Front matter (continued 3)

Martha ruminated. "Wouldn't you wonder how anythin' gets done in this world, when nothin' anybody ever tries seems to succeed? Is Nora as gallus-lookin' as ever? Or is she holdin' in her horses some, now her husban's kind o' down an' out, for the time bein'?"

"Nora's just the same, as far as I can see. Our Nora says Nora-Andy is distroying Andy with her extravagance. She says the way she dresses, alone, it's no wonder he is always in and out of some get-rich-quick scheme, that'll land him in the poor-house, or worse, if he don't look out. But then, our Nora never did have the appearance of Nora-Andy, I must say that, if I am her own brother. Our Nora is kind of sharp, and she looks it."

"Well, I guess marriage'll bevel some of the edges off'n her, all right, all right," said Martha. "Were you surprised when you heard she was keepin' company with McKenna?"

"Yes, I was. I never thought Nora'd marry now—at her age."

"Nora always wanted to marry, an' when she saw her chance she grabbed it by both horns."

Sam's serious expression relaxed a little. "That sounds as if McKenna was the devil and all of a fellow. He's not that at all, and he certainly ain't much to look at."

"Oh, well," Martha responded, "nobody but her'll have a call to look at'm much, oncet he's married."

"I told her I thought she was taking a risk, throwing up a good place she'd been in, for so many years, parlor-maid, to live out general-housework with a stranger," said Sam. "I thought that was a joke. But it made her mad. She said, 'God knows it's no joke!' She said she had as much of a right to live her life as I have, which of course it's true. She said 'every dog has its day!'"

"True for you. So he has, just like s'ciety ladies. But that ain't to say there'll be anybody'll come. An' I sometimes think there's more dogs, 'n days, anyhow."

Sam looked up. "Say, mother, you ain't down-hearted, are you?"

"No. Why? What'd make me downhearted, I should like to know?"

"I just thought you might be," her husband answered. "I never heard you speak that doubting kind of way before. And, we've no call to think ill of the world, with all the luck that's come to us."

"Certaintly. An' if luck don't stay with us, itself, it won't be because we ain't set her a chair, an' done every mortal thing we know of to make her comfortable. I've no kick comin', nor ever had. I like life all right, the hard part along with the soft part. If you didn't have the one you wouldn't know how to relish the other. But, speakin' o' Nora, I never looked to see her sportin' a 'finity of her own, I can tell you that!"

"''Finity'?" questioned Sam.

"Genteel for fella," Martha answered. "I often heard Mrs. Sherman speakin' of'm. You can take it from me, I never looked to see that same Nora get a-holt o' one."

"Nor I. And I said as much to Ma. Ma told it back to Nora, and Nora was as mad as could be. She said if it came to that, she didn't see as she was the worst-looking one in the family, when a body counted in what some of us had married."

"Meanin' me," observed Martha appreciatively.

"She said she 'didn't see why folks should be so monstrous surprised that she got a husband. Every Joan has her Jack.' The very words she said."

"Sure they have. But only it ain't told what kind o' Jack. So did Balaam have a jack, if she wants that kind. But, p'raps McKenna is a prize-package. We don't know. I wonder will he take kindly to Ma?"

Sam shook his head. "One of the first things he told me was, 'We couldn't look to him to give my mother a home. He had troubles of his own.' It stirred me up so, I almost lost my temper. I said I didn't look to him to give my mother a home. If he gave my sister one, now he'd contracted to marry her, I'd be glad."

"Why, Sam," said Martha looking at him with mock-reproach, "I wonder at you, I do so! To speak up that fierce! You hadn't ought to be so violent, an' use such strong language to a party just gettin' ready to come into the fam'ly. It might scare'm off. He must think you're a dretful bully."

"Nora told Ma, before I left, that Ma was foolish to stay back in New York. She said she and McKenna, starting out, young married folks——"

"God save the mark!" murmured Martha.

"She said they couldn't offer her a home, much as they'd like to. But Ma said her heart was broke with the country. She wanted to live in the city where something was going on."

"It's one thing what you want, and another what you must. Poor Ma! I'm sorry for her. When she comes back she'll know a thing or two more'n she does now. We'll have to be kind o' gentle with her, to make up. But come on now, Sam. If you've et all you can, I'll do my dishes, while you lock up, an' then we can go to bed. You look plain wore out."

"I'm glad to get home," Sam answered her, and though he said no more Martha understood him.

Long after he was asleep she lay awake in the white moonlight, thinking. "Down home," she knew it was stifling. Sam had told her that the hot wave was breaking all records for intensity and duration. And yet, somehow, her soul yearned for the stretches of sun-softened "ashfalt" with its smell of mingled dust and tar, for all the common city sounds and sights amid which she had been born and bred; all the noise and commotion that spelt Home for her. She could understand Ma's feeling, and her heart softened to the poor old woman.

"It's all right up here," she admitted to herself. "I like the folks first rate, such as they are an' what there is of'm, only they ain't what a body is used to. I never see nicer parties than the Trenholms, an' the Coleses, an' the Moores. That time Hiram Black's house burned down, if every mother's son of'm didn't turn out an' lend a hand. Got the Blacks fixed up fine an' dandy, in no time, in a new place, with what they called 'donations.' Down home you wouldn't find your neighbors givin' you furnitur', an' bricky-braw things like that, not on your life! An' when you'd paid the insurance money itself, the Company'd kick before it'd give you the price o' your losin's. An' yet, I know how Ma feels. If young Luther Coles had 'a' had the fever down home he had up here last fall, they'd a-yanked'm away from his own flesh an' blood to the pest-house. An' here his mother was let take care of'm, an' the meals was got by the neighbors, which she hauled'm up in a basket, three times a day, an' et'm hot an' fresh from the oven, without havin' to raise her hand, only take'm out from under a clean napkin. You'd go hungry a long time in New York City, before the folks acrost the air-shaft from you, would know your boy was dyin' on you, much less sneak in a bite an' a sup, from time to time, through the dumb-waiter. But—all the same—I know how Ma feels."

Martha had reached this stage in her musings when a faint knock sounded on the door below. She waited, listening. The knock was repeated. As quietly as she could, which was not very quietly, she slipped from her bed, threw on her light cotton kimono, which always lay ready at hand in case of emergency, and hastened downstairs, leaving Sam asleep and snoring, worn out by the city heat, his sense of responsibility in connection with Mr. Ronald's commissions, and the long day's journey home, with its fatiguing delays and tiresome changes.

She shot the bolt back, turned the key with resolute hand. She could not imagine what had happened that would account for this unusual disturbance, but whatever it might be, she braced herself to meet it.

On the doorstep stood the shivering figure of a girl, clad only in her night-dress. She was shivering with excitement, not chill.

"Mrs. Slawson," she managed to bring out, before words became impossible, drowned in the torrent of her tears and sobbing.

Martha placed a motherly hand about the frail shoulders.

"Come now, come now! Don't cry like that. You'll shake yourself to pieces. I don't know what's the matter, but it'll be all right, anyhow, never fear. You're Ellen Hinckley, ain't you? I think I seen you a couple o' times at church."

As Martha talked, she drew her visitor into the house, automatically locked and bolted the door, and settled the girl in Sam's chair in the sitting-room.

The moonlight, streaming in through the windows, made the place almost as light as day, but for some purpose of her own, Martha was about to strike a match, when Ellen Hinckley stopped her with a quick cry.

"No, no! Don't do it! I've run away. I've left my mother's. My stepfather'll follow me when he finds I'm gone."

She drew a long painful breath, then panted out her story in short, labored gasps.

"I've never had a home. You mayn't believe it, but mother don't care a scrap about me, except for the work I can do. I've tried and tried for years to bear it, but it's got to be too hard. I can't live that way any longer. You know,—Mr. Wedall——?"

Martha nodded. "The pasture?"

"Yes, he's my minister. He knows all about me. He told me to do my best, but if the time came when I just couldn't bear it another minute I might go. He said he couldn't help me run away, because—because——"

"Certaintly he couldn't!" said Martha.

"But he said, if ever I had to do it, the Lord would raise up some one who could. Mother's never liked me. I've not been happy a minute since my father died. He wasn't happy. He had no peace of his life. He used to tell mother she'd get her come-uppance some day, and she's got it now, for Buller, that's her second husband, he beats her. He's got her money and mine too, what father left us, and he's afraid I'll law him, now I'm of age and can. I tried to run off yesterday, but he caught me and took away my clothes, and locked me in my room. I had some money I'd got hold of. 'Twas my own—and when he caught me, and he and mother stripped me and locked me up, I held on to it, all through, though he beat me black and blue with his belt-strap."

She spread her poor little trembling palm, disclosing a fistful of crumpled bills.

"See? And here's where he beat me—and she stood by and let him!"

As she spoke, the girl drew back the coarse night-dress from her breast, displaying shoulders and back seamed across with cruel wales.

Martha drew in her breath shudderingly, shielding her eyes with her elbow in a quick, instinctive defensive gesture.

"I'd know you speak the truth without—that!" she said.

"After they left me, and locked me in—when I could think—I remembered what Mr. Wedall said about the Lord raising up help for me, and it made me mad, for there was no one to lift a hand for me. And then, all at once, somehow, you came into my mind. I saw you help a dog once, nobody else would touch. D'you remember? All the rest were afraid. They said he might be mad. But you said, 'Of course he ain't mad.' And you took him up, and took him home, and—you weren't afraid."

"No, I'm not afraid," said Martha.

"After you came into my mind I never rested till I found a way to get out. I waited till everything was quiet. They'd gone to bed. Then I managed it—through the window—down the grapevine trellis—I——"

Martha made her way to the corner cupboard. "I'll fix you up with arnica an' water inside and out," she explained. "An', while I'm doin' it, you tell me what you've planned."

