Front matter (continued 3)

Murray's voice was shaking also, and in a minute more the two were laughing together. Jane, shrouded in her rug, emerged from the closet into the attic, and Murray regarded her by the light of his electric searcher.

"You don't look much the worse for having taken such desperate measures to escape me," he remarked, noting with keen enjoyment the rich colour on the cheek near which he was rather mercilessly holding his torch. "Rather meet a cold ducking than a warm friend any time, wouldn't you?"

"Not at all. I--you know how one hates to be caught."

"Does one? Now I can't conceive jumping into a tank of water to escape you, if you had been after me!"

"Please stop laughing at me and help me to get home."

"I'm not laughing at you. I'm--I may pretend to be laughing, but inside, I assure you, I 'm tremendously worried lest this running away indicates a state of mind--"

"Please take me home!"

"Come, then." He led the way, by back staircases, to a quiet side entrance, and so quickly across the street, and into her own house. Then he went back to the others, to evade their questioning so cleverly that nobody but Jane's mother suspected that anything out of the ordinary had happened. In a very short time indeed Jane drifted inconspicuously in upon the company again, and when inquiries from the younger members of the party as to the change in her costume fell thick and fast upon her, Murray protected her with the nonchalant explanation:

"Don't bother her. She's very kindly trying to shield me for being the cause of a little accident that happened to the other dress. It was confoundedly awkward of me, but she cheers me by declaring that she can easily repair damages!"

It was Murray who took Jane home again by and by, and who lingered on the porch, after the others had gone in, to tell her how his father had received the good news.

"I 'm so glad!" Jane's hands were clasped tight together. "I knew it would be just as you tell me. Are n't you wonderfully happy?"

"Wonderfully. Happier than ever in my life--except for just one thing."

"Nothing serious?"

"Well--I certainly hope not. What bothers me is that--you seem, somehow--not exactly afraid of me, but--different. I don't know how to express it--but I----" He stopped, his tone growing anxious. "You know, I could n't bear that," he added. "Unless I thought it meant---- See here, Jane--are we just as good friends as ever?"

"Why, of course we are!" She said it shyly. She was very glad it was so dark on the little porch.

"Friends for always?"

"I don't change, I think," she answered, with a proud little lift of the head.

"Don't you? Well, as I don't either, that ought to satisfy me. Yet it does n't quite, after all. It's odd, but I believe just being good friends who don't change is n't enough. Oh, don't go! You're not angry? Yes, I know it's late, but I 've hardly seen you yet. You will go?--But you 'll let me come over early to-morrow--after more than a year away? Well, then, to-morrow I 'll have to teach you not to be afraid of me. On my honour I 'm not carrying a 'gun!' Wait a minute--just a minute! ... How did I ever stay away from you so long? ... --Good night, little Jane--good night!"

CHAPTER XI

IN THE GARDEN

Winter--long and cold; spring--late and slow; then, all at once, in June, radiant summer and the little garden round the corner in Gay Street was a place of richly bursting bloom--a riot of colours against the leafy green background of its vine-hung walls.

Toward the end of June a week of almost tropical heat had made the evenings outdoors, on the little porch, and in the garden itself, events to be looked forward to throughout the day, Joseph Bell, Peter, Ross, and Rufus, thought of them many times during the hottest day of all--midsummer, the twenty-first of the month--and came home at night to find the table laid for a cool-looking supper out under the shadow of the maple, and Mrs. Bell, Jane, and Nancy, in thin summer frocks, putting the finishing touches to the attractive meal about to be served there.

Up in a window of the house next door, behind closed blinds, an elderly neighbour had watched Jane wreathing a big glass bowl full of strawberries with a crisp little green vine spray.

"The Bells certainly are the queerest people anybody ever lived neighbour to," she said over her shoulder to her sister, a withered little spinster, who, in this hot, small upstairs room, was sewing at another window, which did not look out upon the garden, and therefore could have its blinds open. "Anybody 'd think life was just one picnic to them. Think of lugging all those dishes outdoors this hot night, and then lugging 'em all in again--and they all dressed out in flowered muslins!"

The sister came to the window and peered somewhat wistfully out through the closed blinds. "It does look sort of pleasant out there," she said. "And we certainly can't say they 're not good neighbours. Mrs. Bell sent over a whole tin of those light rolls of hers this morning. They 'll come in handy for supper."

"There come the men." Mrs. Hunter brought her gaze to bear upon the four who had stolen up to the gate, and who, as she spoke, burst out suddenly with a crisp clapping of hands which brought the three in the "flowered-muslins" to the right-about. If Mrs. Hunter and Miss Maria, watching those four advance, could have heard what they were saying as they caught sight of the flower-decked table, they might have had a new light shed upon the question whether the trouble of bringing forth all those dishes from the house had been worth while.

The neighbours saw the merry little meal eaten, and saw all hands clear it away at the end, making short work of the many dishes. But afterward twilight fell, and little could be discerned except the gleam of the light dresses and the presence near of dark forms lying on the grass.

It was after the midsummer moon was lighting the garden into a small fairy-land that Peter, springing up, exclaimed, "There's Olive and Murray!" and ran to greet them.

There was a third person with them, and a moment later the others heard Peter exclaim, in a tone of surprise:

"Well, well, well! You don't mean to say this is----Why, how are you? How are you? I 'm tremendously glad to see you!"

"Thank you! I 'm a good deal gladder to be home than anybody possibly can be to have me." And Jane, recognising first the peculiar quality of the voice, cried out:

"Why, it's Forrest!" and led the others, as a general uprising took place.

"Yes, it's Forrest," said the voice, and in the bright moonlight Jane looked up into the face whose outlines in these two years of absence had grown dim in her memory. It was the same face, but she thought it looked older and thinner, and she realised then and there that Forrest was not the same careless boy who had gone so lightly away to lead a soldier's life.

When the greetings were over and the company had settled down again on the turf under the maple, Jane found Forrest next to herself, and had her first little insight into his thoughts.

"I feel like a stranger from a foreign country, I assure you," he was saying to her, presently, as the talk and laughter of the others made a bit of confidence possible. "And the strangest thing of all to me is the sight of my brother grinding away down there in the office, looking like the healthiest fellow in town. I can't understand it; it took me off my feet!"

"We have grown so used to the change," said Jane, smiling to herself, in the dim light, "that we don't think about it any more."

"You see," Forrest pursued, "I came home on the quiet--just wanting to see, you know, how they would take it. I thought if they really still cared, I should know it by the look on their faces----"

"Oh, how could you think----" Jane began, eagerly.

But he interrupted. "A fellow thinks a good many things when he 's on the other side of the world, and I--well, I got to wanting to know some things so badly, I was n't sorry when I had my fever. Yes--you did n't know that, did you? Oh, I had it all right! And I wasn't sorry when they sent me home with a lot of other convalescents. So I made for the office the minute I had seen my mother and the girls, for they told me that Murray was down there for good--a thing I had n't known. Maybe they thought I 'd be jealous--and maybe I was--in a way, though I don't want the job any more than I ever did.

"Father gave me a good warm greeting--I 'll say that. And Murray--well, when he got up and came toward me with his hand out, looking like the strongest kind of a young business man, I felt as if--But I can't tell you about that now."

There was a general movement of the younger people of the party, in response to a request from Ross, who was entertaining them with some new tricks, at which he was an adept. During the confusion Murray came and flung himself upon the grass beside Jane.

"Take me into the conference, will you?" he said. "I'm envious of anybody my brother talks to, I 'm so glad to get him back."

Under cover of the subdued light, Jane found her hand, which had been resting on the cool grass where she sat, taken into a warm, significant grasp, as familiar now as it was dear. She gave back a little answering pressure, without turning her head toward Murray, at whose close presence she had grown instantly happier.

"Take you in?" Forrest answered slowly. "Well, if you--and all the others--will only take me in, and never turn me out--or let me turn myself out again--I 'll be--satisfied."

With one hand holding tight the small one buried in the grass, Murray's other hand went out toward the fist clenched on Forrest's knee. "Old fellow," he said, warmly, "if you 'll just stay where you can get over often into this garden in Gay Street, you 'll find it will do as much toward making life worth living as it has done for every other one of the Townsend family."

"I believe you," answered Forrest, and gave the brotherly hand an answering grip.

BOOK II WORTHINGTON SQUARE

CHAPTER I

JANE WEARS PEARLS

A tap upon her door sent Mrs. Murray Townsend flying across the room to answer it. She expected to find her husband there, awaiting her permission to come in and see her in the cloud-like white gown which she had worn but once before--two months ago. He had vowed since that he had never seen that wedding-gown, being occupied wholly upon the occasion on which it was worn in keeping his head, in order to play his own part with dignity and self-command.

But to Jane's disappointment, she opened the door only to a maid with a florist's box. The box, upon being examined, yielded up among a mass of roses Murray's card, which bore this message:

Sorry to be delayed, dear, but father wanted to go over everything that has happened at the office during my absence. Will be up in time for the pow-wow. Wear one of these for

MURRAY.

Jane smiled regretfully. It had seemed a long day. Only that morning she and Murray had returned, belated, from their wedding journey across the continent, to find cards out for a reception in their honour to take place that very evening.

