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Title: Cap'n Dan's Daughter

Author: Joseph C. Lincoln

Release Date: October, 2004  [EBook #6718]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on January 19, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, CAP'N DAN'S DAUGHTER ***




This eBook was produced by Don Lainson.




CAP'N DAN'S DAUGHTER


by


JOSEPH C. LINCOLN


1914




CAP'N DAN'S DAUGHTER



CHAPTER I


The Metropolitan Dry Goods and Variety Store at Trumet Centre was
open for business.  Sam Bartlett, the boy whose duty it was to take
down the shutters, sweep out, dust, and wait upon early-bird
customers, had performed the first three of these tasks and gone
home for breakfast.  The reason he had not performed the fourth--
the waiting upon customers--was simple enough; there had been no
customers to wait upon.  The Metropolitan Dry Goods and Variety
Store was open and ready for business--but, unfortunately, there
was no business.

There should have been.  This was August, the season of the year
when, if ever, Trumet shopkeepers should be beaming across their
counters at the city visitor, male or female, and telling him or
her, that "white duck hats are all the go this summer," or "there's
nothin' better than an oilskin coat for sailin' cruises or
picnics."  Outing shirts and yachting caps, fancy stationery, post
cards, and chocolates should be changing hands at a great rate and
the showcase, containing the nicked blue plates and cracked
teapots, the battered candlesticks and tarnished pewters, "genuine
antiques," should be opened at frequent intervals for the
inspection of bargain-seeking mothers and their daughters.  July
and August are the Cape Cod harvest months; if the single-entry
ledgers of Trumet's business men do not show good-sized profits
during that season they are not likely to do so the rest of the
year.

Captain Daniel Dott, proprietor of the Metropolitan Store, bending
over his own ledger spread on the little desk by the window at the
rear of his establishment, was realizing this fact, realizing it
with a sinking heart and a sense of hopeless discouragement.  The
summer was almost over; September was only three days off; in
another fortnight the hotels would be closed, the boarding houses
would be closing, and Trumet, deserted by its money spending
visitors, would be falling asleep, relapsing into its autumn and
winter hibernation.  And the Dott ledger, instead of showing a
profit of a thousand or fifteen hundred dollars, as it had the
first summer after Daniel bought the business, showed but a meager
three hundred and fifty, over and above expenses.

Through the window the sun was shining brightly.  From the road in
front of the store--Trumet's "Main Street"--came the rattle of
wheels and the sound of laughter and conversation in youthful
voices.  The sounds drew nearer.  Someone shouted "Whoa!"  Daniel
Dott, a ray of hope illuminating his soul at the prospect of a
customer, rose hurriedly from his seat by the desk and hastened out
into the shop.

A big two-horsed vehicle, the "barge" from the Manonquit House, had
stopped before the door.  It was filled with a gay crowd, youths
and maidens from the hotel, dressed in spotless flannels and
"blazers," all talking at once, and evidently carefree and happy.
Two of the masculine members of the party descended from the
"barge" and entered the store.  Daniel, smiling his sweetest,
stepped forward to meet them.

"Good mornin', good mornin'," he said.  "A fine mornin', ain't it?"

The greeting was acknowledged by both of the young fellows, and one
of them added that it was a fine morning, indeed.

"Don't know as I ever saw a finer," observed Daniel.  "Off on a
cruise somewhere, I presume likely; hey?"

"Picnic down at the Point."

"Well, you've got picnic weather, all right.  Yes sir, you have!"

Comment concerning the weather is the inevitable preliminary to all
commercial transactions in Trumet.  Now, preliminaries being over,
Daniel waited hopefully for what was to follow.  His hopes were
dashed.

"Is--is Miss Dott about?" inquired one of the callers.

"Miss Dott?  Oh, Gertie!  No, she ain't.  She's gone down street
somewheres.  Be back pretty soon, I shouldn't wonder."

"Humph!  Well, I'm afraid we can't wait.  We hoped she might go
with us on the picnic.  We--er--we wanted her very much."

"That so?  I'm sorry, but I'm afraid she couldn't go, even if she
was here.  You see, it's her last day at home, and--we--her mother
and I--that is, I don't believe she'd want to leave us to-day."

"No; no, of course not.  Well, tell her we wish she might have
come, but we understand.  Yes, yes," in answer to the calls from
the "barge," "we're coming.  Well, good by, Captain Dott."

"Er--good by.  Er--er--don't want anything to take along, do you?
A nice box of candy, or--or anything?"

"No, I think not.  We stopped at the Emporium just now, and loaded
up with candy enough to last a week.  Good morning."

"How are you fixed for sun hats and things?  I've got a nice line
of hats and--well, good by."

"Good by."

The "barge" moved off.  Daniel, standing dejectedly in the door,
remembered his manners.

"Hope you have a nice time," he shouted.  Then he turned and moved
disconsolately back to the desk.  He might have expected it.  It
was thus in nine cases out of ten.  The Emporium, Mr. J. Cohen,
proprietor, was his undoing in this instance as in so many others.
The Emporium got the trade and he got the good bys.  Mr. Cohen was
not an old resident, as he was; Mr. Cohen's daughter was not
invited to picnics by the summer people; Mrs. Cohen was not head of
the sewing circle and the Chapter of the Ladies of Honor, and
prominent socially, as was Mrs. Dott; but Mr. Cohen bought cheap
and sold cheap, and the Emporium flourished like a green bay tree,
while the Metropolitan Store was rapidly going to seed.  Daniel,
looking out through the front window at the blue sea in the
distance, thought of the past, of the days when, as commander and
part owner of the three masted schooner Bluebird, he had been free
and prosperous and happy.  Then he considered the future, which was
bluer than the sea, and sighed again.  Why had he not been content
to stick to the profession he understood, to remain on the salt
water he loved; instead of retiring from the sea to live on dry
land and squander his small fortune in a business for which he was
entirely unfitted?

And yet the answer was simple enough.  Mrs. Dott--Mrs. Serena Dott,
his wife--was the answer, she and her social aspirations.  It was
Serena who had coaxed him into giving up seafaring; who had said
that it was a shame for him to waste his life ordering foremast
hands about when he might be one of the leading citizens in his
native town.  It was Serena who had persuaded him to invest the
larger part of his savings in the Metropolitan Store.  Serena, who
had insisted that Gertrude, their daughter and only child, should
leave home to attend the fashionable and expensive seminary near
Boston.  Serena who--but there! it was all Serena; and had been
ever since they were married.  Captain Daniel, on board his
schooner, was a man whose word was law.  On shore, he was law
abiding, and his words were few.

The side door of the store--that leading to the yard separating it
from the Dott homestead--opened, and Azuba Ginn appeared.  Azuba
had been the Dott maid of all work for eighteen years, ever since
Gertrude was a baby.  She was married, but her husband, Laban Ginn,
was mate on a steam freighter running between New York and almost
anywhere, and his shore leaves were short and infrequent.  Theirs
was a curious sort of married life.  "We is kind of independent,
Labe and me," said Azuba.  "He often says to me--that is, as often
as we're together, which ain't often--he says to me, he says, 'Live
where you want to, Zuby,' he says, 'and if you want to move, move!
When I get ashore I can hunt you up.'  We don't write many letters
because time each get t'other's, the news is so plaguey old 'tain't
news at all.  You Dotts seem more like home folks to me than
anybody else, so I stick to you.  I presume likely I shall till I
die."

Azuba entered the store in the way in which she did most things,
with a flurry and a slam.  Her sleeves were rolled up, she wore an
apron, and one hand dripped suds, demonstrating that it had just
been taken from the dishpan.  In the other, wiped more or less dry
on the apron, she held a crumpled envelope.

"Well!" she exclaimed, excitedly.  "If some human bein's don't beat
the Dutch then _I_ don't know, that's all.  If the way some folks
go slip-slop, hit or miss, through this world ain't a caution then--
Tut! tut! tut! don't talk to ME!"

Captain Dan looked up from the ledger.

"What?" he asked absently.

"I say, don't talk to ME!"

"We--ll," with deliberation, "I guess I shan't, unless you stop
talkin' yourself, and give me a chance.  What's the matter now,
Zuba?"

"Matter!  Don't talk to ME!  Carelessness is the matter!  Slip-
sloppiness is the matter!  Here's a man that calls himself a man
and goes mopin' around pretendin' to BE a man, and what does he
do?"

"I don't know.  I'd tell you better, maybe, if I knew who he was."

"Who he was!  I'll tell you who he was--is, I mean.  He's Balaam
Hambleton, that's who he is."

"Humph!  Bale Hamilton, hey?  Then it's easy enough to say what he
does--nothin', most of the time.  Is that letter for me?"

"Course it's for you!  And it's a week old, what's more.  One week
ago that letter come in the mail and the postmaster let that--that
Hambleton thing take it, 'cause he said he was goin' right by here
and could leave it just as well as not.  And this very mornin' that
freckle-faced boy of his--that George Washin'ton one--what folks
give such names to their young ones for _I_ can't see!--he rung the
front door bell and yanked me right out of the dish water, and he
says his ma found the letter in Balaam's other pants when she was
mendin' 'em, and would I please excuse his forgettin' it 'cause he
had so much on his mind lately.  Mind!  Land of love! if he had a
thistle top on his mind 'twould smash it flat.  Don't talk to me!"

"I won't," drily; "I WON'T, Zuba, I swear it.  Let's see the
letter."

He bent forward and took the letter from her hand.  Then, adjusting
his spectacles, he examined the envelope.  It was of the ordinary
business size and was stamped with the Boston postmark, and a date
a week old.  Captain Dan looked at the postmark, studied the
address, which was in an unfamiliar handwriting, and then turned
the envelope over.  On the flap was printed "Shepley and Farwell,
Attorneys, ----- Devonshire Street."  The captain drew a long
breath; he leaned back in his chair and sat staring at the
envelope.

Azuba wiped the suds from her wet hand and arm upon her apron.
Then she wrapped it and the other arm in said apron and coughed.
The cough was intended to arouse her employer from the trance into
which he had, apparently, fallen.  But it was without effect.
Captain Daniel did stop staring at the envelope, but he merely
transferred his gaze to the ink-spattered blotter and the ledger
upon it, and stared at them.

"Well?" observed Azuba.

The captain started.  "Hey?" he exclaimed, looking up.  "Did you
speak?"

"I said 'Well?'.  I suppose that's speakin'?"

"'Well?'  Well what?"

"Oh, nothin'!  I was just wonderin'--"

"Wonderin' what?"

"I was wonderin' if that letter was anything important.  Ain't you
goin' to open it and see?"

"Hey?  Open it?  Oh, yes, yes.  Well, I shouldn't wonder if I
opened it some time or other, Zuba.  I gen'rally open my letters.
It's a funny habit I have."

"Humph!  Well, all right, then.  I didn't know.  Course, 'tain't
none of my business what's in other folks's letters.  _I_ ain't
nosey, land knows.  Nobody can accuse me of--"

"Nobody can accuse you of anything, Zuba.  Not even dish washin'
just now."

Azuba drew herself up.  Outraged dignity and injured pride were
expressed in every line of her figure.  "Well!" she exclaimed;
"WELL! if that ain't--if that don't beat all that ever _I_ heard!
Here I leave my work to do folks favors, to fetch and carry for
'em, and this is what I get.  Cap'n Dott, I want you to understand
that I ain't dependent on nobody for a job.  I don't HAVE to slave
myself to death for nobody.  If you ain't satisfied--"

"There, there, Zuba!  I was only jokin'.  Don't get mad!"

"Mad!  Who's mad, I'd like to know?  It takes more'n that to make
me mad, I'd have you understand."

"That's good; I'm glad of it.  Well, I'm much obliged to you for
bringin' the letter."

"You're welcome.  Land sakes!  I don't mind doin' errands, only I
like to have 'em appreciated.  And I like jokes well as anybody,
but when you tell me--"

"Hold on! don't get het up again.  Keep cool, Zuba, keep cool!
Think of that dish water; it's gettin' cooler every minute."

The answer to this was an indignant snort followed by the bang of
the door.  Azuba had gone.  Captain Daniel looked after her, smiled
faintly, shook his head, and again turned his attention to the
letter in his hand.  He did not open it immediately.  Instead he
sat regarding it with the same haggard, hopeless expression which
he had worn when he first read the firm's name upon the envelope.
He dreaded, perhaps, as much as he had ever dreaded anything in his
life, to open that envelope.

He was sure, perfectly sure, what he should find when he did open
it.  A letter from the legal representatives of Smith and Denton,
the Boston hat manufacturers and dealers, stating that, unless the
latter's account was paid within the next week, suit for the amount
due would be instituted in the courts.  A law suit! a law suit for
the collection of a debt against him, Daniel Dott, the man who had
prided himself upon his honesty!  Think of what it would mean! the
disgrace of it! the humiliation, not only for himself but for
Serena, his wife, and Gertrude, his daughter!

He did not blame Smith and Denton; they had been very kind, very
lenient indeed.  The thirty-day credit originally given him had
been extended to sixty and ninety.  They had written him many
times, and each time he had written in reply that as soon as
collections were better he should be able to pay in full; that he
had a good deal of money owed him, and as soon as it came in they
should have it.  But it did not come in.  No wonder, considering
that it was owed by the loafers and ne'er-do-wells of the town and
surrounding country, who, because no one else would trust them,
bestowed their custom upon good-natured, gullible Captain Dan.  The
more recent letters from the hat dealers had been sharper and less
kindly.  They had ceased to request; they demanded.  At last they
had threatened.  And now the threat was to be fulfilled.

The captain laid the envelope down upon the open ledger, rose, and,
going to the front of the store, carefully closed the door.  Then,
going to the door communicating with the other half of the store,
he made sure that no one was in the adjoining room.  He had a vague
feeling that all the eyes in Trumet were regarding him with
suspicion, and he wished to shut out their accusing gaze.  He
wanted to be alone when he read that letter.  He had half a mind to
take it to the cellar and open it there.

His fingers shook as he tore the end from the envelope.  They shook
still more as he drew forth the enclosure, a typewritten sheet, and
held it to the light.  He read it through to the end.  Then, with a
loud exclamation, almost a shout, he rushed to the side door, flung
it open and darted across the yard, the letter fluttering from his
fingers like a flag.  The store was left unguarded, but he forgot
that.

He stumbled up the steps into the kitchen.  Azuba, a saucer in one
hand and the dish towel in the other, was, to say the least,
startled.  As she expressed it afterward, "the everlastin' soul was
pretty nigh scart out of her."  The saucer flew through the air and
lit upon the top of the cookstove.

"What--what--what--" stammered Azuba.  "Oh, my land!  WHAT is it?"

"Where's Serena?" demanded Captain Daniel, paying no attention to
the saucer, except to tread upon the fragments.

"Hey?  Oh, what IS it?  Is the store afire?"

"No, no!  Where's Serena?"

"She--she--what--"

"Where's SERENA, I ask you?"

"In her room, I cal'late.  For mercy sakes, what--"

But the captain did not answer.  Through dining-room, sitting-room,
and parlor he galloped, and up the front stairs to the bedroom
occupied by himself and wife.  Mrs. Dott was standing before the
mirror, red-faced and panting, both arms behind her and her fingers
busily engaged.  Her husband's breath was almost gone by the time
he reached the foot of the stairs; consequently his entrance was a
trifle less noisy and startling than his sky-rocket flight through
the kitchen.  It is doubtful if his wife would have noticed even if
it had been.  She caught a glimpse of him in the mirror, and heaved
a sigh of relief.

"Oh, it's you, is it!" she panted.  "My, I'm glad!  For mercy sakes
fasten those last three hooks; I'm almost distracted with 'em."

But the hooks remained unfastened for the time.  Captain Dan threw
himself into a chair and waved the letter.

"Serena," he cried, puffing like a stranded porpoise, "what--WHAT
do you suppose has happened?  Aunt Laviny is dead."

Serena turned.  "Dead!" she repeated.  "Your Aunt Lavinia Dott?
The rich one?"

"Yes, sir; she's gone.  Died in Italy a fortnight ago.  Naples, I
think 'twas--or some such outlandish place; you know she's done
nothin' but cruise around Europe ever since Uncle Jim died.  The
letter says she was taken sick on a Friday, and died Sunday, so
'twas pretty sudden.  I--"

But Mrs. Dott interrupted.  "What else does it say?" she asked
excitedly.  "What else does that letter say?  Who is if from?"

"It's from her lawyers up to Boston.  What made you think it said
anything else?"

"Because I'm not blind and I can see your face, Daniel Dott.  What
else does it say?  Tell me!  Has she--did she--?"

Captain Dan nodded solemnly.  "She didn't forget us," he said.
"She didn't forget us, Serena.  The letter says her will gives us
that solid silver teapot and sugar-bowl that was presented to Uncle
Jim by the Ship Chandlers' Society, when he was president of it.
She willed that to us.  She knew I always admired that tea-pot
and--"

His wife interrupted once more.

"Tea-pot!" she repeated strongly.  "Tea-pot!  What are you talking
about?  Do you mean to say that all she left us was a TEA-POT?  If
you do I--"

"No, no, Serena.  Hush!  She's left us three thousand dollars
besides.  Think of it!  Three thousand dollars--just now!"

His voice shook as he said it.  He spoke as if three thousand
dollars was an unheard-of sum, a fortune.  Mrs. Dott had no such
illusion.  She sat down upon the edge of the bed.

"Three thousand dollars!" she exclaimed.  "Is that all?  Three
thousand dollars!"

"All!  My soul, Serena!  Why, ONE thousand dollars just now is
like--"

"Hush!  Do be still!  Three thousand dollars!  And she worth a
hundred thousand, if she was worth a cent.  A lone woman, without a
chick or a child or a relation except you, and that precious young
swell of a cousin of hers she thought so much of.  I suppose he
gets the rest of it.  Oh, how can anybody be so stingy!"

"Sh-sh, sh-h, Serena.  Don't speak so of the dead.  Why, we ought
to be mournin' for her, really, instead of rejoicing over what she
left us.  It ain't right to talk so.  I'm ashamed of myself--or I
ought to be.  But, you see, I thought sure the letter was from
those hat folks's lawyers, sayin' they'd started suit.  When I
found it wasn't, I was so glad I forgot everything else.  Ah hum!--
poor Aunt Laviny!"

He sighed.  His wife shook her head.

"Daniel," she said, "I--I declare I try not to lose patience with
you, but it's awful hard work.  Mourning!  Mourn for her!  What did
she ever do to make you sorry she was gone?  Did she ever come near
us when she was alive?  No, indeed, she didn't.  Did she ever offer
to give you, or even lend you, a cent?  I guess not.  And she knew
you needed it, for I wrote her."

"You DID?  Serena!"

"Yes, I did.  Why shouldn't I?  I wrote her six months ago, telling
her how bad your business was, and that Gertie was at school, and
we were trying to give her a good education, and how much money it
took and--oh, everything.  When your Uncle Jim's business was bad,
in the hard times back in '73, who was it that helped him out and
saved him from bankruptcy?  Why, his brother--your own father.  And
he never got a cent of it back.  I reminded her of that, too."

Daniel sprang out of his chair.

"You did!" he cried again.  "Serena, how could you?  You knew how
Father felt about that money.  You knew how I felt.  And yet, you
did that!"

"I did.  Somebody in this family must be practical and worldly-
minded, and I seem to be the one.  YOU wouldn't ask her for a cent.
You wouldn't ask anybody for money, even if they owed it a thousand
years.  You sell everybody anything they want from the store; and
trust them for it.  You know you do.  You sold that good-for-
nothing Lem Brackett a whole suit of clothes only last week, and he
owes you a big bill and has owed it for a year."

Her husband looked troubled.  "Well," he answered, slowly, "I
suppose likely I didn't do right there.  But those Bracketts are
poor, and there's a big family of 'em, and the fall's comin' on,
and--and all.  So--"

"So you thought it was your duty to help support them, I suppose.
Oh, Daniel, Daniel, I don't know what to do with you sometimes."

Captain Dan looked very grave.

"I guess you're right, Serena," he admitted.  "I ain't much good,
I'm afraid."

Mrs. Dott's expression changed.  She rose, walked over, and kissed
him.  "You're too good, that's the main trouble with you," she
said.  "Well, I won't scold any more.  I'm glad we've got the three
thousand anyway--and the tea-pot."