"Nothing. I've planned nothing. Buller says I'm looney. Perhaps I am. I can't seem to think."

"Have you got any folks anywheres? I mean, on your father's side?"

"I've an uncle. Father's brother. But he lives in Montreal."

"Montreal! Where would that be, I wonder?"

"In Canada. Up north."

Mrs. Slawson bound on her soothing compresses in silence. Suddenly she paused, alert, listening. Then, quick as a flash, she caught her visitor by the sleeve, drew her back in to the entry and pushed her into a small closet under the stairs.

"Hush! I hear a horse. Don't you breathe till I come an' tell you."

A moment later she was lying in bed, as still as though she, like Sam, were fast asleep and dreaming.

Presently Sam stirred, sat up drowsily, and listened.

"Say, mother, you asleep?"

No answer.

A voice from below in the garden called up hoarsely:

"Hullo, there!"

"What's wanted?" demanded Sam.

"I'm Buller, from Milby's Corners. My wife's daughter has wandered off in the night. I'm out hunting for her, to take her home. She ain't all there in the upper story. I thought, maybe, she'd come in here. The last I saw of her, she was making this way. She's in her night-shift. I could see her plain as day, far ahead of me."

Sam was so obviously but just-awakened, that Buller from Milby's Corners turned his horse's head, as if to make a quick departure, when Mrs. Slawson, yawning, leaned over the rail of the sleeping-porch and spoke.

"Say, wait a minute. The poor thing! Wanderin' about in the night,—an' her light-headed—away from your pertectin' love an' care! Ain't it awful! My husban' an' me'll get up, an' be dressed in no time, for we'd like to help her, if we can, poor creature! In the meantime, seein' you ain't found her here, I s'pose you'll be goin' further. Out in her night-clo'es! My! I wonder—— Say, Sam—do you see somethin' white flitterin' along towards the south—down the valley road d'rection? Seems to me I do!"

Sam thought maybe he did.

Buller kicked a heel into his horse.

"G'long! I'm off down the valley road. I bet 'tis her. I'll have her yet, the d—the poor dear!"

The instant he was gone, Martha dragged Sam into the house.

"Quick! Dress you! An' go down get the auta. I have the girl hid in the entry closet. I'm goin' to take her out o' harm's way, which is that brute beast's."

"But, Martha——" remonstrated Sam.

"Sam Slawson, do as I tell you! Or you'll have to shove us into Burbank in your present gob, which, believe me, it ain't bewitchin'. You can take it from me, lad, I'm goin' to catch that north-bound express that leaves Burbank at one o'clock this night, which, if we don't make it, there ain't another till to-morra mornin'. So we got to make it, or I'll know the reason why!"

Impelled by a motive power so irresistible, Sam dressed and went about his business without venturing another word.

Martha clothed herself in the brief intervals when she was not attending Ellen Hinckley, giving her bread to eat, milk to sip, enveloping her in garments gathered from everywhere, anywhere, a conglomerate assortment that would have been grotesque if it had not been touching.

"No one'll mind your looks," Martha reassured her. "Just you sit tight, an' keep your own counsel, an' not a dog'll bark after you. Ma's veil tied down over Cora's hat is quite stylish, an', be this an' be that, you've got as good a motorin' costume as any. They all look like Sam Hill. So now, I guess, we might be movin'!"

"It's a crazy scheme," Sam whispered in his wife's ear, as she bent to him to deliver last instructions, while he was cranking up. "Suppose a tire bursts?"

"It ain't goin' to," she assured him with perfect confidence.

Out of the gate they sped, then along the hard, white high-road. Even Martha's garrulous tongue was stilled.

The world, bathed in this silver, ethereal light, seemed unfamiliar, remote, the sky to have withdrawn, in infinite cool reaches, beyond the burning little tragedy they were enacting. After a considerable period of silence, Martha turned to ask Ellen Hinckley if she were comfortable. The poor creature had fallen asleep, lulled by the motion of the car, the soft night air, but more than all by the sense of blessed security under Mrs. Slawson's protecting wing.

Martha was about to nudge Sam to look, when he turned a three-quarters profile toward her.

"I hear something back of us. Can you see?"

"No. If I stir she'll wake. You don't think it's him?"

"It may be. Joe Harding's place is down the valley road. He has a car. Buller mayn't suspect we're helping the girl, but when he didn't find her in that direction, Harding may have offered to take a hand in the game."

"Would any man o' conscience help a fella like Buller, who all the neighborhood knows the life he's led this poor creature—him an' the mother, which she's a disgrace to the name."

"No, but Harding ain't a man of conscience,—not so you'd notice it, as you say. If Buller's out on the still-hunt, Harding'd join in for the pleasure of the chase."

"Put on power," directed Martha.

Again that swift, silent progress through the night.

Once Sam whispered: "I guess we were stung. I can't hear anything back of us any more, can you?"

"No," said Martha. "But stung or no stung, keep a-goin'. We ain't takin' no risks."

Ellen Hinckley slept fitfully, but even in her waking moments she was not aware of the dangers the others had feared.

"Let her rest," Martha meditated. "After she's made a clean getaway, she'll have all that's comin' to her, in the line o' excitement an' strain. I don't believe'm when he says she ain't all there in the upper story. But that's not meanin' I think she's furnished as handsome as some. She may have all her buttons, an' yet not be the brainiest party I ever come in contract with. Why didn't she up an' open her mind an' give Buller a piece o' it long ago? There's many things a married woman's got to shoulder, God knows, but chas*tise*ment, hot off'n his griddle, as you might say, not on your life, even a married woman needn't stand, much less a unmarried maiden-girl. It ain't decent. If a man oncet took the strap to me, I'd fix'm so's the doctor'd have to hunt for the buckle o' his belt behind his internal workin's, in back among his spine. An' I'd be proud o' the job."

When they were within about five miles of Burbank Sam gave a low whistle.

"I was wonderin' if you heard it too," Martha responded promptly. "Firstoff I thought 'twas my imagination, but it ain't. Somethin' certaintly's follain' along in our tracks."

"The first was a false alarm. So may this be," said Sam.

"Sure. But, could you speed up some? Just for luck?"

Presently Martha heard another sound.

"Now, Ellen," she announced firmly, "you got to brace up. Cryin' won't do you a mite o' good."

"He's following. I know it. He's got a car. He'll get me and take me back and—kill me!"

"He will if you don't do as I say. But not on your life he won't, if you mind your aunt Martha. Firstoff, have you got your money safe an' handy?"

"Yes. Here."

"That's right. See you don't lose it, when I assist you onto the train. There mayn't be much time to spare, but if the brakeman's any good on the catch, I'm up to handin'm a neat throw, an' between us you'll get there!"

"But my ticket——"

"This is no time for thinkin' o' tickets. Let the conductor be glad if, after the train is on its way, you got the price o' one o' them long, floatin' streamer-effec's he carries in his vest-pocket, to amuse 'mself punchin' holes in it."

They sped into Burbank under all the power Sam dared put on.

"Thank God!" sobbed Ellen Hinckley.

But when they reached the station, no train was in sight, the place was virtually deserted.

Sam drew up beside the platform and, for a moment sat quite still, evidently cogitating.

"No such thing! The train ain't gone!" said Martha, as if he had maintained it had. "It's only five minutes to one."

"It might have been ahead of time."

"Did you ever know one was?" inquired his wife.

He got out and made his way to the waiting-room. A moment and he was back.

"There's been delays back along the road. The train's two hours late. It won't be here till three, or after."

"Well, what do you think o' that!" said Martha.

The next instant she was dragging Ellen Hinckley into the waiting-room, through it, and on into the telegraph-operator's booth.

"Say, young fella," she addressed him bluntly, "this party here's in danger of her life. Me an' my husban' is gettin' her out o' harm's way, which he's hot on our track. He'll be along any minute. Think o' your mother, if you ever had one. An if not, think o' some other female o' the same sect, only younger. Lend a hand, anyhow, to help us out, will you?"

The youth eyed Mrs. Slawson dubiously.

"How do I know——?" he began objecting.

"You don't. But, by the time I get through with you, you will. Only this ain't the time, see? Come now, step lively, like they say in New York. Put this party away, out o' sight. No matter how crampin' the place. An' be quick about it!"

The young man gazed about his booth helplessly, shook his head, then got upon his feet. He drew a key from his pocket, as if acting under hypnotic suggestion.

"I'm taking your word for it," he grumbled. "If it gets me into trouble——"

"I'll get you out," answered Martha confidently.

Without further ado he led them through the waiting-room, unlocked the baggage-room door and, in the semi-darkness, he and Martha walled their captive in behind a barricade of freight and baggage.

"Try to be contented till train-time," Mrs. Slawson admonished Ellen. "Don't you be scared. We won't forget you, nor we won't let your stepfather get you, 'less it's over this young-man-here's dead body an'——"

"Oh, I say!" objected the telegraph-operator plaintively.

Martha shook her head at him. "I only wanted to cheer her up," she whispered, as they passed out into the waiting-room, he locking the door behind them.

Sam came forward to meet her.

"I guess we had our scare for nothing," he observed. "If that'd been Buller behind us, he'd have got here before now."

"Not if he'd had tire-troubles. But prob'ly you're right," said Martha.

Sam considered. "Then what's the use of keeping the poor girl hid?"

"It won't hurt her. An' a ounce o' pervention is worth a pound o' cure."

Later the telegraph-operator took the trouble to shove up his window and address Martha through it. His tone was loftily supercilious, ironically facetious.

"Nothing doing! You've been stringing me, I guess!" he sagely opined.

Mrs. Slawson regarded him blandly.

"Certaintly. My husban' an' me, we come twenty-five miles streakin' through the night on purpose to do it. Such a precious jewel of a fella as you, anybody'd want to string'm, for safe-keepin', so's he wouldn't fall down an' roll away an' be lost in a crack o' the floor."

