a scramble. Bad work. But I'm out of practice."

"You mustn't stay. Grandmother wouldn't like it. Remember, she forbade my having anything to do with you."

"Sorry, but I don't feel obliged to conform, on that account. If you don't like it, that's another story."

Katherine was silent.

Dr. Ballard did not press the point.

"You said you had something to tell me."

"On second thought I'll postpone it."

"Why?"

"The moonlight suggests mystery. Let's leave it a mystery."

"I hate mysteries."

"As I diagnose your case, you're by way of 'hating' most things, nowadays. Come. Confess. Aren't you?"

Katherine nodded mutely.

"Don't do it," advised Dr. Ballard.

"I can't help it," she burst out with quite uncharacteristic impetuosity. "So much in life is hateful. Sometimes, I feel one isn't bound to endure things, when they make one so detestable. I was thinking about it just before you came. Thinking about the sort of thing life can make of one. Everything one oughtn't to be. I hate myself, along with all the rest."

Dr. Ballard sat with his hands clasped around his knees, and gazed straight up above him into the great stretch of dusky sky, spangled over with constellations.

"I wonder what Mrs. Slawson would say to that?" he ruminated.

Katherine started. "Mrs. Slawson?"

"Yes. I've made it out that she's rather a specialist, when it comes to life, and that sort of thing. Really, I think it might pay you to consult her. By the way, she asked me to say that you 'can heave the perserve trouble off'n your chest.' She is going to see you get a 'rule,' or something."

"Oh, good! That is a load off one's mind. And, speaking of chests, it can't be very good for yours, to be doing heavy gymnastics, such as climbing porch-posts. Can it?"

"Why not? My chest's O.K. Nothing in the least 's the matter with my chest."

"Oh,—I thought——" blundered Katherine awkwardly.

"What?"

"Somebody told me—I don't recollect who—that you had a 'spot' or something, on your lung. I'm so sorry."

Dr. Ballard flung back his head with a low, boyish chuckle.

"Somebody's got hold of the wrong case. My nerves, mixed with another chap's bellows. No, I'm not up here on account of any one spot—it's the whole rundown machine that needs repairing. I'm used up. Tired out."

"Tired out—waiting for patients?" asked Katherine mischievously.

Dr. Ballard gave her a quick look. "That's it. Waiting for patients," he quoted with perfect good humor.

"I suppose it's hard work building up a practice in a city as big as Boston."

"Quite hard work."

"Don't you get discouraged?"

"Why should I?"

"Oh, there must be so many obstacles, hindrances. Even if you are clever, there must be so many older men with established reputations. Great physicians, great surgeons."

"Precisely. That's the fun of it. The game wouldn't be worth playing, if 'twas easy to win out. It's hard. That's why I like it."

Katherine rose slowly, and stood in the window embrasure, looking down upon him thoughtfully.

"You've given me something to sleep on," she said. "I'll remember what you've said. 'The game wouldn't be worth playing, if 'twas easy.' And I have been whining because it is hard."

"Katherine!" shrilled a petulant voice, breaking rudely through the soft evening hush.

"Coming, grandmother."

"Good night!" exclaimed Dr. Ballard with slangy intention.

The next moment, Katherine saw his agile figure disappear over the rim of the balustrade. She turned quickly to answer the imperative call, all the old miserable feelings returning in a rush.

"I want a drink of water."

If Martha Slawson had been in Katherine's place, the mother-heart in her would have understood that childish call at once. But the girl had no experience that would help her to interpret the meaning of it. She supplied the drink with as much promptness, and as little sentiment, as a nickel-in-the-slot machine.

Madam Crewe drained the glass thirstily.

"It's a warm night," she observed socially.

"Very warm."

"Queer the way my head acts," continued the lonely old woman, obviously making conversation to detain Katherine. "Sometimes it seems full of sounds, so I think I hear real voices speaking. A little while ago, I heard a man's laugh, as clear as could be. You weren't downstairs with a caller, were you?"

"I haven't been out of my room since supper-time, grandmother."

The words seemed to Katherine to burn her lips, as she uttered them. She turned abruptly to the door. Her grandmother called her back.

"You know what I've been thinking?"

Katherine stood at attention, but silent, unequal to the task of counterfeiting interest.

"I've been thinking, I'm going to give the cow to Slawson. It bothers me when I can't pay my debts, and the woman won't take a cent for what she's done. Besides, it's expensive keeping live-stock these days, with fodder so high, and labor even worse. We don't need a cow, just you and I. Cheaper to buy milk than feed the creature through the winter, and hire Peter to come and milk. It counts up. Slawson can keep her, and turn an honest penny letting us have milk at lowest price. See?"

"Yes, grandmother."

"You don't like the plan?"

"Giving the cow to Mrs. Slawson is very nice, I think, but I always hate presents with strings to them. Having to supply us with milk takes the cream off the cow."

"Pooh! That's nonsense. You've altogether too big notions. They'll get you into trouble, if you don't take care. I can see you making ducks and drakes of a fortune in no time, if you didn't have some one to hold a tight rein over you. By the way, how about those preserves?"

"I'll put them up to-morrow, grandmother."

"See you do. Else, first thing you know, the fruit will be gone. Rotted on the trees."

"I promise you, I'll put it up to-morrow without fail," Katherine repeated very distinctly.

Back in her own room she laughed bitterly, while two hot tears slipped down her cheeks. "Promise! Poor thing! and she believes me! She thinks my word is as good as my bond. So it is—and neither of them is worth a rush," she assailed herself. No, she had forgotten. She was telling the truth about the preserves, at least. Mrs. Stewson was going to let her have a "rule." But the false impression she had deliberately conveyed about the caller still "stuck in her crop," as Martha would have said. And yet, what right had her grandmother or any one else, to tie her hand and foot, so she must resort to subterfuge if she wanted to move a muscle?

It wasn't fair that one life should be crippled to serve the whim of another. If her grandmother insisted on cutting her off from all natural pleasures, let her take the consequences. She fell asleep at last, nursing her sense of injury, brooding over her wrongs.

The next morning, while the casual Eunice was clearing the breakfast table, Katherine heard a sound outside, which caused her to hurry to the window. The sound was familiar, but the time for it unusual. The doctor's car was not due at Crewesmere so early in the day. Yet there it was, and, as Katherine gazed, from it issued, as if in installments, Mrs. Slawson, a small boy, a big girl, and—a huge, granite-ware preserving-kettle.

In less than a minute the tempo of the house was changed. Things moved vivace.

"Sammy, you go out with this basket, an' strip them trees as fast as you can put. Cora, you show'm where to go, after Miss Crewe she tells you, that's a good girl. Eunice, get me every one o' them perserve-jars off'n the top pantry-shelf, an' when you wash'm, see the water's good an' hot, but not so's it'll crack the glass. We'll need them scales, Miss Katherine. I knew you had'm, or I'd 'a' brought my own. If you watch me measurin', an' write down what the perportions are, an' how I handle'm, you'll have a 'rule' for future use, which, if it never took a prize like Mrs. Peckett's, certaintly never poisoned anybody yet, that ever et it, so far as I know."

It was wonderful how the load lifted from Katherine's heart.

"I don't know how it is, Mrs. Slawson," she said at length, "but whenever you're here, I feel about twice as strong and brave, as at any other time. It isn't alone that you do so much, but you make me think I can do things too; things I know I'm not equal to, otherwise."

Martha smiled. "Believe me, you don't know what you're equal to, an' don't you forget it. No more do I. We ain't done up in bags, like seven pounds o' sugar, we human bein's, so's we know what we're equal to. The heft of us comes out, accordin' to the things in life we got to measure up to. When I was married, firstoff, I thought I wasn't equal to livin' with my mother-in-law, an' puttin' up with her peculiar-rarities. But, laws o' man! I found I was. An', what's more, I found I been equal to one or two other little things since, worse than her, by a good sight. What helped me some, was realizin' I got peculiar-rarities of my own other folks has to be equal to."

Katherine caught her under lip between her teeth, as if to hold back words trying to come out. A minute, and they came.

"But, I don't see why some people have a right to make others unhappy."

"They haven't. No more than a body has a right to make herself unhappy. But they do it, all the same."

"One wouldn't mind making one big sacrifice, or two, or three, in a lifetime, if that were all. But, it seems, nothing is ever enough. You think you've vanquished one thing, and, before you know it, you've got it all to do over again. Has your life been that way, Mrs. Slawson? Does one never get through having to give up one's own wishes and will to the wishes and will of others?"

Mrs. Slawson stirred in silence for a moment the delicious brew simmering on the stove.

"Did you ever scrub a floor?" she asked, at length. "No, o' course you didn't. Mostly, ladies thinks scrubbin' floors is dretful low work. Well, it ain't. Scrubbin' floors'll learn you a lot o' other things, if you let it. In the first place, there's a right an' wrong way to it, same's there is to tonier jobs. If you're goin' to begrutch your elbow grease, an' ain't willin' to get down on your marra-bones, an' attend strictly to business, you ain't goin' to succeed. Well, we'll say, you scrubbed a spot, good an' clean. That ain't all. You got to keep goin' back on yourself, scrubbin' back over the places where you left off, else there'll be streaks, an' when your floor dries on you, the streaks'll show up, for all they're worth, an' give you dead away. As I make it out, it's just the same with livin'. If you begrutch takin' pains, an' keep your eye out, all the time, for fear you'll do a little more'n your share, why, you can take it from me, you're goin' to show streaks. You better never done it at all, than done it so's it'll be a dead give-away on you. You can't scrub clean with dirty water, an' you can't live clean, 'less you keep turnin' out all the messy feelin's you got in you, an' refillin' your heart with fresh, same's you would your water-pail. But, even when you've done your job right, oncet ain't goin' to be enough. You couldn't keep clean with one scrub-down, no matter how thora. It's got to be done over to-morra, an' the next day, an' so on. If a body don't like it, why, that don't change the fax any."