"It's a lovely tea-pot, all engravin' and everything.  And the
sugar-bowl's almost as pretty.  You'll like 'em, Serena."

"Yes, I'll love 'em, I don't doubt.  You and I can look at them and
think of that cousin of Aunt Lavinia's spending the rest of her
fortune.  No wonder she didn't leave him the tea-pot; precious
little tea he drinks, if stories we hear are true.  Well, there's
one good thing about it--Gertie can keep on with her college.  This
is her last year."

"Yes; I thought of that.  I thought of a million things when I was
racin' across the yard with this letter.  Say, Serena, you've never
told Gertie anything about how trade was or how hard-up we've
been?"

"Of course not."

"No, I knew you wouldn't.  She's such a conscientious girl; if she
thought we couldn't afford it she wouldn't think of keepin' on with
that college, and I've set my heart on her havin' the best start in
life we can give her."

"I know.  Ah hum!  I wish she could have the start some people's
daughters have.  Mrs. Black was with me at the lodge room
yesterday--we are decorating for the men's evening to-morrow night,
you know--and Mrs. Black has been helping me; she's awfully kind
that way.  You'd think she belonged here in Trumet, instead of
being rich and living in Scarford and being way up in society
there.  She and her husband are just like common folks."

"Humph!  Barney Black IS common folks.  He was born right here in
Trumet and his family was common as wharf rats.  HE needn't put on
airs with me."

"He doesn't.  And yet, if he was like some people, he would.  So
successful in his big factory, and his wife way up in the best
circles of Scarford; she's head of the Ladies of Honor there as I
am here, and means to get a national office in the order; she told
me so.  But there! that reminds me that I was going to meet her at
the lodge room at ten, and it's half-past nine now.  Do help me
with these hooks.  If I wasn't so fleshy I could do them myself,
but I almost died hooking the others."

"Why didn't you call Zuba?  She'd have hooked 'em for you."

"Azuba!  Heavens and earth!  She's worse than nobody; her fingers
are all thumbs.  Besides, she would talk me deaf, dumb and blind.
She doesn't know her place at all; thinks she is one of the family,
I suppose."

"Well, she is, pretty nigh.  Been here long enough."

"I don't care.  She isn't one of the family; she's a servant, or
ought to be.  Oh dear! when I hear Annette Black telling about her
four servants and all the rest it makes me so jealous, sometimes."

"Don't make ME jealous.  I'd rather have you and Gertie and this
place than all Barney Black owns--and that means his wife, too."

"Daniel, I keep telling you not to call Mr. Black 'Barney.'  He is
B. Phelps Black now.  Mrs. Black always calls him 'Phelps.'  So
does everybody in Scarford, so she says."

"Want to know!  He was Barney Black when he lived here regular.
Havin' a summer cottage here and a real house in Scarford must make
a lot of difference.  By the way, speakin' of Scarford, that's
where Aunt Laviny used to live afore she went abroad.  She owned a
big house there."

"Why, so she did!  I wonder what will become of it.  I suppose that
cousin will get it, along with the rest.  Oh dear! suppose--just
suppose there wasn't any cousin.  Suppose you and I and Gertie had
that house and the money.  Wouldn't it be splendid?  WE could be in
society then."

"Humph!  I'd look pretty in society, wouldn't I?"

"Of course you would.  You'd look as pretty as Barney--B. Phelps
Black, wouldn't you?  And I--Oh, HOW I should love it!  Trumet is
so out of date.  A real intelligent, ambitious woman has no chance
in Trumet."

The captain shook his head.  He recognized the last sentence as a
quotation from the works of Mrs. Annette Black, self-confessed
leader in society in the flourishing manufacturing city of
Scarford, and summer resident and condescending patroness of
Trumet.

"Well," he observed; "we've got more chance, even in Trumet, than
we've had for the last year, thanks to Aunt Laviny's three
thousand.  It gives us a breathin' spell, anyhow.  If only trade in
the store would pick up, I--Hey!  Good heavens to Betsy!  I forgot
the store altogether.  Sam hadn't got back from breakfast and I
left the store all alone.  I must be crazy!"

He bolted from the room and down the stairs, the legacy forgotten
for the moment, and in his mind pictures of rifled showcases and
youthful Trumet regaling itself with chocolates at his expense.
Azuba shrieked another question as her employer once more rushed
through the kitchen, but again her question was unanswered.  She
hurried to the window and watched him running across the yard.

"Well!" she exclaimed, in alarmed soliloquy.  "WELL, the next time
I fetch that man a letter I'll fetch the doctor along with it.  Has
the world turned upside down, or what is the matter?"

She might have made a worse guess.  The Dott world was turning
upside down; this was the beginning of the revolution.



CHAPTER II


Captain Dan's fears concerning the safety of his showcases were
groundless.  Even as he sprang up the steps to the side door of his
place of business, he heard familiar voices in the store.  He
recognized the voices, and, halting momentarily to wipe his
forehead with his handkerchief and to regain some portion of his
composure and his breath, he walked in.

Gertrude, his daughter, was seated in his chair by the desk, and
John Doane was leaning upon the desk, talking with her.  In the
front of the store, Sam Bartlett, the boy, who had evidently
returned from breakfast, was doing nothing in particular, and doing
it with his usual air of enjoyment.  It was only when required to
work that Sam was unhappy.

Gertrude looked up as her father entered; prior to that she had
been looking at the blotter on the desk.  John Doane, who had been
looking at Gertrude, also changed the direction of his gaze.
Captain Dan struggled with the breath and the composure.

"Why, Dad!" exclaimed Gertrude.  "What is it?"

"What's the matter, Cap'n Dott?" asked Mr. Doane.

Daniel did his best to appear calm; it was a poor best.  At fifty-
two one cannot run impromptu hurdle races against time, and show no
effects.

"Hey?" he panted.  "Matter?  Nothin's the matter.  I left the store
alone for a minute and I was in a kind of hurry to get back to it,
that's all."

The explanation was not entirely satisfactory.  Gertrude looked
more puzzled than ever.

"A minute," she repeated.  "Left it a minute!  Why, John and I have
been here fifteen minutes, and Sam was here when we came."

The captain looked at his watch.  "Well, maybe 'twas a little
more'n a minute," he admitted.

Master Bartlett sauntered up to take part in the conversation.

"I got here twenty minutes ago," he observed, grinning, "and you
wasn't here then, Cap'n Dan'l.  I was wonderin' what had become of
ye."

Daniel seized the opportunity to change the subject.

"Anybody been in since you came?" he asked, addressing Sam.

"No, nobody special.  Abel Calvin was in to see if you wanted to
buy some beach plums for puttin' up.  He said he had about a bushel
of first-rate ones, just picked."

"Beach plums!  What in time would I want of beach plums?  I don't
put up preserves, do I?  Why didn't he go to the house?"

"I asked him that, myself, and he said 'twa'n't no use."

"No use!  What did he mean by that?"

"Well, he said--he said--"  Sam seemed suddenly to realize that he
was getting into deep water; "he said--he said somethin' or other;
I guess I've forgot what 'twas."

"I guess you ain't.  WHAT did he say?"

"Well, he said--he said Serena--Mrs. Dott, I mean--was probably
gallivantin' down to the lodge room by this time.  Said 'twa'n't no
use tryin' to get her to attend to common things or common folks
nowadays; she was too busy tryin' to keep up with Annette Black."

This literal quotation from the frank Mr. Calvin caused a
sensation.  Captain Dan struggled to find words.  His daughter laid
a hand on his sleeve.

"Never mind, Dad," she said, soothingly.  "You know what Abel
Calvin is; you don't mind what he says.  Sam, you shouldn't repeat
such nonsense.  Run away now and attend to your work.  I'm sure
there's enough for you to do."

"You--you go and clean up the cellar," ordered the irate captain.
Sam departed cellarward, muttering that it wasn't his fault; HE
hadn't said nothin'.  Gertrude spoke again.

"Don't mind that, Dad," she urged.  "Why, how warm you are, and how
excited you look.  What is it?  You haven't spoken a word to John."

Her father shook his head.  "Mornin', John," he said.  "I beg your
pardon.  I ain't responsible to-day, I shouldn't wonder.  I--I've
had some news that's drivin' everything else out of my mind."

"News?  Why, Dad! what do you mean?  Bad news?"

"No, no!  Good as ever was, and. . . .  Humph! no, I don't mean
that.  It is bad news, of course.  Your Great-aunt Laviny's dead,
Gertie."

He told of the lawyer's letter, omitting for the present the news
of the legacy.  Gertrude was interested, but not greatly shocked or
grieved.  She had met her great-aunt but once during her lifetime,
and her memory of the deceased was of a stately female, whose
earrings and brooches and rings sparkled as if she was on fire in
several places; who sat bolt upright at the further end of a hotel
room in Boston, and ordered Captain Dan not to bring "that child"
any nearer until its hands were washed.  As she had been the child
and had distinctly disagreeable recollections of the said hands
having been washed three times before admittance to the presence,
the memory was not too pleasant.  She said she was sorry to hear
that Aunt Lavinia was no more, and asked when it happened.  Her
father told what he knew of the circumstances attending the
bereavement, which was not much.

"She's gone, anyhow," he said.  "It's liable to happen to any of
us, bein' cut off that way.  We ought to be prepared, I suppose."

"I suppose so.  But, Daddy, Aunt Lavinia wasn't cut off exactly,
was she?  She was your aunt and she must have been quite old."

"Hey?  Why, let's see.  She was your grandpa's brother's wife, and
he--Uncle Jim, I mean--was about four years older than Father.  She
was three years younger'n he was when he married her.  Let's see
again.  Father--that's your grandpa, Gertie--was sixty-five when he
died and . . . Humph!  No, Aunt Laviny was eighty-eight, or
thereabouts.  She wasn't exactly cut off, was she, come to think of
it?"

Gertrude's brown eyes twinkled.  "Not exactly--no," she said,
gravely.  "Well, Daddy, I'm sure I am sorry she has gone, but,
considering that she has never deigned to visit us or have us visit
her, or even to write you a letter for the past two years, I don't
think we should be expected to mourn greatly.  And," glancing at
him, "I don't understand just what you meant by saying first that
the news was good, and then that it was bad.  There is something
else, isn't there?"

Her father smiled, in an embarrassed way.  "Well, ye--es," he
admitted, "there is somethin' else, but--but I don't know as I
didn't do wrong to feel so good over it.  I--I guess I'll tell you
by and by, if you don't mind.  Maybe then I won't feel--act, I
mean--so tickled.  It don't seem right that I should be.  Let me
get sort of used to it first.  I'll tell you pretty soon."

His daughter laughed, softly.  "I know you will, Dad," she said.
"You couldn't keep a secret in that dear old head of yours if you
tried.  Not from me, anyway; could you, dear?"

"I guess not," regarding her fondly.  "Anyhow, I shan't try to keep
this one.  Well, this time to-morrow you'll be back at college
again, in among all those Greek and Latin folks.  Wonder she'll
condescend to come and talk plain United States to us Cape Codders,
ain't it, John."

John Doane admitted that it was a wonder.  He seemed to regard Miss
Dott as a very wonderful young person altogether.  Gertrude glanced
up at him, then at her father, and then at the blotter on the desk.
She absently played with the pages of the ledger.

"Dad," she said, suddenly, "you are not the only one who has a
secret."

The captain turned and looked at her.  Her head was bent over the
ledger and he could see but the top of a very becoming hat, a stray
lock of wavy brown hair, and the curve of a very pretty cheek.  The
cheek--what he could see of it--was crimson.  He looked up at Mr.
Doane.  That young man's face was crimson also.

"Oh!" said Captain Daniel; and added, "I want to know!"

"Yes, you're not the only one.  We--I--there is another secret.
Daddy, dear, John wants to talk with you."

The captain looked at Mr. Doane, then at the hat and the face
beneath it.

"Oh!" he said, again.

"Yes.  I--I--"  She rose and, putting her arms about her father's
neck, kissed him.  "I will be back before long, dear," she
whispered, and hurried out.  Mr. Doane cleared his throat.  Captain
Dan waited.

"Well, sir," began the young man, and stopped.  The captain
continued to wait.

"Well, sir," began Mr. Doane, again, "I--I--"  For one who, as
Gertrude had declared, wished to talk, he seemed to be finding the
operation difficult.  "I--Well, sir, the fact is, I have something
to say to you."

Captain Dan, who was looking very grave, observed that he "wanted
to know."  John Doane cleared his throat once more, and took a
fresh start.

"Yes, sir," he said, "I have something to say to you--er--something
that--that may surprise you."

A faint smile disturbed the gravity of the captain's face.

"May surprise me, hey?" he repeated.  "Is that so?"

"Yes.  You see, I--Gertie and I--have--are--"

Daniel looked up.

"Hard navigatin', ain't it, John?" he inquired, whimsically.
"Maybe I could help you over the shoals.  You and Gertie think
you'd like to get married sometime or other, I presume likely.
Is that what you're tryin' to tell me?"

There was no doubt of it.  The young man's face expressed several
emotions, relief that the great secret was known, and surprise that
anyone should have guessed it.

"Why, yes, sir," he admitted, "that is it.  Gertie and I have known
each other for years, ever since we were children, in fact; and,
you see--you see--" he paused once more, began again, and then
broke out impatiently with, "I'm making an awful mess of this.
I don't know why."

Captain Dan's smile broadened.

"I made just as bad a one myself, once on a time," he observed.
"Just as bad, or worse--and _I_  didn't know why either.  There,
John, you sit down.  Come to anchor alongside here, and let's talk
this thing over in comfort."

Mr. Doane "came to anchor" on an empty packing case beside the
desk.  As he was tall and big, and the box was low and small, the
"comfort" was doubtful.  However, neither of the pair noticed this
at the time.

"So you think you want Gertie, do you, John?" said the captain.

"I know it," was the emphatic answer.

"So.  And she thinks she wants you?"

"She says so."

"Humph!" with a sidelong glance.  "Think she means it?"

"I'm trying to believe she does."

The tone in which this was uttered caused Captain Dan to chuckle.
"'Tis strange, I'll give in," he remarked, drily.  "No accountin'
for taste, is there--Well," his gravity returning, "I suppose
likely you realize that her mother and I think consider'ble of
her."

"I realize that thoroughly."

"You don't realize it as much as you will some day, perhaps.  Yes,
we think Gertie's about right.  She's a smart girl and, what's
more, she's a good girl, and she's all the child we've got.  Of
course we've realized that she was growin' up and that--Oh, good
mornin', Alphy.  Fine weather, ain't it.  Lookin' for somethin',
was you?"

He hurried out into the store to sell Mrs. Theophilus Berry, known
locally as "Alphy Ann," a box of writing paper and a penholder.
The transaction completed, he returned to his chair.  John Doane,
who had recovered, in a measure, from his embarrassment, was ready
for him.

"Cap'n Dott," said the young man, "I know how you feel, I think.  I
know what Gertie is to you and how anxious you and her mother must
be concerning her future.  If I did not feel certain--practically
certain--that I could give her a good home and all that goes with
it, I should not have presumed to speak to her, or to you,
concerning marriage.  My business prospects are good, or I think
they are.  I--"

The captain held up his hand.  "Er--er--John," he said, uneasily,
"maybe you'd better tell about that part of it when Serena's
around.  She's the practical one of us two, I guess, far's money's
concerned, anyway.  I used to think I was pretty practical when I
was on salt water, but--but lately I ain't so sure.  I'm afraid--"

He stopped, began to speak again, and then relapsed into silence,
seeming to forget his companion altogether.  The latter reminded
him by saying:

"I shall be glad to tell Mrs. Dott everything, of course.  I have
been with the firm now employing me for eight years, ever since I
left high school.  They seem to like me.  I have been steadily
advanced, my salary is a fairly good one, and in another year I
have the promise of a partnership.  After that my progress will
depend upon myself."

He went on, in a manly, straightforward manner, to speak of his
hopes and ambitions.  Daniel listened, but the most of what he
heard was incomprehensible.  Increased output and decreased
manufacturing costs were Greek to him.  When the young man paused,
he brought the conversation back to what, in his mind, was the
essential.

"And you're certain sure that you two care enough for each other?"
he asked.  "Not just care, but care enough?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, I guess I ain't got much to say.  There's one thing,
though.  Gertie's young.  She ain't finished her schoolin' yet,
and--"

"And you think she should.  So do I.  She wishes to do it, herself,
and I should be the last to prevent her, even if I could.  We have
agreed that she shall have the final year at college and then come
back to you.  After that--well, after that, the time of our
marriage can be settled.  Gertie and I are willing to wait; we
expect to.  In a few years I shall have a little more money, I
hope, and be more sure of success in life.  I may never be a rich
man, but Gertie's tastes and mine are modest.  She does not care
for society--"

The captain interrupted.  "That's so," he said, hastily, "she
don't.  She don't care for 'em at all.  Her mother has the greatest
work to get her to go to lodge meetin's.  No, she don't care for
societies any more'n I do.  Well, John, I--I--it'll come pretty
hard to give her up to anybody.  Wait till you have a daughter of
your own and you'll know how hard.  But, if I've got to give her
up, I'd rather give her to you than anybody I know.  You're a
Trumet boy and I've known you all my life, and so's Gertie, for
that matter.  All I can say is, God bless you and--and take good
care of my girl, that's all."

He extended his hand and John seized it.  Then the captain coughed,
blew his nose with vigor, and, reaching into his pocket, produced
two battered cigars.

"Smoke up, John," he said.

At dinner, a meal at which Mrs. Dott, still busy with the lodge
room decorations, was not present, Gertrude and her father talked
it over.

"It comes kind of hard, Gertie," he admitted, "but, Lord love you,
there's a heap of hard things in this world.  John's a good fellow
and--and, well, we ain't goin' to lose you just yet, anyhow."

Gertrude rose and, coming around the table, put her arms about his
neck.

"Indeed you're not, dear," she said.  "If I supposed my marriage
meant giving you up, I shouldn't think of it."

"Want to know!  Wouldn't think of John, either, I suppose, hey?"

"Well, I--I might think of him a little, just a tiny little bit."

"I shouldn't wonder.  That's all right.  You can't get rid of me so
easy.  After you two are all settled in your fine new house, I'll
be comin' around to disgrace you, puttin' my boots on the furniture
and--"

"Dad!"

"Won't I?  Well, maybe I won't.  I cal'late by that time I'll be
broke to harness.  Your mother's gettin' in with the swells so,
lately, Barney Black's wife and the rest, that I'll have to mind my
manners.  There! let's go into the sittin'-room a few minutes and
give Zuba a chance to clear off.  Sam's tendin' store and his
dinner can wait a spell; judgin' by the time he took for breakfast
he hadn't ought to be hungry for the next week."

In the sitting-room they spoke of many things, of Gertrude's
departure for school--she was leaving on the three o'clock train--
of the engagement, of course, and of the three thousand dollar
windfall from Aunt Lavinia.  The captain had told that bit of news
when they sat down to dinner.

"What is that cousin's name?" asked Gertrude.  "The one who
inherits all of your aunt's fortune?"

"Let's see.  His name?  I ought to know it well's I know my own.
It's--it's Starvation, or somethin' like that.  Somethin' about
bein' hungry, anyhow.  Hungerford, Percy Hungerford, that's it!"

Gertrude looked surprised.

"Not Percy Hungerford--of Scarford!" she cried.  "What sort of a
man is he?  What does he look like?"

"Looked like a picked chicken, last time I saw him.  Kind of a
spindlin' little critter, with sandy complexion and hair, but
dressed--my soul! there wasn't any picked chicken look about his
clothes."

Gertrude nodded.  "I believe it is the same one," she said.  "Yes,
I am sure of it.  He came out to the college at one of our
commencements.  One of the girls invited him.  He danced with me--
once.  They said he was very wealthy."

"Humph!  All the wealth he had come from Aunt Laviny, far's I ever
heard.  He was her pet and the only thing she ever spent money on,
except herself.  And you met him!  Well, this is a small world.
Like him, did you?"

"No," said Gertrude, and changed the subject.

Before her father departed for the store and she went to her room
to finish packing, she sat upon the arm of his chair and, bending
down, said:

"Daddy, if you hadn't got this money, this three thousand dollars,
do you know what I had very nearly made up my mind to do?"