The telegraph-operator grimaced.

"Say, now, no joke! You said you'd tell me the whole story, so I'd know what I was in for. I ain't hankering to be called down by the Company for outdoing my duty."

Mrs. Slawson smoothed her dress over her knees. "Come an' sit on my lap, sonny-boy, an' I'll tell you all about it. Only bein' so young, an' havin' such a tender conscience with you, it might keep you awake in your crib nights. Did you ever see weels, as thick as my thumb, on the white skin of a young girl's shoulders? Well, I could turn back the waist o' that one in there, an' show you such. Raised by the leather-belt o' her mother's second husban', which they're perfect ladies an' gen'lmen, o' course, bless their hearts. They will be after her like mad, when they know she's given'm the slip. Good lan'! If young fellas was reely young fellas nowadays, you'd be glad of the chancet to pour some o' the Widow Cruse's oil on a poor ill-used child's troubled waters. An' not be thinkin' o' yourself all the time—if it'd harm you to help her, or if the Comp'ny would objec'."

The youth regarded her with level eyes.

"You can count on me," he said. "I'm with you in this, no matter what."

"Good bey!" said Martha.

The hours dragged wearily along. One by one disappointed travelers who had strayed off to kill time at the hotel, returned to meet their delayed train.

Martha had advance information concerning its coming, the lad at the wire furnishing it gratuitously.

"It'll be along now in five minutes," he said, "and I've put the baggage-man wise, so he's ready to help you get her off, as fine as silk, even if——"

Just then Martha saw Sam approaching. Though his step and manner were, to all outward appearances as usual, she instantly knew something was amiss.

"What is it?" she asked calmly.

"He's come. Him and Harding are here. They haven't seen me nor the car yet. I put that beyond, under a shed, where it wouldn't be conspicuous. But we can't dodge them long, and——"

"This way, ma'am!" summoned the baggage-man, touching Martha's elbow. "I got the young lady ready for you—and the train's coming."

"Take care of yourself, Sam," Martha cautioned him, following her leader.

The train thundered up. Before it had fairly come to a halt, Buller sighted Sam. He made a rush toward him, brandishing a menacing arm.

"Keep cool," advised Sam. "And keep off!"

"You've got the girl!" Buller roared. "We know you have, from them as saw you coming over here, three in the car. Where is she?"

"Find her," said Sam.

Buller turned to Harding. "You handle him, Joe. I'll tackle the woman."

Martha stood at the baggage-room door, as Buller came pounding down the platform.

"Hand over that girl!" He spoke with sinister calmness.

"Certaintly," said Martha. "That's just what I'm waitin' to do."

The engine whistled. Buller started toward Martha, getting in the way of the baggage-man, who was pushing a loaded hand-truck before him. His elbow sent Buller reeling. In that instant, through a maze, Buller saw Martha lift what had looked like a piece of burlap-covered baggage from the truck, and toss it, with sure aim, to the brakeman on the platform of the slow-moving car. The brakeman caught it deftly, and set it on its feet. The train slid past.

"Ellen!" Buller cried. Then, turning on Martha, "You—devil!"

Mrs. Slawson bowed civilly. "Same to you, sir."

"I'll—I'll do you up yet. You're not done with me, not by a long shot."

"I haven't a doubt o' it. I'm ready for you, any time. Likewise Mister Slawson. Only, I advise you, take it out on me. My husband might hurt you too much, if he got goin'."

As they were driving home through the waning light, Sam told Martha he faintly remembered hearing Ellen's knock on the door—"only he was too tired to get up."

"You were smart to hear it through your own snores," she returned pleasantly. "But when we get home, you must turn in, an' take a real sleep. I'll wake you when Buller comes."

CHAPTER X

Dr. Ballard had been absent a fortnight or more, and July was drawing to its close, when one afternoon Katherine heard the sound she had been longing for all these days, the familiar musical notes of his motor-horn.

Looking ahead expectantly, he spied her at once, and gave salute, as the car swept up to the porch, a silent military salute. Alighting, he passed directly upstairs to Madam Crewe's sitting-room.

Katherine followed after, drawn as if by the sense of something pending, something too interesting to miss.

Madam Crewe glanced around as the doctor entered.

"Oho, so you're back, are you?"

Dr. Ballard took a chair without waiting to be invited and said lightly, as he seated himself facing his patient:

"You speak the truth."

The old woman raised her chin. "Thank you, young man. You flatter me!"

"Not in the least," came the prompt retort. "I haven't come with any such intention. I've come—and I may as well out with it at once—I've come to tell you that I have found the reason for your dislike of 'the Ballard tribe.' I've discovered the case you have against us. I've been ferreting about among my grandfather's effects, and I've unearthed his Journal. Curious, isn't it, that a bailiff should have kept a Journal?"

Madam Crewe deigned no response.

After a pause lasting several seconds, Dr. Ballard continued: "I presume you would feel seriously affronted if I were to take the liberty of supposing you might be interested."

"Fudge! Have you the Journal there?"

"Yes."

"You have read it?"

"Quite so."

"Then you—know?"

"Yes."

"Well? And what then? What are you going to do about it?"

"I am going to read my grandfather's Journal aloud, now, here—I mean, that portion of it that relates to you."

Madam Crewe straightened to a military stiffness. "You are going to do nothing of the sort," she averred stoutly.

"Indeed I am."

"I'll not permit it. I'll send Katherine from the room."

"Oh, no you won't. You are too just to do that. You have made certain charges against my grandfather; now, the only fair thing, is to give him a show—to let him state his case, from his side."

"No. He wouldn't tell the truth. He falsified once. He'd falsify again."

"You haven't proved it."

"You have my word."

"Your word is all very well, as far as it goes. But even you would hardly claim that it goes all the way 'round the truth, and then tucks under, like Dick's hatband. My grandfather has a word too, and I'm going to see that he has a chance to get it in edgewise, and—what's more, that you listen."

Madam Crewe turned her body stiffly toward Katherine.

"Come here. Sit down!" she commanded autocratically.

Dr. Ballard took up his book, opening it at an obviously marked point.

"The first entry bearing any reference to you or yours was written in 1844. In the spring of that year he mentions going to see one Squire Stryker, in connection with the stewardship of his estate. I'll skip all the non-essentials and——"

"Skip nothing. Since you will read, read!"

"Very well.

"'Boston, February 6th, 1844. This morning saw Squire Stryker. He wishes to engage a bailiff. A hard man, I judge him to be. Not easy to please, because he is exacting, arbitrary, without judgment or justice. He is ruled by passion, not principle.

"'Feb. 10th. I have made my decision. For good or ill, I go to Squire Stryker's, in New Hampshire, to-morrow.'

"Following are several pages given over to notes and data connected with the estate. Its acreage, its possibilities, its limitations. Nothing else. They carry one to April, and—this:

"'A strange thing has happened. No, not a strange thing. The thing is simple, the strangeness is in its effect on me. There is a lane hard by, called Cherry Lane. 'Tis part of the estate. At this season the trees are in full blossom. I went there to estimate the probable yield of fruit, and the condition of the trees, and—underneath the white and pink boughs stood a white and pink maid. She looked at me and smiled. She told me she was Squire Stryker's daughter. She knew I was the new bailiff, she said.

"'April 14. I have seen the child again. Yes, again and again. Many times, in fact. I call her child because so indeed she seems to me, who am, at least, fifteen years older. She tells me she is seventeen. 'Tis hard to believe for that in stature she's no higher than my heart, and her eyes are as open and unconscious as a child's except when—— But that is my fancy! I am sure 'tis my fancy.

"'June 1st. 'Tis many weeks since that was written. Not that I have naught to say. Rather, too much. I find I cannot set down what is in my heart. Idea Stryker and I are betrothed!

"'June 14. Every afternoon towards sundown my little sweetheart and I walk in Cherry Lane. I wish she had a mother. I do not like these clandestine meetings. Sometimes I doubt myself. Not my love for Idea, God knows, but my power to make it tell for her best good. To-day I told her my conscience troubled me. I am no friend to untruth or furtive acts. Idea put on a look of high contempt, aping her father. She scowled at me, folded her arms across her bosom and, measuring me up and down, in his own manner to the life, said: "Deuce take your conscience, sir! I'll have none of it." Then, suddenly changing, she clung to me crying, "I'll have nothing but your love, Daniel! But, your love I'll die to have, and to hold." I let my heart direct me rather than my head, and gave way to her. But I still feel the better course would be to tell her father and make an end of this deceit.

* * * * *

"''Tis many a long day since I have taken up this book to write in it. Now that I do, 'tis in a different year and place. Yet I have often thought 'twas cowardly to shun the setting down in black and white of what will always be the deepest record of my heart. I have said Idea and I were at variance upon the point of telling her father what was between us. Again and again I tried to tell her 'twas unworthy of us both. But she always overruled me. I gave way. Then, one day when I spoke of it, she suddenly burst forth in such a passion as I have never seen. Poor child! 'Twas her father's fury, but not, this time, done in mimicry. She told me she was weary of being preached to about the truth, deceit, and duty. She would have me know she'd as good a sense of propriety as I. Nay, better, for, after all, who was I but her father's servant, she would like to know. "How dare you criticise me?" she blazed. "You forget I am your master's daughter."

"'I can see her now, standing there stamping her foot at me, her eyes flashing, her cheeks like flame. The rage in her flared up, then died down as quickly. That was her way. The heat in me has a different habit. It smolders and grows until it seems to freeze me with its white intensity. It is my bosom-enemy which I am trying to conquer. I had not done it then. "You are right," I said. "I had forgotten. I had forgotten everything except that you are the girl I loved, who I thought loved me. You have done well to remind me of my place. I will never forget it again, or that you are my master's daughter."