"You knew the date," Mrs. Harrison Townsend had said to her elder son, when, upon being told that his delay had caused much anxiety to the givers of the affair, he turned to his bride with a soft whistle of recollection and chagrin.

"I certainly did," he had owned. "I forgot, I 'm afraid, that there were such things as after-wedding festivities due to society, and that this was the date for the first of the series. I don't think Jane even knew."

"I didn't," said Jane, looking regretfully at her mother-in-law's handsome face, which betrayed a slight annoyance. It certainly had been trying to receive daily telegrams from the travellers throughout the past week, announcing delays at this place and that on the homeward way.

"Of course it's of no consequence now that you are safely here. I 'm only sorry Jane will have no chance to rest and visit. The florist's men will arrive within an hour, and the house will be generally upset."

"I 'll run away over to Gay Street, then," said Jane. "Murray 's going down to the office, and mother and Nan will be looking for me."

"My dear, I 'm sorry, but Olive has asked a few friends informally for luncheon, people from out of town who are coming for to-night. It would hardly do for you not to meet them--since two are cousins."

So Jane had had to be content with one brief hour in the little home round the corner in Gay Street, and then she had come back to the big house in Worthington Square, there to begin to act the part expected of her. Murray had been more than sorry to leave her on this first day, but his father's affairs were pressing, the office work had suffered in his absence, and he felt it a necessity to get back into the harness without an hour's delay. He had expected to be early at home, but his message showed Jane that even for her he did not mean to cut short the work of taking up again the routine of business at the point where he had left it two months ago.

Selecting half a dozen of the finest of her roses, Jane, with a long, light coat slipped on over her finery, opened the door and peeped cautiously out into the large, square gallery of the upper hall. Nobody was in sight. The doors of Mrs. Townsend's and Olive's rooms were closed, the ladies dressing for the affair of the evening. The door of a guest-room, occupied by the two cousins from out of town, was slightly ajar, and a maid was to be seen inside, offering a cup of tea on a tray. One of the cousins had a headache, and was fortifying herself for a fatiguing evening.

Jane slipped quietly by this door and round the gallery to the point where a staircase led to the lower landing, a place just now embowered in palms, which were to serve as a screen for the string orchestra. She paused an instant on this landing, to look down upon the brilliant picture presented by the entrance-hall and its opening rooms below. The look of it reminded her of an evening long ago, the first upon which she had set foot as a guest in the great unknown house in Worthington Square, when Murray had taken charge of her and brought her up here on the landing, to look down upon the scene in which neither of them had much cared to take part.

"Can this really be my home?" thought Jane, feeling as if it could not all be true, even yet. She ran quickly on downstairs and round the foot of the staircase to a door beneath, which furnished an inconspicuous exit from the big hall, and which opened upon a short passage and a side entrance not much used by the family. This had long been a favourite entrance for Murray himself, for it shortened the way to Gay Street.

A very short cut Jane made of it, for a flood of light from the long row of windows in the dining-room fell across the path, and turned it into one less obscure than she wished it to be just now. Holding her delicate skirts well away from the dust of the road, she hurried across, through the warm air of the May evening.

There was nobody to be seen downstairs in the old house, although lamps were lighted and the small rooms wore their usual air of home-likeness and order. Jane ran up the steep little staircase which led to the sleeping-rooms above. She understood that, as at the big house, the family were engaged in arraying themselves for the Townsend reception. She paused at the top of the stairs to listen and observe, for the various doors were all more or less ajar, and the usual atmosphere of friendly family comradeship gave her a little pang of homesickness.

The first thing distinguishable was the fact that Peter seemed to be having a bad time with his neck-gear, and that his cousin, Ross McAndrew, was enjoying his perturbation of mind.

"Either my neck is bigger than it was, or this neckband has shrunk." Peter's growl rolled out into the tiny hall, and brought a dimple into Jane's cheek as she listened.

"Probably both catastrophes have happened." This was Ross's voice in reply. "Anybody who has seen you stow away buckwheat cakes and maple-syrup all winter could n't be surprised if your neck should take a seventeen collar this spring."

"Seventeen nothing! Sixteen's my size, and when I wear a bigger it 'll be because---- O jiminy, I 've burst that buttonhole! What on earth am I to do now? I don't own but one dress shirt that 'll fit the barn-door opening in my white waistcoat."

"Your mother 'll sew that up on your back. I 'll do it myself if you won't howl at a prick or two."

"Much obliged, but I know the general style of your repairs in a case like this. Nan 'll do it, if she's dressed," and Peter's door swung open. Intent on reaching his younger sister, whose door was next beyond his own, he did not observe the figure at the head of the stairs in the shadow. He proceeded to perform a double tattoo upon Nancy's door.

"What's the matter, Petey?" sounded an amiable voice from within.

"Neckband of my shirt's a wreck. Want you to come and splice the main brace."

"All right--if you 'll button me up the back. I can't reach below the fourth button, and mother's busy dressing, too. It's so inconvenient having Janey married."

"Give and take's fair play," agreed Peter, as a charming young figure in pink-flowered muslin backed out of the door, both bare arms strenuously demonstrating that they could not reach below the fourth button. "Stand still now--no fidgeting. What on earth a girl wants her rigging fastened behind for is beyond me! If it must be, why not use buttons big enough to get hold of?"

"Look out, don't treat my buttonholes as you did your own, or I 'll have to be sewed up, too."

"All right--you're done. Turn round and let's see how you look in front. Good work! You 're a stunner, and tremendously grown up, too, with your hair that way. Put it up the day you were eighteen, did n't you?"

"Of course," admitted Nancy, with her comely head held high. Then, as Jane's white skirts in the shadow caught her eye, "Why, there 's Janey! You dear! Oh, how good it looks to see you standing there!"

At the cry three doors flew wide open, and Mr. Bell, Ross, and Rufus appeared simultaneously upon their respective thresholds, while a voice from within called, "Is Jane there? Come here, dear!"

"O mother, let me do your hair, will you?" offered Jane, eagerly, when she had succeeded in making her way past the embraces of her delighted family.

"Not in that dress, child! Mercy, remember it's your wedding-gown, and don't whisk round so! Sit down there and let me look at you while I put my hair up; it won't take but a minute, and then you shall help me into my dress."

"If you won't let me do your hair, I 'll go sew up Pete's buttonhole. I must do something for somebody. It seems so funny to have got dressed over in the big house. I just had to come over here and see the rest of you getting ready and consulting each other on details as usual. Where's your work-basket, mother dear? Nan," running to the door--"don't you dare to mend Peter's shirt! I want to do it myself."

"All right, Mrs. Townsend, nothing will suit me better," declared Peter, with satisfaction, kneeling in front of his sister with his back to her, while she sat on the edge of his splint-bottomed armchair and threaded her needle. "What does Murray think, by the way, of having his bride rush over here to assist her family, and leave him to shift for himself? Why are n't you putting in his studs and things, like a dutiful wife?"

"He could n't get home from the office till the last minute. Mr.--Father Townsend wanted to consult him on so much that's happened while we 've been gone. Of course I 'm going back before he comes," responded Jane. "Dear me--wreck is certainly the word for this buttonhole. Did you try to put your thumb through it?"

"Tried to climb through it myself bodily at the last. Anything better calculated to put a fellow into a lovely frame of mind for an affair where's he's expected to make himself agreeable I don't know. Wrestling to get an iron collar on a steel neckband is--well--it's a trifle upsetting to the nerves. Be sure you get that buttonhole the right size. Better try the collar-button in it before you make fast."

"When you 're done with him you can tie my tie for me, if you 're looking for work," announced Rufus, appearing in the doorway. "I can't seem to get the right curve on the thing."

"Janey, would you wear this bracelet Shirley gave me last Christmas, or would n't you?" Nancy looked in over Rufus's shoulder. At eighteen she was tall for her years; at twenty-one Rufus, although sturdily built, had no advantage of her in inches. It was Peter, with his six feet of brawn, who was the family pride in the matter of size.

Jane snipped off her thread and turned to look at her younger sister. "Do as you like, Nan, of course," said she, "but--if you want to look quite perfect in my eyes you 'll leave it off."

"Good for you!" Peter observed Nancy's simple frock and fair neck with approval. "Lots of time for the gewgaws when they 're needed to cover up the hollows."

"Now I 'll go help mother," said Jane, having adjusted Rufus's cravat to his satisfaction, mended a tiny rip in Ross's glove, and given her father a hug, since his dressing was completed, and there seemed to be nothing else she could do for him. He had held her fast, regardless of her bridal attire, for he had missed her sorely during her two months' absence, and the thought that, however often she might seek it, his roof was no longer hers, was one not easily assimilated.

"I should really not have felt properly dressed," averred Mrs. Bell, as Jane hovered about her, performing all sorts of small offices, "if you had not been here to assure me that I was quite right in all points."

As Jane smiled, first at her mother, then at her father, wondering how she had ever been able, even for Murray's sake, to leave two people so dear, a low call, apparently proceeding from downstairs, reached her ear, and she turned quickly to listen.

"Jane?" came the voice again, interrogatively. "Gentle Jane, you 're not lost to me for good and all?"