"No, I'm sure I don't."

"I had almost decided not to stay at college, but to come back here
and live with you and mother."

"For the land sakes!  Why?"

"Because I was sure you needed me.  You never told me, of course--
being you, you wouldn't--but I was sure that you were troubled
about--about things."

"Me?  Troubled?  What put that into your head?  I'm the most gay,
happy-go-lucky fellow in the world.  I don't get troubled enough.
Ask your mother if that ain't so."

"I shall not ask anybody but you.  Tell me truly:  Weren't you
troubled; about the business, and the store?  Truly, now."

Captain Dan rubbed his chin.  He wished very much to deny the
allegation, or at least to dodge the truth.  But he was a poor
prevaricator at any time, and his daughter was looking him straight
in the eye.

"Well," he faltered, "I--I--How in time did you guess that?  I--
Humph! why, yes, I was a little mite upset.  You see, trade ain't
been first rate this summer, and collections were awful slow.  I
hate to drive folks, especially when I know they're hard up.  I was
a little worried, but it's all right now.  Aunt Laviny's three
thousand fixed that all right.  It'll carry me along like a full
sail breeze.  You go back to school, like a sensible girl, and
don't you worry a mite.  It's all right now, Gertie."

"Honest?"

"Honest to Betsy!" with an emphatic nod.

He meant it; he really thought it was all right.  The fact that he
owed a thousand already and that the remaining two would almost
certainly be swept into the capacious maw of the Metropolitan Store
did not occur to him then.  Daniel Dott was a failure as a business
man but as an optimist he was a huge success.

"Then you're sure you can afford to have me go back for my last
year?"

"Course I am.  I couldn't afford to do anything else."

His absolute certainty stifled his daughter's doubts for the time,
but she asked another question.

"And there's nothing that troubles you at all?"

"No-o."  The captain's answer was not quite as emphatic this time.
Gertrude smiled, and patted his shoulder.

"Daddy, dear," she said, "you're as transparent as a window pane,
aren't you.  Well, don't worry any more.  That will be all right
pretty soon, too.  Mrs. Black doesn't stay in Trumet all the year."

Her father gasped.  That this child of his, whom he had always
regarded as a child, should dive into the recesses of his soul and
drag to light its most secret misgivings was amazing.

"What on earth?" he demanded.

"You know what I mean.  I'm not blind.  I can see.  Mother is just
a little carried away.  She has heard so much about big houses and
servants and society and woman's opportunity, and all the rest of
it, that she has been swept off her feet.  But it won't last, I'm
sure.  She isn't really discontented; she only thinks she is."

Daniel sighed.  "I know," he said.  "Fact is, I ain't up-to-date
enough, myself, that's what's the matter.  She's a mighty able,
ambitious woman, your mother is, Gertie, and I don't wonder she
gets to thinkin', sometimes, that Trumet is a kind of one-horse
town.  I like it; I AM one-horse, I suppose.  But she ain't,
and she ain't satisfied to be satisfied, like me.  It's a good
thing she ain't, I guess.  Somebody's got to live up to the
responsibilities of life, and--"

Gertrude laughed.  "She said that, didn't she," she interrupted.

"Why, yes, she did.  She says it every once in a while.  How did
you know?"

"I guessed.  And I imagine Mrs. Phelps Black said it first.  But
there, Dad, be patient and. . . .  Sh-sh! here's Mother now."

It was Serena, sure enough, breathless from hurrying, her hat a bit
on one side, one glove off and the other on, but full of energy and
impatience.

"I suppose you've had dinner," she exclaimed.  "Well, all right, I
don't care.  I couldn't help being late, there was so much to do at
the lodge rooms and nobody to do it right, except me.  If Mrs.
Black hadn't helped and superintended and--and everything, I don't
know where we should have been.  And those visiting delegates from
Boston coming!  I must get a bite and hurry back.  Where's Azuba?
Azuba!"

She was rushing in the direction of the kitchen, but her husband
detained her.

"Hold on, Serena," he shouted.  "Goin' back!  What do you mean?
You ain't goin' back to that lodge this afternoon, are you?  Why,
Gertie's goin' on the up-train!"

"I know, but I must go back, Daniel.  Goodness knows what would
happen if I didn't.  If you had seen some of the decorations those
other women wanted to put up, you would think it was necessary for
someone with respectable taste to be there.  Why, Sophronia Smalley
actually would have draped the presiding officer's desk--MY desk--
with a blue flag with a white whale on it, if I hadn't been there
to stop her."

"Well, I--Why, Serena, you know Sophrony thinks a sight of that
flag.  Simeon Smalley, her father, was in the whalin' trade for
years, and that flag was his private signal.  She always has that
flag up somewhere."

"Well, she shan't have it on my desk.  Annette--Mrs. Black, I mean--
said it was ridiculous.  If such a thing happened in Scarford the
audience would have hysterics.  Would you want your wife to make a
spectacle of herself, before those Boston delegates, standing
behind a white whale, and a dirty white at that!  Gertie, I shall
be at the depot to say good by, but I must be at that lodge room
first.  I MUST.  You understand, don't you?"

Gertrude said she understood perfectly and her mother hurried to
the kitchen, where she ate lukewarm fried fish and apple pie, while
Azuba washed the dishes and prophesied darkly concerning
"dyspepsy."  Gertrude went to her room to put the last few things
in her trunks, and Captain Dan returned to the store, where he
found the Bartlett boy pacifying a gnawing appetite with chocolate
creams abstracted from stock.

At a quarter to three the captain was at the railway station, where
he was joined by John Doane, who, his vacation over, was returning
to Boston.  After a five-minute wait Serena and Gertrude appeared.
The latter had called at the lodge room for her mother and, during
the walk to the station, had broken the news of her engagement.

Serena was not surprised, of course; she, like everyone else, had
expected it, and she liked John.  But she was a good deal agitated
and even the portentous business of the lodge meeting was driven
from her mind.  She and Mr. Doane shook hands, but the young man
felt very much like a thief, and a particularly mean sort of thief,
as young men are likely to feel under such circumstances.
Farewells were harder to say than usual, although Gertrude tried
her best to seem cheerful, and the captain swallowed the lump in
his throat and smiled and joked in a ghastly fashion all through
the ceremony.  Just before the train started, his daughter led him
to one side and whispered:

"Now, Daddy, remember--you are not to worry.  And, if you need me
at any time, you will tell me so, and I shall surely come.  You'll
promise, won't you?  And you will write at least once a week?"

The captain made both promises.  They kissed, Serena and Gertrude
exchanged hugs, and John Doane solemnly shook hands once more.
Then the train moved away from the station.

Daniel and Serena walked homeward, Mrs. Dott wiping her eyes with a
damp handkerchief, and her husband very grave and silent.  As they
passed the lodge building the lady said:

"I ought to go right back in there again.  I ought to, but I just
can't, not now.  I--I want to be with you, Daniel, a time like
this."

"Goodness knows I want you, Serena; but--but for mercy sakes don't
call it a 'time like this.'  Sounds as if we'd just come from the
cemetery instead of the depot.  We ain't been to a funeral; we're
only lookin' for'ard to a weddin'."

In spite of this philosophical declaration the remainder of that
afternoon was rather funereal for Captain Dan.  He moped about the
store, waiting half-heartedly upon the few customers who happened
in, and the ring of the supper bell was welcome, as it promised
some company other than his thoughts.

But the promise was not fulfilled.  He ate his supper alone.  Mrs.
Dott had gone back to the lodge room, so Azuba said.

"I don't think she was intendin' to," remarked the latter,
confidentially.  "She said she guessed she'd 'lay down a spell';
said she was 'kind of tired.'  But afore she got upstairs scarcely,
along comes that Black automobile with that Irish 'shover man'--
that's what they call 'em, ain't it?--drivin' it and her in the
back seat, and he gets out and comes and rings the front door bell,
and when I answer it--had my hands all plastered up with dough, I
did, for I was makin' pie, and it took me the longest time to get
'em clean--when I answered it he said that she said she wanted to
see her and--"

"Here! hold on, Zuba!" interrupted her bewildered employer.  "'Vast
heavin' a second, will you?  You ought to run that yarn of yours
through a sieve and strain some of the 'hes' and 'shes' out of it.
'He said that she said she wanted to see her.'  Who wanted to see
what?"

"Why, Barney Black's wife.  She wanted to see Serena.  So in she
came, all rigged up in her best clothes and--"

"How do you know they were her best ones?"

"Hey?  Well, they would have been MY best ones, if _I_ owned 'em, I
tell you that.  I never see such clothes as that woman has!  All
trimmin' and flounces and didos, and--"

"Hi! steady there, Zuba.  Keep your eye on the compass.  You're
gettin' off the course again.  Annette--Mrs. Black, I mean--came to
see Mrs. Dott; that's plain sailin' so far.  What happened after
that?"

"Why, they went off together in the automobile and Serena said to
tell you she had to go to lodge, and she'd be back when she could
and not to wait supper.  That's all I know."

The captain finished his lonely meal and returned to the store,
where he found Abel Blount's wife and their twin boys, aged eight,
waiting to negotiate for rubber boots.  The boots were for the
boys, but Mrs. Blount did the buying and it was a long and talky
process.  At last, however, the youngsters were fitted and clumped
proudly away, bearing their leather shoes in their hands.  It was a
dry evening, but to separate the twins from those rubber boots
would have been next door to an impossibility.

"There!" exclaimed the lady, as she bade the captain good night,
"that's done; that much is settled anyhow.  I'm thankful I ain't
got four twins, instead of two, Cap'n Dott."

Daniel, entering the sale in the ledger, was thankful also.  If the
lengthy Blount account had been settled he would have been still
more so.

At nine o'clock he and Sam locked up, extinguished the lamps, and
closed the Metropolitan Store for the night.  Crossing the yard to
the house, which he entered by the front door, he found Serena in
the sitting-room.  She was reclining upon the couch.  She was
tired, and out of sorts.

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, acknowledging her husband's greeting
with a nod, "I am just about worn out, Daniel."

"I should think you would be, Serena.  You've been makin' tracks
between here and that lodge room all to-day and yesterday, too.  I
should think you'd be about dead."

"It isn't that.  I don't mind the work.  It's the thanklessness of
it all that breaks me down.  I give my time and effort to help the
lodge, and what does it amount to?"

"Well, I--I give in that it don't seem to me to amount to much,
'cordin' to my figurin'.  I don't care much for lodge meetin's and
sociables and such, myself.  I'd rather have one evenin' at home
with you than the whole cargo of 'em."

This statement was frank, but it was decidedly undiplomatic.
Serena sniffed contempt.

"Of course you would!" she said.  "I don't get a bit of
encouragement here at home, either.  I should think you'd be proud
to have your wife the head of the Chapter, presiding at meetings
and welcoming the visiting delegates and--and all."

"I am," hastily.  "I'm proud of you, Serena.  Always have been,
far's that goes.  But I'm just as proud of you here in this
sittin'-room as I am when you're back of that pulpit, poundin' with
your mallet and tellin' Alphy Ann Berry to 'come to order.'
Notwithstanding that you're the only one can make her come--or go,
either--unless she takes a notion.  Why," with a chuckle, "it takes
her husband half an hour to make her go home after meetin's over."

Mrs. Dott did not chuckle.

"You think it's a joke," she said.  "I don't.  It is the Berry
woman and her kind that make me disgusted.  I'm tired of them all.
I'm tired of Trumet.  I wish we were somewhere where I had an
opportunity; somewhere where I might be appreciated."

"_I_ appreciate you, Serena."

Serena ignored the remark.  "I wish we had never settled here," she
went on.  "I'd leave in a minute, if I could.  I'd like to be in
with nice people, cultivated people, intelligent, up-to-date
society, where I could have a chance to go on and be somebody.  I'd
like to be a leader.  I could be.  Annette says I would be in a
city like Scarford.  She says I 'have the faculty of the born
leader.'  All I lack is the opportunity."

Her husband sighed.  He had heard all this before.  Inwardly he
wished Mrs. Black at Scarford, or China, or anywhere, provided it
was not Trumet.

His wife heard the sigh.  "There, Daniel," she said; "I won't be
complaining.  I try not to be.  But," she hesitated, "there is one
thing I'd like to ask, now that we've got your Aunt Lavinia's three
thousand:  Don't you suppose I could have some new clothes; I need
at least two dresses right away."

"Why--why, I guess likely you could, Serena.  Yes, course you can.
You go see Sarah Loveland right off."

Miss Loveland was the Trumet dressmaker.  At the mention of her
name Serena shook her head.

"I don't want Sarah to make them, Daniel," she said.  "Mrs. Black
says the things she makes are awful old-fashioned; 'country,' she
calls them."

Daniel snorted.  "I want to know!" he exclaimed.  "Well, I remember
her husband when his ma used to make his clothes out of his dad's
old ones.  I don't know whether they was 'country' or not, but they
were the dumdest things ever _I_ saw.  Country, huh!  Scarford
ain't any Paris, is it?  I never heard it was."

"Well, it isn't Trumet.  No, Daniel, if we could afford it, I'd
like to have these dresses made up in Boston, where Gertie gets
hers.  Mrs. Black often speaks of Gertie's gowns; she says they are
remarkably stylish, considering."

"CONSIDERIN'!  What does she mean by that?"

"Don't be cross.  I suppose she meant considering that they were
not as expensive as her own.  DO you suppose I could go to that
Boston dressmaker, Daniel?"

Captain Dan's reply was slow in coming.  He hated to say no; in
fact, he said it so seldom that he scarcely knew how.  So he
temporized.

"Well, Serena," he began, "I--I'd like to have you; you know that.
If 'twasn't for the cost I wouldn't hesitate a minute."

"But we have that three thousand dollars."

"Well, we ain't got all of it.  Or we shan't have it long.  I was
footin' up what I owed--what the store owes, I mean--just now, and
it come to a pretty high figure.  Over twelve hundred, it was.
That's GOT to be paid.  Then there's Gertie's schoolin' and her
board.  Course, I never tell her we ain't so well off as we were.
You and I agreed she shouldn't know.  But it takes a lot of money
and--"

Mrs. Dott sat up on the couch.  Her eyes snapped.  "Oh!" she cried;
"money! money! money!  It's always money!  If only just once I had
all the money I wanted, I should be perfectly happy.  If I wouldn't
GO IT!"

Steps sounded on the front porch, and the patent door bell clicked
and clanged.



CHAPTER III


Next morning an astonishing rumor began to circulate through
Trumet.  It spread with remarkable quickness, and, as it spread, it
grew.  The Dotts had inherited money!  The Dotts were rich!  The
Dotts were millionaires!  Captain Daniel's brother had died and
left him fifty thousand dollars!  His brother's wife had died and
left him a hundred thousand!  It was not his brother's wife, but
Serena's uncle who had died, and the inheritance was two hundred
and fifty thousand at least.  By the time the story reached Trumet
Neck it seemed to be fairly certain that all the Dott relatives on
both sides of the house had passed away, leaving the sole survivors
of the family all the money and property in the world, with a few
trifling exceptions.

Captain Dan, coming in for dinner,--one must eat, or try to eat,
even though the realities of life have been blown away, and one is
moving in a sort of dream, with the fear of awakening always
present--Captain Dan, coming into the house for dinner, expressed
his opinion of Trumet gossip mongers.

"My heavens and earth, Serena!" he cried, sinking into his chair at
the table, "am I me, or somebody else?  Do I know what I'm doin' or
what's happened to me, or don't I?"

Serena, a transformed, flushed, excited Serena, beamed at him
across the table.

"I should hope you did, Daniel," she answered.

"Well, if _I_ do, then nobody else does, and if THEY do, I don't.
I've heard of more dead relations this forenoon than I ever had
alive.  And yarns about 'em! and about you and me!  My soul and
body!  Say, did you know you had a cousin-in-law in Californy?"

"I?  In California?  Nonsense!"

"No nonsense about it.  You had one and he was a lunatic or a
epileptic or an epizootic or somethin', and lived in a hospital or
a palace or a jail, and he was worth four millions or forty, I
forget which, and fell out of an automobile or out of a balloon or
out of bed--anyhow, it killed him--and--"

"Daniel Dott!  DON'T talk so idiotic!"

"Humph! that's nothin' to the idiocy that's been talked to me this
forenoon.  I've done nothin' for the last hour but say 'No' to
folks that come tearin' in to unload lies and ask questions.  And
some of 'em was people you'd expect to have common sense, too.  My
head's kind of wobbly this mornin', after the shock that hit it
last night, but it's a regular Dan'l Webster's alongside the
general run of heads in this town.  Aunt Laviny's will has turned
Trumet into an asylum, and the patients are all runnin' loose."

"But WHAT foolishness was that about a cousin in California?"

"'Twa'n't foolishness, I tell you.  You ask any one of a dozen
folks you meet outside the post-office now, and they'll all tell
you you had one.  They might not agree whether 'twas a cousin or a
grandmother or a step-child, or whether it lived in Californy or
the Cape of Good Hope, but they all know it's dead now, and we've
got anywheres from a postage stamp to a hogshead of diamonds.
Serena, if you hear yells for help this afternoon, don't pay any
attention.  It'll only mean that my patience has run out and I'm
tryin' to make this community short one devilish fool at least.
There'll be enough left; he'll never be missed."

"Daniel, I never saw you so worked up.  You must expect people to
be excited.  I'm excited myself."

The captain wiped his forehead with his napkin.  "_I_ ain't exactly
a graven image, now that you mention it," he admitted.  "But you
and I have got some excuse and they ain't.  Haven't they been in to
see you; or did you lock the doors?"

"I have had callers, of course.  Mrs. Berry was here, and Mrs.
Tripp, and the Cahoon girls, and Issachar Eldredge's wife.  The
first four pretended they came on lodge business, and the Eldredge
woman to get my recipe for chocolate doughnuts; but, of course, I
knew what they really came for.  Daniel, HOW do you suppose the
news got out so soon?  I didn't tell a soul and you promised you
wouldn't."

"I didn't, neither.  Probably that lawyer man dropped a hint down
at the Manonquit House, and that set things goin'.  Just heave over
one seed of a yarn in most any hotel or boardin' house and you'll
have a crop of lies next mornin' that would load a three-master.
They come up in the night, like toadstools."

"But you didn't tell anyone how much your Aunt Lavinia left us?"

"You bet I didn't.  I told 'em I didn't know yet.  I was cal'latin'
to hire a couple of dozen men and a boy to count it, and soon's the
job was finished I'd get out a proclamation.  What did you tell
your gang?"

"I simply said," Serena unconsciously drew herself up and spoke
with a gracious dignity; "I said they might quote me as saying it
was NOT a million."

Azuba entered from the kitchen, heaving a steaming platter.

"There!" she exclaimed, setting the dish before her employers; "I
don't know as clam fritters are what rich folks ought to eat, but I
done the best I could.  I'm so shook up and trembly this day it's a
mercy I didn't fry the platter."

Yes, something had happened to the Dotts, something vastly more
wonderful and surprising than falling heir to three thousand
dollars and a silver tea-pot.  When Captain Daniel shut up the
Metropolitan Store the previous evening and started for the house,
the bearer of the great news was on his way from the Manonquit
House, where he had had supper.  When Serena bewailed her fate and
expressed a desire for an opportunity, he was almost at the front
gate, and the ring of the bell which interrupted her conversation
with her husband was the signal that Opportunity, in the person of
Mr. Glenn Farwell, Junior, newest member of the firm of Shepley and
Farwell, attorneys, of Boston, was at the door.

Mr. Farwell was spruce and brisk and businesslike; also he was
young, a fact which he tried to conceal by a rather feeble
beard, and much professional dignity of manner and expression.
Occasionally, in the heat of conversation, he forgot the dignity;
the beard he never forgot.  Shown into the Dott sitting-room by
Azuba, who, as usual, had neglected to remove her kitchen apron, he
bowed politely and inquired if he had the pleasure of addressing
Captain and Mrs. Daniel Abner Dott.  The captain assured him that
he had.  Serena was too busy glaring at the apron and its wearer to
remember etiquette.

"Won't you--won't you sit down, Mr. er--er--" began the captain.