"But all of us don't have to scrub floors. And I don't see why, if one had what you call a job one didn't like, he couldn't change it. Just say: I won't live like this any longer. I'll have something better. If there aren't ways of breaking loose from things one hates, and making happiness for one's self, there ought to be. We should invent them."

"Well, p'raps you're right. They certaintly do a lot o' inventin' these days. They invented a way o' flyin' above the earth. But there's no way I know of you can sail over your own particular place in the world. After all's said an' done, you gotta come back home, an' just stand flat, with your two little feet planted square in the middle o' that state o' life onto which it's pleased the Lord to call you."

"Then you don't believe people have the right to make their own happiness?"

"Certaintly I do. I don't only think they have the right to, I think they gotta. People have the right to make their happiness out o' every last thing comes in their way. Every last scrap an' drop they find anywheres about. Same's you'd make a perfectly good patch-quilt out o' the rag-bag, an' A1 soap out o' drippin's. Any gener'l houseworker at five dollars per, can make a roast out o' a prime cut o' beef. Any fool can be happy, if they're handed out happiness in chunks. But it takes a chef-cook to gather up all the sort o' queer little odds an' ends in the pantry, an' season'm here, an' whip'm up there, an' put'm on a dish, garnished with parsley, or smothered in cream, an' give'm a fancy French name on a menoo-card, so's when they come on the table, you smack your lips, an' say 'dee-licious!' an' feel you got your money's worth."

"But if one has tried and tried? And it was no use? Things only got more tangled?"

Martha pondered for a moment. "Sometimes, with a new spool o' thread, you get aholt o' the wrong end, an' then you can pull an' pull, an' tug an' tug, till you're black in the face, an' the more you do, the more your cotton gets tangled on you. But if you'll go easy, an' wait till you find the right end, it'll run off as smooth as grease. D'you mind takin' a sip o' this licka, to see if you think it's sweet enough to suit? Taste differs, an' some likes more sugar'n others."

* * * * *

"Well," said Dr. Ballard as, toward the close of the day, he was taking leave of Katherine, having fulfilled his professional duty to his patient upstairs. "Well, mademoiselle, was Mrs. Slawson of any use? Was she a help?"

Katherine threw him a grateful glance. "A help? Rather. More of a help than you'll ever know."

"The preserves are made?"

"You should view the shelves. They're a wonder. I believe we've a stock that'll last us for the rest of our natural lives."

"And, you say, the Preserver has gone home? I expected to take her with me."

"That's what she expected. But, about an hour ago, Mrs. Frank Ronald drove up. She came to call, though, of course, it was my place to go see her first, as she's a bride, and a stranger. She brought grandmother an armful of roses. The loveliest things! Long-stemmed ones, almost as tall as she is herself. Have you ever seen her? Mrs. Ronald? She's the daintiest creature! She makes me feel a giantess. And so unaffected, and cordial. So different from Mrs. Sherman, who was Katherine Ronald. Somehow, I feel as if her being here, were going to make things pleasanter. I'm happier, more contented, and hopeful, than I've been for ever so long."

"And Mrs. Ronald sent her car for Mrs. Slawson?"

Katherine Crewe laughed. "'Not on your life,' as Mrs. Slawson says. Mrs. Ronald just took her along in the car with her, preserving-kettle and all. You should have seen the footman's expression! I had told Mrs. Ronald about the preserving, and, as soon as she heard, she proposed taking 'Martha,' as she calls her, back with her when she went. She's evidently a democratic little person. I wonder how such goings-on will please Mrs. Ronald, senior, and Katherine Sherman. They're so frightfully what, when we were children, we used to call 'stuck up.' I know grandmother would be horrified. She, also, is stuck-up, as perhaps you may have gathered."

"Yes, she has made no attempt to hide it. But, I'd really like to know why I come in for such a large share of her disapproval. To forbid you to have anything to say to me, now, is really—— If she weren't such a poor, helpless little old body, I'd have it out with her. Have you any idea what the trouble is?"

Katherine flushed. "It's all too absurd. A man by the name of Ballard was bailiff to her father, when she was a girl."

"I know that. My grandfather. What then? A bailiff's is a perfectly good job. Look at Slawson. He's all right, isn't he? But, anyway, things haven't stood still since those days. I'm not a bailiff. I'm a physician. What's the matter with that?"

"Nothing—only——"

"Only—what?"

"She says——" Katherine hesitated.

"Out with it," urged Dr. Ballard.

"She says you've no practice. No income."

He laughed aloud. "How the deuce does she know?"

"You're so young."

"Oh, I am, am I? Well, I'll tell you a secret: I'm not quite so young as, apparently, I look. I don't wear my hair a little thin on top because I like that style, particularly. But, even if she's right, and I have no practice—no income—how could that——?"

Katherine turned her face away, unable to meet his searching eyes.

He spoke again at once. "The fact is, you're not giving it to me straight. You're trying to soften the dull thud, or something. Now, be honest. Speak the truth, like a little man. What's the reason I'm persona non grata with Madam Crewe? Speak out. It'll be over in a minute, and then you'll feel much better, and so shall I."

"It's too humiliating to have to repeat it," Katherine fairly wailed. "She's old. She doesn't realize how things sound. She said—I'm quoting, word for word—repeating every foolish syllable, but you will have it. She said: 'I know the Ballard tribe. I knew it, when I was young. It injured me and mine, and it will you, if you don't leave it alone. Leave this fellow alone, and see he leaves you. Understand?'"

"So! Well, that sounds 'kinda moreish,' as Mrs. Slawson says. I wish you'd go on. She didn't tell you what the Ballard tribe was guilty of? No? Then I'll have to look into it, and find out for myself. I never was much on genealogy, but if we've a real, sure-nuff villain in the family—a villain whose yellow streak is like to crop out unto the third and fourth generations—why, I'm on to his trail. I'm going to hunt him down. It'll be something to amuse me, while, as you say, I'm waiting for patients."

CHAPTER VI

"You take up every little point in the edge, an' pin it down to the frame, like this. See! Doncher stretch the lace so tight it'll tear on you. Gentle now! Watch me, an' then you folla suit."

Martha had pressed Cora into service, to do apprentice-duty; and was instructing her in the gentle art of curtain-cleansing.

From a far corner of the garret-room, where, for convenience and safety, the frames had been set, Flicker, the dog, sat watching with intent expression. Occasionally, when one or the other of his friends seemed on the point of noticing him, he wagged an impartial, responsive tail.

"I want to do this job so good it couldn't be done better," Mrs. Slawson observed, her skilful fingers plying away busily as she spoke. Cora sniffed.

"Seems to me you always want to do every job 'so good it couldn't be done better,'" she grumbled. "I never saw anybody so particular as you. Ann Upton's mother ain't. Ann Upton's mother says it's wastin' time. That's the reason she can make Ann such stylish clo'es, 'cause she don't waste time. She says she does things good enough, an' if folks don't like it, they can lump it."

"Well, Mrs. Upton certaintly's got a right to her own opinion. Far be it from me to deprive her of it. But her opinion an' mine don't gee, that's all. One thing I know—if you only try to do good enough, you're goin' to get left in the end, an' don't you forget it. You can take it from me, you won't find any admirin' crowds lingerin' 'round your doorstep, young lady. Did you never hear the sayin': Leave good enough alone? Well, that's how they leave it, because everybody is hurryin' to get the fella can be depended on to do the best work for the money. If you're satisfied to do things good enough, you're goin' to be left alone, an' if you like that kind o' solitary granjer, you're welcome to it. That's all I got to say—on this subjec'."

For a time there was silence, while Martha worked industriously, and Cora fumbled along with just enough appearance of energy to escape being "hauled over the coals" for laziness. Presently, however, Mrs. Slawson paused.

"Do you know," she announced cheerfully, "I believe you'd feel a whole lot more like attendin' strickly to business if I kinda relieved you o' what you got under your apron."

Cora looked scared. "Wha-at?" she stammered.

Her mother's expression continued bland. "Yes. It won't trouble me a mite, an' it's just a-burdenin' you. Nobody can give her mind to a job when she's hankerin' after somethin' else. Is it a book, now, or what is it?"

Cora began to cry. "I think you're real mean. I ain't doin' any harm. I'm workin' all right. I can't have a single thing, but you want to see it."

"Sure you can't," admitted Martha imperturbably. "You mayn't believe it, but a mother's got a reel sorta friendly interest in her childern. If a mother keeps in touch, as Mrs. Sherman says, with her childern's minds, it saves her a lot o' keepin' in touch with their bodies, by the aid of a switch, or the flat of her hand, as the case may be. Now, your mind's on what you got under your apron, so let me get right in touch with it, like a little lady."

With a dismal wail that caused Flicker's ears to prick up apprehensively, Cora thrust her hand under her apron, and brought forth an illustrated periodical.

"Hand it over!" commanded her mother serenely.

Cora handed it over.

Martha examined the title-page.

"'THE INGLE-NOOK'! Now what under the sun is a Ingle-Nook, I should like to know! 'THE INGLE-NOOK. Containing Dora Dean Beebe's Greatest Story: SWEET SIBYL OF THE SWEAT-SHOP, or, THE MILLIONAIRE'S MATE.' Dear me! Where'd you get aholt o' this treasure? Sund' School Lib'ry?"

"No!" blubbered Cora, recognizing the fact that her mother's question was meant to be answered.

"Where?"

"Ann Upton. Ann found it up to her house. It b'longs to her mother."

"Ho!" exclaimed Mrs. Slawson. "No wonder Mrs. Upton makes Ann stylish clo'es. If this is the sorta litherchure she improves her mind on, I can see why she feels about a good many things the way she does. The name of it, alone, is enough to make you neglect your work. I don't wonder you're longin' to shake Miss Claire's curtains, for to be findin' out about sweet Sibyl an' how she got a-holt o' one o' them grand millionaire gen'lmen, that's always hangin' 'round sweat-shops, huntin' for mates. It's bound to be a movin' story. It couldn't help it. Lemme see! What's this?