"'With that I turned, and left her standing, stunned, bewildered, in Cherry Lane. I could see she did not realize what had happened. She thought I would come back. She waited for me. And so I did come back, but not to let her see me. Only to watch over her, that no harm should befall, for the spot was lonely and far from the house, and dusk was about to fall. When the first star showed, she went home. I could hear her crying softly, all the way. She would cry, then stop to dry her tears, and call me names through her sobbing.

"'There were no more meetings after that, though she got in my way more than once, as I went about my duties. I knew very well what she wanted, but I could not relent. What my dear mother used to call my dumb demon had taken possession of me. It would not let me speak. Would not let me write to answer any of the letters Idea sent me begging me to meet her when the sun went down.

"'Then, one day, I was summoned before the Squire. She had told him.

"'He was waiting for me in his library, clad in his riding-clothes just as he had come from horseback. He carried a riding-crop. His face was of a dull reddish color, his eyes green. He began, the moment I entered the door, to assail me, standing with his back to it, his legs planted wide.

"'"You miserable beggar!" he brandished his crop in my face. "First, you have the insolence to make love to my daughter, then you insult her by refusing, when she stoops to offer you her hand in reconciliation."

"'"That is precisely the point," I heard myself say. "'Tis because she stoops."

The words were no sooner out, than Idea was clinging to me. "I'm not proud any more, Daniel," she cried. "I'll never stoop again. If you'll only forgive me this once, I'll promise never to vex you any more. Please, Daniel, please!"

"'The Squire snatched her wrist. "Silence!" he thundered, and would have swung her violently aside, but I prevented it. I saw the old look in her eyes.

"'"Then come with me," I said, "now—this hour. Marry me and——"

"'Her father flung himself between us, when she would have come to me. He swore he would disown her. No shilling of his should she ever get. She should be a beggar—married to a beggar.

"'I saw her shrink. She could not face it. When I saw that, I turned to go, but the Squire stopped me.

"'"Not so fast, my fine fellow! You've not returned the letters, yet. D'you think I'd let you keep them, you low dog, to use against her fair name, for a price?"

"'I had forgotten the letters. I turned to Idea, and it was as if I had not seen her before, so clear her image stood out, now. She was clad in some flowery stuff ("dimity," she had once told me 'twas) with a sash about her waist, and on the sash a pocket hung suspended by a strap. 'Twas to hold her handkerchief, but her handkerchief had to hold her tears now—and the pocket hung empty. I went to her and held out the letters. She would not take them.

"'"Here are your letters," I said.

"'Still she would not touch them.

"'Her father cursed us both. I felt my self-control slipping from me. If I let it go to lay my hand upon the man—God help him—and me. But I could not escape until Idea had the letters. Again, she would not take them. With a quick movement I thrust them in her pocket. She did not seem to understand what I was doing. She thought I was trying to grasp her hand, I think, for she flung it out to me imploringly. But I only dimly saw that as I wheeled about, and so, off and away. That day I left the place. Later, I learned, the Squire and Idea went too. But before they did so he caused his man of law to follow me, again demanding the letters.

"'"The letters have already been returned," was all I could say. "She has them. I gave them back. When she would not take them, I thrust them in her pocket."

"'With that the lawyer had, perforce, to be content. At least he has not troubled me since. So I close this book. A closed book, too, the story of my love. A book I know I must never open if ever I am to be at peace with life. For I will say it once and so be done, Idea is my mate—the one woman in the world whom only I love, or ever shall. I have lost her, but the memory of her I must keep until I die—my passionate, headstrong, struggling, loving child. May God be with her, true and loyal little heart, wherever she may go.'"

Dr. Ballard looked up, as he closed down the cover.

"You see, he did give back the letters," he said.

Madam Crewe clutched the arms of her chair, sitting forward, gazing fixedly into space. When she spoke it was as if she spoke in a dream, filling out the bailiff's tale.

"I had no letters and, as for the pocket, 'twas never seen from that day on. My father insisted 'twas a ruse on my—the bailiff's part, his offering to return them. He said he had kept them to use as a means of blackmail. I was too desperate to care. My father swore the man would presently show his hand, but he did not, nor his face either. I never saw him again. At first I would hear no ill of him, but my father and the attorney told me I was too young, too ignorant of the world, to know how base the creature was, what a narrow escape I had had. There were nights—many and many of them—when, here and abroad, I cried myself to sleep, regretting my escape hadn't been narrower.

"Now, sir, you know the story of your grandfather and me. It is all very long ago. The wonder is, the memory has stayed by me all these years."

For the first time within her recollection, Katherine felt herself drawn to her grandmother. It was as if a means of communication had been opened up between them. She would have liked to go to her and lay her arms about her shoulders lovingly.

Dr. Ballard broke the silence.

"The truth lies between your word, and my grandfather's. I believe he was honest. You believe the contrary."

Madam Crewe was silent.

The doctor continued. "Now, as you say, all that took place very long ago. Even granting my grandfather's motives to have been the worst, I count myself out of the tangle. I stand on my own feet, don't I? If I have built up my life on honest principle, I can't see how you can reasonably hold me to account for the sins or fancied sins of my forbears. Our democracy isn't worth the name, if it doesn't admit a man's a man for a' that. I love your granddaughter. I wish to marry her. I ask your consent."

Katherine could not see her grandmother's face for the sudden mist that had gathered to trouble her vision. But she heard the familiar voice distinctly enough.

"Wait a moment. Hear me out. Then repeat your declaration, if you choose. They say I'm avaricious. Rich, grasping, penurious. Suppose I told you I'm poor? That the bulk of my fortune was squandered long ago? That I've had a hard time to keep my nose, and this girl's here, above water? Would you wish to marry her, still?"

"Certainly. Why not?"

"You say that because you don't believe it's true."

"I say it because, saving your presence, I don't care a continental whether it's true or not. Your money or the lack of it, is nothing to me. I care for Katherine!"

"Suppose I told you Katherine's grandfather, the man I married, was a coward and a liar, as they said your grandfather was? Suppose I told you her father, my son, followed in his father's footsteps?"

Dr. Ballard shrugged impatiently. "It's Katherine I want for my wife. It's not her dead and buried ancestors. I have to deal with Katherine's faults and virtues, not those of her family."

"You hear that, Katherine? It's your faults and virtues he——"

Madam Crewe put the question with a sort of bravado, but her utterance was slightly unsteady. She did not conclude her sentence.

Katherine had grown very white.

When she did not respond, the old woman demanded peevishly, "Well, well? What have you to say for yourself? Can't you speak?"

"I say—I can't marry—Dr. Ballard." The girl rose and stood holding on to the back of her chair with two cold, trembling hands.

Her grandmother fairly raised herself up in her seat. "What do you mean——? 'You can't marry Dr. Ballard?'" Her voice rose to a sharp falsetto.

Katherine shook her head.

"Nonsense! Whim!" The old woman spoke with unaccountable passion.

Dr. Ballard laid a firm, warm hand on Katherine's cold ones. His face was rather pale, but his tone, when he spoke, was quite composed.

"Forgive me," he said. "I see I've got in all wrong on this. I didn't mean to distress you. Let us drop it now, and later, some time, when we two are alone together, we'll thresh it out, eh?"

Again Katherine shook her head. "No, I want never to talk about it again," she said tremulously.

"Why?" The old woman asked the question almost fiercely, bending forward to peer searchingly into her granddaughter's face.

For a moment it looked as if Katherine were in danger of being swept off her feet by the intensity of her hidden feeling. She opened her lips, then resolutely closed them again. Her grandmother did not seem to see, or, at all events, did not regard her effort at self-control.

"Have you no tongue in your head?"

"Say it isn't true—what you've just hinted, about my father and his. Say it isn't true, and I'll—tell——"

"Ho! Do you think I'm to be called to account by you, young miss?" Madam Crewe interrupted testily. "If Dr. Ballard is ready to marry you, in the face of the conditions I asked him to suppose, why, get down on your knees, and thank God for such a disinterested lover. But don't flatter yourself you can oblige me to do as you choose. I am sixty-eight years old and I will not be forced."

Dr. Ballard laughed out.

"Don't you see it's all nonsense, Katherine? The whole thing isn't worth a serious thought. If your grandmother likes to have her little joke, why, let us try to see the humor of it. Perhaps she doesn't want you to marry me. But now she sees it's inevitable, she'll——"

"No," said Katherine. "It's not inevitable. I can't marry you."

Dr. Ballard was silent, but Madam Crewe's words snapped out like sparks from a live wire.

"The day Norris was here, you said you would. You insisted you would. Does your refusal now mean you've reconsidered the conditions he suggested? You've thought better of your first decision?"

Katharine gave her a long look. It seemed to her, her humiliation was complete. And still she managed to hold herself in check.

"You make it very hard for me—you force me to say things—I—— Very well, then listen! I do love Dr. Ballard and—I'd have married him if—I could!"

He was on his feet in a second, the chair he had sat in crashing backward with the violence of the sudden spring he made from it. But Katherine was quicker than he. She turned and had run from the room before he could prevent her.

Madam Crewe let her breath escape in a long sigh of fatigue.

"Dear me! What tiresome things the young are! As Slawson says, they're hard as nails. You'd better reconsider, and ask me to marry you instead of Katherine. I'm seasoned, if not mellowed. Yes, you'd much better marry me."

Dr. Ballard smiled grimly. "Where my handsomer grandfather failed, how could I hope to win?" he retorted, throwing her a glance of mock gallantry. But even as he looked, he saw her face blench, her figure sag together like a wilted plant. In a second he had her in his arms, carrying her to the couch, forgetting the personal in the professional, working over her with a will.

A familiar figure appeared in the open doorway.