Mr. Farwell introduced himself, and sat down, as requested.  After
a glance about the room, which took in the upright piano--purchased
second-hand when Gertrude first began her music lessons--the what-
not, with its array of shells, corals, miniature ships in bottles,
and West Indian curiosities, and the crayon enlargement over the
mantel of Captain Solon Dott, Daniel's grandfather, he proceeded
directly to business.

"Captain Dott," he said, addressing that gentleman, but bowing
politely to Serena to indicate that she was included in the
question, "you received a letter from our firm about a week ago,
did you not?"

Captain Dan, who had scarcely recovered from his surprise at his
caller's identity, shook his head.  "As a matter of fact," he
stammered, "I--I only got it to-day.  It came all right, that is,
it got as far as the post-office, but the postmaster, he handed it
over to Balaam Hamilton, to bring to me.  Well, Balaam is--well,
his underpinnin's all right; he wears a number eleven shoe--but his
top riggin' is kind of lackin' in spots.  You'd understand if you
knew him.  He put the letter in his pocket and--"

"Mercy!" cut in Serena, impatiently, "what do you suppose Mr.
Farwell cares about Balaam Hamilton?  He forgot the letter, Mr.
Farwell, and we only got it this morning.  That is why it hasn't
been answered.  What about the letter?"

The visitor did not answer directly.  "I see," he said.  "That
letter informed you that Mrs. Lavinia Dott--your aunt, Captain,--
was dead, and that we, her legal representatives, having, as we
supposed, her will in our possession, and being in charge of her
affairs--"

Mrs. Dott interrupted.  Her excitement had been growing ever since
she learned the visitor's name and, although her husband did not
notice the peculiar phrasing of the lawyer's sentence, she did.

"As you supposed?" she repeated.  "You did have the will, didn't
you?"

"We had a will, one which Mrs. Dott drew some eight or nine years
ago.  But we received word from Italy only yesterday that there was
another, a much more recent one, which superseded the one in our
possession.  Of course, that being the case, the bequests in the
former were not binding upon the estate.  That is to say, our will
was not a will at all."

Serena gasped.  She looked at her husband, and he at her.

"Then we--then she didn't leave us the three thousand dollars?" she
cried.

"Or--or the tea-pot?" faltered Captain Dan.

Mr. Farwell smiled.  He was having considerable fun out of the
situation.  However, it would not do to keep possibly profitable
clients in suspense too long, so he broke the news he had journeyed
from Boston to impart.

"She left you a great deal more than that," he said.  "In the
former will, her cousin, Mr. Percy Hungerford of Scarford, was the
principal legatee.  He was a favorite of hers, I believe, and she
left the bulk of her property--some hundred and twenty thousand
dollars in securities, and her estate at Scarford--to him.  But
last February it appears that he and she had a falling out.  He--
Mr. Hungerford--is, so I am told, a good deal of a sport--ahem!
that is, he is a young gentleman of fashionable and expensive
tastes, and he wrote his aunt, asking for money, rather frequently.
The February letter reached her when she was grouchy--er--not well,
I mean, and she changed her will, practically disinheriting him.
Under the new will he receives twenty thousand dollars in cash.
The balance--"  Mr. Farwell, who, during this long statement, had
interspersed legal dignity of term with an occasional lapse into
youthful idiom, now spoke with impressive solemnity,--"the
balance," he said, "one hundred thousand in money and securities,
and the house at Scarford, which is valued, I believe, at thirty-
five thousand more, she leaves to you, as her only other relative,
Captain Dott.  I am here to congratulate you and to offer you my
services and those of the firm, should you desire legal advice."

Having sprung his surprise, Mr. Farwell leaned back in his chair to
enjoy the effect of the explosion.  The first effect appeared to be
the complete stupefaction of his hearers.  Those which followed
were characteristic.

"My soul and body!" gasped Captain Dan.  "I--I--my land of love!
And only this mornin' I was scared I couldn't pay my store bills!"

"A hundred thousand dollars!" cried Serena.  "And that beautiful
house at Scarford!  OURS!  Oh! oh! oh!"

Mr. Farwell crossed his knees.  "A very handsome little windfall,"
he observed, with condescension.

"We get a hundred thousand!" murmured the captain.  "My!  I wish
Father was alive to know about it.  But, say, it's kind of rough on
that young Hungerford, after expectin' so much, ain't it now!"

"A hundred thousand!" breathed his wife, her hands clasped.  "And
that lovely house!  Why, we could move to Scarford to-morrow if we
wanted to!  Yes, and live there!  Oh--oh, Daniel!  I--I don't know
why I'm doing it, but I--I believe I'm going to cry."

Her husband rushed over to the couch and threw his arm about her
shoulder.

"Go ahead, old lady," he commanded.  "Cry, if you want to.  I--I'm
goin' to do SOMETHIN' darn ridiculous, myself!"

Thus it was that Fortune and Opportunity came to the Dott door, and
it was the news of the visitation, distorted and exaggerated, which
set all Trumet by the ears next day.

Azuba's clam fritters were neglected that noon, just as breakfast
had been.  Neither Captain Dan nor his wife had slept, and they
could not eat.  They pretended to, they even tried to, but one or
the other was certain to break out with an exclamation or a
wondering surmise, and the meal was, as the captain said, "all talk
and no substantials."  They had scarcely risen from the table when
the doorbell rang.

Azuba heard it and made her entrance from the kitchen.  She had
remembered this time to shed the offending apron, but she carried
it in her hand.

"I'm a-goin'," she declared; "I'm a-goin', soon's ever I can."

She started for the sitting-room, but the captain stepped in front
of her.

"You stay right where you are," he ordered.  "I'll answer that bell
myself this time."

"Daniel," cried his wife, "what are you going to do?"

"Do?  I'm goin' to head off some more fools, that's what I'm goin'
to do.  They shan't get in here to pester you to death with
questions, not if I can help it."

"But, Daniel, you mustn't.  You don't know who it may be."

"I don't care."

"Oh, dear me!  What are you going to say?  You mustn't insult
people."

"I shan't insult 'em.  I'll tell 'em--I'll tell 'em you're sick and
can't see anybody."

"But I'm not sick."

"Then, I am," said Captain Dan.  "They make me sick.  Shut up, will
you?" addressing the bell, which had rung the second time.  "I'll
come when I get ready."

He seemed to be quite ready that very moment.  At all events he
strode from the room, and his anxious wife and the flushed Azuba
heard him tramping through the front hall.

"What--WHAT is he going to do?" faltered Serena; "or say?"

Azuba shook her head.  "Land knows!" she exclaimed.  "I ain't seen
him this way since the weasel got into the hen-house.  He went for
THAT with the hoe-handle.  And as for what he said!  Well, don't
talk to ME!"

But no riot or verbal explosion followed the opening of the door.
The anxious listeners in the dining-room heard voices, but they
were subdued ones.  A moment later Captain Dan returned.  He looked
troubled.

"It's Barney Black and his wife," he answered, in a whisper.  "I
couldn't tell THEM to go to thunder.  They're in the front room,
waitin'.  I suppose we'll have to see 'em, won't we?"

Mrs. Dott was hurriedly shaking the wrinkles out of her gown and
patting her hair into presentable shape.

"See 'em!" she repeated.  "Of course we'll see them.  I declare!  I
think it's real kind of 'em to call.  Daniel, do fix your necktie.
It's way round under your ear."

They entered the parlor, Serena, outwardly calm, in the lead and
her husband following, and tugging at the refractory tie.

Mrs. and Mr. Black--scanning them in the order of their importance--
rose as they appeared.  Mrs. Black was large and impressive, and
gorgeous to view.  She did not look her age.  Her husband was not
as tall as his wife, and did not look his height.  Annette swept
forward.

"Oh, my dear Mrs. Dott," she gushed, taking Serena's hand in her
own gloved one.  "We've just heard the news, Phelps and I, and we
couldn't resist dropping in to congratulate you.  Isn't it
wonderful!"

Serena admitted that it was wonderful.  "We can hardly believe it
yet, ourselves," she said.  "But it was real nice of you to come.
Do sit down again, won't you?  Daniel, get Mr. Black a chair."

Captain Dan and Mr. Black shook hands.  "Sit down anywhere,
Barney," said the former.  "Anywhere but that rocker, I mean;
that's got a squeak in the leg."

Mr. Black, who had headed for the rocker, changed his course and
sank into an arm chair.  The shudder with which his wife heard the
word "Barney," and the glare with which Serena favored her husband,
were entirely lost upon the latter.

"We had that rocker up in the attic till last month," he observed;
"but Serena found out 'twas an antique, and antiques seem to be
all the go now-a-days, though you do have to be careful of 'em.
I suppose it's all right.  We'll be antiques ourselves before
many years, and we'll want folks to be careful of us.  Hey?  Ha!
ha! . . .  Why, what's the matter, Serena?"

Mrs. Dott replied, rather sharply, that "nothing was the matter."

"The rocker isn't very strong," she explained, addressing Mrs.
Black.  "But it belonged to my great--that is, it has been in our
family for a good many years and we think a great deal of it."

Mrs. Black condescendingly expressed her opinion that the rocker
was a "dear."

"I love old-fashioned things," she said.  "So does Mr. Black.
Don't you, Phelps?"

"Yes," replied that gentleman.  His love did not appear to be over-
enthusiastic.

"But do tell us about your little legacy," went on the lady.  "Of
course we have heard all sorts of ridiculous stories, but we know
better than to believe them.  Why, we even heard that you were
worth a million.  Naturally, THAT was absurd, wasn't it?  Ha! ha!"

Captain Dan opened his mouth to reply, but his wife flashed a
glance in his direction, and he closed it again.

"Yes," said Serena, addressing Mrs. Black, "that was absurd, of
course."

"So I told Phelps.  I said that the way in which these country
people exaggerated such things was too funny for anything.  Why, we
heard that your cousin had died--that is, _I_ heard it was a
cousin; Phelps heard it was an uncle.  An uncle was what you heard,
wasn't it, Phelps?"

"Yes," said Phelps.  It was his second contribution to the
conversation.

"So," went on Mrs. Black, "we didn't know which it was."

She paused, smilingly expectant.  Again Captain Dan started to
speak, and again a look from his wife caused him to change his
mind.  Before he had quite recovered, Mrs. Black, who may have
noticed the look, had turned to him.

"Wasn't it funny!" she gushed.  "I don't wonder you laugh.  Here
was I saying it was a cousin and Phelps declaring it was an uncle.
It was so odd and SO like this funny little town.  Do tell us;
which was it, really, Captain Dott?"

Daniel, staggering before this point blank attack, hesitated.
"Why," he stammered, "it was--it was--"  He looked appealingly at
Serena.

"Why don't you answer Mrs. Black?" inquired his wife, rather
sharply.

"It was my Aunt Laviny," said the captain.

Mrs. Black nodded and smiled.

"Oh! your aunt!" she exclaimed.  "There! isn't that funny!  And SO
characteristic of Trumet.  Neither an uncle nor a cousin, but an
aunt.  What did you say her name was?"

"Laviny?"

"Yes, I know.  Laviny--what an odd name!  I don't think I ever
heard it before.  Was the rest of it as odd as that?"

Serena, who had been fidgeting in her chair, cut in here.

"It wasn't Laviny at all," she said.  "That is only Daniel's way of
pronouncing it.  It is what he used to call her when he was a
child.  A--a sort of pet name, you know."

"Why, Serena! how you talk!  She never had any pet name, far's I
ever heard.  You might as well give a pet name to the Queen of
Sheba.  She--"

"Hush! it doesn't make any difference.  Her name, Mrs. Black, was
Lavinia.  She was Mrs. Lavinia Dott, and her husband was James
Dott, Daniel's father's brother.  I shouldn't wonder if you knew
her.  She has spent most of her time in Europe lately, but her
home, her American home, was where you live, in Scarford."

This statement caused a marked sensation.  Mrs. Black gasped
audibly, and leaned back in her chair.  B. Phelps evinced his first
sign of interest.

"What!" he exclaimed.  "Mrs. Lavinia Dott, of Scarford?  You don't
say!  Why, of course we knew her; that is, we knew who she was.
Everybody in Scarford did.  Her place is one of the finest in
town."

Serena bowed.  Life, for her, had not offered many sweeter moments
than this.

"Yes," she said, calmly, "so we understand.  The place--er--that
is, the estate--is a PART--" she emphasized the word--"a PART of
what she left to my husband."

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Mr. Black.  His wife said nothing, but her
face was a study.

Captain Dan crossed his knees.

"I remember seein' that place after Uncle Jim first built it," he
observed, reminiscently.  "I tell you it looked big enough to me!
I was only a young feller, just begun goin' to sea, and that house
looked big as a town hall, you might say.  Ho! ho! when I got
inside and was sittin' in the front parlor, I declare I was all
feet and hands! didn't know what to do with 'em. . . .  Hey? did
you speak, Serena?"

"I was only going to say," replied his wife, "that that was a good
while ago, of course.  You have been about the world and seen a
great deal since.  Things look different after we grow up, don't
they, Mrs. Black?"

Annette's composure, a portion of it, had returned by this time.
Nevertheless, there was an odd note in her voice.

"They do, indeed," she said.  "I remember the Dott house, of
course.  It was very fine, I believe, in its day."

Her husband interrupted.  "In its day!" he repeated.  "Humph!
there's nothing the matter with it now, that I can see.  I wish I
had as good.  Why--"

"Phelps!" snapped Annette, "don't be silly.  Mrs. Dott understands
what I meant to say.  The place is very nice, very attractive,
indeed.  Perhaps some might think it a bit old-fashioned, but that
is a matter of taste."

"Humph! it's on the best street in town.  As for being old-
fashioned--I thought you just said you loved old-fashioned things.
That's what she said, wasn't it, Dan?"

Mrs. Black's gloved fingers twitched, but she ignored the remark
entirely.  Daniel, too, did not answer, although he smiled in an
uncertain fashion.  It was Serena who spoke.

"I haven't any doubt it is lovely," she said.  "We're just dying to
see it, Daniel and I.  I hope you can be with us when we do, Mrs.
Black.  You might suggest some improvements, you know."

"Improvements!" the visitor repeated the word involuntarily.
"Improvements!  You're not going to LIVE there, are you?"

"I don't know.  We may.  Now, Daniel, don't argue.  You know we
haven't made up our minds yet what we shall do.  And Scarford is a
beautiful city.  Mrs. Black has told us so ever so many times.
What were you going to say, Mrs. Black?"

The lady addressed looked as if she would like to say several
things, particularly to her husband, who was grinning maliciously.
But what she did was to smile, a smile of gracious sweetness, and
agree that Scarford was beautiful.

"And so is the place, my dear Mrs. Dott," she added.  "A very
charming, quaint old house.  But--you'll excuse my saying so, won't
you; you know Phelps and I have had some experience in keeping up a
city estate--don't you think it might prove rather expensive for
you to maintain?"

Serena's armor was not even dented.  "Oh," she said, lightly, "that
wouldn't trouble us, I'm sure.  Really, we've hardly thought of the
expense.  The Scarford place wasn't ALL that Aunt Lavinia left us,
Mrs. Black."

"Indeed!" rather feebly, "wasn't it?"

"My goodness, no!  But there!  I mustn't talk about ourselves and
our affairs any more.  Have you seen the lodge rooms to-day?  I
must find time to run down there this afternoon for a last look
around.  I want this open meeting to go off nicely.  Who knows--
well, I may not have the care of the next one."

Azuba appeared in the doorway.

"The minister and his wife's comin'," she announced.

Mrs. Dott turned.

"The minister and his wife?" she repeated.  "The bell hasn't rung,
has it?  How do you know they're coming here?"

"See 'em through the window," replied Azuba, cheerfully.  "They was
at the gate quite a spell.  She was gettin' her hat straight, and
he was helpin' her.  Here they be," as the callers' footsteps
sounded on the porch.  "Shall I let 'em in?"

"Let them in!  Why, of course!  Why shouldn't you let them in?"

"Well, I didn't know.  The way the cap'n was talkin' when you was
havin' dinner, I thought--oh, that reminds me," addressing the
horror stricken Daniel, "Sam was in just now and wanted you to come
right out to the store.  Ezra Taylor's there and he wants another
pair of them checkered overalls, same as he had afore."



That evening when, having closed the Metropolitan Store at an early
hour, the captain and his wife were on their way to the lodge
meeting, Daniel voiced a feeling of perplexity which had disturbed
his mind ever since the Blacks' call.

"Say, Serena," he asked, "ain't you and Barney Black's wife friends
any more?"

"Why, of course we're friends.  What a question that is."

"Humph! didn't seem to me you acted much like friends this
afternoon.  Slappin' each other back and forth--"

"Slappin' each other!  Have you lost your brains altogether?  What
DO you mean?"

"I don't mean slappin' each other side of the head.  'Tain't likely
I meant that.  But the way you talked to each other--and the way
you looked.  And when 'twa'n't her it was me.  She as much as asked
you four or five times who it was that had died and you wouldn't
tell, so, of course, I supposed you didn't want to.  And yet, when
she asked me and I was backin' and fillin', tryin' to get off the
shoals, you barked out why didn't I 'answer her'?  That may be
sense, but I don't see it, myself."

Serena laughed and squeezed his arm with her own.

"Did I bark?" she asked.  "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to.  But it did
make me cross to have her come sailing in, in that high and mighty
way--"

"It's the same way she always sails.  I never saw her when she
didn't act as if she was the only clipper in the channel and small
craft better get out from under her bows."

"I know, you never did like her, although she has been so kind and
nice to me and to Gertrude.  Why, we, and the minister's family,
and Doctor Bradstreet's people, are the only ones, except the
summer folks, that she has anything to do with."

The captain muttered that he knew it but that THAT didn't make him
like her any better.  His wife continued.

"I was a little put out by her to-day," she admitted.  "You see,
she was SO anxious to find out things, and SO sure we couldn't be
very rich, and SO certain we couldn't keep up Aunt Lavinia's big
house, that--that I just had to give her as good as she sent."

Daniel chuckled.  "You did that all right," he said.

"But I wouldn't hurt her feelings--really hurt them--for the world.
I like her and admire her, and I am sure she likes me."

"Humph!  All right; only next time you get to admirin' each other
I'm goin' out.  That kind of admiration makes me nervous.  I heard
you admirin' Zuba out in the kitchen just before we left."

"Azuba makes me awfully out of patience.  She won't do what I tell
her; she will wear her apron to the door; she will talk when she
shouldn't.  Just think what she said about you when the minister
called.  It was just Providence, and nothing else, that kept her
from telling the Blacks what you said and how you acted at dinner.
That's it--laugh!  I expected you'd think it was funny."

"Well, I give in that it does seem kind of funny to me, now, though
it didn't when she started to say it.  But you can't stop Zuba
talkin' any more than you can a poll parrot.  She means well; she's
awful good-hearted--yes, and sensible, too, in her way."

"I can't help it.  She's got to learn her place.  Just think of
having her up there at Scarford, behaving as she does."

The captain caught his breath.

"Scarford!" he repeated.  "At Scarford!  Look here, Serena, what
are you talkin' about?  You didn't mean what you said to that Black
woman about our goin' to Scarford to live?"

"I don't know that I didn't.  There! there! don't get excited.  I
don't say I do mean it, either.  Aunt Lavinia's left us that lovely
house, hasn't she?  We've got it on our hands, haven't we?  What
are we going to do with it?"

"Why--why, I--I was cal'latin' we'd probably sell it, maybe.  We've
got our own place here in Trumet.  We don't want two places, do
we?"

"We might sell this one, at a pinch.  No, Daniel, I don't know what
we shall do yet awhile.  But, one thing I AM sure of--you and I
will go to Scarford and LOOK at that house, if nothing more.  Now,
don't argue, please.  We're almost at the meeting.  Be sure you
don't tell anyone how much money we've got or anything about it.
They'll all ask, of course, and they'll all talk about us, but you
must expect that.  Our position in life has altered, Daniel, and
rich folks are always looked at and talked over.  Are your shoes
clean?  Did you bring a handkerchief?  Be sure and don't applaud
too much when I'm speaking, because last time I was told that
Abigail Mayo said if she was married and had a husband she wouldn't
order him to clap his hands half off every time his wife opened her
mouth.  She isn't married and ain't likely to be, but. . . .  Oh,
Mrs. Black, I'm SO glad to see you!  It's real lovely of you to
come so early."