Jane ran to the head of the small stairway and looked down. In the light from a bracket lamp at the foot, her husband's face smiled up at her. A bright, strong face it was, ruddy with health, and alert with interest in that which he beheld at the top of the stairs. Murray was in evening dress, and as Jane observed the fact she cried softly and regretfully:

"Why, it must be later than I thought! I did n't mean to be away when you came--I 'm so sorry! It doesn't seem as if I 'd been here five minutes."

"No excuses necessary, dear," he answered. "When I sent you word, I did n't expect to be able to get away till the last minute, but a telegram from a man who had an appointment with father let us out, and I followed my message home. I came after you because mother is getting a bit uneasy. She wants to be sure the bride is at her elbow, ready for the fray, though not a soul will show up, of course, till long after the hour on the cards."

"I 'll come this minute," and Jane caught up her long coat, threw a kiss at her family, and hurried down. "You 'll all come right away, won't you?" she called back, and let Murray walk off with her.

At the curb she paused. "I meant to have borrowed Nan's rubbers," she said, looking down at her white-shod feet. "I forgot when I came over."

"That's easy," and Murray had her across the street before she could protest that she was too heavy for him.

"You could n't have done that when I first knew you, could you?" laughed Jane, with pride in his strength of arm.

"Not much. What a slim and sickly whiffet I was! I wonder you ever looked twice at me, with Pete at hand as a contrast."

"I liked muscle, but I like brains too," explained Jane, as if this were the first time the matter had been made clear.

"Thank you. I 'm afraid I had none too many of those, either. The house looks festive, does n't it? Have you seen the dining-room? Mother seemed to be particularly pleased with the decorations there."

"I 'm afraid I ran away in too much of a hurry to notice."

Murray gave his young wife an amused look as they stood together on the steps of the small side entrance by which Jane had come out an hour before.

"Do you know where you are to stand in the receiving line?" he inquired.

Jane shook her head.

"Do you know whether you are to shake hands with the guests or merely bow?"

"No. You 'll tell me, won't you?"

"Do you know whether I 'm to present people you don't know to you, or whether you 're to depend on mother for that?"

"I suppose I'll find that out when the time comes."

"Do you know whether you ought to look beamingly happy or coolly composed?"

"Which do you prefer?"

Murray laughed. "A judicious mixture of both, I should say. Well, my small bride, ignorant as you profess to be of your part, I 'm not worried about you. Just the same, I expect we 'd better hunt up mother and be coached as to the precise line of conduct she expects of us. I 've never played the leading man's part in a bridal 'At Home' myself, and mother's something of a stickler for doing things according to the latest revision of the code. Well, well," he added in surprise, glancing at his watch as they entered the hall, "it's later than I thought. Do you need to go upstairs?"

"Just a minute--to smooth my unruly hair," and Jane ran away, leaving him gazing after her.

"Murray!" His mother came toward him from the library, a striking, even imposing, figure in black and white lace and amethysts. "Between you and Jane, I was getting anxious. I have n't seen the child since I went to her room, at least two hours ago."

"She is all ready--dressed early so she might run home, since I sent her word I should be late."

"But where is she now?"

"Ran upstairs to see if her hair was right. Is n't that the invariable custom at the last minute?"

"She is wearing her wedding-gown, of course?"

"She surely is."

"No ornaments?"

"I sent her some roses. She 'll carry them, or wear one, or something, I suppose."

"But no jewels?"

"I think she 's wearing the pearl pin I gave her."

"Murray! You are quite as bad as Jane! To be sure, her girlish way of dressing has been very pretty and appropriate in view of her father's lack of means. But her position now, as your wife, is different. Olive insists that Jane does not care for ornaments of any sort, but I am sure she would not object, Murray, to wearing that beautiful pearl necklace of Grandmother Townsend's--if you explain to her that it's an heirloom and that it will give me great pleasure to have her wear it? Pearls are not becoming to Olive," added Mrs. Townsend, and her son smiled.

"If you want Jane to wear that, mother, you will have to ask her yourself. She 's coming now, I think. Yes"--as Jane looked over the gallery rail and nodded down at him--"here she is. Do you really think she needs 'ornaments'? They strike me as superfluous."

Mother and son were watching Jane as she came down the staircase, her white figure outlined against the dark green of the palms and foliage. Her bronze-tinted hair shone like a crown under the radiance of the lights, and her softly blooming face made one forget the simplicity of her attire. At least, it made Murray forget it. But Mrs. Harrison Townsend saw in the white neck and arms a background for her pearls. She picked up a case from the table where she had laid it.

"My dear," she said, "you are very sweet, and I shall be very proud to present you as my daughter. And you won't mind wearing, to please me, these pearls of Murray's great-grandmother's, will you? They are just what you need to set off your colouring."

Jane's face grew warm as her eyes fell upon the pearls, lying in a worn old case lined with faded green velvet. She looked from them to Murray--an appealing little glance and a questioning one. He nodded ever so slightly in return, smiling at her.

"You are very kind," said Jane, simply, to her mother-in-law. "I will wear them--if you wish."

She let Mrs. Townsend clasp the necklace, received that lady's kiss and approving comment on the difference it made in her appearance, and allowed herself to be led to a mirror to see the effect. As she stood before it, her lashes falling after one glance of a pair of unwilling eyes, somebody called Murray's mother away. Jane looked at her husband again.

"Yes, I know you hate it, little modesty," said he. "And I own I like to see you without any jewels. Yet there can be no doubt you become those pearls. You set them off, not they you. And seeing they 're not diamonds----"

Jane's eyes flashed. "Not even for you----"

His eyes responded with an answering brilliance, as he shook his head, laughing. "Not even for me! Are you sure? But you need n't fear. Diamonds, little Jane Townsend, were not made for you. Let those sparkle who want to. I prefer a steady glow!"

An hour later Ross McAndrew and Peter Bell, making their entrance to the long drawing-room together, and waiting their turn to advance toward the receiving party, exchanged a series of low-voiced comments, under cover of the general hum of talk.

"My word, Pete! Can that be our small girl, standing up there like a young queen? Watch her! I say, watch her!"

"I am watching her," said Peter, with great satisfaction. "If you see my eyes drop out, pick 'em up, will you?"

"Not that we might n't have expected it of her. I knew well enough she 'd be sweet and charming--but that little gracious manner--that self-possession--jolly, she's great!"

"Look at Murray! Is he proud of her, or is n't he?"

"Proud as Lucifer. And has a right to be. His mother looks pretty complacent herself. And Olive--she's stunning, as usual. But our Jane--"

The time to go forward had arrived. With head up and shoulders squared Peter led the way. As he passed his host and hostess he was a model of well-trained propriety, but when he reached Jane and Murray his formal manner relaxed, and he grasped each hand with a hearty grip.

"You're a delightful pair," he murmured, "and the sight of you takes me off my feet."

"You look perfectly composed, even bored," retorted Murray, laughing, glad to greet a brother who could be relied upon not to say the usual thing.

But Jane whispered as she smiled up at him, "I 'm dreadfully frightened, Petey, and I can't do it well at all."

"Keep on being frightened, then," advised her brother. "The result's perfectly satisfactory, is n't it, Murray?"

"You're not really frightened?" whispered her husband, taking advantage of a slight lull in his duties to detain Peter. "She does n't look it, does she?"

"Not a bit."

"You 've only to look at mother," was Murray's comforting assurance, "to know that she's entirely satisfied. If she were not--well--she'd look different, that 's all!"

CHAPTER II

SHIRLEY HAS GROWN UP

As Peter Bell abruptly rounded the corner from Gay Street into Worthington Square he saw coming toward him an attractive young figure in a white frock. He glanced at it and away again; then back, as he came nearer; once more away; then returned to look steadily, positive that his second impression had been the right one, after all. It must be that he knew this girl. If he did, he must give her a chance to recognise him.

She not only recognised him, she smiled outright, and stopping short held out her hand. The eyes which were laughing at him were eyes he had surely seen before.

Peter's hat had come off promptly; when she stopped, he stopped. When she held out her hand he took it, and stood staring down into the merry eyes with puzzled interest.

"O Mr. Peter Bell!" she jeered softly. "To be so slow to recognise an old friend--a connection of your own family. Dear, dear, you should go to an oculist! Has it been coming on long? Can you still distinguish trees and houses?"

The voice told him who its owner was, though it was a degree richer in quality than when he had heard it last, two years before. "Shirley Townsend!" he cried. "Miss Shirley, I mean, of course. Well, well! No wonder I---- When did you come? And you've grown up!"

"Of course I have. Has n't Nancy grown up? I 'm a year older than she, too. And I came last night--a whole month before they expected me. I was supposed to be going to stop in New York with Aunt Isabel for a month--after two long years away off in England at school! But Marian Hille's mother met her at the ship--she 's the girl who went with me, you know--and they came right along home. I could n't stand it to stop in New York, and I came with them. And you don't mean 'Miss Shirley' at all, of course--with Jane married to Murray!"

"Then you don't mean 'Mr. Peter Bell.'"

"You look terribly elderly yourself. But I knew you! The mere fact that you are not wearing the same clothes you were when I went away----"

"It was n't your clothes--except the extension on the length of them. It was--it was----"

"I understand. My hair is up. I no longer wear two big black bows behind my ears."