"'The ruffian eyed sweet Sibyl men'"—Martha hesitated before the elaborate, unfamiliar word confronting her—"'men-acingly. "Have a care!" he hissed through his clinch-ed teeth.' (Doncher worry, I got one, an' then some! I'd 'a' said, if I'd 'a' been Sweet Sibyl.)

"'Sibyl turned, tears gushin' to her violet eyes, an' coursin' down her blush-rose cheeks. "I will not do it!" she cried, her lovely, musical voice tremblin' with emotion. "I will not do it. Even a worm will turn."' (Well, what's the matter with that, so long as the worm's got plenty o' room to turn in, an' turnin' don't make it dizzy?) Do you know what I think? I think this little story is 'most too excitin' for young girls like us, Cora. I think your father wants to read it, instead of The New England Farmer, an' if he finds it won't keep us awake nights or won't harm our morals none, maybe he'll give it back to us."

Cora wept.

"In the meantime, now this curtain's stretched good an' firm, let's kinda go over it careful, to see does it need a stitch anywheres, just to take our minds off'n Sweet Sibyl, an' that Millionaire Mate o' hers with the gen'lmanly taste for sweat-shops. Say, Cora, come to think, p'raps he ran the sweat-shop. P'raps that's how he come to be a millionaire. You never can tell. My! but ain't this a lovely job! I never stretched a curtain smoother, or straighter, in my life. It's as even as——"

In her enthusiasm Martha's arm swung out, in a vigorous gesture, which, somehow or other, Flicker's alert intelligence interpreted as a command. With a bound he leaped from his sequestered corner, landed, with geometrical precision, in the center of the curtain, and went through, as if it had been a paper-covered hoop.

For a second Cora was so dumbfounded that her sobs caught in her throat.

Martha gazed at the destruction of her lovely job in silence. Then, Cora, scared by the suddenness of the performance, seeing in the accident only another avenue of bondage for herself, began to cry afresh, aloud.

Her mother lifted an undaunted chin. "Well, what do you think o' that!" she ejaculated. "Don't cry, Cora. You ain't hurt. You're just flabbergasted. Flicker didn't mean no harm, did you, Flicker? He was just dreamin' he was one o' them equestrienne bareback ladies, that rides horses four abreast in the circus, an' jumps through hoops. Flicker's prob'ly got ambitions, same's the rest o' us. An' it's all right to have ambitions, only you wanta be sure you're suited to the part, if you got it. Sometimes the ideas we got on that subjec' an' the ideas God's got don't kinda gee. That's why, when we get to hankerin' after what we wasn't intended for, we so frequent land in the middle an' fall through. Readin' such little stories as Sweet Sibyl, gives a body wrong notions o' that very kind. Now, it wouldn't be healthy for me, or for you either, to dream we was Sweet Sibyls. We ain't that typical type at all, so's even if we got a gait on, an' caught up with the millionaire before he got away from the sweat-shop (which it would be a stunt to do it, outside o' THE INGLE-NOOK), he wouldn't reco'nize us for his mate, on account o' our eyes not bein' vi'let, or our cheeks blush-rose, or our voices musical with 'motion. Looka here, Cora, d'you know what we're in? We're in luck! The lace part ain't harmed a mite. It's just the bobbinet Flicker went through. Acrow bobbinet can't be hard to match. I'll get a len'th of it, when I go to the city, an' sew the lace on again, as easy as can be. We're in luck!"

But, even as she spoke, Martha was calculating how much the len'th would cost, and to just what extent her precious fifteen dollars would be depleted thereby.

"You goin' to tell Miss Claire?" asked Cora inquisitively.

"No, ma'am. What'd be the use? What she don't know won't fret her, an' it wasn't nobody's fault. When I've made it right, it'll be right. The less said, the sooner it'll be mended. 'S that Sammy callin'?"

"Mother! Mother!" the boy's strident voice was heard shouting through the house.

Martha composedly made her way to the stairhead.

"Say, Sammy," she addressed him, "I ain't dead, but if I was you'd 'a' waked me, sure. Now, what is it?"

"Mother! Whatcher think! You got a cow! Ol' lady Crewe she made you a present of a cow! A man, name o' Peter, he's brought the cow. 'With the compliments o' Madam Crewe,' an' she's light yella, an' she switches her tail like anything."

Martha sat down upon the top step of the flight. "Well, what do you think o' that!" she murmured. "This is my busy day, an' no mistake. But who'd 'a' thought I'd 'a' had two such blows comin' on top of another before noon? P'raps it ain't true."

But when she got downstairs she found it was true. She regarded the cow dubiously.

"If it was a question o' givin' her a good scrubdown," she observed, "I wouldn't hesitate a minute. Or even layin' a hand to her horns, to polish'm up a bit, which they certaintly do look sorta like they needed it. But milk her! I'm afraid her an' me won't understand each other on the milk question. There might be differculties, meanin' no offense on either side."

"She's a good cow," declared the Swedish Peter. "She is what they call Alderney, and her milk it is boss milk, thick mit cream. You will relish her milk."

Martha's face was grave. "I don't doubt your word, young fella," she assured him meditatively. "What I'm wonderin' is, when her an' me has wrastled through our first round, will my injuries be such as I'll ever relish anything, any more?"

Sam senior smiled. "I'm afraid you're taking her hard, mother. You'll soon get the hang of her."

"No sooner than she's like to get the hang o' me," returned Martha. "She ain't like hens. You can tell by their slopin'-back foreheads, hens ain't much of any, on intellec'. But this cow's differ'nt. I wouldn't like to bet, now, I got a mite more sense'n her, if it come to a argument between us. An' she certaintly has the best o' me, so far as fightin' qualifercations goes."

"Well, anyhow, you've got to thank Madam Crewe," Sam Slawson mildly dictated. "She's given you a big present, and you must show her you're grateful."

"Certaintly. I'll go out there this very afternoon, an' show her," replied his wife obediently.

So it was, that the tiny old lady, sitting up that afternoon for the first time since her seizure, saw through the open window, beside which her chair had been placed, Mrs. Slawson advancing along the driveway. A quick gleam of satisfaction lit up the unanimated little mask for an instant, while the Madam gave a low grunt of approbation.

"Decent creature. Comes to thank at once. That's mannerly, beyond her station," she observed to Katherine. "Have her up."

Not for the world would Madam Crewe have admitted to herself, much less to her granddaughter, that she had grown to like this "creature" made of such different clay from herself. She was willing, not glad to see her, but her willingness caused a gentle glow to permeate her cold little frame.

"So you like the cow? That's good. I hope you'll treat her well."

Mrs. Slawson smiled. "Certaintly, I'll treat her well, providin' she gives me a show," she promised cordially. "I'll treat her well, an' I hope she'll treat me the same."

"You're not afraid of her?"

"No'm. Certaintly not. But, by the same token, she ain't afraid o' me. Till the one gets the upper hand o' the other, neither of us won't know where we're at. An', meanwhile, we're both lyin' low. I guess animals is some like childern. They like to try it on, oncet in a while, an' if, be this or be that, you don't master'm at the first go-off, they'll be no earthly good to you. Even when you got'm trained, they're like as not to get skittish. Take my girl, Cora, or our small dog, for instance. Now, Flicker's as steady a little fella as ever drew breath. But this mornin', if he didn't suddently get gay, an' lep' right through one o' the curtains I was mendin' for Miss Claire—I should say, Mrs. Ronald. Now, it's up to me to buy a new half o' bobbinet, an' all for the sake o' Flicker dreamin' he'd like to go on a tear."

Madam Crewe drew down her lips primly.

"I have no doubt repairing the damage will cause you considerable trouble," she said.

"I don't mind the trouble. It's the bobbinet I mind. I wonder, now, how much you'd have to give a yard for fine, acrow bobbinet."

"Katherine," exclaimed Madam Crewe, summoning the girl to her so abruptly that Martha was alarmed.

Miss Crewe was at her grandmother's side in an instant, bending her head to catch the whispered words the old woman strained forward to breathe in her ear.

"I guess I must be movin'," said Martha, after Katherine had left the room. "The childern need me, an' I've already tired you out with my long tongue."

"No. Stay. Sit down!"

Mrs. Slawson sat, though after her little fusillade of commands, Madam Crewe did not deign to address another syllable to her, and made plain that she could dispense with conversation on Martha's part.

The silence had become oppressive when, at last, Miss Crewe reappeared. With her was Eunice Youngs, and between them they laboriously lugged a sizable chest. Madam Crewe waited until the box had been set down before her, then imperiously waved Eunice away as if she had been a bothersome fly. As soon as she had disappeared, fresh commands rapped out thick and fast.

"My keys. In the basket hanging behind the hamper in my closet. On the first hook. Yes, that bunch. Now, that key. No, not that one, that one!"

Before Katherine could fit the key in the lock, Madam Crewe stopped her with a gesture.

"Wait. I've something to say. When I was young, a girl got proper plenishing," she observed dryly. "In those days a bride's outfit didn't consist of bows of ribbon on rags of lace—layers on layers of nothingness, as if she were a ballet-dancer, or worse. My outfit—('twas a good English outfit, no flimsy French trousseau!) my outfit will outlast me and you, young lady, will reap the benefit of it, if you marry to please me. But not a yard or an inch, mind you (Slawson is here to bear witness to what I say!), not a yard, not an inch, nor a penny of my money, if you marry otherwise. And that reminds me."

The old woman's eyes grew shrewd.

"Sometimes wills are contested. Attempts are made to break them on the ground of the testator being old, sick, of unsound mind. If any such thing were to happen in my case, I'd like you to be able to speak up for me, Slawson. Do you see that chest? It has not been opened for sixty-eight years, yet I can tell you, to the last yard, what's in it. I was seventeen when I locked it fast, and the key's never been turned in it since. Now, listen! so you can prove if my mind's intact, my memory good."

She reeled off a long table of contents, with hardly a pause. "Now open!" she dictated.