Daniel Dott, as has been intimated, did not share his wife's love
for lodge meetings.  He attended them because she did, and wished
him to, but he was not happy while they were going on.  At this one
he was distinctly unhappy.  He saw Serena and Annette Black
exchange greetings as if the little fencing match of the afternoon
had been but an exchange of compliments.  He saw the two ladies go,
arm in arm, to the platform, where sat the "Boston delegates."  He
nodded to masculine acquaintances in the crowd, other captives
chained, like himself, to their wives' and daughters' chariot
wheels.  He heard the applause which greeted Serena's opening
speech of introduction.  He heard the Boston delegates speak, and
Mrs. Black's gracious response to the request for a few words from
the president of our Scarford Chapter.  He heard it all, but, when
it was over, he could not have repeated a sentence of all those
which had reached his ears.

No, Captain Dan was not happy at this, the most successful "open
meeting" ever held by the Trumet Chapter of the Guild of Ladies of
Honor.  He was thinking, and thinking hard.  Aunt Lavinia's will
had changed their position in life, so Serena had said.  She had
said other things, also, and he was beginning, dimly, to realize
what they might mean.



CHAPTER IV


"SCARFORD!" screamed the brakeman, throwing open the car door.
"Scarford!"

Mrs. Dott, umbrella in hand, was already in the aisle.  Captain
Dan, standing between the seats, was struggling to get the suitcase
down from the rack above.  It was a brand-new suitcase.  Serena had
declared that their other, the one which had accompanied them on
various trips to Boston during the past eight years, was altogether
too shabby.  She had insisted on buying another, and, the stock in
the store not being good enough, had selected this herself from the
catalog of a Boston manufacturer.  Her umbrella, silk with a silver
handle, was new also.  So was her hat, her gown and her shoes.  So,
too, was the captain's hat, and his suit and light overcoat.  There
was a general air of newness about the Dotts, so apparent,
particularly on Daniel's part, that various passengers had nudged
each other, winked, and whispered surmises concerning recent
marriage and a honeymoon trip.

The suitcase, the buckle of which had caught in the meshes of the
rack, giving way, came down unexpectedly and with a thump on the
seat.  The captain hurriedly lifted it.  A stifled laugh from the
occupants of adjacent seats reached Serena's ears.

"What is it?" she demanded impatiently.  "Aren't you coming?  Do
hurry."

"I--I'm comin'," stammered her husband, thrusting his fist into the
new hat which, as it lay on the seat, had received the weight of
the falling suitcase.  "I'm comin'.  Go ahead!  I'll be right
along."

He pounded the battered "derby" into more or less presentable
shape, clapped it on his head, and, suitcase in hand, followed his
wife.

Through the crowd on the platform they passed, through the waiting
room and out to the sidewalk.  There Captain Dan put down the case,
gave the maltreated hat a brush with his sleeve, and looked about
him.

"Lively place, ain't it, Serena?" he observed.  "Whew! that valise
is heavy.  Well, where's the next port of call?"

"We'll go to the hotel first.  Oh, dear, it's a shame things
happened so we had to come now.  In another fortnight the Blacks
would have been here and we could have gone right to their house.
Mrs. Black felt dreadfully about it.  She said so ever so many
times."

The captain made no answer.  If he had doubts concerning the depths
of the Blacks' sorrow he kept them to himself.  Picking up the
suitcase, he stepped forward to the curb.

"Where are you going?" demanded his wife.

"Why, to the hotel.  That's where you wanted to go, wasn't it?"

"Certainly; but how were you going?  You don't know where it is."

"No, so I don't.  But I can hail one of those electrics and ask the
conductor to stop when he got to it.  He'd know where 'twas, most
likely."

"Electric" is the Down East term for trolley car, lines of which
were passing and repassing the station.  Daniel waved his
disengaged hand to the conductor of the nearest.  The car stopped.

"Wait a minute," said Serena quickly.  "How do you know that car is
going the right way?"

"Hey?  Well, of course I don't know, but--"

"Of course you don't.  Besides, we don't want to go in an electric.
We must take a carriage."

"A carriage?  A hack, you mean.  What do we want to do that for?"

"Because it's what everyone does."

"No, they don't.  Look at all the folks on that electric now.
Besides, we--"

"Hi there!" shouted the conductor of the car angrily.  "Brace up!
Get a move on, will you?"

Mrs. Dott regarded him with dignity.

"We're not coming," she said.  "You can go right along."

The car proceeded, the conductor commenting freely and loudly, and
the passengers on the broad grin.

"Now, Daniel," said Serena, "you get one of those carriages and
we'll go as we ought to.  I know we've always gone in the electrics
when we were in Boston, but then we didn't feel as if we could
afford anything else.  Now we can.  And don't stop to bargain about
the fare.  What is fifty cents more or less to US?"

The captain shook his head, but he obeyed orders.  A few minutes
later they were seated in a cab, drawn by a venerable horse and
driven by a man with a hooked nose, and were moving toward the
Palatine House, the hostelry recommended by Mrs. Black as the
finest in Scarford.

"There!" said Serena, leaning back against the shabby cushions,
"this is better than an electric, isn't it?  And when we get to the
hotel you'll see the difference it will make in the way they treat
us.  Mrs. Black says there is everything in a first impression.  If
people judge by your looks that you're no account they'll treat you
that way.  But what were you and the driver having such a talk
about?"

Captain Dan grinned.  "I got the name of the hotel wrong at first,"
he admitted.  "I called it the Palestine House instead of the other
thing.  The driver thought I was makin' fun of him.  It ain't safe
to mention Palestine to a feller with a nose like that."

The Palatine House was new and gorgeous; built in the hope of
attracting touring automobilists, it was that dreary mistake, a
cheap imitation of the swagger metropolitan article.  Scarford was
not a metropolis, and the imitation in this case was a particularly
poor one.  However, to the Dotts, its marble-floored lobby and
gilded pillars and cornices were grand and imposing.  Their room on
the third floor looked out upon the street below, and if the view
of shops and signs and trucks and trolleys was not beautiful it
was, at least, distinctly different from any view in Trumet.

Serena gloried in it.

"Ah!" she sighed, "this is something like.  THIS is life!  There's
something going on here, Daniel.  Don't you feel it?"

Daniel was counting his small change.

"What say?" he asked.

His wife repeated her question, raising her voice to carry above
the noises of the street.

"Feel it!  Yes, yes; and hear it, too.  How we're ever goin' to
sleep with all that hullabaloo outside I don't know.  Don't you
suppose we could get a quieter room than this, Serena?"

"I don't want a quiet room.  I don't want to sleep.  I feel as if
I'd been asleep all my life.  Now, thank goodness, I am where
people are really awake.  What are you doing with that money?"

"Oh, just lookin' at it, while I can.  I shan't have the chance
very long, if the other folks in this town are like that hack
driver.  A dollar to drive half a mile in that hearse!  Why, the
whole shebang wa'n't worth more than two dollars, to buy.  And then
he had the cheek to ask me to give him 'a quarter for himself.'"

"Yes, that was his tip.  We must expect that.  Gertrude says she
always has to tip the servants and drivers and such at college.
Did you give it to him?"

"Who?  Me?  I told him I was collectin' for a museum, and I'd give
him a quarter for the horse, just as it stood--or WHILE it stood.
I said he'd better take the offer pretty quick because the critter
looked as if 'twould lay down most any minute."

He chuckled.  Serena, however, was very solemn.

"Daniel," she said, "I must speak to you again about your language.
You've lived in Trumet so long that you talk just like Azuba, or
pretty nearly as bad.  You mustn't say 'critter' and 'wa'n't' and
'cal'late.'  Do try, won't you, to please me?"

"I'll try, Serena.  But I don't see what difference it makes.  We
DO live in Trumet, don't we?"

"We HAVE lived there.  How long we shall--But there, never mind.
Just remember as well as you can and get ready now for dinner."

Her husband muttered that he didn't see where the "getting ready"
came in; he had on the best he'd got.  But he washed his hands and
brushed his hair and they descended to the dining-room, where they
ate a 'table d'hote' meal, beginning with lukewarm soup and ending
with salty ice cream.

They had left Trumet the previous evening, spending the night at
Centreboro and taking the early morning train for Scarford.  Two
weeks had passed since the fateful visit of young Mr. Farwell, and,
though the wondrous good fortune which had befallen the Dott family
was still wonderful, they were beginning to accept it as a real and
established fact.  All sorts of things had happened during those
two weeks.  They had gone to Boston, where they spent the better
part of two days with the lawyers, going over the lists of
securities, signing papers, and arranging all sorts of business
matters.  Serena and the attorneys did the most of the arranging.
Captain Dan looked on, understanding very little, saying "Yes" or
"No" as commanded by his wife, and signing his name whenever and
wherever requested.

After another day, spent in the Boston shops, where the new clothes
were purchased or ordered, a process which Serena enjoyed hugely
and her husband endured with a martyr's patience, they had paid a
flying visit to the college town and Gertrude.  They found the
young lady greatly excited and very happy, but her happiness was
principally on their account.

"I'm so glad for you both, Daddy," she told her father.  "When I
got Mother's letter with the news the very first thing I thought
was:  'There! now Father won't have to worry any more about the old
store or anything else.  He can be comfortable and carefree and
happy, as he deserves to be.'  And you won't worry, will you, Dad?"

The captain seemed oddly doubtful.

"I shan't if I can help it," he said.  "But I'm the most foolish
chap that ever lived, in some ways, seems so.  When the business
was so I had to worry about it all the time I used to set up nights
wishin' I didn't own it.  Now that we're fixed so it don't make
much difference whether I get a profit or not, I find myself
frettin' and wonderin' how Nathaniel and Sam are gettin' along.  I
wake up guessin' how much they've sold since I've been away, and
whether we're stuck on those canvas hats and those middy blouses
and one thing or 'nother, same as I was afraid we'd be.  I've only
been away three days altogether, but it seems about a year."

Gertrude smiled and shook her head.

"Why don't you sell out?" she asked.  "Or would no one buy?  I
presume that's it."

"No-o, that ain't it.  I don't wonder you think so, but it ain't.
Cohen--the fellow that owns the Emporium--was in only the day afore
we left, hintin' around about my retirin' and so on.  He didn't
make any real bid for the business, but he as much as said he'd
consider buyin' me out if I'd sell.  Your mother, she'd give me
fits if she knew it.  She wants me to sell; but--but somehow I
can't make up my mind to.  I've been so used to goin' out to that
store every mornin' and--and havin' it on my mind that somehow I
hate to give it up.  Seems like cuttin' my anchor rope, as you
might say."

"I understand.  I shall feel much the same, I know, when I graduate
and my college work is over.  I shall be lost for a time without
it; or I should be if it were not for John and--and my other plans.
But, whether you keep the store or not, you mustn't worry any more,
Daddy dear.  Nathaniel is a clever, able fellow; every one says so.
You were fortunate to get him.  Why don't you engage him
permanently?  With his experience, he might make a real success of
the business.  Who knows?"

He could not possibly make less of a success than the captain had
made, that was fairly certain, although she did not say so.
Nathaniel Bangs was a Trumet young man who had been getting on well
with a little business of his own in Brockton, but who, owing to
ill health, had been obliged to return to the Cape the year before.
Then, health much improved, he was very glad of the opportunity to
take charge of the Metropolitan Store during its owners' short
absence.  Serena had thought of him, and Serena had hired him.

Captain Dan's real reason for not selling out to the astute Mr.
Cohen he had kept to himself.  His wife's hints concerning Scarford
and her discontent in Trumet were his reasons.  These were what
troubled him most.  He liked Trumet; he liked its quiet, easy-going
atmosphere; he liked the Trumet people, and they liked him.  He had
never been in Scarford, but he was certain he should not like the
life there, the kind of life lived by the B. Phelps Blacks, at any
rate.  The Metropolitan Store was, he felt, an anchor holding him
fast to the Cape Cod village.  If he cut the anchor rope, goodness
knows where he might drift.

On the very day of their return from the Boston trip Serena had
begun to discuss the visit to Scarford, the visit of inspection to
Aunt Lavinia's "estate."  They must go, she said; of course they
must go.  It was their duty to do that, at least.  How could they
know what to do with the property until they saw it?  To all
Daniel's feeble objections and excuses she was deaf.  Of course
they could leave the house.  Azuba would take care of that, just as
she always did when they were away.  As for the store, Nathaniel
would be glad to remain as manager indefinitely if they wanted him.
Surely he had done splendidly with it while they were in Boston.

He had.  During the four days' absence of its proprietor the
Metropolitan Store had actually sold more goods for cash than it
had sold during any previous week that summer.  Bangs was
optimistic concerning its prospects.  He was loaded with schemes
and ideas.

"All you need is a little push and up-to-date methods, Cap'n," he
said.  "You must advertise a little, and let people know what
you've got to sell.  That's how I got rid of all that stale candy
you had in the boxes behind the showcase.  I knew the Methodist
folks had a Sunday school picnic on the slate for Tuesday.  Kids
like candy, but candy costs money.  I got out all that stale stuff,
put it up in bags at five cents apiece, and sent the bags and Sam
here to the picnic.  About every kid had ten cents or so to spend,
and it didn't make any difference to him or her whether the candy
was fresh or not, so there was enough of it.  If a chocolate cream
is harder than the rock of Gibraltar it lasts longer when you're
eating it, and that's a big advantage to the average young one.
Sam came back, sold out, and we've got four dollars and eighty
cents right out of the junk pile, as you might call it.  The kids
are happy and so are we.  There's a half-dozen dried-up oilskin
coats in the attic that I've got my eye on.  The Manonquit House
crowd are going off on a final codfishing cruise to-morrow and I'll
be on the dock with those coats at a dollar apiece when they sail."

"But--but those coats are old as Methuselah," faltered the captain.
"They'll leak, won't they?"

"Not if it's fair weather, they won't.  And, if it's rough, they're
better than nothing.  You can't expect a mackintosh for a dollar."

Daniel's method would have been to refuse selling the coats because
they "wouldn't be much good in a no'theaster."  When the codfishers
returned, enthusiastic because, although it had "drizzled" for
fifteen minutes, they had not gotten wet, he scratched his head and
regarded his new assistant with awe.  Mr. Bangs' services were
retained, "for a spell, anyhow," and the captain's principal excuse
for not visiting Scarford was knocked in the head.  To Scarford
they went, and at the Palatine Hotel in Scarford they now were.

The 'table d'hote' meal eaten, the next feature of Mrs. Dott's
program was the visit to the Aunt Lavinia homestead.  There was a
caretaker in charge, so the Boston lawyers told them, and Serena
had written him announcing the coming of the new owners.  In spite
of her husband's protestations, another carriage was hired for the
journey.  Daniel was strongly in favor of walking or going by
trolley.

"Walkin'll be cheaper, Serena," he declared, "and pretty nigh as
fast, to say nothin' of bein' more cheerful.  A hack always makes
me think of funerals and graveyards, and that skeleton of a horse
looked like somethin' that had been buried and dug up.  Let's walk,
will you?"

But Serena would not walk.

"We must get used to carriages," she said.  "We may ride in them a
great deal from now on.  And, besides, we needn't take a horse
carriage.  We shouldn't have taken one before.  Get one of those
new kind, the automobile ones.  What is it they call them?  Oh,
yes--taxis."

The taxi gave no opportunity for complaint as far as slowness was
concerned.  After the first quarter of a mile dodge up the crowded
street Captain Dan shouted through the window.

"Hi!" he hailed, addressing the driver.  "Hi, you!  You've made a
mistake, ain't you?  You thought we wanted to fly.  We don't.  Just
hit the ground once in a while, so we'll know it's there."

After this the cab moved at a more reasonable speed and its
occupants had an opportunity to observe the streets through which
they were passing.  The business district was being left behind and
they were entering the residential section.

Mrs. Dott seized her husband's arm.

"Look!" she cried.  "Look, Daniel, quick!  Do you see that?  That
building there!"

"I see it.  Some kind of a hall or somethin', ain't it?"

"Yes.  And I'm quite sure, from what Mrs. Black said, that it is
the hall where the Scarford Guild meets.  Yes, it's just as she
said it was.  I'm SURE that's it.  Oh, I'm glad I've seen it!  Yes,
and Mrs. Black said they lived not very far from the hall.  Daniel!
Daniel! ask the man if he knows where the Blacks live and if he can
show us their house."

Captain Dan obediently made the inquiry.

"Who?" grunted the driver.  "Which Black?  Black and Cobb, the Wee
Waist Corset feller?  Sure!  I know where he lives.  I'll show
you."

A few moments later the cab slackened its speed.

"There you are!" said the driver, pointing.  "That's Black's house.
Built two years ago, 'twas."

Serena and Daniel looked.  The house was new and commodious, a
trifle ornate in decoration, perhaps, and a bit mixed in
architecture, owing to Mrs. Black's insisting upon the embodiment
of various features which she had seen in magazines; but on the
whole a rather fine house.  To the Dotts, of course, it was a
mansion.

"My!" said Serena, "to think of our knowing, really knowing, people
who live in a house like that!  Oh, dear!" with a sigh, "I almost
wish I hadn't seen it until after we'd seen our own.  We must try
not to be disappointed, mustn't we?"

Captain Dan was surprised.  "Disappointed?" he said.  "Why, what do
you mean?  As I recollect Aunt Laviny's place, 'twas just as good
as that, if not better.  You said so yourself.  You used to call it
a regular palace."

"I know, but don't you think that was because we hadn't seen many
fine houses then?  I'm afraid that was it.  You know Mrs. Black
said it was old-fashioned."

"Humph!  Barney--What's his name?  Phelps, I mean--he said he
wished his was as good.  Don't you remember he did?"

"Probably he didn't mean it.  I'm not going to expect too much,
anyway.  I'm going to try and think of it as just a nice old place,
and then I shan't feel bad when I see it.  I'm not going to get my
expectations up or be a bit excited."

In proof of the sincerity of this determination, she sat bolt
upright on the seat and looked straight before her.  Her husband,
however, was staring out of the window with all his might.

"Say!" he exclaimed, "this is a mighty nice street, anyhow."

"Is it?  Is it really?"  For a person not excited, Mrs. Dott's
breathing was short and her fingers, tightly clasped in her lap,
were trembling.

"You bet it is!  Hey!  Why, we're slowin' up!  We're stoppin'."

The cab drew up at the curb and came to a standstill.

"Here you are," said the driver.  "This is Number 180."

Daniel made no reply.  Leaning from the window, he was staring with
all his might.  Serena's impatience got the better of her.

"Well?  WELL?" she burst forth.  "What does it look like?  Do say
something!"

The captain drew back into the carriage.

"My--soul!" he exclaimed presently.  "Look, Serena."

Serena looked, and her look was a long one.  Then, her face flushed
and her eyes shining, she turned to her husband.

"Oh!  Oh, Daniel!" she gasped.  "It's as good as the Blacks', isn't
it?  I--I do believe it's better!  Get out, quick!"

The caretaker, a middle-aged man with dark hair and mutton-chop
whiskers, met them at the top of the stone steps leading to the
front door.  He bowed low.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," he said.  "Good afternoon, sir.  Mr. Dott,
ain't it, sir?  And Mrs. Dott, ma'am.  My name is 'Apgood, sir.  I
was expecting you.  Will you be so good as to walk in?"

He threw open the door and, bowing once more, ushered them into the
hall, a large, old-fashioned hall with lofty ceiling and a mahogany
railed staircase.

"I presume, sir," he said, addressing the captain, "that you and
the madam would wish to 'ave me show you about a bit.  I was Mrs.
Dott's--the late Mrs. Dott's--butler when she resided 'ere, sir,
and she was good enough to make me 'er caretaker when she went
away, sir."

Captain Dan, rather overawed by Mr. Hapgood's magnificent manner,
observed that he wanted to know, adding that he had heard about the
caretaking from the lawyers "up to Boston."  After an appraising
glance at the speaker, Mr. Hapgood addressed his next remark to
Serena.

"Shall I show you about the establishment, madam?" he asked.

Serena's composure was a triumph.  An inexperienced observer might
have supposed she had been accustomed to butlers and establishments
all her life.

"Yes," she said loftily, "you can show us."

Mr. Hapgood was a person of wide experience; however, he merely
bowed and led the way.  Serena followed him, and Captain Dan
followed Serena.