"Your cheeks," protested Peter. "You--the English air, I suppose----"

"No, I 'm not a pale little, frail little girl any more, thanks to miles and miles of walking. You don't look very frail, either. Are n't we delightfully frank--after staring each other out of countenance? Is Nancy at home, and Mrs. Bell?"

"They 'll be delighted to see you."

"They 'll know me, too," laughed Shirley.

"She certainly has grown up," thought Peter, when Shirley had walked away from him toward Gay Street. He rather wished he had not been so obviously rushing away from home when he met this new-old acquaintance. The little Shirley had always been a good friend of his; the older Shirley looked distinctly better worth knowing. But Peter's days were busy ones; he had few moments for lingering by the side of pretty girls; nor was he wont to spend much time lamenting his deprivations.

Shirley Townsend's appearance at the door of the Bell house caused a flurry of welcoming. Nancy, after two minutes of shyness at the sight of her former chum looking so like and so unlike herself, discovered that the unlikeness was going to make no difference. It was a great relief, for somebody who had seen Marian Hille at the end of one year at the English school had declared her grown insufferably consequential, and had prophesied that Shirley Townsend would come home "spoiled."

But almost the first remark Shirley made was, "Isn't Jane the dearest thing you ever saw? And are n't we just the luckiest people to get her into the family?" So then Nancy knew it was precisely the same Shirley, and was glad.

"I don't suppose she's really as good-looking as Olive," commented Rufus, when he, too, had seen his old-time partner at tennis, and had had a game with her, "but she 's a lot more alive, and jollier, ten times over. And her playing form 's improved; she can serve a ball that keeps you up and doing for fair. She knows cricket too; she 's going to teach us. I 'm glad she 's got home. It 'll be a good deal pleasanter for Jane over there. Shirley won't go in for society, like Olive and Mrs. Harrison."

Rufus's prophecy proved a true one. Upon the second day after Shirley's return, Mrs. Townsend, Senior, announced--with some languor, as if she herself found summer affairs wearisomer after a winter which had been unusually full--that a garden-party and musicale would that afternoon claim all four feminine members of the household. "Our men ought to go, too," she added, "but your father simply will go to nothing that takes him away from his business, and Murray seems to be lapsing into the same attitude. Forrest, when he is at home, is my only standby, but this freak of his to spend his time travelling makes him seldom to be counted on. Shirley, I hope you have something suitable to wear. It was a strange idea for you to come home, after being two years within an hour of London, with nothing but tennis suits and cricketing shoes. If you had stopped in New York, as I expected, your Aunt Isabel would have remedied all deficiencies in your wardrobe. But as it is----"

"As it is, I 've nothing suitable, mother mine. So you won't ask me to go, will you?"

"You must have something that will do. The Hildreths will expect you, now that every one knows you are at home. Marian Hille will be sure to be there, and you ought to be, quite as much."

"I 've had two years of Marie Anne--as she wishes to be called now. I can do without her very comfortably for a day or two," objected Shirley, smiling at Jane.

Jane was indeed rejoicing in her new young sister's return. The relations between herself and Olive, although cordial and affectionate, were not based on so strong a congeniality of tastes as existed between Jane and Shirley. The girl, before she went away, had shown decided promise of originality and force of character. Looking at her now, as she stood before them in short tennis dress and fly-away hat, with vivacious, wide-awake face full of clear colour, it needed small discernment to make sure of the fact that here was a girl out of the common, and quite irresistibly out of the common, too.

"I don't like to insist, Shirley, and I would not, if you were showing the slightest fatigue after your journey. But since all the apology I could make for you would be that you preferred to play tennis in the sun with Nancy Bell----"

"I see. It's evident I must face the music--Miss Antoinette Southwode's searching soprano, and Mr. Clifford Burnham-Brisbane's wabbly tenor--and tea and little cakes. Since it's my duty I 'll do it. But, mother dear, please don't make many engagements for me. Give it out that I 'm eccentric--that Miss Cockburn told me positively, before I came away from Helmswood, that after a severe course of study under her unexceptionable tutelage I must have absolute relaxation. Say that I have no fine clothes, no floppy hats covered with roses, suitable for lawn-parties. Say anything, but after to-day don't make me go--unless I most awfully want to. Promise--please!"

Two firm tanned hands clasped themselves behind Mrs. Townsend's neck, two importunate black-lashed blue eyes looked at her beseechingly. The mother sighed.

"Child, what shall I do, with two of you? Here is Jane, accepting her invitations under protest, and now you are going to be still more unreasonable."

"Is Jane another? Then why not just make a simple division of labour? You and Olive play the society parts, and give Jane and me the domestic ones."

"My dear, nothing can be so unfortunate for a girl, or for a young married woman, as to become known as peculiar. Of course you are not serious--no girl of your age is ever serious in declaring that she wants nothing to do with society--but it distresses me to have you even talk as you are doing. Go and dress, and look your best, dear, and don't worry me with this sort of thing. I am quite worn out already. Doctor Warrener advises a course of baths at a rest-cure, and I think I shall have to follow his advice."

"I'm sorry," and Shirley kissed her mother, with a pat upon the smooth white cheek, where faint lines were beginning to show. Then she went away to dress, discarding the short skirt and canvas shoes with a smothered breath of regret, but appearing, in due course of time, in a costume eminently suitable for a garden-party, at least from her own point of view. Her mother did not see her until the carriage was at the door, and then it was too late for her to do more than to murmur:

"My dear, if that is the best you can do, I must take you to a dressmaker at once. White linen is well enough for some occasions, and that hat----Did you tell me that Miss Cockburn advised it, and you got it in Bond Street? But the effect is decidedly more girlish than is necessary."

"I should think you would want me as infantile as possible, with Olive to do the dressy young lady. You and Jane and Olive, with your

'Ribbons and laces,

And sweet, pretty faces,'

need a plain little schoolgirl to set you off. And I shall not be 'out' until next winter. I 'm all right, mother dear. Miss Cockburn was always delighted with white linen, and discouraged fussy frocks. I 'm really beautifully 'English,' and you should be satisfied. Girls are n't allowed to grow up half so fast over there as here, and I think it is a sensible thing."

Mrs. Townsend said no more until, crossing the Hildreth lawn an hour later, she caught sight of Marian Hille. At the first opportunity thereafter, she said in Shirley's ear, "Miss Cockburn certainly did not advise Marian to cling to the schoolgirl style of dressing. If that is not a French frock she is wearing, my eyes deceive me. She is charming in it, too, and not at all overdressed. That rose-covered hat is exquisite, and quite girlish enough."

Shirley smiled, a protesting little smile, but she did not argue the question further. To her mind, "Marie Anne" looked like a Parisian fashion-plate, and her manner was certainly that of a young person of considerable social experience. Shirley did not like it. Her eye went from Miss Marian Hille to Mrs. Murray Townsend, and rejoiced at the contrast. The two were close together, taking their seats for the outdoor musicale, which was about to begin. No fault could possibly be found with Jane's attire, but in it she looked, beside Marian, like a dainty gray pigeon beside a golden pheasant.

"I beg your pardon, but may I ask what you are staring at so intently?" said a voice beside her, and Shirley turned to confront the interested gaze of Brant Hille, Marian's elder brother. "I 've been standing beside you here all of three minutes, waiting for you to come back to earth and recognise me. Do you realise we have n't met since you and Marian came back? And won't you let me find you a chair over on the edge of the crowd, where we can talk?"

This suited Shirley, and she let him establish her in a corner where a clump of shrubbery screened the two from a part of the audience. Until the music began, young Hille plied her with questions about her experiences at Miss Cockburn's school, evidently enjoying the fact that her point of view seemed decidedly to differ from that of his sister.

"I should n't know you had been at the same place," was his whispered comment, as the first notes of the initial number on the programme smote the summer air and caused a partial hush to fall upon the assemblage. He had been noting, with interest, the change in her. He had known Shirley since their earliest days, but beyond the friendly liking she had always inspired in him, as in everybody, by her girlish good humour and love of sport, he had not thought her especially attractive. Now, however, as Peter Bell had done, he found himself discovering in her qualities distinctly noteworthy.

"So they took you to a lot of old churches and cathedrals," he began suddenly to Shirley, after an interval during which they had listened politely to Miss Antoinette Southwode's truly "searching" soprano and Mr. Burnham-Brisbane's astonishingly "wabbly" tenor, intermingled in an elaborate Italian duet. "Did n't you find that sort of thing deadly dull?"

"Not a bit," denied Shirley, promptly. "It was such fun to hear the dear old vergers proudly recite the histories of the antiquities. And the antiquities themselves! In one very, very old church there was a tablet of a man and his six wives, all kneeling before a shrine. He knelt first and they came after, all in profile. The poor dears were all dressed alike--they must have worn the same dress, handed down. One's head was gone--that made her more touching than the others. You could n't help feeling that her husband had been harder on her than on the rest. He looked that sort, you see."

"No doubt he was," agreed Hille, laughing. "Did you see anything else equal to that?"