The raised lid revealed a mine of treasure, corresponding in character, if not precisely in order, to the given list. India mull, fine as a web, creamy as ivory. Matchless napery in rare old weaves. Bed-linen in uncut lengths.

"Enough to make you shiver to think o' lyin' between'm," Martha ruminated.

Katherine's hands were almost reverent as, obeying her grandmother's silent bidding, she lifted bolt after bolt, and laid it aside.

"There! That's what I'm after," exclaimed the old woman at last. "Now, unwrap that blue paper. Careful! Don't tear it! Is this the sort of bobbinet you mean, Slawson?"

Martha leaned forward, her eyes glowed. "I guess Miss Claire's ain't the quality this is, but——"

"Probably not. This quality isn't made nowadays." Madam Crewe spoke proudly. "But if you think you can use it (it's what you call acrow with age instead of dye) you may have enough for one window, and save your money. Katherine, get my yardstick, and the shears, and measure it off where I can see. Give good measure, as I tell you, but no waste. If one window is complete, the difference from the others won't be noticed."

For once, Martha was fairly silenced. The madam appeared too occupied to notice.

"Girls are fools," she ruminated. "When I shut that chest I was a girl. I vowed to myself I'd never open it again. I thought it was the coffin in which my happiness was buried. Well, I haven't opened it. My granddaughter has opened it. Rather a joke, when one thinks of it! Dear, dear, how it all comes back! The anger, the disappointment, the——" her voice grew vague. She pulled herself up sharply. "Before you replace that mull, child, if you'd like enough for a frock, you can have it. In for a penny, in for a pound. 'Twas a fool-girl vow, anyway, made in passion—a lifetime ago.... They're decking themselves out in lank draperies now, so you'll be in the style, Katherine. This mull is better and costlier than most of the shoddy silks the shoddy people are wearing these days. It will prove you are no nouveau riche. You don't know what nouveau riche means, do you, Slawson?"

Martha paused. "No'm. But I always thought I wouldn't mind bein' the nouveau, whatever it is, if I just had a try at the riche."

Madam Crewe drew down her lips in what Mrs. Slawson had grown to call her "Foxy gran'ma" expression. She turned again to Katherine. "I'll give you a fichu to wear with the mull. A French thing, handworked, trimmed with Mechlin, rather good Mechlin, as it happens. I never wore it. 'Twas too large. Swallowed me up. But the long ends won't trail on you. There, there! Don't thank me. I hate sentimentality. And I've almost been sentimental myself—after sixty-eight years. I know you're pleased. I understand my sex. We're sirens, all of us, at heart—when we have any heart. I've not the slightest doubt, now, but if Slawson put on a pair of silk stockings and a lace petticoat, she'd feel as coquettish as any of us. No matter how plain we are, we all have the instincts of beautiful women. We're made that way.... Now close down the lid. See you turn the key all the way 'round. I recollect the lock is tricky. Slawson, help Miss Katherine carry the chest back where it came from. Put it away where you found it, and be sure to fasten the trunk-room door, and bolt it securely. And, Slawson, you needn't come back here, when you've done. Just take your acrow bobbinet, and march home to your husband and children, where you belong. I'm tired."

Something "Slawson" could not have analyzed kept her silent after she and Miss Crewe left the room. Katherine was singularly mute. Martha had waved the girl aside, and, grappling with the chest single-handed, triumphantly had carried it off, the little madam watching the performance covertly, with eyes glistening appreciation.

Her feat successfully accomplished, Martha went her way, clasping her precious bundle. She was home before she was aware. Sam met her at the door, his face revealing, to her who knew it, a secret delight.

"I'm to go to the city next week, mother. So, pack your bag and get ready for your wedding-tour," he greeted her with sober fun.

"Have you told Ma and the childern?"

"No. I thought you'd better."

"Good. No hurry. Time enough later. I hope Ma won't kick. It'll mean some work for her, while I'm gone—if she does it, but nothing she can't reel off easy enough, if her spirit is willin'. I got a present, Sam. From the ol' lady."

"Yes, I know. The cow."

"No, I mean somethin' else. The ol' lady give me a surprise. She give me a front seat to see her do a new turn, an' she passed out soovenirs to the audience, besides. I got mine here."

"What is it?"

"What'll take me with you down home. I mean, New York."

"Money?"

"As good as. It'll be money, when I'm done with it. Only, from now on, for some days to come, I'm goin' to be Little Martha the Lace Mender, or, The Postponed Bride, an' a buzz-saw will be safe for anybody to monkey with by comparising."

It was a proud day for Martha when, her stint completed, she was able to carry the curtains, exquisitely cleansed and mended, to Miss Claire.

"Now I've the money ackchelly in my pocket, I'll tell Ma an' the childern," she said to Sam, who was washing his hands at the sink, preparatory to sitting down to his midday meal.

"I wonder if Ma'll kick?" he pondered solemnly.

"Nothin' like tryin', an' findin' out," Martha returned, "dishing up," with energy, as one after the other of her hungry brood appeared, responding to her resounding call of "Dinner!"

"Say, Cora, doncher attempt to come to the table with that shaggy-lookin' head on you. Go smooth your hair back proper, like you always wear it. I don't mind most things, but to set down to eat alongside somethin' looks like a sky-tearer dog, I will not! Sammy, take your hands outa your pockets, like a little gen'lman, an' help Sabina tie her napkin on an' get into her high chair. Sabina, you leave your brother tie your napkin on, when he offers to do it! I'm busy. Say, Francie, when I told you trim the lamp this mornin', I didn't mean cut the wick in scollops. Lucky I happened to see it, or we'd 'a' been smoked out o' house an' home. Now, Ma, if you're ready, we'll sit."

Ma being ready, they sat, and the meal progressed, notwithstanding the fact that Cora, reappearing, shorn of her modish coiffure, was in no mood for merry-making.

"I hate my hair this way!" she announced for the benefit of whom it might concern.

"Ringlets is one thing, stringlets is another," said Martha, unreproachfully. "At least, now you don't look like somebody'd been woolin' the head of you. Have some stew?"

"No, I hate the very name o' stew."

"Call it rag-goo, then, same's Miss Claire's grand chef-cook does. Have some, anyhow, for luck. Here, cheer up, Cora! When I was a kid, I was one o' nine childern, an' you can take it from me, we wasn't thinkin' half so much, in them days, what we'd eat as where we'd get it. When I was twelve—two years younger than you—I went to live out scullery-maid with Mrs. Underwood, God bless her! where my mother'd been cook before me. From that day, I never went hungry no more, nor the ones at home either. But I don't like to see my childern turn up their noses at good food. It ain't becomin'. Now, eat your rag-goo like a lady, an' we'll call it square. Say, Ma, you know what Sam an' me's goin' to do?"

Ma shook her head, after the fashion of a mild bovine chewing the meditative cud.

"We're goin' to play hookey. We're goin' to fly the coop, for a couple o' days, an' go back home, to New York. Sam's gotta—on business, an' I'm goin' ta, on pleasure."

The moment following Martha's announcement was one of intense silence. The children and Ma were too amazed to speak. The idea of Mother deserting, even for a few days, was hardly conceivable. Then, as the monstrousness of it began to percolate, there rose a chorus of protest.

"O—oh, mother-r! What'll we do?"

"I wanta go too!"

"No, take me, mother!"

Cora's voice, at last, dominated the rest.

"Hush! Mother, can't you make them hush? I wanta say something!"

Martha checked the tumult with a warning hand. "Cora has the floor, childern. Let her have her say, an' then you can have yours."

"Silence in the court-house, the cat's goin' to preach!" Sammy disrespectfully whispered in Francie's ear.

"I think it's nice mother'n father 're goin' down to New York," Cora announced. "It seemed kinda funny, firstoff, but I think it's nice. An' they'll have a good time. I'm glad they're goin'."

Sam senior and Martha exchanged a look.

"Good for you, Cora! You're a good girl!" said Sam.

With the eldest sister approving, and praised for doing so, the ground was cut from under the younger children's feet. They had nothing to say.

"Well, Ma?" suggested Martha.

"I'm glad you're goin' too," observed the old woman, "for I ben thinkin', a long time, I do be needin' a change meself, an' I wouldn't dare for to be venturin' on the r-railroad alone. So, when the two of youse goes down, why, I'll just fare along wit' chu."

"But Ma," objected Sam gently, "we can't make out to take you. We've barely enough to take ourselves. Mr. Ronald pays my expenses, but Martha's goin' to buy her own ticket with the money Miss Claire paid her for the curtains."

"You got somethin' laid by," suggested Ma shrewdly.

"But we can't touch it. It's the first we ever been able to save, an' I wouldn't lay finger on it for anythin'." Martha answered with unusual feeling.

Ma was not disturbed.

"Well, between youse be it!" she declared. "I d'kno' how you'll settle it, but this I kno'—I've bided here the longest I'm abl'. I can thole it no longer. I'm goin' to the city. The heart in me is wastin' awa' to see me dear sons an' daughters down there. So let there be no colloguin'. I'm goin' to the city."

CHAPTER VII

It was late that night, and Martha and her husband were still engaged in whispered conference.

"Ma's mind's like a train," Mrs. Slawson observed at length, "when it's oncet made up, you can take it or leave it, but it's goin' its way, weather or no. There's no use strivin' with her, Sam. We're bound to give in, in the end, an' we may as well do it firstoff, an' save our faces. What's the good kickin' against the bricks?"

"But for her to use your hard-earned money just to gratify a whim!" Sam fairly groaned.

"Well, wasn't that what I was goin' to use it for? An' after all, she's old. Let her have her bit o' fun. God knows I don't begrutch it to her. She don't get much joy outa her life."

"She has as much as you have."

A wonderful look irradiated Martha's face. "I have you, Sam," she said in a voice that matched the look. An instant, and both were gone. Martha was her old self again. "An' I've the childern—an' the hens—an' the—cow!"

"Ma acts like a child sometimes, and a bad child at that."