A large drawing-room, a library, a very large dining-room, five
large bedrooms--"owners' and guest rooms," Mr. Hapgood grandly
termed them, to distinguish from the servants' quarters at the
rear--billiard room, bathroom, and back to the hall again.

"You would wish to see the kitchens, I suppose, ma'am," said Mr.
Hapgood.  "Doubtless Mr. Dott wouldn't care for those, sir.  Most
gentlemen don't.  Perhaps, sir, you'd sit 'ere while the lady and I
go through the service portion of the 'ouse, sir."

Daniel, who was rather curious to see the "service portion," partly
because he had never heard of one before, hesitated.  His wife,
however, settled the question.  She was conscious of a certain
condescension in the Hapgood tone.

"Of course," she said lightly, "Cap'n Dott will not go to the--
er--service portion.  Such things never interest him.  Sit here,
Daniel, and wait.  Now--" cutting off just in time the "Mister"
that was on the tip of her tongue and remembering how butlers in
novels were invariably addressed--"Now--er--Hapgood, you can take
me to the--ahem--kitchens."

It was somewhat disappointing to find that the plural was merely a
bit of verbal embroidery on the caretaking butler's part, and that
there was but one kitchen, situated in the basement.  However, it
was of good size and well furnished with closets, the contents of
which stirred Serena's housekeeping curiosity.  The inspection of
the kitchen and laundry took some time.

Meanwhile, upstairs in the dim front hall, Captain Dan sat upon a
most uncomfortable carved teak-wood chair and looked about him.
Through the doorway leading to the drawing-room--"front parlor," he
would have called it--he could see the ebony grand piano, the
ormolu clock, and the bronze statuettes on the marble mantel, the
buhl cabinet filled with bric-a-brac, the heavy mahogany-framed and
silk-covered sofa.  There were oil paintings on the walls,
paintings which foreign dealers, recognizing Aunt Lavinia's art
craving as a gift of Providence--to them--had sold her at high
prices.  They were, for the most part, landscapes, inclining
strongly to snow-covered mountains, babbling brooks, and cows; or
marines in which one-third of vivid sunset illumined two-thirds of
placid sea.  Of portraits there were two, Uncle Jim Dott in black
broadcloth and dignity and Aunt Lavinia Dott in dignity and black
satin.

Captain Dan felt strangely out of place alone amid this oppressive
grandeur.  Again, as on the memorable occasion of his first visit
to the house, he was conscious of his hands and feet.  Aunt
Lavinia's likeness, staring stonily and paintily from the wall,
seemed to regard him with disapproval, almost as if she were
reading his thoughts.  If the portrait could have spoken he might
have expected it to say:  "Here is the person upon whom all these,
my worldly possessions, have been bestowed, and he does not
appreciate them.  There he sits, upon the teakwood chair which I
myself bought in Cairo, and, so far from being grateful for the
gifts which my generosity has poured into his lap, he is wondering
what in the world to do with them, and wishing himself back in
Trumet."

Mrs. Dott and the caretaker reentered the hall.

"Thank you, Mr.--er--Thank you, Hapgood," said the lady.  "That
will be all for to-day, I think.  We will go now.  Come, Daniel."

Hapgood bowed.  "You would wish me to stay 'ere as I've done,
ma'am?" he asked.

"Yes.  You may stay, for the present.  Cap'n Dott and I will pay
your regular wages as long as we need you."

"Thank you kindly, ma'am.  And might I take the liberty of saying
that if you decide to stay 'ere permanently, ma'am, and need a
butler or a manservant about the place, I should be glad to 'ave
you consider me for the position.  I'm sure it would 'ave pleased
the late Mrs. Dott to 'ave you do so, ma'am."

"Well," said the captain, with surprising promptness for him, "you
see, Mr. Hapgood, as far as that goes we ain't intendin' to--"

"Hush, Daniel.  We don't know what we intend.  You know that our
plans are not settled as yet.  We will consider the matter,
Hapgood.  Good day."

"Good day, ma'am," said Hapgood.  "Good day, sir."

He opened the big front door, bowed them out, and stood respectfully
waiting as they descended the steps.  The taxi driver, whom the
captain had neglected to discharge or pay, was still there at the
curb with his vehicle.  Serena addressed him.

"The Palatine Hotel," she said, with great distinctness.  "Come,
Daniel."

They entered the cab.  Captain Dan closed the door.  The driver,
looking up at Mr. Hapgood, grinned broadly.  The latter gentleman
glanced at the cab window to make sure that his visitors were not
watching him, then he winked.

As the cab whizzed through the streets Serena gloated over the
splendors of their new possessions.  The house was finer than she
expected, the furniture was so rich and high-toned, the pictures--
did Daniel notice the pictures?

"And the location!" she cried ecstatically.  "Right on the very
best street in town, and yet, so the Hapgood man said, convenient
to the theaters and the clubs and the halls.  We saw the Ladies of
Honor hall on the way up, Daniel, you remember."

Daniel nodded.  "Yes," he admitted, "it's fine and convenient and
all.  We"--with a sidelong glance at his wife's face--"we ought to
get a good rent for it if we decide not to sell; hey, Serena?"

Serena did not answer.  When they reached the hotel she left her
husband to settle with the driver and took the elevator to their
room.  A few minutes later the captain joined her.  He looked as if
suffering from shock.

"My heavens and earth, Serena!" he exclaimed, "what do you suppose
that tax hack feller had the cheek to--"

"Sshh! shh!" interrupted the lady, who was reclining upon the
couch.  "Don't bother me now, Daniel.  I don't want to be bothered
with common every-day things now; I want to think."

"Common!  Everyday!  My soul and body! if what that pirate charged
me was everyday, I'd be in the poorhouse in a fortni't.  Why--"

"Oh, don't!  Please don't!  Can't you see I am trying to realize
that it's true and not a dream.  That it has really happened--to
ME.  Please don't talk.  Do go away, can't you?  Just go out and
take a walk, or something; just for a little while.  I want to be
alone."

Captain Dan slowly descended the stairs.  The elevator, of course,
would have been quicker, but he was in no hurry.  If he must walk,
and it seemed that he must, he might as well begin at once.  He
descended the stairs to the ground floor of the hotel and wandered
aimlessly about through the lobby into the billiard room, and
finally to a plate glass door upon which was lettered the word
"Rathskeller."

What a Rathskeller might be he did not know, but, as there was
another set of letters on the door and those spelled "Push," he
pushed.

The Rathskeller was a large room, with a bar at one end and many
little tables scattered about.  At these tables men were eating,
drinking and smoking.  A violin, harp and piano, played by a trio
of Italians, were doing their worst with a popular melody.

The captain looked about him, selected one of three chairs at an
unoccupied table, and sat down.  A waiter drifted alongside.

"What'll you have, sir?" inquired the waiter.

"Hey?  Oh, I don't know.  Give me a cup of coffee."

"Coffee?  Yes, sir.  Anything to eat?"

"No, I guess not.  I've had my dinner."

"Smoke?"

"Well, you might bring me a ten-cent cigar."

The coffee and cigar were brought.  Daniel lit the latter, took a
sip of the former and listened to the music.  This was not taking a
walk exactly, but, so far as leaving his wife alone was concerned,
it answered the purpose.

The room, already well tenanted, gradually filled.  Groups of men
entered, stopped to glance at the tape of a sporting news ticker
near the bar, exchanged a word or two with the bartenders, and then
selected tables.  Several times the two vacant chairs at the
captain's table were on the point of being taken, but each time the
prospective occupants went elsewhere.

At length, however, two young men, laughing and talking rather
loudly, sauntered through the room.  One of them paused.

"Here are a couple," he said, indicating the chairs.

His companion, an undersized, dapper individual, whose raiment--
suit, socks, shirt, shoes, hat and tie--might comprehensively be
described as a symphony in brown, paused also, turned and looked at
the chairs, then at the table, and finally at the captain.

"Yes," he drawled, regarding the latter fixedly, "so I see.  Well,
perhaps we can't do better.  This place is getting too infernally
common, though.  Don't think I shall come here again.  If it wasn't
that they put up the best cocktail in town I should have quit
before.  All right, this will have to do, I suppose."

He seated himself in one of the chairs.  His friend followed suit.
The watchful waiter was on hand immediately.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said, bowing obsequiously.

Neither of the young men acknowledged the bow or the greeting,
although it was evident that the waiter was an old acquaintance.
The symphony in brown did not even turn his head.

"Two dry Martinis," he said.  "And mind that they ARE dry.  Have
Charlie make them himself.  If that other fellow does it I'll send
them back."

"Yes, sir.  All right, sir.  Will you have a bit of lunch with
them, sir?  Caviare sandwich or--"

"No."

"Shall I bring cigars, sir?"

"Lord, no!  The last I had here nearly poisoned me.  Get the
cocktails and be lively about it."

The waiter departed.  The young gentleman drew a gold cigarette
case from his pocket.

"Here you are," he drawled, proffering the case.  "Cigars!" with a
contemptuous laugh.  "They buy their cigars by the yard, at the
rope walk.  Fact, Monty; take my word for it."

"Monty" laughed.  "That's pretty rough, Tacks," he declared.

"Oh, but it's so.  You can actually smell the hemp.  Eh?  By gad,
you can smell it now, can't you?"

Captain Dan was relighting the stump of his "ten-center" which had
gone out.  He had scarcely noticed the newcomers; his thoughts were
far away from Scarford and the Palatine Hotel.  Now, however, he
suddenly became aware that his tablemates were regarding him and
the cigar with apparent amusement.  He smiled good naturedly.

"Been runnin' her too low," he observed.  "Have to get up steam if
I want to be in at the finish."

This nautical remark was received with blank stares.  "Monty"
turned his shoulder toward the speaker.  "Tacks" did not even turn;
he continued to stare.  The arrival of the cocktails was the next
happening of importance.

"I say, Tacks," observed Monty, leaning back in his chair and
sipping his Martini, "how are you getting on?  Made up your mind
what to do?"

"No," shortly.

"Going to fight, are you?"

"No use.  The confounded lawyers say I wouldn't have a show."

"Humph!  Low-down trick of the old woman's, wasn't it, giving you
the shake that way?  Everybody thought you were her pet weakness.
We used to envy your soft snap.  Did you get the go-by altogether?"

"Pretty near.  Got a little something, but it was precious little."

"Can you pull through on it?"

"'Twill be a devilish hard pull."

"Too bad, old man.  But cheer up!  You'll come out on top.  Have
another one of these things?"

"All right."

More Martinis were ordered.  "Monty" and his friend lit fresh
cigarettes.  The former asked another question.

"Who are the lucky winners?" he inquired.  "Some country cousins or
other, I know that; but who are they?"

"Oh, I don't know.  Yes, I know; but what difference does it make?"

"Isn't there a girl somewhere in the crowd?"

"Yes, but--"  He broke off.  Captain Dan was regarding him
intently.

"Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable, Uncle?"
drawled "Tacks," with bland sarcasm.

Daniel was taken aback.

"Why," he stammered, "I--I don't know's there is."

"Shall I speak a little louder?  Possibly that might help.
Delighted to oblige, I'm sure."

This was plain enough, certainly.  The captain colored.  His
confusion increased.

"I--I hope you don't think I was listenin' to you and your friend's
talk," he protested hastily.  "I wasn't.  Why, if--if you two would
like this table to yourself you can have it just as well as not.  I
can go somewhere else.  You see, I was thinkin'--when you spoke to
me--I was thinkin' there was somethin' familiar about your face.
Seemed as if I'd seen you somewhere before, that's all; and--"

The young gentleman in brown interrupted him.  "You're mistaken,"
he said, "I was never there."  Then, turning to his friend, he
added, with an elaborate "Josh Whitcomb" accent:  "Monty, 'taters
must be lookin' up.  All aour folks have come to town to spend
their money."

Monty, upon whom, like his companion, the second cocktail--second
in this particular sense--there had been others--seemed to be
having some effect, laughed uproariously.  Even the joker himself
deigned to smile.  Captain Dan did not smile.  He had risen,
preparatory to leaving the table; now he slowly sat down again.

"I guess I WAS mistaken," he said gravely.  "I guess you're right
about my not havin' seen you before.  If I had I wouldn't have
forgot where."

Monty evidently thought it his turn to be funny.

"You have a good memory, haven't you, Deacon?" he observed.

The captain looked at him.

"That don't necessarily follow, young man," he said.  "There's some
things you CAN'T forget."

There was a choking sound at the next table; a stout man there
seemed to be having trouble in swallowing.  Those with him looked
strangely happy, considering.

"Tacks" frowned, pushed back his chair and stood up.

"Come on, Monty," he growled.  "This place is going to the dogs.
They let ANYTHING in here now."

Daniel turned to the stout man and his party.

"That's strange, ain't it?" he said in a tone of grave surprise.
"I was just thinkin' that myself."

Then, his cigar smoked to the bitter end, he, too, rose, and,
declining the invitations of the stout man and his friends to have
something "because he had earned it," he walked out of the
Rathskeller and took the elevator to the third floor.

He opened the door of the room gently and entered on tiptoe, for he
thought it likely that Serena was taking a nap.  She was not,
however; on the contrary, she was very wide awake.

"Where have you been?" she demanded.  "I've been waiting and
waiting for you."

Daniel chuckled.

"I've been down below in a place they call the Rat Cellar, or some
such name," he said.  "The rats was there, two of 'em, anyhow.  And
I'd met one of 'em before.  I know I have.  I wish I could think
who he was.  A sort of--"

But Serena was not listening.

"Daniel," she interrupted, "it is all settled.  I have made up my
mind."

Her voice was tremulous with excitement.  Captain Dan looked at
her.

"Made up your mind?" he repeated.  "I want to know!  What about?"

"About our plans and our future, Daniel; my opportunity has come,
the opportunity I was wishing for.  It has been sent to me by
Providence, I do believe--and it would be wicked not to take
advantage of it.  Daniel, you and I must move to Scarford."

The captain gasped.

"Why--why, Serena," he faltered.  "What are you talkin' about?
DON'T talk so!  Move to Scarford!  Give up Trumet and--"

"Trumet!  Don't mention Trumet to me.  Daniel Dott, you'll never
get me back to Trumet again--to live there, I mean--never, never,
NEVER!"



CHAPTER V


Captain Dan said--Well, it does not matter much what he said.  He
said a great deal, of course, during that evening and the next
morning, and would have kept on saying it all the way to Trumet if
his wife had not declined to listen.

"It is no use, Daniel," she declared calmly but firmly.  "I have
thought it all out and I KNOW it is the right thing for us to do.
You will think so, too, one of these days."

"Durned if I will!  I tell you, Serena--"

"Hush! you're telling everybody in the car, and THAT isn't
necessary, at any rate.  Now we won't argue any more until we get
home.  Then you can say your say; but"--with discouraging candor--
"it won't change my decision a single mite.  My mind is made up.  A
higher power than you or me has settled everything for us.  We are
going to Scarford to live, and we will go just as soon as we can
get ready."

And go they did.  The captain fought a stubborn battle,
surprisingly stubborn and protracted for him, but he surrendered at
last.  Serena drove him from one line of entrenchments after the
other, and, at length, when she had him in the last ditch, where,
argument and expostulation unavailing, he could only say, "No! no,
I won't, I tell you!" over and over again, she used her most
effective weapon, tears, and brought him to terms.

"You don't care," she sobbed.  "You don't care for me at all.  All
you care about is just yourself.  You're willing to stay here in
this awful place, you're willing to plod along just as you always
have; and it doesn't make any difference about my wishes or my
hopes, or anything.  If you were like most husbands you'd be proud
and glad to see me getting on in the world; you'd be glad to give
me the chance to be somebody; you'd--"

"There! there!  Serena, don't talk so.  I'd do anything in this
world to please you."

"Hush! hush!  I should think you'd be ashamed to say such things.
I should think you'd be AFRAID to say them, afraid something would
happen to you--you'd be struck down or something.  Oh, well!  I
must be resigned, I suppose.  I must give in, just as I always do.
I must be satisfied to be miserable and--and--Oh, what shall I do?
What SHALL I do?"

Sobs and more sobs, frantic clutchings at the sofa pillows and
declarations that she had better die; it would be better for her
and ever so much better for everyone else if she were dead.  No one
would care.

Poor Daniel, distressed and remorseful, vaguely conscious that he
was right, but conscience stricken nevertheless, hoisted the white
flag.

"Hush, hush, Serena!" he pleaded.  "Land sakes, don't say such
things--please don't.  I'll do anything you want, of course I will.
I'll go to Scarford, if you say so.  I was just--"

"I don't ask you to go there forever.  I never have asked that.  I
only ask you to go there and live a while and just see how we like
it.  That was all I asked, and you knew it.  But you won't! you
won't!"

"Why, yes I will, too.  I'll go--go next week, if you say so.  I--I
just--"

He got no further.  Mrs. Dott, wet-eyed but radiant, lifted her
head from the sofa pillow and threw her arms about his neck.

"Will you?" she cried ecstatically.  "Will you, Daniel?  I knew you
would.  You're a dear, good man and I love you better than all the
world.  We will be so happy.  You see if we aren't."

The captain was no less doubtful of the happiness than he had ever
been, but he tried to smile and to find comfort in the thought that
she was happy if he was not.

He had written Gertrude telling of her mother's new notion and
asking for advice and counsel.  The reply, which came by return
mail, did not cheer him as much as he had hoped.

"It was inevitable, I suppose," Gertrude wrote.  "I expected it.
I was almost certain that Mother would want to live in Scarford.
Mrs. Black has been telling her all summer about society and club
life and what she calls 'woman's opportunity,' and Mother has come
to believe that Scarford is Paradise.  You will have to go, I
think, Daddy dear.  Perhaps it is just as well.  Mother won't be
satisfied until she has tried it, and perhaps, after she has tried
it, she may be glad to come back to Trumet.  My advice is to let
her find out for herself, but, of course, if you feel sure it is
wrong, then you must put your foot down, say no, and stick to it.
No one can do that for you; you must do it yourself."

Which was perfectly true, as true as the other fact--namely, that
Captain Dan could not "stick to it" in a controversy with his wife,
having lost the sticking faculty years before.

But, oddly enough, there was one point upon which he did stick and
refused to budge:  That point was Azuba's going to Scarford with
them.  Mrs. Ginn's attitude when she was told of the family exodus
was a great surprise.  Serena, who broke the news to her, expected
grief and lamentations; instead Azuba was delighted.

"Well, now!" she exclaimed.  "Ain't that fine!  Ain't that
splendid!  I always wanted to go somewhere's besides Trumet, and
now I'm goin'.  I always told Labe, my husband, that if there was
one thing I was jealous of him about 'twas travelin'.  'You go from
Dan to Beersheby,' I says to him, 'any time you want to.'  'Yes,'
says he--this was the last time he was to home, three years ago--
'Yes,' he says, 'and when I don't want to, too.'  'And I,' I says,
'I have to say stuck here in Trumet like a post in a rail fence.'
'You look more like the rail, Zuby,' he says--he's always pokin'
fun 'cause I ain't fleshy.  'Don't make no difference what I LOOK
like,' I says, 'here I be and I ain't never been further than the
Brockton cattle show since I was ten year old.'  But now I'm goin'
to travel at last.  My!  I'm so tickled I don't know what to do.
I'll start in makin' my last fall's hat over this very night.  Say,
it's a good thing you've got me to help in the goin' and the
settlin', ain't it, Sereny--Mrs. Dott, I mean."

In the face of this superb confidence Serena, who had intended
leaving Azuba behind, lacked the courage to mention the fact.  And
when she sought her husband in the store and asked him to do it, he
flatly refused.

"What!" he said.  "Tell Zuba Ginn we're goin' to cast her adrift!
I should say not!  Of course we can't do any such thing, Serena."

"But what can we do with her, Daniel?  We might leave her here to
take care of the place, I suppose, but that would only be for a
time, until we find somebody to buy it.  Of course we can't run two
places, and we'll have to sell this one some time or other."

Daniel, to whom the idea of selling the home of which he had been
so proud was unthinkable, ignored the question.

"You couldn't leave her here," he declared.  "She wouldn't stay.
Zuba's queer--all her tribe are and always was--but she's nobody's
fool.  She'd know right off you were tryin' to get rid of her.  No,
it may be all right enough to leave Nate Bangs in charge of the
store, because he'd like nothin' better, but you can't leave Zuba
in the house."