Martha paused a moment, then came forward swiftly.

"Another——?" she inquired, her hands busying themselves at once in obedience to the doctor's silent orders.

He shook his head. "No."

Presently Martha felt a quiver of muscles beneath her fingers. Madam Crewe's eyelids lifted. She made an effort to raise herself.

"What's all this—to-do?" she taxed her strength to demand.

Dr. Ballard laid a restraining hand upon her shoulder.

"Nothing. That is, nothing serious. You'd been over-exerting. Nature stepped in and shut down the shop for a moment."

"Meaning—I lost consciousness? For how long? How came Slawson here? Did you send?"

Martha answered in the doctor's stead.

"No'm. I just happened along. My Sabina, she took it into her head this afternoon there was no place like home—an' she was glad of it. Her an' me disagreed on some triflin' matters, an' she threatened she'd leave if I didn't come to terms. I tol' her: 'I'm sorry you feel that way, but if you concluded you must go, why, I s'pose you must. We all enjoyed your s'ciety for the last five years, but the best o' friends must part, an' far be it from me to stand in your way, if you perfer to look for another situation, an' think you can better yourself. I'll do up your things for you, for luck!' So I did an' out she stepped, as bold as brass, with her clo'es done up in a bundle slung on the end of a old gulf-stick Mr. Ronald he give her brother Sammy, to carry over her shoulder. She ain't been gone above three hours, but I thought while I was bringin' up the evenin's milk, I'd ask if, maybe, she'd blew in here?"

Madam Crewe compressed her lips. "No. Even your baby would know better than to come here for a happy home," she said with a caustic smile. "On your way back, you'd better look for my child, who, also, has probably run away. It seems to be the fashion nowadays for youngsters to defy their elders."

Dr. Ballard gave Martha a look.

"Well, I must be movin'. I took the liberty to bring you a form o' Spanish cream I made this afternoon. It's kind o' cool an' refreshin', when you ain't an appetite for substantialler things."

Passing Katherine's door she paused and lightly tapped on the panel. There was no answer. She dared not take it on herself to turn the knob, so went slowly downstairs, and, finally, out of the house and grounds.

Once in the road she saw, a short distance ahead of her, an easily recognizable figure.

"Oh—Miss Katherine!" she called softly.

For a moment the girl seemed undecided what to do. She walked on as if she had not heard the call, then suddenly wheeled about and stopped.

"I was afraid I'd missed you," Mrs. Slawson said casually. "All I wanted, was to tell you that if your gran'ma shouldn't be so well after her faintin'-spell, why, I'm ready to come an' help any time, be it night or day."

Katherine looked up, her face changing quickly.

"Fainting-spell?" She echoed the words vaguely.

"Yes. She come out o' this one all right, but if she had another you couldn't tell, at her age, poor ol' lady! Thanks be! it wasn't a stroke. Anyhow, I'd advise you keep Eunice Youngs overnight, to run an' carry, if need be."

The struggle was short and sharp. Martha pretended not to see. She pretended not to be aware that Miss Katherine had on her traveling hat, carried her coat over her arm, a bag in her hand.

"I'll go back!" the girl said at last, as if ending a debate.

"Be sure you send if you need me," Martha repeated.

They parted without another word, and Mrs. Slawson, resuming her homeward way, summed up the case to herself.

"Yes, she's gone back this time. But come another tug o' war between her an' the ol' lady, an' I wouldn't be so certain. I wonder now, how my young vagabone is doin', which her brothers an' sisters are all out on the still-hunt, searchin' for her this minute."

She had barely reached the house, and was busying herself with preliminary supper preparations, before starting out again to look for her stray lamb, when the screen-door was gently opened from without, and a small person, very grimy as to outward visible signs, very chastened as to inward spiritual grace, entered the kitchen quietly.

Martha appeared totally unconscious of any other presence than her own, until Sabina's mind became vaguely troubled with doubts of her own substantiality. Her pilgrim's pack slipped from her shoulder, the "gulf-stick" fell clattering to the floor. Even then Mrs. Slawson made no sign.

The suspense was fast becoming unendurable. The child's under-lip thrust out, her chin began to quiver, but she controlled herself gallantly. Nixcomeraus, the cat, rose from where he had been lying curled up in a doze, humped a lazy back, stretched, yawned, and, with dignified mien, crossed the floor to rub against his little friend's familiar legs. That something, at least, recognized her, and knew she had come home, after her long, weary absence, almost upset Sabina's equilibrium. She bent down to stroke pussy's fur.

"I see," she essayed, with a superb effect of nonchalance, "I see you still have the same old cat!"

At the sound of her voice Martha turned.

"My, my!" she exclaimed, one hand clasping the other in surprise, "you don't mean to say this is Sabina! How glad I am to see you! Won't you sit down an' stay a little while? Cora an' Francie an' Saromy've gone out strollin', but they'll be back before long, an' they'd be disappointed if you'd 'a' went before they got home, so's they'd miss your call."

Sabina's eyes rolled. She gulped hard once, twice, three times. Then with a roar, her "austere control" gave way, she cast herself bodily upon her mother, clasping the maternal massive knees.

"I ain't goin' to stay a lit-tle whi-ile," she sobbed. "I'm goin' to stay always. I want C-Cora! 'n' I want F-Francie! 'n' I want S-Sammy! 'n' YOU!"

Martha bent to lift the giant-child so the stout little arms could clutch her neck.

"Now, what do you think o' that!" she ejaculated, holding the shaken traveler close.

Appeared Sammy in the doorway, troubled at first but brightening suddenly at sight of his recovered sister.

"Hey, Sabina's home!" he shouted ecstatically back to the others. Then all came trooping in with a rush, clinging about the youngest, hugging her, kissing her as if she had been gone a year.

"Why, it's just like the Prodigal's son, ain't it?" suggested Martha, in whose lap Sabina sat enthroned, refusing to leave it for even a moment.

"Who's he?" asked Sammy.

Mrs. Slawson cast a look of reproach at her son.

"Shame on you, to ask such a question, at your age! Don't you remember the old prodigal gen'lman lived in the Bible, which his son had a rovin' disposition an' went off gallivantin' till his pervisions give out, an' he had to come home to get a square meal? When his father saw'm afar off, he got up, an' went out, an' called'm a fatted calf, an'—no I I'm wrong, he asked'm wouldn't he like some fatted calf, which, his son, bein' fond o' young veal, did, an' so they killed'm—I mean the calf. Now I'm wonderin' which one o' you three I better do it to for Sabina! There, there, Sabina! Don't holla so! O' course I don't mean I'd reely hurt your brothers an' sisters. Come, you're all tired out, or you wouldn't be so foolish! Cheer up, now! You're back home, after all your wanderin's, an' you won't be naughty any more—if you can help it, will you?"

CHAPTER XI

Whatever had been the cause of disagreement between Madam Crewe and her granddaughter, Martha noticed that a negative peace, at least, had been restored by the time she had occasion to go to Crewesmere again.

"And so you've been aiding and abetting a run-away girl, eh?" the old lady accosted her sharply.

Mrs. Slawson had almost forgotten the Ellen Hinckley episode, in the quick succession of events nearer home.

"You mean——" she pondered.

"You know perfectly well what I mean. The Hinckley girl. You assisted her to make her escape from that Buller brute. I hope you thought well, before you took the risk."

"Risk?" repeated Martha.

"Yes, risk. Evidently you don't know the difference between courage and recklessness."

"No'm, I don't. But I'll look'm up in the dickshunerry."

Madam Crewe brought her teeth together with a snap.

"Slawson, you're a strange specimen. I sometimes wonder if you're plus or minus. You certainly are not a simple equation, that's sure."

Martha smiled. "Speakin' o' the Hinckley girl—Ellen—I'd a letter from the uncle she went to, sayin' she landed there safe an' sound. So she's off'n my mind."

"And Buller?"

"He never was on it. I don't mind him. His name ought to been spelled with a Y 'stead of the R. Them kind's never dangerous."

"Well, I hope not. All the same, I wish you'd kept your finger out of that pie for your own safety's sake."

Martha laughed. "I got two good fists of my own with me, that shoots out fine when required. Warranted to hit the bull's eye every time. I used to tell my husband, when we lived down in the city, I was afraid I might be arrested for carryin' unconcealed weapons."

Madam Crewe's stern little visage did not relax. "You'd need a more effective weapon than your two fists, if you had Buller to deal with," she said. "I've a mind to give you my son's revolver. Will you take it?"

Martha drew back quickly. "No'm, thank you, bein' much obliged, all the same. My husband an' me, we don't believe in settlin' disputes that way. Shootin', be it by one, or be it by many, is murder, an' nothin' else. I'd like to put a stop to it, if I could. I'm dead set against it. They talk about puttin' a stop to war, an' some says you couldn't do it. But you could do it. If every man who was 'listed, just crossed his arms, an' said respectful but firm: 'No, siree! Not on your life I won't shoot!' an' stuck to his word—where'd they get their armies? You can't square anythin' with round bullets. I wouldn't mind cuffin' Buller a good lick or two, but I wouldn't shoot'm. I've too much respec' for my own peace o' mind."

"Well, at least take the precaution to keep off these country roads after nightfall. Get yourself home now. And when you come here again, if it's at night like this, bring that dog of yours, that you talk so much about, along with you."

"Flicker? Goodness! Flicker's the peaceablest party of us all. He wouldn't be a mite o' perfection, even if we'd let'm out. Since we first took'm off'n the street, Flicker thinks everybody means well by'm. He'd never get over the shock if somebody treated'm low down. He just wouldn't believe it, that's all. But anyhow, Sam (my husband) he's been obliged to set some traps for the foxes that prowels 'round after Mr. Ronaldses hens an' ours, an' we're afraid Flicker might get caught in one, if we'd leave'm run free nights."