"Certaintly she does. I sometimes think it's a kinda pity a body can't lick her good, an' put her to bed 'to await the results of her injuries,' as the papers says. But what's the use o' growin' old, if your white hairs don't bring you the respec' your black ones didn't? No, we gotta bear with Ma, Sam, an' it's better grin than groan, while we're doin' it."

So, when the appointed day arrived, it was Ma, not Martha, who accompanied Sam to New York on his "wedding-tour."

"My! I bet it's hot on the train!" exclaimed Cora, appearing after a prolonged absence, seating herself on the doorstep, from which the late afternoon sun had just departed, fanning her flushed face with her hat.

For the first time during the busy day, Martha paused long enough to listen.

"I guess it's a hunderd in the shade," she observed. "But then, o' course, you don't have to stay in the shade, less you wanta."

Literal Cora, taking her seriously, came in out of the shade. "Mother, do you know something?"

Martha considered. "Well, when I was your age, I thought I did. But now, the only thing I know, is, I don't."

Cora pursed her lips. "Do you know, I think Dr. Ballard likes Miss Crewe a lot."

"What makes you think so?"

"Well, the other day, I saw'm walkin' together down Cherry Lane. An' to-day I saw'm again. An' I think it looks awful loverish to be walkin' in Cherry Lane, where the trees branch over so, an' it's all quiet, an' green, an' lonesome, an' nobody hardly ever comes, exceptin'——"

"Snoopy little girls who've no business there," supplied her mother genially.

Cora sniffed. "Well, I guess you'll be glad I was there, when you see what I got. An' I guess they'll be glad too. One of'm dropped it an' never noticed, an' went off, an' left it lyin' in the middle o' the lane. After they'd gone, I saw somethin' kind o' like a yellow spot sittin' up in the grass, an' I went an' picked it up, an' it was a bunch o' letters, tied with a pink ribbon. The ribbon's so old it most frays away before you touch it."

Martha extended a quiet, but coercive palm. "Hand it over."

Cora obeyed, craning her neck to see the last of the fascinating sheaf.

"Ain't it funny writin'?" she inquired. "'Mifter Daniel Ballard.' What does Mifter mean, mother? She don't call him Mifter inside. She calls him, 'Beloved Daniel.'"

"How do you know?"

Cora hung her head. "I peeked," she confessed.

"How many of the letters did you peek at?"

"All of 'em. An', oh, mother, it wasn't any harm, 'cause they're fearful old. Eighteen-hundred and forty-four, they have written on 'em. An' the one who wrote 'em, her name was Idea Stryker. She must be dead an' buried long ago, mustn't she, mother? I guess p'raps she died because her beau, he didn't answer her letters, or come to meet her 'down Cherry Lane' like she begged him to. She felt simply terrible about it. She liked him a whole lot, but he got mad at her, or something, and wouldn't answer her letters, or meet her, or anything. When I get to be a grown-up young lady, I'd like to write such elegant love-letters to somebody."

"He'd prob'ly go back on you, if you did. You see what happened to this poor lady, an' hist'ry repeats itself, like Mrs. Peckett. But what I wanta tell you, Cora, is this: You done a wrong thing. You had no business snoopin' into what wasn't your concern. Never you do so, no more."

Cora's voice sank. "I didn't know 'twas wrong, mother."

"Did you know 'twas right?" Martha demanded. "A good way to do, when you don't know a thing's wrong, is, stop a minute, an' make sure it's right. See you folla that rule after this. Meanwhile, doncher let a hint out o' you, to Ann Upton, or anybody else, about these letters. D'you hear?"

"Why?" asked Cora inquisitively.

Martha cast about for a reason potent enough to silence the childish, chattering tongue.

"You don't want to be disgraced, do you? Havin' folks know you pried into things wasn't meant for you? Such scandals is sure to leak out, if you whisper'm broadcast. If Mrs. Peckett oncet got a wind of it, you'd never hear the last."

As a matter of fact, Mrs. Slawson's mind was concerned much less with Cora's reputation, just at that moment, than with the letters she had obliged that reluctant young lady to hand over. Now they were in her own possession what should she do with them? To whom, by, rights, did they belong?

"The letters's signed Idea Stryker, which, I remember, Mr. Ronald said that was ol' lady Crewe's queer name, before she was married. But she wrote'm to somebody by the name o' Ballard, which, I bet, he was the doctor's gran'pa, or somethin'. Now, who the lawful owner of them letters is, it certaintly takes my time to decide. P'raps I better wanda over to Miss Katherine after supper, an' give'm to her. An' then, I may be wrong."

The children, properly fed, cautioned "not to light the lamp, but set outdoors like little ladies an' gen'lmen, an' get the air, an' cool off, an' listen to the katy-dids doin', till I come back," Martha proceeded to wander over to Crewesmere.

Katherine had not yet gone upstairs, when she spied the familiar form approaching through the waning light.

"Oh, Mrs. Slawson," she said, going down the garden-path to meet her. "I'm so glad you've come. I've been thinking about you, ever since you were here last, because I'm in trouble, and, I feel, somehow, you can help me out. You've helped me out before, you know."

Her wistful attempt at a smile went to Martha's heart.

"Well, my dear, helpin' out is my speciality. Reg'lar service I have not done since I was married, but helped out by the day, as there was need. So, here I am, an' if I can be of use, I never counted my day by the clock, an' if the childern fall asleep on the grass itself, it won't hurt'm none. It's too hot to rest indoors, anyhow."

"We'll go to the back porch, where our voices won't disturb grandmother," explained Miss Crewe, leading the way.

"P'raps I better tell you right off what brought me," Martha began, taking the lower porch step to sit upon in preference to the more comfortable chair, on the level with her own, which Katherine indicated.

"No, please don't!" Miss Crewe protested. "Let me speak first. I'm so afraid something may happen to interrupt, and I know mine is more important. I must tell some one."

The girl did not pause, except to take breath between her difficult sentences.

"You remember the day grandmother had me bring her her linen-chest? It all dates from that day, I mean my trouble. I thought I knew before, what trouble was, but real trouble is only what one has to account for to one's own conscience."

Martha pretended not to notice the sobbing breath, on which the last syllables caught, and were choked out.

"Grandmother never took her eyes off the chest while I unpacked it," Katherine labored on gallantly. "Never, except once. She said she knew everything that was in it. But she didn't. There was something she didn't mention. I came on it, lying almost at the bottom of the chest. An odd, old-fashioned pocket, hung on a strap, as if it had been suspended from a belt or a sash, and the strap was snapped—torn. A tiny bit of a shred was caught in the lock of the chest. I saw it, as soon as I opened the lid. As my fingers touched the pocket, something inside it crackled. My heart fairly leaped, for I thought 'twas money. And—oh, Mrs. Slawson, I need money! You mayn't believe it, but I do. I never have a cent I can call my own, and I'm not allowed to try to earn anything. You know—my father had plenty, and I ought to have plenty, if I had my rights. I've sat here evening after evening, thinking, thinking, what I could do in case of need—in case a time came, when I couldn't endure it any longer. And when I felt what was inside that pocket, when I felt it crackle, I thought it was money, and—it was like a gleam of hope. I watched for my chance. It came at last—the one time when grandmother glanced away. I grabbed the pocket, and hid it in my dress. I didn't stop to think what I was doing. But if I had, I don't believe it would have made any difference. I didn't care if I was stealing. I just wanted that money! It's shameful to sit here, and face you, and tell about it, but—I guess I'm past shame. And then she gave me the mull, and was kind. I'd have put the money back then, but it was too late. She never took her eyes off me again, nor the chest. And then—later—after you'd gone, I stole away to my room, and—what was in the pocket wasn't money at all, but letters! Old, useless, miserable letters!"

"Did you read'm?" asked Martha to cover the painful effort the girl was making at self-control.

"No, I didn't read them. After I'd taken the pocket, believing it held money, and found only letters, I was too honorable to read the letters."

She spoke with bitterest self-contempt.

"I carried them in my dress, because I didn't dare leave them anywhere else. And to-day I—I—lost them. I know they were letters written by my grandmother, when she was a girl. Her handwriting hasn't changed much, and I know if she dreamed they were lying about loose, lost, perhaps had been found by some busybody, who would publish them all over town, she'd——"

"That's just what I come to tell you," Mrs. Slawson announced with a breath of relief. "Thanks be! 'twas my girl, Cora, found the letters, an' she brought'm home to me. Not a soul besides us two has laid eyes on'm. Cora don't know any more than the angels above, that the one wrote'm ain't dead an' gone, with a antapsie held over her remains, this many a year. So, for all I see, your troubles are over, you poor child, an' you can lay your head on your pilla, an' sleep sound this night, if the heat, which it certaintly is prosteratin', don't pervent. Here's the letters."

Katherine smiled faintly as she took the little packet.

"If I may make so bold, did you mean to be givin' the letters to Dr. Ballard?" Martha inquired, after a thoughtful pause. "I own up to you, I ain't been so fussy as not to read the name on the envelopes."

Miss Crewe winced. "Of course. That was right. No, I hadn't planned to give him the letters. At first I thought I would, but then I was afraid I might be obliged to tell him how I came to have them, and—I'm a coward. I couldn't bear to risk it. Do you think it's my duty to tell Dr. Ballard, Mrs. Slawson? Tell me what you think I ought to do."