"Then what can we do with her?"

"Take her with us.  She can do housekeepin' in Scarford same as she
can here, can't she?"

"Take her with us!  Why, Daniel Dott! the very idea!  Think of
Azuba in a place like that Scarford mansion!  Think of her and that
dignified, polite Hapgood man together!  Think of it!"

The captain seemed to find the thought amusing.

"Say, that would be some fun, wouldn't it?" he chuckled.  "I'd risk
Zuba, though.  He wouldn't do the Grand Panjandrum over her more'n
once.  I'd risk her to hold up her end."

"What do you think the B. Phelps Blacks would say if they saw Azuba
trotting through the grand front hall with her kitchen apron on?"

The mention of the name had an odd effect upon the captain.  He
straightened in his chair.

"I don't care what they say," he declared.  "I don't care what the
Blacks would say, nor the Yellows nor the Blues either.  If they
don't like it they can stay in their own front halls and lock the
door.  Look here, Serena: Zuba Ginn has been with us ever since
Gertie was born; she took care of her when she had the scarlet
fever, set up nights and run the risk of catchin' it herself, and
all that.  The doctor told us that if it hadn't been for Zuba and
her care and self-sacrifice and common sense Gertie would have
died.  She may be queer and hard to keep in her place, as you call
it, and a regular walkin' talkin' machine, and all that.  I don't
say she ain't.  What I do say is she's been good enough for us all
these years and she's good enough for me now.  She ain't got any
folks; her husband is as queer as she is, and only shows up once in
two or three years, when he happens to think of it.  She ain't got
any home but ours, and nobody else to turn to, and I won't cast her
adrift just because I've got more money than I did have.  I'd be
ASHAMED to do it.  No, sir! if Zuba Ginn wants to go to Scarford,
along with us, she goes, or I don't go myself."

He struck the desk a violent blow with his clenched fist.  Serena
regarded him with astonishment.  It had been a long time since she
had seen him like this, not since the old seafaring days.

"Why--why, Daniel," she faltered, "I didn't mean to make you cross.
I--I only thought. . . .  Of course, she can go with us if you feel
that way."

"That's the way I feel," said her husband shortly.  Then, as if
suddenly awakening and with a relapse into his usual manner, he
added, "Was I cross?  I'm real sorry, Serena.  Say, don't you want
some candy?  Nathaniel's just openin' a new case from Boston.  Hi,
Sam! Sam! bring me a pound box of those Eureka chocolates, will
you?"

Serena did not again suggest Azuba's remaining in Trumet.  Neither
she nor Captain Dan referred to the subject again.  Mrs. Dott was,
to tell the truth, just a bit frightened; she did not understand
her husband's sudden outbreak of determination.  And yet the
explanation was simple enough.  So long as he was the only
sufferer, so long as only his own preferences and wishes were
pushed aside for those of his wife or daughter, he was meekly
passive or, at the most, but moderately rebellious; here, however,
was an injustice--or what he considered an injustice--done to
someone else, and he "put his foot down" for once, at least.

So, upon the fateful day when, preceded by a wagonload of trunks
and bags and boxes, the Dotts once more drove through Scarford's
streets to the mansion which was to be their home--permanently,
according to Serena; temporarily, so her husband hoped--Azuba
accompanied them.  And Azuba was wildly excited and tirelessly
voluble.  Even Captain Dan, the long-suffering, grew weary of her
exclamations and chatter at last.

"Say, Zuba," he remonstrated, "is this an all-day service you're
givin' us?  If it is, I wish you'd take up a collection or
somethin', for a change.  Mrs. Dott and I are gettin' sort of tired
of the sermon."

"Why--why, what do you mean?  I was only just sayin' I never see so
many folks all at once since that time I was at the Brockton cattle
show.  I'll bet there's a million right on this street."

"I'll take the bet.  Now you start in and count 'em, and let's see
who wins.  Count 'em to yourself, that's all I ask."

Azuba, with an indignant toss of the "made-over" hat, subsided for
the time.  But the sight of the Aunt Lavinia mansion, with Mr.
Hapgood bowing a welcome from the steps, was too much for her.

"Oh!" she burst forth.  "Oh! you don't mean to tell me THAT'S it!
Why, it's perfectly grand!  And--and there's the minister comin' to
call already!  Ain't it LOVELY!"

That night, as they sat down for the first meal in the new abode, a
meal cooked by Azuba and served by the light-footed, soft-spoken,
deft-handed Hapgood, Serena voiced the exultation she felt.

"There, Daniel," she observed, beaming across the table at her
husband, "now you begin to appreciate what it means, don't you.
NOW you begin to see the difference."

Captain Dan, glancing up at the obsequious Hapgood standing at his
elbow, hesitated.

"Yes, sir?" said Mr. Hapgood anxiously.  "What is it you wish,
sir?"

"Nothin', nothin'.  Why, yes, I tell you: You go out and--and buy
me a cigar somewhere.  Here's the money."

"Cigar, sir?  Yes, sir.  What kind do you--"

"Any kind; only get it quick."

Then, as the door closed behind the dignified Hapgood, he added:

"I've got three cigars in my pocket now, but that doesn't matter.
I had to send him after somethin'!  Say, Serena, is it real
necessary to have that undertaker hangin' over us ALL the time?
Every time he looks at me I feel as if he was takin' my measure.
Has EVERY meal got to be a funeral?"

There was no doubt that the captain noticed the difference.  He
noticed it more the following day, and more still on each
succeeding one.

The next evening the Blacks called--called in state.  A note from
Mrs. Black, arriving by the morning's post, announced their coming.
Serena noted the Black stationery, its quality and the gilded
monogram, and resolved to order a supply of her own immediately.
Also she bade her husband don his newest and best.  She did the
same, and when Captain Dan, painfully conscious of a pair of tight
shoes, entered the drawing-room he found her already there.

"My!" he exclaimed, regarding her with admiration, "you do look
fine, Serena.  Is that the one the Boston dressmaker made?"

"Yes.  I'm glad you like it."

"Couldn't help likin' it.  I can't hardly realize it's my wife
that's got it on.  Walk around and let me take an observation.
Whew!  I always said you looked ten years younger than you are.
THAT rig don't spell forty-five next January, Serena."

Mrs. Dott sniffed.

"Don't remind me of my age, Daniel," she protested.  "It isn't
necessary to tell everyone how old I am."

"All right.  Nobody'd guess it, anyhow.  But how funny you walk.
What makes you take such little short steps?"

"I can't help it.  This dress--gown, I mean--is so tight I can
hardly step at all."

"Have to shake out a reef, won't you?  How in the world did you get
downstairs--hop?"

"Hush!  Don't be foolish.  The gown is no tighter than anyone
else's.  It's the style, Daniel, and you and I must get used to it.
Are those your new shoes?"

"They certainly are.  Do they look as new as they feel?  I walk
about the way you do, Serena.  Bein' in style ain't all joy, is
it?"

"It's better than being out of it.  And, Daniel, please remember
not to say 'ain't.'  I've asked you so many times.  We have our
opportunity now and so must improve ourselves.  You're not keeping
store in the country any longer.  You are a man of means, living
among cultivated society people, and you must try to behave like
the ladies and gentlemen you will be called upon to associate
with."

"Humph!" doubtfully.  "I don't know as I could behave like a lady
if I tried.  As for the gentleman, if you mean Barney Black--"

"I mean B. Phelps Black.  Don't you dare call him Barney to-night.
If you do I shall be SO mortified.  Hush!  Here they are.  Very
well, Hapgood.  You may show them in."

Even Serena's new gown, fine as it was and proud as she had been of
it, lost something of its glory and sank into a modest second place
when Annette appeared.  Mrs. Black had dressed for the occasion.
Also, she had insisted upon her husband's dressing.

"What in blazes must I climb into a dress suit for?" demanded that
gentleman grumpily.  "Going to call on Dan Dott and his wife.  You
don't expect Dan to be wearing a dress suit, do you?  He never wore
one in his life."

"It doesn't make any difference what he wears.  I want you to go in
evening dress."

"But, confound it, Annette, we've been calling on those people all
summer."

"THAT was in the country; this is not.  Don't you SEE, Phelps?
Can't you understand?  Those Dotts have come here to live.  I did
all I could to prevent it, but--"

"WHAT?"  Mr. Black interrupted with an amazed protest.  "Did all
you could to prevent it!  Why, you used to preach Scarford to
Serena Dott from morning till night.  You were always telling her
how much better it was than Trumet.  I don't believe she would ever
have thought of coming here if it hadn't been for you."

Annette stamped her foot impatiently.  "Don't you suppose I know
it?" she demanded.  "That was when I never imagined there was any
chance of their really coming.  But now they have come and we've
got to be with them to some extent.  We've GOT to; we can't get out
of it.  That is why I want them to see how people of our class
dress.  I can't TELL her that her clothes are a sight, as country
as a green pumpkin, but I can show her mine, and she's clever
enough to understand.  And you can show her husband.  Not that that
will do much good, I'm afraid.  HE is the real dreadful part of the
thing.  Goodness knows what he may say or do at any time!"

Phelps grinned.  Nevertheless, he donned the dress suit.

Mrs. Black had another reason, one which she did not mention, for
making this, their first, call upon the Dotts in their new home a
ceremonial occasion.  It was true that they would be obliged to
associate with these acquaintances from the country more or less;
the commonest politeness required that, considering all that had
gone before.  But she meant there should be no misunderstanding of
the relations between the families.  In Trumet she had made Mrs.
Dott her protegee because it was her nature to patronize, and
Serena had not resented the patronage.  Now circumstances were
quite different; now the Dotts possessed quite as much worldly
wealth as the Blacks, but Annette did not intend to let Serena
presume upon that.  No, indeed!  She intended, not only by the
grandeur of her raiment and that of her husband, but by her
tone and manner, to make perfectly plain the fact that the
acquaintanceship was still a great condescension on her part and
did not imply equality in the least.

But this lofty attitude was destined to be shaken before the
evening was over.  The first shock came at the very beginning, and
Mr. Hapgood was responsible for it.  Annette had referred, during
the Trumet acquaintanceship, to her "staff of servants," and had
spoken casually of her cook and second girl and laundress and
"man," as if the quartette were permanent fixtures in the Black
establishment.  As a matter of fact, the only fixtures were the
cook and second girl.  The laundress came in on Mondays and
Tuesdays to do the washing and ironing, and the "man" acted as
janitor's helper at the factory three days of the week.  The
chauffeur was but a summer flourish; B. Phelps drove his own car
eight months in the year.

So when the door of the Dott mansion was opened by a butler--and
such a dignified, polite, imposing butler--Mrs. Black's soul was
shaken by a twinge of envy.  The second shock was Serena's
appearance and the calm graciousness of her demeanor.  The Boston
gown was not as grand, as prodigal of lace and embroidery, as was
the visitor's, but it was in the latest fashion and Serena wore it
as if she had been used to such creations all her life.  Neither
was she overawed or flurried when her callers entered.  Serena had
read a good deal, had observed as much as her limited opportunities
would allow, and was naturally a clever woman in many ways.

"Why, how do you do, Mrs. Black?" she said.  "It's so good of you
to come.  And to bring Mr. Black, too.  You must take off your
things.  Yes, you must.  Hapgood, take the lady's wraps.  Daniel!"

The captain, who, not being used to butlers and lacking much of his
wife's presence of mind, had started forward to assist with the
wraps, stopped short.

"Yes, Serena?" he faltered.

"Can't you ask Mr. Black to sit down?"

"Hey?  Why, course I can.  I judged he was goin' to sit down
anyway.  Wasn't figgerin' to stand up all the evenin', was you,
Bar--er--Phelps?"

"No," replied Mr. Black.  To prove it he selected the most
comfortable chair in the room.

"I had such a time to get Phelps to come," declared Annette,
sinking, with a rustle, into the next best chair.  "He wanted to
see you both, of course, and to welcome you to Scarford, but he is
SO busy and has so many engagements.  If it isn't a directors'
meeting it is a house committee at the club, or--or something.  You
should be thankful that your husband is not a man of affairs and
constantly in demand.  It was a club meeting to-night, wasn't it,
Phelps, dear?"

"'Twas a stag dinner," observed Mr. Black.  "Say, Dan, I'll have to
take you to one of 'em some time.  It's a good bunch of fellows and
we have some of the cleverest vaudeville stunts afterward that you
ever saw.  Last week there were a couple of coons that--"

"Phelps!" Annette interrupted tartly, "you needn't go into details.
I don't imagine Captain and Mrs. Dott will be greatly interested.
What a charming old room this is, isn't it?  SO quaint!  Everything
looks as if it had been here a hundred years."

Before Serena could frame a reply to this back-handed compliment
the unconscious B. Phelps removed the greater part of its sting by
observing:

"That butler of yours looks as if he had been here a thousand.  I
felt as if George the First was opening the door for me.  He's a
star, all right.  Did he come with the place?"

Mrs. Dott explained that Hapgood was one of Aunt Lavinia's old
servants.  "She thought the world of him.  Daniel and I feel
perfectly safe in leaving everything to him.  Auntie found him
somewhere abroad--working for a lord or a count or something, I
believe--and brought him over.  He is pretty expensive, his wages,
I mean, but he is worth it all.  Don't you think so?"

Yes, Mrs. Black found it much more difficult to patronize than she
expected, and Serena was correspondingly happy.  But the crowning
triumph came later.  The doorbell rang, and Hapgood entered the
drawing-room bearing a tray upon which were several cards.  He bent
and whispered respectfully.

Mrs. Dott was evidently surprised and startled.

"Who?" she asked.

Hapgood whispered again.

Serena rose.  "Yes, of course," she said nervously.  "Yes,
certainly.  I declare, I--"

"What's up?" asked her husband, his curiosity aroused.  "Nothin'
wrong, is there?  What's that he's bringin' you on that thing?"

He referred to the cards and the tray.  His wife, who had caught a
glimpse of Mrs. Black's face, fought down her nervousness and
announced with dignified composure.

"Some more callers, that's all, Daniel," she said.  "Oh, you
mustn't go, Mrs. Black.  You know them, I'm sure.  I've heard you
speak of 'em--of them often.  It's"--referring to the cards--"the
Honorable Oscar Fenholtz and Mrs. Fenholtz.  Ask them right in,
Hapgood.  Daniel, get up!"

Daniel hurriedly obeyed orders.  Mr. Black also rose.

"The Fenholtzes!" he observed in a tone of surprise.  "Say, Dan, I
didn't know you knew them.  Annette didn't say anything about it."

Annette hadn't known of it; her expression showed that.  The
Honorable and Mrs. Fenholtz were Scarford's wealthiest citizens.
Mr. Fenholtz was proprietor of a large brewery and was an ex-mayor.
His wife was prominent socially; as prominent as Mrs. Black hoped
to be some day.

Hapgood reappeared, ushering in the new arrivals.  The Honorable
Oscar was plump and florid and good-natured.  He wore a business
suit and his shoes were not patent leathers.  Mrs. Fenholtz was
likewise plump.  Her gown, in comparison with Annette's, or even
Serena's, was extremely plain and old-fashioned.

She hastened over to where Serena was standing and extended her
hand.

"How do you do, Mrs. Dott?" she said pleasantly.  "Welcome to
Scarford.  You and I have never met, of course, but I used to know
Mrs. Lavinia Dott very well indeed.  And this is Mr. Dott, I
suppose.  How do you do?  And here is my husband.  Oscar, these are
our new neighbors."

Mr. Fenholtz and the captain shook hands.  Captain Dan felt his
embarrassment disappearing under the influence of that hearty
shake.

"I suppose you scarcely expected callers--or calls from strangers--
so soon," went on Mrs. Fenholtz.  "But, you see, I hope we shan't
be strangers after this.  I couldn't bear to think of you all alone
here in this great house in a strange place, and so I told Oscar
that he and I must run in.  We live near here, only on the next
corner."

"I said you would be having your after-dinner smoke, Mr. Dott,"
explained the Honorable, with a smile and a Teutonic accent.  "I
said you would wish we was ouid instead of in; but Olga would not
have it so.  And, when the women say yes, we don't say no.  Eh;
what is the use?"  He chuckled.

Captain Dan grinned.  "That's right," he said.  "No use for the
fo'mast hand to contradict the skipper."

Mrs. Black stepped forward.

"How do you do, Mrs. Fenholtz?" she said with unction.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Serena.  "I--I'm forgetting everything.  But
you know Mr. and Mrs. Black, don't you, Mrs. Fenholtz?"

Mrs. Fenholtz turned.

"How do you do, Mrs. Black?" she said.  Her tone lacked the
enthusiasm of Annette's.

"Hello, Black," said her husband.  "What are you doing here?  I
thought you would be at the club, listening to the--what is it?--
the cabaret.  Py George, my wife says I shall not go any more!  She
says it is no place for a settled man so old as I am.  Ho! ho!  Yet
I tell her the stag dinner is good for the beer business."

Before B. Phelps could answer, Mrs. Black spoke.

"He wanted to go, Mr. Fenholtz," she declared.  "But he felt, as I
did, that our first duty was here.  Captain and Mrs. Dott are old
friends of ours.  We meet them every year at the Cape; we have a
summer home there, you know."

Fenholtz seemed interested.  "That is so," he said.  "I forgot.
Dott, are you one of those Cape Cod skippers they tell me about?  I
am glad of it.  I have got a boat myself down in Narragansett Bay.
One of those gruisin' launches, they call them.  But this one is
like the women, it will gruise only where and when it wants to, and
not where I want to at all.  There is something the matter with the
engine always.  I have had egsperts--ah, those egsperts!--they are
egsperts only in getting the money.  When they are there it will go
beautifully; but when they have left it will not go at all.  I wish
you could see it."

Captain Dan was interested, too.

"Well," he said, "I'd like to, first rate.  I've got a boat of my
own back home; that is, I used to have her.  She was a twenty-five
foot cat and she had a five-horsepower auxiliary in her.  I had
consider'ble experience with that engine.  Course, I ain't what
you'd call an expert."

"I am glad of that.  Now I will explain about this drouble of
mine."

He went on to explain.  In five minutes he and the captain were
head over heels in spark plugs and batteries and valves and
cylinders.  Mr. Black endeavored to help out with quotations from
his experience as a motorist, but his suggestions, not being of a
nautical nature, were ignored for the most part.  After a time he
lost interest and settled back in his chair.

Meanwhile the three ladies were engrossed in other matters.  Mrs.
Fenholtz asked to be shown the house; she had not seen it for a
long time, she said, and was much interested.  Annette suddenly
remembered that, she also was "mad" to see it.  So Serena led a
tour of inspection, in which Mr. Hapgood officiated as assistant
pilot and superintendent of lighting.

After the tour was at an end, and just before the party descended
to the drawing-room, Mrs. Fenholtz turned to Serena and said:

"Mrs. Dott, are you interested in club matters; in women's clubs, I
mean?"

Serena's answer was a prompt one.

"Indeed I am," she said.  "I have always been interested in them.
In fact, I am president of the Trumet Chapter; that is, I was; of
course, I resigned when I came here."

Mrs. Fenholtz looked puzzled.

"Trumet Chapter?" she repeated.

"Why, yes, the Chapter of the Guild of the Ladies of Honor.  The
order Mrs. Black belongs to."

"Oh!" in a slightly different tone.  "Oh, yes, I see."

"I'm terribly interested in THAT," declared Serena enthusiastically.
"If you knew the hours and hours I have put in working for the
Guild.  It is a splendid movement; don't you think so?"

"Why--why, I have no doubt it is.  I don't belong to it myself.  I
was thinking of our local club, our Scarford women's club, when I
spoke.  I thought perhaps you might care to attend a meeting of
that with me."

"I should love--" began Serena, and stopped.

Mrs. Black, who was standing behind Mrs. Fenholtz, was shaking her
head.  The last-named lady noticed her hostess' hesitation.

"But of course," she went on, "if you are interested in the Ladies
of Honor you would no doubt prefer visiting a meeting of theirs.
In that case Mrs. Black could help you more than I.  She is vice-
president of the Scarford Branch, I think.  You are vice-president,
aren't you, Mrs. Black?"

Annette colored slightly.

"Why--why, yes," she admitted; "I am."