"No end of things. Of course there was ever so much that was dignified and beautiful, but one could n't help being glad to find something funny now and then. One tablet in another ancient chapel showed three men, one above another on their painted wooden tombs, all lying sidewise and half rising on their elbows, and staring right down at you with their eyes wide open. They had pink cheeks and black hair. They were father, son, and grandson, and the father looked the youngest. Their wives were all lying quietly asleep at one side. It did n't seem fair for the men to be so wide awake, while the poor wives had to slumber and see nothing.--Oh, there goes Mr. Brisbane again! Why does his voice shake so much harder than when I heard him last?"

"He 's that much more celebrated," said Hille. "See here, are n't you and Marian about the same age."

Shirley shook her head. But when the song was over he asked the question again.

"I 'm three months older," admitted Shirley.

"She looks three years older. Why is it?"

Shirley shook her head again. It was one thing to air her views to her family, quite another to tell Brant that Marian was leaping into young ladyhood and its signs too fast. But Brant studied his sister. Her blond head, the hair elaborately waved, could be seen between the heads and shoulders in front, the striking rose-crowned hat conspicuous among other elaborate hats of all patterns.

"She looks twenty-five, at least," he commented, approvingly. "She looks older than your sister Olive. And she seems to have that cad Maltbie glued to her for the afternoon. If that 's the best she can do, she 'd better take me. But she 's no use for brothers. Look here, when 's Forrest coming home?"

"I 've no idea. He was leaving Ecuador before the hot season began, and was intending to stay at Jamaica as long as it was comfortable. He wrote he might be off for the South Sea Islands soon. He 's had a tempting invitation."

"He 's a rover. His taste of army life gave him the fever. I wish he 'd get enough of it and come back. Things always 'go' while Forrest's home."

Altogether, between Brant Hille and two or three other young people, Shirley found the garden-party endurable. But its cakes and ices spoiled her appetite for dinner, and the moment that meal was over, she was off to the tennis-court. Here she and Rufus played several sets in so spirited a fashion that Murray and Jane, strolling over the lawn to watch them, were moved to comment upon Shirley's vigour.

"I 'm just working off the garden-party," declared the girl, when her brother asked the cause of so much energy upon so warm an evening.

"You should have put on your tennis skirt, dear," said Jane, as Shirley came up to her, racquet in hand.

"So I ought, but I was afraid mother would be made ill by the sight of me, if I did, after dinner. Oh, how good it is to be at home! Let's camp down here on the grass and send for the rest of the clan. Run over, Rufie, will you, and get all the Bells that will come?"

As she spoke, Shirley dropped upon the smooth turf close by the big wicker chair that Murray had just drawn up for Jane, on the terrace at the edge of the court. Her cheeks were flushed by the lively exercise she had been taking, her hair curled moistly about her forehead. Jane looked at her with a touch of envy in her affectionate glance. Being Mrs. Murray Townsend, she supposed it became her to sit demurely in a chair, instead of putting herself, as she longed to do, beside Shirley, on the grass. But Murray, with no such restraining thought in his head, cast himself upon the turf beside his sister, at his wife's feet.

Presently Rufus returned, bringing Nancy and Ross McAndrew. Olive, spying the group upon the lawn, came trailing out in all her pretty finery of the afternoon. Two or three young neighbours appeared. By and by Peter Bell, just home from the paper-factory, looked across from the Gay Street porch and descried the distant group. Somebody had brought a banjo, and somebody else was essaying to sing a boating-song to the accompaniment.

"Shall I go over?" thought Peter, when he had had his bath and his supper, and had come out upon the porch again.

He was quite alone, for his mother, after serving his supper, had hurried out to see a neighbour who had been long ill, and who depended upon Mrs. Bell for her daily cheer. Mr. Bell had driven out to Grandfather Bell's farm. The little house seemed strangely silent, and the porch, in the early summer twilight, more companionable. A hammock swung behind the vines, and after a moment's indecision, Peter stretched his long form in it, clasping his hands under his head. He was unusually weary, for the day had been very hot. He lay quietly listening to the distant 'plunkings' of the banjo and to the faint sounds of talk and laughter which floated across the space to him. So, after a little, he fell asleep.

He was awakened by the sound of voices on the step. The Bell porch, unlike that of the Townsends, possessed no electric lamps, and the nearest illumination to-night came from an arc-light on the corner. Peter, in his hammock, lay shrouded wholly in darkness. He could see a gleam of white between the vines which sheltered him, and the voices were those of his sister Nancy and Shirley Townsend.

"It's such a relief," Shirley was saying, "to get away from that banjo. I seem to have been listening all day to the sorts of music I like least. Rodman Fielding and his banjo are the last straw. Nan, what do you suppose is the matter with me that I don't seem to care for the things most girls do--clothes and boys and--banjos. I detest banjos!"

"What do you care for?" Nancy asked. "Tennis, anyhow. And you like Rufus and Ross and Peter, don't you? As for banjos--I don 't think anybody thinks they 're very musical. They just like the funny songs that go with them."

"Rufus is like a brother, and Ross like an uncle--a young one. As for Peter--I don't seem to know Peter. He 's changed. What 's he been doing to make him look so old and sober? I almost thought I saw a gray hair--and he 's no older than Murray."

"Peter old and sober?"--Peter himself was growing fairly awake, although not fully enough roused to the situation to realise that he was playing eavesdropper.--"What an idea! He has n't changed a particle. Gray hair! It could n't be. Why, Peter 's stronger than all the rest of us put together!"

"He's been taxing his strength, then. He looks as if he had been carrying loads of responsibility--solving problems--worrying over some he could n't solve. He's working too hard."

Nancy laughed incredulously, and said that Peter's work was quite the same as it had been, and that her friend's absence had made her see things unnaturally. But Peter's eyes, in the darkness, opened wide. Here was extraordinary discernment for a nineteen-year-old girl, who had met him only once since her return, casually upon the street, during which time she had merely laughed at him for not knowing her immediately, and then had walked on. Was it possible that she had seen that which he had been carefully guarding from the eyes of his family for a long, long time, and at which even his mother did not guess?

But here was Shirley again, speaking low and thoughtfully: "I seem to see everybody, since I came home, as if I had never seen them before. I see father looking as if he thought it did n't pay to have made so much money, after all; and mother looking worn-out playing the grand lady; Olive following after, and not finding much in it. Murray and Jane absorbed in each other, but Jane wishing--no, I 'll not say what I think Jane is wishing. She would n't admit it, I know. Ross and Rufus and you, busy and happy. Your father and mother contented as ever. But Peter----"

It would not do. He was fully awake now. If she was going on to talk about him again he must let her know he was there. Besides, if she really divined something of the truth, he must not let her make Nancy anxious.

Shirley had paused with his name upon her lips, as if soberly thinking. Peter sat up. But at the fortunate instant a figure dashed across Gay Street.

"You runaways!" Rufus called, reproachfully. "A fine hostess you are, Shirley Townsend! They 're asking for you. You 'll have to come back."

So they went away and Peter was left alone upon the porch. There was a queer feeling tugging at his heart. Nobody else had seen, nobody else had even noticed the slightest change in him. Of course it was not possible that Shirley could know the least thing about his situation, but it was something that she appreciated one fact--that he was working to the limit of his capacity, and that, although he was not yet overdone, the strain was beginning to tell. Not the strain of work, but the greater and more exhausting drain of anxiety.

CHAPTER III

LUNCHEON FOR TWELVE

"Mrs. Murray, Mrs. Townsend would like you to come to her room, if you please."

"Yes, Sophy, certainly. Is Mrs. Townsend's headache better this morning?"

"It's very bad, Mrs. Murray. And she's that upset about the luncheon she's giving. Cook's taken sick, too--the bad luck!"

"Since breakfast, Sophy?"

"'T was Norah and Mary served breakfast. Cook but got out of bed and went back. Mr. Townsend bade me send for the doctor. He says she 'll not leave her bed again the day. And Mrs. Townsend says the luncheon must go on, and not a bit of outside help to be had at this short notice."

Jane hurried down the hall, Sophy's laments in her ears. She found Olive sitting on the foot of her mother's bed talking perturbedly with the elder woman, in the effort to dissuade her from the purpose of attempting to entertain any guests whatever in the circumstances. But it became evident to Jane at once that Mrs. Townsend was not to be dissuaded.

"There must be somebody to be had," she asserted, as Jane drew up a chair, after laying a cool hand on the aching forehead and expressing her sympathy with the headache. "It can't be possible that Lemare could n't send me somebody if he understood the necessity--or Perceval. We don't need much done. Cook had all the preliminary baking done yesterday. It's only to get everything together."

"But that's the whole of it, mother," Olive urged. "You may say it's only a simple luncheon, but Norah and Mary are certainly not equal to it. Is n't it excuse enough to send those women word that you 're ill? I 'll telephone--or write notes, if you prefer."

She rose as she spoke, but Mrs. Townsend waved an agitated hand, and shook her head violently. "You don't understand," she moaned, pressing her hand to her head and falling back among the pillows. "There are reasons why I can't have this thing fail. Mrs. Arlo Stevenson is a most difficult person to get for any affair whatever--and this is particularly in her honour. I could have had a caterer, of course, but I consider it not good form to put small entertaining into any hands but one's cook's. I am indebted to Mrs. Wister very deeply, and she is bringing a guest whom she is very anxious to have meet Mrs. Stevenson. There are other reasons----"

"But, mother"--Olive's tone was growing impatient--"what can't be, can't be. We can't get any one."