Acting on Madam Crewe's gentle hint, Martha proceeded to take herself off. She had not really thought of Buller with any apprehension, but as she walked along the dark, lonely road, the suggestion worked, and she fancied him lying in wait for her behind "any old ambush growin' by the way, ready to spring," as she told herself.

This did not prevent her from tramping on when, at last, she reached her own door, and realized she was out of yeast, and Cora had need of some for the night's "raisin'."

Mrs. Lentz "admired" to let her have the loan of a cake. Martha chatted a while, then started away, this time headed directly for home. She had gone but a short distance, the length of a city block perhaps, when, suddenly, she came to a standstill.

"Who's there?" she demanded sternly. Her voice sounded unfamiliar, even to her own ears. She attempted to flash her lantern-light into the inky blackness of the thicket hedging the road-bank. "Who's there?" she repeated.

Silence.

For a second, she doubted her own instinct, and was on the point of passing sheepishly on, ashamed of her childishness, when a sinister rustle in the shadow brought her, as it were, up standing again, instantly alert, on the defensive.

"Who's there?" rang out for the third time. "If you don't speak or show this minute, I'll come an' fetch you."

The rustle increased. A blotch of shadow detached itself from its vague background, and a huddled shape inched forward, like a magnified beetle.

Martha held her lantern up as she took a step forward to meet the thing.

"MA!" she exploded. Then—— "Well, what do you think o' that!"

"O—oh, Martha!"

The next minute the magnified beetle was passionately clinging to "me son Sammy's wife," as if there were no other anchorage in all the world.

"But for the love o' Mike, Ma, how come you here? You're shakin' like an ash-pan. You're all done up. Never mind tellin' me now. When we're home is time enough."

Fairly carrying the poor, limp creature, heartening her, soothing her, Martha got her, at last, to the Lodge, set her in Sam's chair, with the comforting pilla to rest the holla in her back, brought her the reinforcing cuppertee which, in hot weather or cold, was Ma's greatest solace and, to crown all, sat down and listened, while she told of the dangers she had passed.

"It's a thrawn lot they are, down there," she began, sniffing vigorously. "You wouldn't believe the way they do be goin' on. I bided wit' Dennis an' Sarah for a bit, but there was no peace in the house at all. Every time I'd open me mouth, Sarah she'd be for jumpin' down me throat. There's no livin' wit' the likes of her, let alone himself, an' the childern. Nora-Andy told me they've the hearts of stone in their breast, the way they'd be never carin' how you'd get along. 'Twas two weeks I bided wit'm, an' then Sarah she brought me in the subway down to Hughey's. 'Twas the baby there had whoopin'-cough, an' Hughey says 'twould be very unlucky for one so old as me to be catchin' it off her. Liza says: 'It would that. I wouldn't have it on me conscience,' says she. I says, 'How would I be catchin' the whoopin'-cough, when I had it, itself, an' all the young 'uns here had it, long ago, an' me by, an' never a touch of it on me.' But they was that set on keepin' me safe from contagion, they wouldn't so much as let me stay the night under the roof. Sarah was as mad, as mad. Her an' Liza had it hot an' heavy between'm. They fairly had me killed wit' their sparrin'. 'Twas to Mary-Ellen's they took me at last. An' when Sarah told Mary-Ellen of Liza's behavior, Mary-Ellen was fit to slay her. 'If it's to Liza Slawson my mother has to look for a home, her own daughters must be under the sod,' says she. I was wit' Mary-Ellen one week, come Tuesda', an' I would 'a' be contented to settle down there, only for Owen havin' a letter from his rich uncle, sayin' he'd come to visit'm for a bit. They couldn't be after offendin' him, explainin' they'd no room itself. So Mary-Ellen ast me would I shift over to Nellie's till she'd have the uncle in my bed. An' to Nellie's I went. But, you know as good as me, the sorta man is himself. You could search the world over, an' not find a contrarier. Me heart was sore for Nellie, but at the same time she'd no call to say I drew the temper out of her Michael, the like she never see equaled. 'He's never so gusty when we're alone,' says she. Well, well! Be this an' be that, I couldn't be sure I'd a roof to lay me head on, the night. Nora's new man has a tongue in'm, would scare you off, before you'd ever set foot in it, at all. Like a surly dog! An' all the while, the city as hot as hot! The heart of me did be oozin' out in sweat, every day. An' not one o' them to take me to the Park, or set foot in Coney Island, itself, let alone back home. The cravin' took holt o' me, till I could thole it no longer. I had the thrifle in me purse Sam give me when he left, for to spend, if I needed it. (God knows the rest never showed me so much as the face of a penny!) I packed me little bag, an', be meself, I wanda'ed to the railroad station—the cops tellin' me how to get there, itself. An' so I come back. Travelin' all the da', from airly dawn. I'd to wait at Burbank for the trolley to bring me here. Then I started for to walk afoot. But the dark come down, an' every sound I heard, it stopped the tickin' of me heart, like a clock. When I heard the steps of one along the road, I crep' into the bushes, to hide till they'd pass. Your voice, Martha, was never your own at all. 'Twas like a man's voice. The height of you showed like a tower itself, back o' the lantren. I'd never know 'twas a female. I'd no stren'th to resist a wild tramp. So, when you ast me, 'answer who it is,' the tongue in me head was dumb. But, 'tis glad I am to be home again, surely."

Sam went to the front door to shake out the ashes from his pipe. When he came back Martha was helping Ma up the stairs to her own room.

"Won't the childern be surprised an' pleased to see you back, in the mornin'," she was saying heartily.

Cora, bringing up the rear, remarked with importance, "Mother sent'm to bed sooner'n usual 'cause to-morrow morning we all got to get up early. We're going with Miss Claire, in the la'nch, across the lake, to see a blue herring, she's got there in a cove."

"A blue herring, is it? Well, well!" said Ma abstractedly.

Cora went on. "Mother said when Francie told her, firstoff, you'd gone away for good, an' wasn't coming back—Mother said, 'No matter how much I feel my loss, I must try to be cheerful.' Mother said it was a shock, but you mustn't let the world see your suffering. The world's got troubles of its own."

Ma's dull eyes brightened. She gazed up searchingly into her daughter-in-law's face. "And, did you say that indeed, Martha?" she questioned.

Martha punched a pillow pugilistically. "Very likely," she answered holding the ticking with her teeth, while she pulled the clean slip over it. "Yes, I said it."

The old woman slowly, tremulously undressed.

After Cora had gone, and Ma was in bed, Martha lingered a moment, before turning out the light.

"I'm sorry you had such disappointment," she said. "But doncher care, Ma. Sometime us two'll go down to New York together, an' I'll give you the time o' your life."

For a moment Ma made no response. Then her quavering voice shook out the words, as if they had been stray atoms, falling from a sieve: "It ain't the disappointment I'm after mindin' so much," she lamented. "I could thole that, itself—but—(perhaps it's a silly old woman I am)! but the notion it's got into me head that—that—maybe the lot o' them—didn't want me!"

Martha extinguished the light with a jerk. "Oh, go to sleep, Ma, an' quit your foolishness. I'll say to you what I say to the childern. If you cry about nothin', look out lest the Lord'll be givin' you somethin' to cry for."

"Then you don't think——?"

"Oh, go to sleep, Ma," repeated Martha, as if the question were not debatable.

The sun was barely up when the children began to stir.

"Say, Sabina," Cora whispered, "I bet you don't know what's in Ma's room."

A quick sortie, and Sabina did know. Then Sammy knew, and Francie knew.

"Come, come!" cried Martha, appearing on the threshold, "get yourselves dressed, the whole of you. Don't use up all your joy at the first go-off. Leave some to spread over the rest of the time. Ma's goin' to stop, you know. Besides—we can't keep Miss Claire waitin'."

"In my da'," observed Ma thoughtfully, "it wouldn't 'a' been thought well of, for a lady like that to be la'nchin' out, just before——"

"It's not my picnic," Martha interrupted. "I said all I could to pervent it in the first place. But her heart's fixed, an' I couldn't say her no, 'specially when Lord Ronald said he saw no harm, an'd go along too."

"Well, if he sees no harm—and is goin' along too——" Ma murmured, as if her consent were to be gained on no other grounds.

"Certaintly," said Martha.

Everything was in readiness in and about the trim little Moth, when Claire Ronald appeared on the dock.

"Where's Mr. Frank?" Mrs. Slawson asked.

"He got a message late last night from Boston, about some stuff for the electric-plant. They've sent it on, and he had to go to Burbank to examine it, so, in case it wasn't right, it could be shipped straight back. He said it would save time and cartage, and he wants the work put through as soon as possible."

"Then, o' course we'll put off our trip!"

"Oh, no!"

"Did he say we could go, an' him not here to go along too?"

"No—but——"

"Then, I guess we'll call it off."

Claire's mouth set, in quite an uncharacteristic way.

"No, indeed! We'll go! We couldn't have a better morning."

"Well, I do' know, but I wisht I had my long-handled feather-duster here to brush away some o' them flims o' dust off'n the ceilin'."

"Why, those are darling little clouds!" Miss Claire exclaimed reproachfully. "When the sun gets high, it will draw them out of sight entirely, and the sky will be as clear as crystal."

"It's as you think, not as I do," Mrs. Slawson rejoined. "If you're shooted, I'm shot!"

"In with you, children. Steady now!" commanded Claire.

Martha being already at the wheel, her husband had only to stow Mrs. Ronald and the girls safely amidships, see Sammy stationed in the stern in charge of the rudder-ropes, release the boat from its moorings, and The Moth was ready for flight.

"Take care of yourselves!" he called after them.

"Sure!" Martha shouted back, and they were off.

Now she was fairly in the line of having her own way, Claire was radiant.