"When a body sets out to tell another body what she'd ought to do, he better be careful," replied Martha gravely. "You never know what you're up against. For instance, if you're tellin' a fella love his neighbor like himself, that's all right, only you wouldn't be countin' on his bein' one o' the kind thinks he's a little tin god on wheels. Bein' as he was that sort, you'd be tellin' 'm make a graven image of his neighbor, which he'd be constantly fallin' down before'm, an' worshippin' 'm, like a heathen idol. You can take it from me, tellin' people what they'd ought to do is a delicate job—too fine for the likes of Martha Slawson. But I'd just as liefs tell you what you hadn't ought to do, one o' which is, lie awake grievin' over spilled milk that's past an' gone. You mustn't lug your mistakes along with you, every place you go, like they was a basket o' dirty clo'es. Now lots besides laundryesses has dirty clo'es to wash, believe me. But if you pack'm up respectable in nice, clean wrappin' paper, with a stout string, or a decent telescope bag, nobody'll be the wiser, an' your neighbors won't objec' sittin' beside you in the cars. It's when you force your dirty clo'es under the noses of the other passengers, an' make'm uncomfortable, they've a kick comin'. No, if I was you (beggin' your pardon for the liberty) I wouldn't tell Dr. Ballard a thing 'twouldn't be a pleasure to'm to hear. I worked for a lady, Mrs. Sherman, an' she used ta wait to do things for, what she called—now, do you believe me, I can't remember the name of it! It was some kind o' moment. She talked about it frequent. The—the—sy——" Martha racked her brains laboriously.

"Could it possibly have been the psychological moment?" suggested Miss Crewe.

"The very one!" Mrs. Slawson took her up triumphantly. "The sykeylogical moment! Mrs. Sherman was dead stuck on it. She used to talk to her brother, Mr. Frank Ronald, about the sykeylogical moment, till you'd think it'd stop the clock. Now if you know what a sykeylogical moment is, an' reco'nize it when it comes along, why, you can take it from me, that'll be a good chance for you to give the doctor the letters in, but not before."

Katherine laughed. "I'm sure you're right, Mrs. Slawson," she said. "I'll wait for the psychological moment. And I'll wash my soiled linen alone, too. You've given me a lot of good advice. I'm much, much happier than I was before you came."

"Well, good-night then, an' God bless you!" said Martha, rising. "Now I'll go back to my—other childern."

Halfway between Crewesmere, and the main road, she came to a standstill.

"Hello!" exclaimed Dr. Ballard. "What are you doing so far from home at the witching hour of eight o'clock? It looks suspicious. Don't you think you'd better stand and deliver?"

Martha beamed, as she always did at sight of those she liked.

"I'll stand, all right, all right, sir, but you can search me for anything to deliver. My husban' he went to New York this mornin', an' before he went, with all my worldly goods I he endowed, accordin' to Scripture, as Mrs. Peckett says."

"Ho! Slawson's gone to New York, has he?" Dr. Ballard exclaimed. "Well, I'm off for Boston, myself, to-morrow. I'm on my way now to tell—Madam Crewe."

Martha nodded.

"Certaintly you are. You'll find Miss Katherine on the back porch, if you hurry. But the ol' lady makes her close the house at nine sharp, so you've not much time to waste on me. Good luck to you, sir. A safe journey, an' quick return."

The doctor chuckled as she left him.

"That woman's a case!" he said to himself, but under the stimulus of her suggestion he hurried his steps.

"Going to Boston?" Katherine repeated, her brows contracting in a troubled, triangular way which always gave a touching, childlike look to her fine eyes. "Isn't that rather sudden? You didn't tell me anything about it this afternoon—down Cherry Lane."

"No, I'd not made up my mind then. The resolve came later."

"You'll return?"

"Oh, yes. Very soon, if I get what I'm going after. Less soon, if I don't."

Katherine turned her face away.

"That sounds mysterious. But I remember you like mysteries."

"'Sure I do,' as Mrs. Slawson would say. I like mysteries for the fun of clearing them up. It's to clear up a mystery I'm going to Boston."

Katherine withheld the question on her lips.

"You don't ask what mystery."

"If you wanted me to know, you'd tell me."

"Well, then—I'm going to discover the secret of me life. In other words, I'm going to see if I can get a line on my grandfather—the unfortunate gentleman—no, of course he couldn't have been a gentleman, because he was a bailiff!—the unfortunate beggar who got himself disliked by his employer, and Madam Crewe. Personally, I've no social use for defunct forbears. It's a bit curious, because I'm a Bostonian. But professionally I'm all right on them. They have their uses scientifically. If my grandfather had a bug—I mean germ (disease or vice germ) I needn't necessarily inherit that particular insect, but there's no denying that if it happens along, I'm more open to infection, than a fellow whose grandad hadn't specialized as an entomologist. I've a notion I'd like to read my title clear. So I'm going to Boston to dig up dead deeds—in both senses, and see what I have back of me."

"I'd much rather see what I have ahead," Katherine laughed mirthlessly.

Dr. Ballard's chin went up with a jerk.

"Oh, I'm not afraid of what's before me. I'm willing to stand and face the future. If a fellow's straight goods on his own account, he has nothing to fear. He'll win out, somehow. But I wouldn't care to look forward, if I'd lied, or was a coward, or taken what belonged to some other fellow, or had any other sort of dirty rag of memory trailing after me. You never can tell when such a thing will trip you up. I say, you're not cold this broiling night, are you?"

"No. Why?"

"You shivered."

"Did I? It makes me nervous to hear you talk about 'dirty rags of memory.' I didn't suppose any one lived who hadn't regrets. I know I have."

"No doubt. I can imagine what for. I'm talking of real offenses. The sort of thing Madam Crewe hints at in connection with my grandfather. By Jove, I wonder what the poor old duffer was guilty of. Perhaps, to put it euphemistically, he appropriated funds not his own—swiped from your great-grandfather's till. Seriously, that's no joke! I can imagine that even if a chap didn't care much about his family-tree, it might be a rather scorching reflection to know you'd descended—fallen—from a rotten apple of a thief, or something. You'd be forever looking for some taint of it to crop out in you. I confess, it wouldn't rejoice even my democratic soul. But that's what I'm going out for to discover. So, when next you see me, perhaps you won't."

Katherine's hand went toward him in an impulse too strong to resist.

"You know better than that," she said in a voice not wholly steady.

Dr. Ballard's large, firm grasp closed about her slender trembling fingers.

"I know better than that," he repeated gravely. "But there's something else, not your friendship, I can't be so confident of. When I come back, if everything's all right, as I believe it will be, I hope you'll be kind to me, and set my heart at rest about that too."

Katherine could not answer. After a moment of silent waiting, the doctor gently released her hand.

"I met Mrs. Slawson as I came along," he said in his usual manner. "She's a trump, that woman. The most normal human creature I've ever met."

"Her English isn't normal," Katherine said, trying to control the helpless trembling that was shaking her from head to foot.

"She's an impressionist. That's what's the matter with Hannah!—I should say, Martha. She gets and produces her effects in the large. She doesn't trouble with details. After all, I wonder if we'd like her better, given the possibility of making a grammarian of her."

Katharine smiled.

"She told me, the other day, that she was being made over. She mentioned the people concerned in it, and the different things they were making her over into. I don't recollect that grammarian was in the list."

"If the rest succeed as well in their efforts as I would in mine, if I attempted to make a Lindley Murray of her, I don't think we need worry. She'll progress along her own lines. But she's not various. You can't make a complex organism out of an elemental creature like Mrs. Slawson, any more than you could make a contemporaneous 'new woman' out of Brunnhilde."

"Fancy Martha mounted on a celestial steed, bearing the souls of dead heroes to Walhalla!"

Dr. Ballard laughed.

"Well, I can tell you this, if she saw 'twas for the good of the souls, not the celestial steed, nor the dead heroes, nor Walhalla itself, would faze her. If you ever should need some one to stand by in an emergency, I couldn't think of a better than Martha Slawson. I hope you'll remember that, when I'm gone."

A moment, and he was gone, had turned abruptly, and left her without even so much as good-by.

Katherine bent her head to look down at the hand he had held, on which presently two tears plashed.

"She'll shut me off from that, too," she murmured bitterly. "She'll shut me off from that too—if she can!"

CHAPTER VIII

"Say, mother," Francie called in through the kitchen screen-door, "Miss Claire, she wants you to come on out. She says she wants to show you a very ol'."

"A very ol' what?" inquired Martha, turning from her stack of washed breakfast dishes, to wipe her hands on the roller-towel.

"I d'know. Only it's up a tree, an' she wants to show you it."

Martha went out at once.

Mrs. Ronald was standing, not far away, gazing intently up into the branches of a splendid spruce.

"Sh!" she cautioned, as Mrs. Slawson drew near.

"What is it?" asked Martha.

"Look!"

Martha's eyes, taking the direction indicated by Miss Claire's pointing finger, saw nothing.

"Do you see?"

"No."

"Quick! Look! O—oh! There he goes! He's flown away!"

"You mean that—bird?"

"Yes—a vireo."

Mrs. Slawson's interest relaxed. "Oh," she said with obvious disappointment.

"What did you think I wanted to show you? Didn't Francie tell you 'twas a vireo?"

"Certaintly she did. But she didn't say 'twas a very ol' bird. Nacherly, I kinda pictured to myself somethin' like Gran'pa Trenholm, or ol' lady Crewe a-sittin' up there, needin' immediate assistance. I thought to myself, that I never have clumb a tree, but if the need was great, there's no knowin' what I could do."

Mrs. Ronald laughed. "Oh, Martha," she said, "I don't believe you'll ever make an ornithologist."

"Without knowin' what that may be," Mrs. Slawson returned affably, "I don't believe I ever will, though I'm ready to try."

"Yesterday, early, early, I got up, and went out, before any one else in the house was awake. I went down to the ravine, and oh! I wish you could have been there with me. It was so beautiful! It's not quite so early now, but, still, I think, maybe, we might hear the veery. Do you want to come?"

"Certaintly," said Martha.

For a time they walked on in silence, through the fragrant freshness of the new day. The full chorus of ecstatic bird voices had somewhat diminished, but, even so, the air seemed set to music.

Mrs. Ronald gave a great sigh. "Oh, Martha, isn't it lovely? When I think what happiness life holds, and how beautiful the world is, I wonder anybody can be discontented, or restless, or sorrowful."

Martha seemed to ponder it.