"Perhaps I could do it," Jane began, with some hesitation. "If it's really a simple luncheon----"

"It is!" Mrs. Townsend spoke with eagerness.

"I might not be able to manage the most elaborate dishes----"

"Cook can't be too ill to tell you what is necessary."

"But, mother," Olive protested, "Jane must be at the table. She can't be in the kitchen, sending in courses."

"That's of no consequence," declared Jane, quickly. "I don't mind missing the luncheon in the least."

"They are all older women," murmured Mrs. Townsend, closing her eyes wearily. When Olive took things in hand, it was always difficult to oppose her.

"Yes, but Jane is our bride. And you expect me to be there. If Jane stays in the kitchen, so shall I."

"I don't know what to do," and the poor lady on the bed, among her pillows, looked as if she were indeed suffering.

There was a minute's silence. Then Jane spoke with gentle decision.

"Olive, dear, that is very nice of you, but I truly don't mind in the least. It is n't as if you had n't already introduced me everywhere, and I had n't been entertained over and over. If mother's guests are older ladies, my absence surely won't be noticed. And I 'd love to try what I can do. You know I 've had years of training at cookery, and if I can't manage all of Cook's dishes, perhaps I can substitute others that are n't at all common. I can promise at least that nothing will be burned."

"You are a dear child," said Mrs. Townsend fervently. She wiped away a nervous tear or two.

Olive followed Jane to her room to watch her new sister exchange her morning dress for one more suitable for the affairs she meant to take in hand.

"This is going to be fun," said Jane gaily.

"I don't see how you can think so. It's certainly very foolish of mother to persist against all odds. One would think her life depended on that luncheon."

"It does--in a way. Her poor nerves are quite worn out. I 've seen it for a long time. Having things go wrong just now is the last straw."

"Why, Jane, what's going to happen?" called Shirley, five minutes later, encountering Jane on the stairs which led to the servants' rooms on the third floor. Shirley had been up to see Cook, who adored her.

"Is Bridget able to see me?" asked Jane.

"She 'll be much flattered. It's sciatica, and it lays her low, but she can converse with intelligence, even with brilliancy. She 's in a terrible state over not being able to get up that luncheon."

"I 'm going to hold a council of war with her," and Jane disappeared into Cook's room.

Half an hour later she came out again, her eyes dancing with anticipation, pencil and paper in hand. As she ran downstairs, Sophy came up with a tray, and caught the overflow of Bridget's emotions.

"The cleverness of her!" exclaimed the invalid. "To take the menyou into her own pretty hands and think she can see to it all! She can, too, or I 'm deceived. Consultin' with me and gettin' my directions, and tellin' me where she makes bold to follow, and where she 's not quite sure. It's a pity she 's not mistress of the house in Mrs. Townsend's place--and her so wore out she ought to be at a sanitarium this minute. Look to it, Sophy, that Norah and Mary does their duty by Mrs. Murray this day, If they 're inclined to be triflin', bid them come up to me. I 'll soon put them in mind of what Mr. Murray says to me when he brought home his wife. 'Whatever you do to please her will be appreciated,' he says, 'by me.' And it's nothing I would n't do for Mr. Murray and Miss Shirley, these seven years I 've lived here. And now I 'm feelin' the same way toward Mrs. Murray."

Whether it was the potency of the message which reached scullery maid and waitress by way of Sophy, or whether it was Jane's own engaging manner, together with the respect she soon inspired by the assured and competent way in which she "took hold," there could be no question that by the end of the first hour not only Norah and Mary, but also Ellen, the laundress, were flying about as they had rarely done before, even for Bridget, who certainly knew how to get out of them work enough and to spare.

At a moment when they chanced to be all together, Jane had said to them, as with deft fingers she mixed a bowlful of ingredients, that if with their help she could only bring about the serving of a luncheon which the guests would like to eat, she should be happier than over any entertainment she herself had ever been offered. And she had been able to tell from their smiling interested faces that she was to have from that moment the best service they could give her.

Shirley, when affairs were well under way, had gone to the telephone and called up Murray's office.

"I want you to come home for a few minutes at two o'clock!" she said, imperatively.

"What for? Anything the matter?" asked her brother.

"Not a thing," said Shirley, reassuringly "But there 's something happening up here at the house that you must see."

"I 'm pretty busy."

"You 'll never forgive yourself, when you hear about it, if you don't see with your own eyes."

"All right, I 'll try to make it. Anything connected with Jane?"

"Of course. Do you suppose I 'd ask you if it was n't?"

"I'll be there."

"I thought you would," and Shirley laughed as she hung up the receiver. No doubt Murray was a happy man.

"Do you suppose Jane is going to be able to do it?" queried Mrs. Townsend, dressing with the help of Shirley and Sophy. As the hour for the arrival of her guests approached, doubts were beginning to assail her. Jane was no doubt an extremely capable young matron, but the preparing of such a luncheon as Bridget had planned meant not only accomplished cookery, but much skill and care in the details of serving. Had Jane's eyes been open during the brief period of her entertainment at various fine tables! It was too late to do anything but hope so.

"Don't worry, mother," Shirley had urged. "Jane's doing wonders. If she can keep it up she 'll surprise you."

"I had a bit sip of the booly-on just now when I was down in the kitchen," offered Sophy, "and it was elegant. And you know yourself 'm, Bridget says that's one of the most trying things of all to get tasty."

Mrs. Townsend went wanly down into her rooms, to find flowers all about, distributed by Olive's skilful fingers. She looked into the dining-room. Her table was faultlessly laid, to the last detail, and a charming arrangement of lilies was mirrored in the polished mahogany.

"Now come and rest until the last minute," urged Shirley. "And don't worry. Mrs. Arlo Stevenson won't have a thing to criticise--except the conversation."

An hour afterward, Murray, letting himself in with his latch-key, found Shirley awaiting him inside the door. "Don't say a word," she whispered. "Just walk straight past the dining-room without looking in. Mother 's entertaining Mrs. Stevenson at luncheon, you know, and it's a very solemn occasion."

Wondering, Murray, hat in hand, followed his sister as she walked demurely by the wide entrance to the dining-room, from within which he could hear a subdued murmur of voices. But once past, she hurried him, by a circuitous route, to a narrow hallway at the back of the house, which led to the kitchen. Here she stationed him, and bade him push the door open a cautious crack and peep within. He obeyed her. Shirley stood behind him, alive with anticipation, while she watched her brother's shoulders.

Shirley could not see his face, but she heard his subdued exclamation as he gazed at the scene within. She knew what it was. The luncheon had reached the salad course. Jane was arranging plates picturesque with an enticing combination of ingredients, parti-coloured, crisp and cool. Her fair arms were bared to the elbow, her cheeks were flushed. At her right hand Mary was ready with assistance, her eyes respectfully studying the arrangement--not of the salad, but of her young mistress's hair, which was certainly worth studying for its effective simplicity. The maid could never hope to match that daintiness of arrangement with her own ash-coloured locks, but she meant to try.

Murray turned about at last. "Well, by Jove!" he exploded, softly. "How does this come about?"

Shirley noiselessly closed the door and explained in a whisper. Murray's eyes grew eloquent as he listened. "The little trump!" was his comment. "I wish I could stay till she's finished. I suppose it would n't do to call her out now?"

"Mercy, no! You might upset her. So far I don't think the least thing has gone wrong."

"What possessed mother to put the thing through, anyhow? Jane ought to be in there with the others."

"It was something about entertaining Mrs. Arlo Stevenson. Mother felt it must be done, though the heavens fell. They nearly did fall, till Jane came under and held them up. As for Jane's being at the table--she did n't want to be there. And Olive would n't be, without her, so there's nothing noticeable. They 're all women of mother 's age--on some special board of charities, or something like that, that makes them congenial."

"Its making them congenial does n't necessarily follow, unfortunately. So Olive stayed out, did she? That's one count for Olive. Why is n't she helping Jane, though?"

"Jane would n't have either of us in the kitchen. Olive did the flowers, and Norah and I the table. I got in an English fashion or two that will either drive mother to distraction or fill her with pride. I forgot to tell her," and Shirley began to laugh. She led Murray away to safer regions, but he looked at his watch and said he must be off.

"Wasn't it worth coming up for?" she demanded.

"No question of that. Much obliged for letting me know. I 'll settle with Jane later. Take her out for a drive, or something, to cool her off, will you? Good bye!" And Murray vanished, smiling to himself. "That ought to make her pretty solid with mother," he reflected, as he raced to his car.

But when the last guest had rustled away, Mrs. Townsend was in no condition to fall upon Jane's neck and overwhelm her with thanks. Instead she had to be carried to her room by Phelps, the coachman--summoned in haste from the stable--and put to bed by her daughters. Her physician arrived in short order, and his edict, when he had telephoned for a nurse, was stern.