"The idea of finding fault with this day!" she taunted laughingly. "Why, I couldn't have made it better, myself!"

"Why don't those birds fly up in the sky, mother?" asked Francie. "What makes 'em fly so low down, right over the water?"

"They are gulls," Mrs. Ronald answered, as if that explained the mystery.

It was a tremendous surprise to find the blue heron a bird instead of "a delicatessen."

For a couple of hours after her first introduction to the new acquaintance Martha kept exclaiming at intervals. "Well, what do you think o' that!" as a sort of gentle indication of her amazement.

"Say, mother, the way the herring walks, it'd make you think o' folks goin' up the church-aisle to get married—steppin' as slow, as slow. Bridesmaids an' things."

Martha winked solemnly across at Claire.

"Nothin' interests Cora so much these days, as the loverin' business. She's got it on the brain."

"Dear me! But there are no lovers around here, I'm sure," Claire said, amused.

"Oh, yes, there are. There's you an' Lord Ronald, an' there's Dr. Ballard an' Miss Katherine—an'——"

"Say, young lady, you talk too much——"

"Well, mother, it's true. I know he likes her a lot, 'cause——"

"That's enough, Cora. You're too tonguey. Go along an' play with your little brothers an' sisters."

When they were alone Mrs. Ronald turned to Martha. "Is it really true, Martha? Is Dr. Ballard interested in Miss Crewe?"

Mrs. Slawson laughed. "Like that advertisement says the baby's interested in the soap: 'He won't be happy till he gets it!'"

"And does she——?"

"Certaintly. You couldn't help it. But the little ol' lady has her face set against it. You got such pretty, tackful ways with you—sometime, when you're with the little Madam you might kind o' work around to help the young folks some, if you'd be so good."

Cora came wandering back. The play of the younger children did not divert her. She watched the blue heron as it silently, delicately paced up and down the beach, picking its way among the submerged stones, suddenly darting its head beneath the surface of the water, bringing up a bull-head, perhaps, and swallowing it whole.

"Ain't he perfectly killin'?" she murmured. "The way he acts like he's too dainty to live? And see that yellow flower over there! We had loads and loads of it last fall, and I used to take it to the teacher till one of the girls laughed at me 'cause she said the woods's full o' them, an' besides it gave the teacher hey? fever. That's a joke. It means, it'd make her ask more questions than she does already. Ann Upton said that. Ann is awful smart. Once, when her composition was all marked up with red ink, 'cause the teacher had corrected it so much, Ann said 'she didn't care. It was the pink of perfection.'"

"That yellow weed is goldenrod," explained Miss Claire. "Do you remember the names of any of the other wild-flowers I taught you a year ago, Martha?"

"Well, not so's you'd notice it. Lemme see! P'raps I do. Wasn't there a sort o' purple flower you called Johnny-pie-plant?"

Mrs. Ronald laughed. "Joepyeweed, yes. You got the idea."

"An' then, there was wild buckwheat, an' Jewel-weed an'—now, what's the matter with me, for a farmer? Don't I know a thing or two about the country?"

"You certainly do."

"An' I know the name o' some too," asserted Cora. "Brides-lace, and Love-in-a-mist, and——"

"Sweet Sibyl of the Sweat-shop, or——"

"Mother, I think you're real mean!" Cora cried, anxious to prevent further betrayal.

"Say, ladies an' gen'lmen, I hate to break up this pleasant ent'tainment, but I guess you don't realize how long we been dreamin' the happy hours away, like Miss Frances Underwood used to sing, before she married Judge Granville—which they ain't so happy now, not on your life, poor dear! I think we better get a move on, or we'll get soaked good and plenty. It's my opinion we're goin' to have a shower."

Claire did not attempt to argue the point. It was too evident that something was really going to happen.

"Yes, let's hurry," was all she said. "It's later than I thought."

Martha summoned her straying flock, and they made for the boat.

The little clouds, no bigger than a man's hand, had turned gray. Francie's friends, the gulls, were darting excitedly to and fro, as if without direction, very close to the face of the water. Here and there the lake showed a white-cap.

Martha stood at the wheel, in the bow, and steered straight for the opposite shore.

For a while Mrs. Ronald kept up a careless chatter with the children, then, as if by common consent, there was silence.

A sharp wind had risen out of nowhere, apparently, and begun to lash the water into frothy fringes that tossed their beads of spray high over the side of the boat. Suddenly Francie screamed. This time it was not the spray, but the wave itself that the blast rushed before it to break full upon The Moth, drenching the child to the skin.

Martha glanced around to see what the trouble was.

"There's some tarpaulin under the seats," she shouted back over her shoulder, "wrap it about you an'—dry up!"

Again there was silence, while the clouds massed themselves into granite barricades, shutting out the light, and the gale gathered force and fury with every second. It was impossible, now, to see the farther shore. The little Moth seemed blindly fluttering in a dense mesh of gray mist impossible to penetrate.

"We're going every which way!" moaned Cora.

At the same instant—"The rudder-ropes, Sammy!" shouted Martha.

The boy slipped from his place, and, by sense of touch alone, found the cause of the obstruction, and freed the ropes.

The Moth gave a leap forward into the mist.

"I'm afraid!" roared Sabina in no uncertain voice.

"What you afraid of?" came back from the bow. "Don't you know, if there was any danger I'd get out!"

To the children, accustomed as they were to accept their mother's word without question, the statement carried instant reassurance. Sabina stopped roaring, and Francie only screamed when each new wave broke over her, threatening to swamp the boat.

"Hush, Francie!" called Miss Claire at length in a tense, strained voice. "You'll make your mother nervous."

Martha, hearing, answered back, "She don't make me nervous. There's nothing to be nervous about. Let her scream, if it makes her happy."

Francie stopped screaming.

All the while the throbbing of the little engine had been steady, incessant. But now Martha noticed that, at intervals, it missed a beat. She waited to see if it would right itself. A minute, and it had ceased altogether.

"Sammy!"

It only needed that to send the boy crawling, on his hands and knees, to start it up afresh, if he could—working, as his father had taught him to work.

The Moth spun around and around, in the trough of the waves.

Martha "knew what she knew," but her hands never left the wheel for an instant. What if the engine could not be made to go? What could she say to Mr. Frank if——? No, there was this comfort, if the worst came to the worst she would be the last to have a chance to say anything, to any of those waiting on the shore....

She heard the steady heart-beat start afresh.... The boy was back in his place. Martha, with new courage, strained her vision to pierce through the curtain of mist and rain, could see nothing, but clung to her wheel.

At length she realized she was steering toward something that she, alone of all the little group, could see—a faint adumbration, showing dark through the pall of enveloping gray.

But now the wind and the water were so high it was impossible to steer straight for the home-shore—she could only make it by slow degrees.

The storm had whipped her thick hair out of its customary coils. It blew about her face and shoulders in long, wet strands, buffeting her, blinding her. She never lifted a hand to save herself the stinging strokes.

Little by little the dark line widened, the way was made plain. Little by little Martha wheedled The Moth shoreward.

"I see somepn'," shouted Francie, at last. "I see our dock!" After an interval: "I see folks on our dock!" Later still: "I see father, 'n' Mr. Ronald, 'n' Ma, 'n'—oh! lots o' folks!"

The Moth fluttered forward. The waves beat her back. She seemed to submit with meekness, but a second later, seeing her chance, she dodged neatly, and sped on again, so, at last, gaining the quiet water of the little bay.

Mr. Ronald and Sam Slawson, in silence, made her fast to her moorings. In silence, Martha gave Claire into her husband's arms. He wrapped the shaking little figure about, in warm dry coverings, and carried her home, as he would a child.

The second they were out of sight and hearing, a babel of voices rose, Ma's shrill, high treble piping loud above the rest:

"When we saw the tempest gatherin', an' youse out in it, on the deep, an' not a boat could make to get to youse, the fear was in me heart, I didn't have a limb to move."

A burly form shoved her unceremoniously aside,

Joe Harding approached Martha, implanted a sounding kiss on her cheek.

"By gum, you're a cracker-jack, Mrs. Slawson, and no mistake!" he announced.

One by one the little knot of men and women followed suit, Fred Trenholm, Nancy Lentz, Mr. Peckett—all who, by the wireless telegraph that, in the country, flashes the news from house to house, had heard of The Moth's danger, and had come over to help if they could, and—couldn't.

Martha looked from one to the other in surprise.

"Well, what do you think o' that!" she managed to articulate through her chattering teeth, and then could say no more.

"Come along home, Martha," urged Sam gently.

CHAPTER XII

At first it seemed as if no one was to be any the worse for the morning's adventure.

As soon as she had attended to the children, had changed her own cold, drenched garments for dry, Martha hastened over to the big house.

Tyrrell, the butler, informed her that Mrs. Ronald was resting quietly enough now, but they had been uncommonly anxious about her at the start. The shock had unnerved her. When her husband carried her in, she was crying like a baby.

"Well, you know where to find me, if, when she wakes, she seems the least bit ailin'. All you have to do is ring me up, an' I'll be over in the shake of a lamb's tail."

But when the day passed, and there was no summons, when supper was over and the children, including Cora and Ma, in bed, Martha could stand it no longer.

"I just got to go over, an' see for myself how the land lays," she explained to Sam. "I know it's silly, but I just got to."

"All right. Come along," said Sam.

Martha shook her head. "No, you don't. Somebody's needed here in case, while I'm between this an' the big house, the telephone'd ring."

Patient Sam acquiesced at once. "Have it your own way. You've earned the right to have notions, and be fidgety if you want to. But no news is good news, an' what you'll make by running over there at this hour of night, when they said they'd 'phone if anything was needed, I don't know."

"I'll sleep better if I see for myself," was all the explanation Martha could give.