"Well, I guess a good deal depends on the body," she brought out at length. "As I make it out, the world it goes a-grindin' 'round steady an' sure, like a great, big coffee-grinder. We all got to feel the twist, first or last, before we're turned out fine enough to suit. Some folks feels the twist more'n others. I suppose it's nice to live easy, but there's this about not bein' too soft: you ain't likely to get hurt so much. D'you remember, oncet or twice, when I wasn't by, you tried to pull up the dumb-waiter, down to a Hundred and Sixteenth Street? An' the coarse rope, it got splinters into your soft little hands. Now, mine's so hard I could pull till the cows come home, an' nary a splinter. Yes, it's good not to be too sens'tive. If you are, you're bound to get all that's comin' to you, an' then some."

"Do you know anybody in particular, who is feeling the twist especially, just now?" asked Mrs. Ronald with interest.

Martha nodded. "I was thinkin' of Miss Katherine," she replied. "She's right up here, in the middle of all this, same as you and yet—you're happy, an' she ain't."

"Could I help?"

"I don't know yet. I'm keepin' my eye out. If I find you can I'll let you know."

"Good!" Claire approved. She walked on a step, then suddenly stood at attention. "Hark!" she whispered. "The veery! the Wilson thrush!"

Mrs. Slawson, halting too, strained her ear to listen. At first her face expressed only the gentle interest of one willing to be pleased, but presently her eyes became luminous, her great chest rose and fell to deep, full breaths of keenest appreciation.

When the wonderful performance was at an end, and the veery had taken wing, Claire turned to her silent, but questioning.

Martha considered a moment. "When a cow lifts up his head, an' gets ready to bella, what with its size an' stren'th, you're prepared for the worst, an'—you get it. But when a tiny little fella, as innercent-lookin' as that very bird you say is the Wilson's thrush, when he sits up an' lets a flute-sola out of'm, as elegant as the man in the band, down to the movies, well, it certaintly is surprisin'. It somehow hits you right in the pit of the stummick. My! but I bet the Wilsons is sorry he flew away on'm."

Mrs. Ronald turned quickly to examine a bit of lichen, decorating a tree-trunk near at hand. When she faced Martha again, her cheeks were quite crimson.

"Say, you hadn't ought to bend down like that a hot day like this," cautioned Mrs. Slawson. "You got a rush o' brains to the head, I should say blood. You want to go easy such hot wather. I guess the walkin' took it out o' you."

"Oh, no," Claire assured her heartily. "I'm not a bit tired. And I tell you what I want to do some day soon. I want to go across the lake to the South cove. They say there's a blue heron there. I'm crazy to see him."

Martha nodded. "Well, if Lord Ronald is willin'——"

"He says he'll take me over in the launch, and you can go too, and the children. We'll have a beautiful picnic some day very soon, and, if you thought she would go, we might ask Miss Crewe, and——"

"She couldn't leave her gran'ma for so long. P'raps if you'd put it off till the fall——"

Miss Claire shook her head. "No, I'm going now," she said determinedly.

"Well, I'll go any day you say, then—so Lord Ronald's willin'. I can help'm with the la'nch. I know all about The Moth's machinery, if I don't about the cow's. An' when it comes to that, I could milk all right, all right, if I only knew what to turn on to make the milk come. It's on account o' the cow's not havin' her gear arranged so's a body can push a button, or pull a crank like a Christian, I have so much differculty. You can take it from me, autos an' la'nchs is simple by comparising. But what's really on my mind to say is, any mornin' you wish to see your red herrin', just say the word, an' I'll take you, though I tell you frank an' honest, if I was you, beggin' your pardon for the liberty, I'd stay on dry land myself, these days, an' not be botherin' my head over delicatessens, which you can get'm sent up, canned, by Park an' Tilford any day, with your next order."

"Mother! Mother!"

Francie's shrill, childish voice announced her but a second before she herself appeared around the tangle of bushes hedging the mouth of the ravine.

"Mother, mother!" she repeated, even after she saw the familiar form she sought.

"Well?"

Martha spoke calmly, undisturbed either by the child's heated face or manner.

"Mother—say—Mr. Ronald, he was over to our house, huntin' for Miss Claire. I guess he's fearful worried."

"Did he say he was worried?"

"No, he didn't, but he ast if I seen her, an' he said it was past breakfast-time."

"Now, what do you think o' that!" exclaimed Martha. "Francie's a little woman, ain't you, Francie? She knows, when a gen'lman thinks it's past meal time, it's up to ladies to get a move on."

Claire laughed. "I'll go at once," she returned obediently.

As Martha and Francie made their slow way back to the Lodge, Francie caught hold of her mother's hand in a sudden access of childish affection.

"Say, mother, I'm glad I'm your little girl, instead of anybody else's," she brought out impulsively.

"'Thank you, thank you, sir, she sayed. Your kindness I never shall forget!' I return the compliment," Martha announced with much manner.

"Mother, why does God want His name to be Hallow?"

"I didn't know He did."

"Yes, He does. At the beginning of the Lord's prayer, it says, 'Hallow would be thy name.' Don't you remember?"

"Certaintly I do, now you mention it. But if you ask me why, Robin, I got to give in, I can't tell you."

"I thought mothers knew everything," Francie said pensively. Martha's response was prompt.

"Well, be this an' be that, they do. Takin' mothers all together, they certaintly do. But, each one has her own speciality, an' if you ask me questions about God, I tell you, truly, I ain't got the answer, like I would have if I'd been to college, an' belonged to the lemon-eye, same's Miss Claire. On the other hand, I may know things she don't, about other matters nearer home. You never can tell."

"Cora says you don't know what's stylish. She says our clo'es are awful plain."

"Now, what do you think o' that! So Cora says I don't know what's stylish. Well, if I don't know what's stylish, I don't know who does, seein' I was in an' out o' the toniest houses in New York City, an' was personally acquainted with their dresses an' their hats. That same Cora is called after one of the stylishest ladies ever you saw, Mrs. Underwood, which she is dead now, but, when she was alive, looked like a duchess. An' you, yourself, are called after her daughter, Miss Frances, who married a l'yer, Judge Granville, but could 'a' had the pick o' the land. Never fear, I know what stylish is. Only, I know the differnce between ladies' stylish an' ladies'-maid's stylish. I seen both. Style's one thing. Loud's another. I want my childern to be seen but not heard."

"Mother, are you sorry Ma's gone away for good? She told Cora, 'fore she went, that you didn't know she ain't comin' back, but she ain't. She said her heart was broke with the quiet up here. She said she's goin' to live with Uncle Dennis after this, or Uncle Andy, where it's lively, an' there's more comin' an' goin'."

Mrs. Slawson suffered the full significance of Francie's revelation to sink into her consciousness, before she attempted to reply.

"Well, well," she said at last, with an air of brave resignation, "so, Ma's gone away for good, has she? An' she didn't want for me to be breakin' my heart with the news o' it. It certaintly is a shock an' no mistake. But a body must do the best she can, when she can't do no differnt. I'll try to bear up under it, Francie, much as I mourn my loss. In this life we got to go about with a smilin' countenance, no matter what our private sorras are. It won't do to let the world see your sufferin'. The world has troubles of its own. By the way, I wonder if Sammy's got back from takin' the mornin's milk to Madam Crewe's yet?"

Not only had Sammy got back, but he was the bearer of news.

"Say, mother, they got comp'ny to ol' lady Crewe's. A gen'lman, he come up with a bag. In a rig, from over to Burbank. The fella drove the rig, he was comin' back our road, an' he saw me, an' he says: 'Say, bubby, jump in an' I'll carry you a ways,' an' I did, an' he did."

"My, my, but ain't you lucky? To get a free ride so early in the mornin'. That was a kind ac' to do, wasn't it? Now, it's up to you to return the compliment. One good turn deserves another. Keep your eye out for that young fella, Sammy, so's if he goes past again, on his way back to fetch ol' lady Crewe's comp'ny an' carry'm to the station, you can call me, an' I'll give'm a glass o' cold lemonade to cool'm off."

"He ain't comin' back. The comp'ny ain't from Burbank. He's from New York. He come up last night on the Express, an' he's goin' back when he's ready, but he don't know when he'll be ready, so he couldn't tell the fella with the rig. An' the fella with the rig, he couldn't wait anyhow. He has to go back to Burbank, an' then 'way out another way, miles an' miles, to get a party wants to catch a north-bound train goes out the middle o' the night. One o'clock it goes out, the fella said. An' if they don't catch it, there ain't another till to-morra mornin', so they got to catch it. The fella with the rig tol' me, he guessed ol' lady Crewe's comp'ny was a lawyer. He said he could tell by the cut of his jib. What's the cut of his jib, mother?"

Mrs. Slawson shook her head. "That's a lazy, shif'less way o' learnin' knowledge, Sammy, to be askin' it off'n parties that had to work hard themselves to get it. Since we got that grand dickshunerry-book Lord Ronald give your father, there ain't no excuse for any of us not knowin' things any more. Lord Ronald said: 'The dickshunerry habit is a good thing. When you don't know a word, look it up.'"

"How do you spell jib?"

The glance Mrs. Slawson cast on Sammy sent him off flushed with shame at having exposed an ignorance so dense.

At Crewesmere, meanwhile, the newcomer was calmly eating his breakfast, Katherine doing the honors with what grace she could.

Mr. Norris was no stranger to her. She knew him, had always known him, in fact, as her grandmother's man of affairs, a lawyer of repute. While she had no cause to distrust him, the fact that he was in a position to advise in questions closely affecting herself, affairs she was kept in total ignorance of, gave her a feeling of resentment toward him, as toward one who, voluntarily or not, held an unfair advantage.

"See he has a good breakfast," her grandmother had directed. "Let him eat and smoke his fill, but don't send him up to me with any unsatisfied cravings. A man's mind is a little less apt to be vacant if his stomach is full."

During the succeeding long hours of the forenoon, the two were closeted in Madam Crewe's sitting-room. Katherine could hear the incessant, low drone of their voices as she sat on the shaded veranda, trying to employ her mind so it would not dwell on the enervating heat and the fact that now, at this moment, her grandmother might be creating conditions that would irrevocably cripple her future and she was powerless to prevent it.