"When you society women stop putting yourselves through a grind that no strong man could stand up under, you will get a grip upon your nerves," said he. "Mrs. Townsend was at the end of her forces two months ago, and I told her so. She has simply been keeping up on will--with the inevitable result. The moment she is fit to travel she must get off to the quietest place on my list--and stay there. Home would be a better place for her, if she would obey the rules; but she won 't, so that settles it. And you, Miss Olive"--he turned abruptly to the elder daughter of the house--"would do well to go with her. It's evident you 've been travelling along the same road."

"O Doctor Warrener, how absurd you are! I 'm perfectly well. And I 've half a dozen invitations to lovely places. They 'll do me far more good than going to some invalid resort and taking baths."

He shook his head. "You're all alike," said he. "I may talk till I 'm dumb--you 'll pay the price. And when you 've paid it, you 'll remember."

"There are two," said Olive, indicating Jane and Shirley, "who will never have nervous prostration on account of overdoing society."

Doctor Warrener surveyed them, and the grimness of his face relaxed. "I'll acquit them on their faces," said he. "Tell your husband, Mrs. Murray, to shut you up in a bandbox--or, better, take you off West to that place where he got back his health--before he lets you drift into the swirl. As for Shirley,"--he laid his hand upon her shoulder--"if I'm any reader of destiny--and I ought to be--she 's going to swing that tennis racquet for several years yet before she gives up and settles down."

All this had happened before Mr. Townsend and Murray came home. Mrs. Townsend's breakdowns after fatigue in fulfilling her engagements, and the summoning of the doctor, had become too frequent occurrences to imply the sending for her husband. The orders away, for rest and recuperation, were also, within the last few years, of semi-annual recurrence.

"It simply means," said Murray, pacing with Jane up and down the long flower-bordered walk between the house and the tennis-court, "it simply means six weeks or two months for you to try your hand at being mistress of the establishment. And judging by what I saw that hand do to-day----"

Jane looked quickly up at him.

"I should say that it was competent to run anything. That salad was a--what do women say?--a symphony--a star. Not that I care much for salads myself, but to see you putting it together----"

"Murray--you didn 't!"

"Didn't I? You had on a pink-and-white checked apron that came up over your shoulders. Your sleeves were short, and your hair curled round your ears, the way it does on damp days. You----"

"Where were you? How did you know! Who----"

"I was on the other side of the door, which you forgot to lock. Never in my life was I so bowled over by the sight of a girl in a kitchen."

"If I had known you were looking----"

"Precisely. That was why Shirley wouldn't let me call you out. Of course I should have kissed you--I never felt more like it--and that might have endangered the composition of the salad."

"I 'm afraid it would," laughed Jane. "As it was, I made the one real mistake of the luncheon--I sent that salad in on the game plates! The girls were in such a flurry they did n't notice till the plates began to come out again. I hope mother did n't mind very much."

"I 'll warrant nobody else did. Mrs. Arlo Stevenson is as short-sighted as an owl in the day-time, and as I understand it, Mrs. Stevenson was the guest who counted--goodness knows why! I think she's insufferable. I 'm glad mother 's got her off her mind, for the time being. It will give her a chance to recuperate. Poor mother! She misses a lot of fun, does n't she?"

"She thinks it's we who miss it."

"Perhaps we can show her better some day--when we 've been very good and earned that house by ourselves. Hi! What?" exclaimed Murray. "How you jumped! Did you think that house by ourselves was n't really to materialise some day?"

"I--wasn't sure." Jane's voice was low. She did not mean to show how much she cared, or how she longed to believe definitely in a prospect which, as yet, had not been in so many words held out to her.

"Why, it's a certainty! Have n't I made that clear, little girl? You know, when I told you how anxious father was to have us live with them, I said it would n't be for all time. Don't you remember that?"

"I know. But I thought----"

"You thought, I see, it meant while he needed me, which would be as long as he lived. No, he does n't insist on that. It was to be only while he stayed an active partner in the business. He wanted me at his elbow, and I did n't feel like refusing him. He means to retire within five years--or sooner, if his health shows signs of breaking. Then he understands that I 'm to have a home by myself--build one, you know. Well, well, what a squeeze my arm is getting! Are you so glad?"

"I'm pretty glad. It's not that--that this place is n't pleasant, and everybody more than kind, but----"

"You needn't be afraid to tell me--in fact, you don't need to tell me. You 're too much of a born Jenny Wren not to want to feather your own nest. And I want to see you do it. We 'll begin to look over plans. We can talk about it and think about it----"

"No, we can't, Murray."

"Why not? Isn't anticipation----"

"Yes, but it would make it harder to wait. Now I know it's sure, I can----"

"Be good?" said her husband. "You are being good--heavenly. What you did to-day--well, if you could have known what I thought about you when I saw you out there putting those pretty shoulders to the domestic wheel--proud is n't the name for it. And let me tell you, Janey Townsend, it is n't every girl who could take command of the forces and have them working for you at the top of their ability, like that. Norah has n't a nose and chin of that perky shape for nothing; and Mary can soldier for fair when she chooses. As for Sophy--but you had Sophy for your own from the start. And it 's not been done with tips, either, has it? Honestly, now, have you ever given Sophy a tip since you came to the house?"

"A tip?" said Jane. "Money, you mean? Why, no. Should I? I never thought of it. Does she expect it?"

"She probably doesn't now--from you--or want it, as long as you reward her with your smiles and ask about her invalid brother, the way I overheard you doing the other day. She'd probably rather have your friendly interest than all Olive's dollar bills. Oh, there are several ways of winning people's loyalty, dear--and yours is the best. Only everybody can't do it. Do you know, gentle Jane, I 'm a good deal interested in seeing you in the role of mistress of this house for a while?"

"Murray, I 'm so doubtful about it!"

"You need n't be. The commanding officer who has proved to his regiment that in an emergency he can work with them, shoulder to shoulder--and work better than they can--need have no fears. It 'll just be a case of 'Bridget, Norah, Sophy, Mary, Ellen--fall in! Shoulder arms! March!' And off the regiment will go, heads up, chests out, eyes to the front."

CHAPTER IV

POT-HOOKS

"I want to have a talk with you, Murray."

"All right, sister, I 'm at your service."

"Please come over to the seat beyond the shrubbery, where nobody will see or hear. It's not a very suitable place, but it's better than the house this hot night."

"Not a suitable place?" queried Murray, as he followed Shirley across the lawn. "Not so fast, child. It is a hot night, and I 've only just cooled off since dinner. It was insufferable in the office to-day--or would have been if anybody had had time to stop and think about it. Why is n't that romantic seat beyond the shrubbery just the place to talk?"

"Because the talk has no romance about it. The office would be the place for it, only you 've no time to give me if I should come there."

"You excite my curiosity." Murray disposed himself comfortably upon the wide rustic seat, screened from all beholders without and within the grounds, not only by shrubbery and hedges, but by the fast deepening July twilight. "Fire away. Anything gone wrong?"

"Nothing--except me."

"You alarm me."

"Don't joke. I 'm serious."

"I see you are. And that's what alarms me. Seriousness, at eighteen----"

"I 'm nineteen--nearly twenty. And I 'm not only serious--I 'm cross. Murray, I want something to do."

"Haven't you plenty? Jane tells me she could n't get on without you."

"Jane is a dear. And I love to help her. But I want to be doing something--else. I want to amount to something. I want to learn something."

"Miss Cockburn's finishing-school didn't finish then? Is college the bee you have in your bonnet?"

"No, I 'm afraid I 'm too unsettled for that now--I don't know why. Once I spent a whole week trying to convince mother I must go to college instead of to school in England. But I don't want that any more. I want--Murray, please don't laugh when I tell you!"

"Why should I laugh? It's plain you mean business of some sort, and I 'm honoured by your confidence. Go ahead, little girl, and don't be afraid of your big brother."

"Well, then, I want to learn stenography and typewriting." It came with a rush, and after it Shirley sat still, one hand holding the other tightly while she waited for the explosion she expected.

It did not come. Murray turned his head until she could feel that he was looking directly at her through the dim light. He sat up slightly, and thrust his hands deeper down into his pockets--a masculine action which usually indicates concentration of attention. He was silent for a full minute before he spoke. When he did speak, it was in the tone that one man uses to another when the basis of their intercourse is that of mutual respect.

"Would you mind giving me your idea? It's plain you have thought something out to the end. I need to know it from the beginning, if you want any advice worth while."

"I can, now I know that you're not going to knock me down with arguments against it before you know mine for it."

"That would be poor policy. That's the boomerang sort of argument--the one that comes back at one's self. Besides, I've too much confidence in my sister's good judgment to believe that she would fire a proposition like that at me without a reason back of it."

"The reason is easy. I'm restless for something to do. I don't want to be a next season's debutante, and go through a winter like the five Olive has spent. I want to work. I want to fit myself to be independent. If anything should happen to father's money, I don't want to be like the Desmond girls after their father's failure, as helpless as baby birds pushed out of the nest. Olive could n't do a thing. Forrest is just an idler. You have Jane to take care of. But I--I could be learning to support myself."

"The business is in fine condition. We never were so substantial a firm as now. There's very little danger of our going to pot."

"That may be," said Shirley, "though things do happen, Murray, out of a clear sky. But that's not my real reason. My real reason is a genuine, great big longing to amount to something. I never come down to the office without envying the girls I see there. I envy them because they have to do it--because they 're supporting themselves and somebody else by it."