It was very dark, outside, once she got beyond the light from the Lodge windows. In her haste she had forgotten to bring the lantern with her, but she did not go back for it, because she felt she knew every inch of the ground, and, moreover, the impulse that drew her forth was so strong that she could not endure the idea of delay for a moment. She had discovered a short-cut across the grounds and meant to use it, though she knew Sam disapproved any trespassing on his adored lawns, hedges, and shrubberies, and, as a general rule, she respected his wishes. But now she made straight for the thicket of bushes walling in her kitchen-garden, meaning to push through it, at the point of least resistance, strike across the roadway and so slice off a good quarter of a mile, by bisecting the lawn sweeping up to the big house. Just within the thicket she stood as if at attention. For the life of her she could not have said what brought her to a standstill, but also, for the life of her, she could not go on until she knew what was on the other side of that wall of bushes.

Listening, she could hear nothing but the common-place night-sounds, now grown familiar to her ears. The stirrings of leaves, when the wind sighed through them, the surreptitious whirr of wings aloft, up over the tree-tops, the lowly meanderings of insects among the grass, the soft pad-pad of tiny, furry feet scampering to safety. But there was still another sound, an unusual, unfamiliar sound. It came to Martha in a flash what it was. A fox, caught in one of Sam's traps.

"Oh, you poor devil, you!" she heard herself exclaim.

The words were echoed by a human groan, so close at hand, she fairly started.

"Who are you?" Her question rang out sharply.

"None of your damned business!" came back in instant answer. "But since you're here, curse you! come, and get me out of this —— —— trap."

A light flashed, by which Martha made out a man's figure crouching on the ground the other side of the hedge. His face was completely hidden, not alone by the drooping brim of his soft hat, but by a sort of black mask he wore. Without a moment's hesitation she forced her way through the hedge. Now she could see more plainly, she made out that the man was on his hands and knees. One hand was free—the other, caught in the fox-trap, was bleeding cruelly. On the ground, within easy reach lay a pistol, a bundle of fagots, and a bull's-eye electric torch. The man's uninjured left hand was clutching the torch.

"Doncher stir a muscle, Mr. Buller," Martha said imperatively, "till I make out how this thing works. I don't want to hurt you more than I got to, unspringin' the trap."

Buller swore violently as he bade her, "Go ahead then, and be quick about it!"

A moment, and the mangled hand was free. Instantly, its owner listed over on the grass in a dead faint, in total darkness.

Martha felt about in the darkness for the torch, set it glowing and, by aid of its light, found a flask in Buller's pocket, some of the contents of which she forced between his lips. When he was fully conscious, she bade him pick up his belongings, and come along home with her, where she could look after his hand, and, if necessary, telephone for the doctor.

Clutching at her shoulder, he staggered to his feet.

"Don't forget your gun," warned Martha drily.

"Damn the gun!" returned Buller.

Somehow they reached the Lodge. Sam, hearing footsteps, came to the door with an anxious face.

"Martha," he whispered, before he had made out she was not alone, "hurry back to the big house. Mr. Ronald's just called you up this minute. His wife wants you, and—I'm going for the doctor."

Martha pushed Buller forward into the entry.

"Look after'm, Sam. He was on his way to give us a call. With his pistol an' a bunch o' kindlin's to fire the house. He heard me comin', an' lay low for a minute, an' got caught in the trap you set for—the other fox. But take care of'm," she said, and vanished into the night.

Neither Sam nor Buller spoke for a moment. Then Sam opened the sitting-room door.

"Come in," he invited the other. "Let's take a look at your hand."

The tortured Buller thrust it forward where the lamplight could fall upon it. Sam shook his head.

"That's beyond me," he explained. "But I tell you what, I'm going for Dr. Driggs, anyhow. You get in the car and come along with me. Only, I better take that black dingus off your face, hadn't I?"

Buller made a clumsy effort to detach it himself, but his left hand alone could not manage it. Sam did it for him.

"Now, as soon as I get the car," he explained, "we can start."

While he was gone Buller paced the floor like a caged animal, writhing with pain, crying, cursing. Sam was gone but a few minutes. It seemed an eternity to the poor, waiting wretch. Then away they sped through the cool, calming darkness of the night.

In the extremity of his anguish, nothing really signified to Buller, yet again and again he found himself wondering if Slawson would "split" on him. As a matter of fact, Sam never opened his lips, beyond delivering his message to the doctor from Mr. Ronald, then turning Buller over to him for immediate attention.

The old physician scowled through his spectacles when he saw the wound.

"How did you manage this job?" he asked in his blunt, uncompromising way.

Buller winced. "Trap. Foxes after my hens. I set a trap to catch them."

"And got caught in it yourself! Huh! That's sometimes the way. Here, swallow this down. It'll dull the pain some. Now is the time you may wish you weren't a drinking man, Buller. I'll do the best I can for you, but you've given yourself a nasty hurt, and your blood's not in a state to help the healing along much. However, we'll see what we'll see. I'll give you these extra drops to take home with you. Use them if the pain comes back. Don't meddle with my bandage, d'you hear. Leave it alone. And, let me see you in the morning. Now, Mr. Slawson—— Ready!"

Again that swift, almost silent speeding through the night.

Since Buller's torture had ceased, the motion seemed for him part of a blissful dream, by which he was being gradually lulled to deeper and deeper peace. At first he started in to babble fatuously, but Dr. Driggs brusquely bade him, "Shut up! This is no time for merrymaking!" and he dropped back into himself, subdued but not suppressed.

At the big house Sam stopped his car.

"I'll take Buller home, and come back for you," he explained to Dr. Driggs.

"Better dump him out on the road," was the harsh, whispered rejoinder. "I know him from the ground up. He lied to me about his hand. He was up to deviltry of some kind, other than trapping foxes, depend upon it! Between you and me, that's a fierce hand he's got. I don't envy him his dance with it."

In the meantime, Martha had found Claire Ronald feverish and excited. It did not take her long to decide she would not leave the big house that night. When Sam returned to take him home, Dr. Driggs was not ready to go. Neither was Martha.

"But you'd better turn in, Slawson," advised Mr. Ronald. "No use in everybody's getting worn out. If I should need you, I'll call you up."

Early next morning the young kitchen-maid from the big house appeared at the Lodge door for certain necessaries Martha wanted and could not be spared long enough to come, herself, and fetch.

"Eh, now! You don't say so! Things must be pretty bad over there!" observed Ma.

The girl nodded dumbly. She adored Mrs. Ronald.

"If I was you, beggin' pardon for the liberty," Martha addressed Mr. Frank, "I'd get a-holt of those doctors an' nurses from the city you have engaged. They was comin' up in two weeks, anyhow. You never can tell. This might be a false alarm, but then again it mightn't. Either way, we don't want to take no risks."

"I'll telegraph," said Francis Ronald dully.

"What's the matter with the telefoam? Ain't you got a long-distance connection here?"

While Central was clearing the wire, Katherine Crewe was ushered in. She hesitated on the library threshold, then came forward rapidly, her face more lovely than Martha had ever seen it, in its softened expression of human sympathy.

"I'm so sorry—I've just heard—I came to see if I could do something—be of any help," she stammered shyly.

Frank Ronald had risen and was about to reply, when Dr. Driggs pushed through the doorway, interrupting gruffly.

"I'm not quite satisfied with the way things are going. Nothing to be uneasy about, you know, but, under the circumstances, I'd like another man to talk the case over with."

"I've just called up the New York specialist. He and the nurses——"

"Lord! I don't mean that! It'll take them a full day to get here. We can't wait that long. I want some one now."

"Now?" Frank Ronald echoed, without any appearance of understanding what the word meant.

"Now," repeated Dr. Driggs. "I'd like to call in——"

Tinkled the telephone-bell with irritating insistence.

Frank Ronald's cold hand gripped the thing as if he would choke it.

"Hello! Is this New York? Is this Dr. Webster? 'Morning, Dr. Webster! This is F. B. Ronald speaking. Yes—I've called you up, because my wife—— Can you hear me now? Is this better?—My wife—I'm worried about my wife. I've called in Dr. Driggs of this village. He wants more advice.... Yes, by all means come on at once, and bring the nurses. But Driggs says he can't wait. Must have some one immediately.... Eh? ... Who, do you say? ... Boston? Yes, I get that ... Ballard of Boston? ... There's a young fellow here from Boston named Ballard, but he ... I don't believe he's the man. Wait a minute.... Please repeat that! ... You say he's the best skill in New England? National repute? ... I'm afraid.... Hello! Dr. Webster ... Driggs, here, says 'tis the man you mean. He says he was just trying to tell me, when ... yes ... I'm sure we can get him. Yes, we are in luck! ... Very well ... Burbank Junction ... midnight.... Good-by!"

Francis Ronald's words and manner were painfully precise.

Thought Martha, "I've seen parties none too steady on their pins, just that kind o' mincin' about their steps. As if they'd dare you say they couldn't walk a chalk-line. Poor fella. He's so crazed with worry he can't see straight, but he's goin' to prove anybody thinks so, is another!"

When Katherine reached home she found Madam Crewe awaiting her.

"Well, and how are things going? You had your tramp for nothing, eh? Young Sammy's account of Mrs. Ronald's danger was hocus-pocus, of course!"

"No. Dr. Driggs is very anxious. He wants a consultation. While I was there Mr. Ronald called up Dr. Webster—Elihu Webster, from home. He's coming up with two nurses——"

"And Mrs. Ronald is going to wait for him? That's obliging of her, I'm sure!"

"Dr. Driggs had asked Mr. Ronald to let him have Dr. Ballard. He had asked, before they got Dr. Webster on the wire. Then, the first name Dr. Webster suggested was Dr. Ballard's. He called him 'the best skill in New England.' Said he was of 'national repute.'"