At luncheon-time Madam Crewe summoned Eunice Youngs.

"While Miss Crewe and the gentleman are at table, I want you to go to Mrs. Slawson's and tell her I must see her at once. Understand? Madam Crewe says she must see Mrs. Slawson at once. Say, she's to come in that motor-car Mr. Ronald gives her and her husband the use of. Say, Madam Crewe wishes her to take a gentleman to the railroad station in time for the five-forty-five train. Have you brains enough to repeat that straight? Or, shall Miss Katherine write it down for you?"

"Oh, grandmother," expostulated Katherine, when Eunice had gone to "tidy up" for her errand, "I don't think we can order Mrs. Slawson about like that. She's done a lot for us, already, but we have no claim on her, and to send for her to come, in all this heat, and bring her motor, and take Mr. Norris to the station—it's exactly as if——"

"My dear, don't bother your head over what doesn't concern you. Slawson and I understand each other—which is more than you and I do, I'm afraid," the old woman pronounced with biting distinctness.

The meal was barely over when Martha arrived.

"Now, Slawson," Madam Crewe greeted her, "I've sent for you on business, so I want you to stop looking benevolent, if you can, and attend to what this gentleman has to say."

"Yes'm," said Martha.

Mr. Norris adjusted his eye-glasses with professional precision. "Have you ever had any experience with the law, or lawyers?" he asked, regarding her steadfastly through his polished lenses.

"Certaintly, I have. Oncet, I worked out for a lady who got a divorce off'n her husband, on what they call statuary grounds, an' the first she knew, he up an' off, an' married the—statue. He was a railroad magnet. The kind draws more'n more to'm, all the time. So, o' course, the law never so much as laid a finger on'm. An' about two years ago, my little girl, she got run over by a auta, but, though Mr. Frank Ronald he tried to get'm to pay us a little somethin' for our trouble, we ain't seen a cent o' money yet. Oh, yes. I know about the law!"

"I mean, do you understand that when you are brought as a witness before the law, you are held responsible for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

Martha cogitated. "No, sir. I can't say I do, that is, did. I never knew the law had so much to do with truth before. But, if you say so, I'm willin' to take your word for it."

Mr. Norris pulled a long upper lip.

"My client, Madam Crewe, has called you here for two purposes. First, she wishes you to be present whilst I ask her granddaughter a few important questions. Second, you and the maid—a—Eunice Youngs, are to write your names as witnesses upon a certain paper I have drawn up for my client. Are you willing to act for Madam Crewe in these matters?"

Martha shot a quick, inquiring glance at Katherine. The girl nodded in response.

"Yes, sir!" Mrs. Slawson answered promptly.

"Then, see that you charge your mind seriously with what you have undertaken. Your memory must be exact. Now, Miss Crewe——"

Katherine inclined her head, smiling faintly. But Martha noticed she was very pale.

"Your grandmother would like to know, from your own lips, the extent of your acquaintance with Dr. Ballard, the physician who has been in attendance on Madam Crewe since her late illness."

Katherine hung fire a moment, while the blood slowly mounted to her cheeks, her temples.

"My grandmother forbade me to have anything whatever to do with Dr. Ballard," she parried the question.

"Did you obey her injunction?—Attend, Mrs. Slawson!"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"I didn't think she had any right to control me so."

"Not when she intimated there were reasons?"

"She told me things about Dr. Ballard—his people, rather, but I didn't, and I don't, consider them reasons. She has no proof, or, if she has, she certainly hasn't presented it. I don't consider it worthy of notice when a person says things about another which are not backed up by proof."

"As a matter of fact, then, you do know Dr. Ballard, in spite of your grandmother's prohibition?"

"Yes."

"You know him very well?"

"Quite well."

"My next question, Miss Crewe, you will answer notwithstanding its peculiarly personal and intimate character, because (I am authorized to tell you) upon your answer important issues hang. If Dr. Ballard asks you to marry him, is it your intention to accept him?"

For a long moment there was no sound in the room, except such as came, muted, from out-of-doors, and the leisurely ticking of the tall clock in the corner.

Then Katherine, rising, impetuously faced the lawyer and Madam Crewe.

"I will not answer that question, no matter what issues hang on it," she retorted hotly.

"Miss Crewe, I have your interest at heart, believe me. I strongly advise you to answer."

"No."

"You mean you will not accept him."

"I mean no such thing. I mean I refuse to answer."

"Why?"

"You ought to know. The question is—indelicate. When—if Dr. Ballard says he wishes to marry me, it will be time enough for me to answer—him."

"He has already said so."

Miss Crewe started. "What do you mean?" she demanded imperiously.

"Dr. Ballard has already told your grandmother he wishes to marry you. Madam Crewe would like to know your intentions."

"I wish my grandmother had chosen a different way of obtaining my confidence," the girl broke out, almost broke down. "It seems very strange to me that she should choose such a method as this. It seems—almost—disgraceful."

The old woman, sitting erect in her high-backed chair, did not attempt to defend herself.

The lawyer, ignoring Katherine's outburst, continued his dry-voiced interrogation.

"You would accept him?"

"If Dr. Ballard wishes to marry me," the girl answered with marked quiet of voice and manner, in strong contrast to her outbreak of a moment ago, "if Dr. Ballard wishes to marry me—I will marry him."

"In opposition to your grandmother?"

"I don't want to oppose my grandmother, but if she tries to spoil my life for the sake of a groundless prejudice I will—yes—I will marry him in opposition to her."

"Think well, Miss Crewe. Take your time. Answer cautiously. If you were told Dr. Ballard is a struggling young doctor, with no present means of support, to speak of, and a perfectly problematic future. If you were told that he would never be able to provide you with more than a bare living income——"

"I would marry him."

"If you were told that, in case you do so, your grandmother would divert her property from you (as she has a perfect legal right to do) and dispose of it elsewhere——?"

"Still—I would marry him."

"Nothing would dissuade you?"

"Nothing."

"The inquisition is over."

It was the old woman who spoke. Her face was as impassive as ever, but Martha Slawson noticed that her tiny, emaciated fingers clutched the arms of her chair with a vise-like grip.

"For all the world like a bird I seen last Spring," Martha mused, "which somethin' had broke its wing, an' its claws was holdin' on fierce, for dear life, to the branch o' the bush it was clingin' to—as if that'd save it!"

"May I go now?"

As Katherine made the appeal, she turned toward her grandmother, but her eyes were kept resolutely averted.

Mr. Norris raised a detaining hand. "One moment, please. I assume you entertain no doubt of Madam Crewe's mental competency? That she is of sound mind, capable of acting rationally on her own behalf? That any will and testament she might choose to execute at this time would be above suspicion of mistake, fraud, or undue influence?"

For a moment Katherine seemed to consider. Then her lip curled.

"If you mean, am I likely in the future to contest any will my grandmother may now make to my disadvantage, I say no. I will never dispute her course, whatever direction it may take. All I ask is that she will not dispute mine. I am only sorry that they seem to diverge so completely. I am sick of the name of money. I would say I am sick of the sight of it—but I have never seen any——" with which parting thrust, the girl turned on her heel, and left the room.

She went none too soon, for the moment the door closed upon her, her self-control gave way, and she groped stumblingly to her own chamber blinded by tears, choking back the sobs that were in themselves a humiliation.

The three she had left, were silent when she had gone, until Mr. Norris drew an important-looking sheet from under a mass of papers at his elbow, and addressed Mrs. Slawson.

"As a general rule I strongly advise you, or any one, against placing your signature to any instrument which you have not previously read and do not fully understand. In this case, however, there is absolutely no harm. Please call the other witness."

Martha took a step toward the door.

"If I put my writin' on that paper, it won't mean I'm injurin'—anybody?" she demanded firmly.

"You have my word as to that."

"I'd never sign it, if it was to hurt Miss Katherine."

"Your placing your signature there cannot affect Miss Crewe's interests one way or the other."

Martha summoned Eunice Youngs, and the two, in their best manner, literally with great pains, proceeded to affix their names as witnesses to the last and testament of Idea Stryker Crewe.

CHAPTER IX

It was late one evening at the end of the week, when Sam came back, to Martha's surprise, alone.

"Ma just wouldn't leave the city," he explained. "She's staying at Dennis's now, but Sarah told me she couldn't keep her above a week or so, at the longest. She said Andy, or Hughey, or one of the girls would be better able to look after her than Dennis and herself, who have all they can manage paying off on their house in Yonkers, and the children to educate besides. Sarah was quite short with me on account of Ma. She said she was real put out. We'd no business leaving an old woman, Ma's age, away from the country such hot weather, especially when we were just getting on our feet now, and were well able to give her a home without feeling it."

Martha smiled tolerantly. "There'd be no time o' year'd suit Sarah for takin' any more trouble than she's got to," she observed, pouring her husband's tea.

"It's a nice little place they've bought," Sam informed her, between bites of cold ham and potato. "Dennis travels down and up every day, which is, what you might call a stunt, but he has the satisfaction of knowing the roof over his head is his own."

Martha set an ice-cold cup-custard at Sam's plate.

"From Yonkers to the Battery is a kind o' long stretch, but—where there's a will there's a—sub-way, I s'pose. Would he be with the same steamship company he was with, since I first knew'm, I wonder?"

"Yes, and they gave him a raise last month. He's doing all right, Dennis is. You ought to see the way Sarah's got the house fixed. They pay off for the new furniture every month, so they don't feel it, Sarah says."

"Well, Sarah mayn't feel it, but you can take it from me, I certaintly would, in her place," Martha observed. "Gettin' things on the excitement plan, would wrack my health. I hate the thought o' owin'. Payin' for a dead horse never did appeal to me, as Mrs. Sherman says. How's Andy doin'?"

"Andy was succeeding great, but something went wrong, somehow, all of a sudden, and his scheme fell through. He explained it to me, but I forgot the particulars, to tell the truth. He'll be on his feet again in no time. Andy always was the smart one of the family."