"Do you mean that you would like a position in our office?"

"Oh, would n't I! If I could study and study, and practise and practise, and then some day take a dictation from you or father and bring you a perfect copy, I believe I 'd be--Murray, I 'd be the happiest girl that ever lived!"

"You mean that, do you?"

"I do."

"Have you thought that if you took a position in our office, or in any other, you 'd be shutting out some poor girl who really needs the salary?"

"Yes, I've thought of it. I know that's an argument against it. But, Murray, don't you think the rich men's daughters need employment sometimes quite as much as the poor ones do? Why, I 'm telling you I envy the poor ones!"

"I know; but the fact remains that they need the money, and you don't."

"Are n't you keeping some poor man out of the salary you get by taking the place of father's right hand man?"

Murray laughed. "There's a back-hander for me! But I 'm practically a partner, you know, and a firm can't do without its heads, no matter how many poor fellows would like the job."

"And you have the right to make something of yourself. But I have n't because I should be taking work away from some girl who needs it. I don't want to do that. I 'd work for nothing, or give my salary away."

"Ah, but that wouldn't solve the problem. The girl whose job you took from her would n't accept your salary from you."

"Then, just because a girl's father can support her, must she give up learning how to support herself? And the fun of doing it?"

"What do you expect the family to say about it?"

"Of course they won't like it. Except father. I think he will."

"Possibly, after you have wheedled him and hung round his neck. Well, do you feel you have a right to disappoint mother and Olive, as you will do, if you so much as begin on this course, to say nothing of sticking to it?"

Shirley was silent for a moment. Then she answered, very gently, "I should be sorry for that, of course, but I think I have the right. Devoting one's self to society can't be a duty one owes to one's family, if one does n't feel satisfied with that life. And my learning to earn my own living won't disgrace my family--not in these days of millionaire milliners and violet raisers."

"No, it won't disgrace your family. Instead, it makes one member of it sit up and look at his small sister with a good deal of respect. If you take hold of the thing, you 'll go through with it. I 've not the least doubt of that, for you 're no quitter."

"Thank you. Then will you go with me to talk with father about it?"

"When?"

"Now. He 's in the library."

Murray got up. "You are in earnest," he remarked. "Yes, I 'll go with you. But you 'll find the question will have to be pretty thoroughly threshed out with him before he agrees. He employs none but experts; you 'll have to win your spurs before you can wear them. And good stenographers are born, not made. If you 've got it in you, you 'll succeed; if you have n't, you won't, no matter how hard you try."

He could not see his sister's eyes, but he could read the determination in her voice as she answered that it was the expectation of winning those spurs that made her heart jump just to think about it.

It was a fortnight after this talk, and the longer and more earnest one which succeeded it, that, coming away from the factory one warm July afternoon at an earlier hour than usual, Peter Bell happened upon his young neighbour in a most unexpected place. Far downtown, blocks below the usual shopping district, he saw Shirley Townsend come out of a doorway and start rapidly up the street. She had not seen him, and he was too far away to call to her, so he was forced to quicken his pace almost to a run to overtake her at the next corner before she signalled her car.

She had walked so fast that the best he could do was to run and swing himself aboard the same car just as it got under way. The car was full, and Shirley herself was obliged to stand, clinging to a strap. Peter secured a strap beside her. There was little chance for conversation during the long ride uptown, but Peter's eyes were observant, and he noticed a peculiarity in Shirley's attire.

At an hour in the afternoon when the girls of her sort would all be wearing light frocks and ribbons, Shirley was dressed like the girls in the office he had just left. With a difference--which Peter's eyes also discerned, although he could not have told just where the difference lay. Shirley's white blouse, her blue serge skirt, her sailor hat, her trim shoes, all bore about them the stamp of quality, indefinable, yet not to be denied.

As for her face, Peter thought he had never seen it so alight with life. The smile she had flashed at him was brilliant. He was glad he had caught the car. It was a decided enlivenment of the long ride, monotonous with daily repetition, just to stand beside the trim, swaying figure, and occasionally exchange a word with its possessor. Besides, he was feeling not a little curiosity as to the errand which had taken her to a place where hung the sign of a well-known commercial college.

"It is a hot day, isn't it?" observed Shirley, when he had handed her off the car, and they were walking up Gay Street toward Worthington Square. "Just the day to get into the country. I 'd like a gallop over about ten miles of good roads--just to feel the wind in my face."

"It would be great, would n't it?" agreed Peter.

She looked up at him. "You and Olive don't ride as much as you used to."

"She has n't seemed to care for it for the last year or so."

"Hasn't she asked you to ride Grayback whenever you wanted?"

"She 's been very kind about offering him. But I don't like to go over and order him out myself."

"He 's pining for exercise. So is Pretty Polly, though I had one short canter on her before breakfast. You 've never been out with me on horseback. Perhaps you don't know I can ride."

"I have my eyesight. And as for inviting you to go with me--how can I, when you have the horses? If you 're asking me to go with you--there 's nothing on earth I 'd rather do just now."

"I believe that," thought Shirley, as she ran into the house to change her clothes. "If ever a man looked as if he 'd like to drop his cares and get off on a horse's back, Peter does to-day."

In a few minutes she was crossing the lawn, in her riding habit, crop in hand. Peter met her, himself in riding trim. His face showed his pleasure in the prospect, as he put her up and swung into his own saddle.

"'If wishes were horses,'" he quoted, as they turned toward the Northboro road. "And sometimes they are. An hour ago I was looking out of the office window at the factory, and wishing for this very sort of thing. I ought to see Grandfather Bell. Do you mind if we go that way?"

"I 'm fond of that way. It will give us a good gallop down the old turnpike, and a cool walk through the woods to freshen the horses."

Once out of the city they were off at a brisk trot, talking a little now and then, but mostly busy with thoughts. They had seen so little of each other since Shirley's return that a sense of having begun a new acquaintanceship hampered them both. They had not yet found common ground.

"Now for the gallop," said Shirley, as they rounded a turn and came out upon a long, level stretch of road, with few vehicles in sight.

"This is the spot where your sister lost most of her hairpins, when she took her first ride with me," said Peter, indicating to Grayback that a change of pace was in order. "I don't think she 'd ever had such a dashing get-away before. Off, are you? Well, well, you do mean business, don't you? All right, I 'm with you. But don't expect me to recover the hairpins!" he called, as Grayback picked up the pace Pretty Polly had set.

But both Pretty Polly and her rider were evidently on their mettle, and Grayback, bigger and longer of stride though he was, had to look to his heels to keep up with the little brown mare.

Shirley proved a daring rider, and before she finally pulled Polly down to a canter she certainly had felt the wind in her face with a rush.

When she looked round at Peter, as they entered the mile-long course of wood-shaded road which succeeded the turnpike, she met a brighter smile than she had seen on his face since she came home, two months before. Once more, for the moment, he looked the care-free boy again.

"You may be a pupil of the riding-schools, but you 've taken plenty of road-training since," was his comment. "And not a hairpin loose, so far as I can see."

"That's because I always tie my mop with a ribbon for riding, like any schoolgirl. It's childish, but comfortable. Is n't this deliciously cool in here? And I 've forgotten all about the pothooks already." But having said this, Shirley bit her lip. She had not meant to tell yet.

"Pothooks?" repeated Peter, curiously. "Have you been bothered by pothooks lately?"

"A trifle." She turned away her head, and pointed out a fine clump of ferns, growing on a bank by the roadside.

"Do you want them?" he asked.

"No, no, not enough to get down for. I--said something I did n't mean to, and the ferns offered a way of escape."

Peter was silent, wondering what she could mean.

Then Shirley said, frankly:

"That sounds rude, and I 'm going to tell you."

"Not because something slipped out. I won't even guess at it, unless you want me to."

"I do--now. I think I 'd like to tell you, though not even Nancy knows yet. My family do--but I don't think even they quite realise what it means to me. Perhaps you would."

"I 'd like to try."

"I--have begun to study stenography," said Shirley. "When I've learned it--and typewriting--thoroughly, I 'm to have a place in Murray's office."

She said it with her eyes looking straight between her horse's ears; and she did not see the quick, astonished glance which fell upon her.

Peter made no answer for so long that she turned, wondering and a little resentful.

"I beg your pardon," said Peter. "I believe I forgot to answer. But that was n't from lack of interest. You took my breath away. When I got it back I fell to thinking that I might have expected it of you."

"You might? Why?"

"I 'm not good at telling my thoughts. But I knew you had a mind of your own from the day you first gave Nancy Bell of Gay Street the preference over the little Hille girl of Worthington Square."

"Gay Street was sixteen times more interesting than Worthington Square, always," declared Shirley, frankly.

"How do you like the pothooks?"

"I 'm going to like them, whether they 're likable or not. Just now I 'm in a sort of delirium ever them. Little black quirls and dots and dashes walk through my dreams. I 've just one week of it now, and I 'm fascinated. The only trouble is, I want to get hold of everything at once."

"Hold steady and make sure as you go. Slow accuracy at first is much better than a fast jumble that you can't read yourself. If you like it, and are getting hold of it already, that shows you are going to win out. It's easy to tell, from the start, who 'll make a stenographer in the end and who won't."