Serena was surprised.

"Vice-president?" she repeated.  "Vice-president--I--I--must have
made a dreadful mistake.  I introduced you as president at that
Trumet meeting.  I certainly thought you were president."

Now, as a matter of fact, if Mrs. Black had not specifically said
that she was president of the Scarford Chapter, she had led her
acquaintances in Trumet to infer that she was; at all events, she
had not corrected Serena's misapprehension on the night of the
meeting.  She hastened to do so now.

"Oh, no!" she said.  "I noticed that you made a mistake when you
introduced me, but, of course, I could hardly correct you publicly,
and, when it was all over, I forgot.  I am only vice-president,
just as Mrs. Fenholtz says."

Mrs. Fenholtz smiled.  "Well, I am not even an officeholder in our
club," she said, "although I was at one time.  I have no doubt you
will prefer to be introduced by a vice-president rather than a mere
member; and I am sure Mrs. Black is planning for you to attend one
of the Guild meetings, so I mustn't interfere."

Annette was visibly flurried.  The Scarford Chapter was the one
subject which she had carefully avoided that evening.  But between
it and the Woman's Club there was a bitter rivalry, and, although
she had not been at all anxious to act as sponsor for her friend
from the country, now that Mrs. Fenholtz had offered to do so and
had placed the responsibility squarely on her shoulders, she could
not dodge.

"Why--why, of course," she said.  "That was understood.  We have
had so many things to talk about this evening that I had really
forgotten it, my dear Mrs. Dott.  I had indeed!  When," she
hesitated, "when could you make it convenient to attend one of our
meetings?  Of course I know how busy you are just now in your new
home, and I shall not be unreasonable.  I shouldn't, of course,
expect you to attend the NEXT meeting."

"Oh," said the unconscious Serena, "I'm not so busy as all that.  I
could go to the next meeting just as well as not.  I should love
to."

They entered the drawing-room, to find Captain Dan and the
Honorable Oscar still deep in the engine discussion and Mr. Black
sound asleep in his chair.  Roused by his indignant wife, he
drowsily inquired if it was time to get up, and then, becoming
aware of the realities of the situation, hastily explained that he
had been thinking about business affairs and had forgotten where he
was.

"Going, Annette, are you?" he asked.

Annette tartly observed that she was going, and added that she
judged it high time to do so.  Mrs. Fenholtz said that she and her
husband must be going, also.

"But we shall hope to see a great deal of you and Mr.--I should say
Captain Dott," she said.  "You must dine with us very soon.  I will
set an evening and you mustn't say no."

"That is right," said Mr. Fenholtz heartily.  "Captain, some of
these days you and I will take a gouple of days and go down and
look at that boat.  If she does not go then, we will put an
'egspert' in her and sink them both.  What?"

Altogether, it was a wonderful evening.  The only fly in the
ointment was Azuba, who appeared just as the visitors were at the
door, to announce that "that foolhead of a grocer's boy" hadn't
brought the things she ordered and what they was going to do for
breakfast she didn't know.

"I could give you b'iled eggs," she added, "but Captain Dan'l made
such a fuss about them we had yesterday that I didn't dast to do it
without askin' you.  I wanted to have some picked-up fish, but they
didn't keep none but the hashed-up kind that comes in pasteboard
boxes, and I'd just as soon eat hay as that."

On the way home Mrs. Black divided her discourse into two parts,
one a scorching of her husband for falling asleep and making her
ridiculous before the Fenholtzes, and the other a sort of irritated
soliloquy concerning "those Dotts" and the way in which they had
been loaded upon her shoulders.

"I did my best to keep the Guild out of the conversation," she
said, "but that Fenholtz woman had to drag it in, and now, of
course, I've got to take that Dott person to the next meeting and
introduce her to everybody, and I suppose I shall have to see that
she is made a member.  Oh, dear!  I almost wish I had never seen
Trumet."

B. Phelps grunted.  "Humph!" he said.  "If the Fenholtzes take them
up I don't see what you've got to kick about.  You've been trying
to get in the Fenholtz set yourself for the last three years.
Maybe you can do it now."



CHAPTER VI


The Scarford Chapter of the Guild of the Ladies of Honor was not as
large a body as Mrs. Black in the exuberance of her Trumet
conversation had led Serena to think.  In reality, its membership
was less than a hundred.  It was formed in the beginning by a
number of seceders from the local Women's Club, who, disappointed
in their office-seeking ambitions and deeming the club old-
fashioned and old-fogyish in its ideas, had elected to form an
organization of their own.  They had affiliated with the national
order of the Ladies of Honor, chiefly because of the opportunity
which such a body offered for office holding and notoriety.  The
members were not drawn from the oldest families of Scarford nor
from those whose social position was established.  They were
chiefly the wives and daughters of men who had made money rather
suddenly; would-be geniuses whose genius had not been recognized as
yet; women to whom public speaking and publicity were as the breath
of their nostrils; extravagants and social climbers of all sorts.

The purposes of the organization, outside those specified in the
constitution of the parent body, were rather vague.  Ex-Mayor
Fenholtz expressed a rather general opinion when he said:

"The Ladies of Honor?  Sure! it is a place where the women go who
think their husbands don't appreciate them.  If I was one of those
husbands I should appreciate their having that place.  They might
stay at home if they didn't.  That would be a galamity."

The ladies of the Scarford Chapter made it a point to be always
abreast of the times.  Theirs was not a suffrage organization
because, as many of them said, the belief in suffrage was so common
nowadays.  Their motto was "Advancement."  Just what sort of
advancement seemed to make little difference.

The next meeting--that is, the meeting to which Serena had been
invited--was one of the few at which men were permitted to be
present.  The Blacks called at the Dott mansion with the car, Mr.
Black not acting as driver this time, and the journey to the hall
was made in that vehicle.  It was not a lively journey, so Captain
Dan thought.  He and B. Phelps occupied the folding seats facing
the two ladies and Mr. Black maintained a gloomy silence all the
way.  As for Annette and Serena, they talked and talked upon
subjects miles above the head of the captain.  Mrs. Black did most
of the talking; Serena was content to listen and pretend to
understand.

"This is to be an open meeting, Mrs. Dott," said Annette
graciously.  "You see, we have open meetings, just as you do in
Trumet, although I doubt if you find much resemblance between the
two.  You'd scarcely expect that, would you?  Ha! ha!  It is a good
thing," she added, addressing the occupants of the carriage in
general, "for these husbands of ours to be shown occasionally what
their wives are capable of.  Here is our Chapter building.  Phelps,
give Mrs. Dott your arm."

The Chapter building proved to be not quite up to Serena's
expectation.  It was a building, of course, but the Chapter
occupied only two or three rooms on the third floor, the other
floors being occupied by offices of various sorts.  The largest
room, that which Mrs. Black dignified by the title of "Assembly
Hall," was partially filled when they entered.  Some sixty women of
various ages, with a sprinkling of men among them, occupied the
chairs on the floor.  Upon the speakers' platform half a dozen
ladies in radiant attire were chatting volubly with another, an
imposing creature in crimson silk, who surveyed the audience
through a gold lorgnette, and whose general appearance reminded
Daniel of one of the stuffed armchairs in the parlor of their new
home.

"That is Mrs. Cornish, the speaker of the evening," whispered
Annette.  "She is one of our most brilliant members."

"Yes," replied Dan'l, to whom the information had been imparted,
and upon whom the crimson silk had made an impression; "yes, she--
she does look sort of--sort of brilliant."

"But I thought the Chapter was larger than this," said the puzzled
Mrs. Dott.  "I thought Scarford had one of the largest Chapters."

"Oh, no, not the largest, merely one of the best.  Our motto always
has been quality not quantity.  And now will you excuse me?  They
are waiting for me on the platform.  I will see you when the open
meeting is over.  Phelps, find good seats for Mr. and Mrs. Dott."

She bustled away to the platform.  The gloomy B. Phelps found seats
for the guests and himself and sank heavily down beside them.
Daniel, who had been gazing about him with curiosity, whispered a
question.

"What do they do at these things, Barney--Phelps, I mean?" he
asked.  "Are they like lodge meetings at home?  This is my first
trip here, you know."

"Humph!" grunted his companion.  "You're in luck."

"Talk, don't they?"

"Talk!  Good Lord!  Say, Dan, if I get to sleep and you notice
Annette looking this way, nudge me, that's a good fellow."

He settled himself in his chair and closed his eyes.  Daniel turned
to his wife.

"Serena," he murmured.  "Say, Serena, don't you think it is a
queer-lookin' crowd?  Seems to me I never saw such clothes or so
many different kinds of hair.  Look at that woman's skirt.  It's
tore all up one side."

"Sshh!  Don't speak so loud.  That's the latest style."

"What!  THAT?  Well, I--"

"Sshh!  It's the latest style, I tell you.  Haven't you seen the
fashion magazines?  All the new dresses are made that way."

"Yours ain't."

"Well, I--I'm not as young as that woman is."

"You wouldn't wear a thing like that if you were as young as
Gertie; and she wouldn't either, not if I saw it first.  I never
saw such folks as these at Trumet."

"Of course you didn't.  Trumet isn't Scarford.  We are in society
now, Daniel.  We mustn't show our ignorance."

"Humph!  I'd rather show my ignorance than--Hello, the doin's are
goin' to commence."

The Chapter president, a Mrs. Lake, advanced to the desk, smote it
fiercely with a gavel and demanded order.  The hall, which had been
buzzing like a colony of June bugs, gradually grew still.  Then
Mrs. Lake opened the meeting.  She delivered a short speech.  Mrs.
Black, in lieu of the secretary, who was absent, read the minutes.
Then there were motions and amendments and excited calls for
recognition from "Madam President."  It was livelier than Daniel
had expected.

But soon the woman in crimson silk was introduced.  Mrs. Cornish
bowed in recognition of the gloved applause, and proceeded to
talk . . . and talk . . . and talk. . . .

At first Captain Dan endeavored to pay strict attention to the
address.  Its title was "The Modern Tendency," and the tendency in
this case seemed to be to say as much as possible about nothing in
particular.

Daniel found his attention wandering and his eyes closing.  They
opened at intervals as the applause burst forth, but they closed
between bursts.  The tremendous enthusiasm at the end, however,
awoke him for good, and he remained awake until the close of the
"open meeting," a marked contrast to Mr. Black, who slumbered to
the finish.

When it was over Annette descended from the platform and came
hurrying to them.

"How did you enjoy it, Captain Dott?" she purred.

Daniel rather dubiously admitted that he guessed 'twas first rate,
far's he could make it out.  His wife was enthusiastic; she
affirmed that it was splendid.

"I'm sure we couldn't help enjoying it, Mrs. Black," she said.
"Everyone of us.  Didn't you enjoy it, Mr. Black?"

"Sure!" replied Phelps promptly.  "Great stuff!"

His wife swooped upon him like a swallow on a fly.

"You?" she snorted contemptuously.  "You didn't hear a word of it.
I only hope Mrs. Cornish wasn't watching you, as I was.  And now,"
she added, turning to Serena, "comes the other part, the important
part.  Captain Dott, there is to be a short business meeting in a
few minutes, and men are, of course, excluded.  Phelps, will you
have James drive Captain Dott home?  You had better go with him,
and then come back again and wait for us.  Captain Dott, I am going
to borrow your wife for a short time."

Daniel, not knowing exactly what to say, said nothing.  Phelps
seized his arm and led him down to the carriage.  The driver
received his instructions and the homeward ride began.

"I say, Barney," observed Daniel, after waiting for his escort to
volunteer a word or two, "are all their meetings like that?"

Mr. Black snorted.  "No," he declared; "some are a d----d sight
worse."

It was after eleven when Serena returned.  Her face was flushed and
shining with excitement.  She did not wait to remove her hat, but
rushed into the parlor where her husband sat in lonely magnificence.
The solicitous Hapgood, who had happened in every few minutes to see
if his employer "wished anything," had been ordered to "go aloft and
turn in."  The tone in which the order was given made an impression
and Hapgood had obeyed.

"Oh, Daniel!" she cried.  "What do you think?  I've been made a
member of the Chapter!"

Captain Dan should perhaps have been enthusiastic.  If he was, he
suppressed his feelings wonderfully.

"Have you, Serena?" he observed.  "I want to know!"

He listened while his wife dilated upon the wonderful happenings at
the meeting and the glorious consequences which she felt sure were
to follow.  Just before putting out the light he asked one more
question.

"That--that Mrs. Lake?" he said.  "She's a grass widow, ain't she--
isn't she, I mean?"

"Yes, what of it?"

"Oh, nothing.  Only I thought you were kind of prejudiced against--
against--"

"I've had a good many prejudices, I suppose, like other people.
But Mrs. Lake's husband was a brute; Mrs. Black told me so.  He
must have been, for she is perfectly lovely.  I've met them all,
and they are ALL lovely.  They're going to call and--and
everything.  Oh, Daniel, this means so much to us!"

Captain Dan turned out the gas.

"Yes, Serena," he said slowly.  "I shouldn't wonder if it did."

The calls began the very next afternoon.  Mrs. Black, having made
up her mind that the taking of the Dotts under her wing was a
necessity, made a virtue of that necessity and explained to her
fellow members of Scarford Chapter that Serena and Daniel were
really very nice people.  "A little countrified, of course.  You
must expect that.  But they are very kind hearted and immensely
wealthy--oh, immensely."  She was kind enough to add that Serena
was quite an exceptional person and an advanced thinker,
considering her opportunities.  "The club people were going to take
them up, and so I felt that we should get in first," she explained.
"If they should prove to be impossible we can drop them at any
time, of course."

In making this explanation she did not mention the Fenholtzes, and
yet if it had not been for the call of the Honorable Oscar and his
wife it is extremely doubtful if Serena would have become a member
of Scarford Chapter so soon.  Also it is doubtful if the little
dinner given by the Blacks to Mr. and Mrs. Dott would have taken
place within the week.  At that dinner Captain Dan wore his first
dress suit.  He bought it ready made at one of the Scarford shops
and it fitted him remarkably well, considering.  What he could not
do, however, was to feel at ease in it.

"Good land, Serena!" he said, when the dressing was completed and
they were about to start for the dinner, "don't pick at me so
everlastin'ly.  Don't you suppose I know I look as stiff and
awkward as if I'd froze?  You won't let me put my hands in my
pockets, and all I can do is hang 'em around loose and think about
'em, and this blessed collar is so high I can't scarcely get my
chin over it.  I'm doin' my best, so don't keep remindin' me what I
look like all the time."

"I don't care what you say, Daniel," declared his wife.  "The
clothes are just what you ought to wear, and if you would only
forget them for a little while you would look all right."

"But I can't forget.  I know the clothes are all right.  It's me
that's all wrong.  My red face stickin' over the top of this collar
looks like a fireman's shirt on a white fence.  I tell you I ain't
used to this kind of thing.  I wasn't born to it and it don't come
natural to me."

"Neither was Mr. Black 'born to it,' but he has got used to it and
so can you if you will try."

"Oh, I'll try.  But I'm beginnin' awful late in life.  I know
you'll be ashamed of me, Serena.  You ought to have a different
husband."

"I don't want a different one.  I wouldn't change you for anybody.
But I do think you ought to try and help me as much as you can.  My
chance has just come; I am only just beginning and I mean to go on
and improve myself and our position in life all I can.  All I ask
you to do is not to hold me back by complaining."

The "little dinner" was not as little as it might have been.
Annette had taken pains to make it as elaborate and as costly an
affair as she could.  This was not solely on the Dotts' account.
She had invited Mr. and Mrs. Fenholtz and the impression was to be
made upon them, if possible.  But, unfortunately, the Fenholtzes
did not attend.  Mrs. Fenholtz wrote that she had a prior
engagement and sent regrets, just as she had previously done on the
occasions of Mrs. Black's other "little" functions.

However, the leading lights of Scarford Chapter attended and the
display of gowns and coiffures was more varied and elaborate than
at the open meeting.  Serena, seated at the right hand of B.
Phelps, was in her glory.  She felt that at last she was in touch
with the real thing.  Daniel, sandwiched between Annete and Mrs.
Lake, was not as happy.  The necessity of forgetting his clothes
and remembering his grammar was a heavy burden.  His conversation
was limited to "Yes" and "No" and "I shouldn't wonder," and after a
time the ladies ceased in their efforts to make him talk and
carried on an animated dialogue across his shirt front.

After dinner there was music and bridge.  Daniel was fond of music,
but most of the songs, sung by a thin young lady with a great deal
of hair and a decollete gown, were in a language which he did not
understand, and the piano solos seemed to him to be made up of
noise and gymnastics with very little melody.  He watched Serena,
however, who, in turn, was watching Mrs. Lake and the rest; when
they applauded, she applauded and the captain followed suit.

Bridge was an unknown quantity to both of them, and they sat and
looked on while Mrs. Black made it "without" and found fault with
her partner when they lost.  The thin young lady, who had obliged
with the vocal selections, asked the captain if he played "nullos."
Daniel, who was not sure whether "nullos" was a musical instrument
or a game, replied that he wasn't sure, but he didn't think he did;
after which he retired into the corner to avoid further
questioning.

They reached home about two o'clock, and the captain fell sound
asleep in the taxi and had to be shaken into consciousness when the
machine reached the Dott door.

"My soul, Serena," he said, when they were upstairs in the bedroom,
"don't those folks ever go to bed?  There was stuff enough to eat
at that dinner to last the average family through three meals.
Time I had finished the ice cream I was ready to curl up like a cat
in front of the fire; but the rest of them seemed to be just
startin' in to be lively.  Are we goin' to keep this up very long?
If we are, I'll have to sleep in the daytime, like a fo'mast hand
on night lookout."

"But wasn't it splendid?" explained his wife.  "Weren't they
cultivated, brilliant people?  You and I never went to anything
like THAT dinner before, Daniel Dott."

The captain admitted that they never did.  "Could you make anything
out of that game they were playin'?" he asked.  "What was it they
called it?"

"Bridge.  No, I couldn't, but I'm going to.  I'm going to learn it
just as soon as I can.  Mrs. Black says everybody plays it now."

Her husband chuckled.  "Those that don't play it had better not
try," he observed.  "Judgin' from what I saw to-night, if they do
try they get into trouble.  That Lake woman was givin' that poor
little bald-headed fellow she was playin' with fits most of the
time.  Whenever they won she patted herself on the back, and when
they didn't she said it was his fault.  He ought to have 'echoed'
or hollered back--or somethin'.  One time she put down a card and
he put another kind of a one on it, and she glared at him and said,
'Havin' no clubs?' and he had one that he'd forgot.  He spent the
next ten minutes beggin' her pardon, but 'twas a good thing SHE
didn't have a club.  She'd have used it on him if she had.  He was
all shriveled up like a frostbitten cranberry when they got
through."

After they were in bed he said, "Serena, what was that black stuff
they had on the toast at the beginnin' of that supper?  Looked like
tar, but it tasted kind of salty and good."

"Don't say supper, Daniel.  It was a dinner.  All city people have
dinner at night.  That was caviar on the toast.  I've read about
it.  It comes from Russia."

Silence for a moment.  Then Captain Dan said reflectively, "Caviar?
Caviar, eh?  I've heard of that somewhere before; where was it?
Yes, yes, I know.  'Twas a caviar sandwich the waiter asked that
young fellow I met in the Rat Cellar to have.  I never found out
who that young fellow was, and yet I know I've met him somewhere
before.  I wish I could remember where it was.  My memory is
failin' me, I guess; must be gettin' old.  Can't you remember,
Serena?"

But his wife bade him stop talking and go to sleep.

The next day there were more calls, and Serena was asked to attend
a committee meeting as a guest.  She attended it and returned more
full of Chapter enthusiasm than ever.  She announced that she might
be asked to prepare a paper to be read before the Chapter, and that
she intended to study and prepare for it.  Study and prepare she
did, and, between dodging callers, or helping to entertain them,
and keeping out of his wife's way while she was busy with the
encyclopedias which she had taken from the library, the captain
began to feel somewhat deserted.  Hapgood's company was too stately
to be congenial, and Daniel sought refuge in the kitchen, where
Azuba, as usual, was always ready to talk.

Azuba was brimming over with the novelty of city life.  She had
been to the theater once already since her arrival, and to the
moving picture show three times.

"Don't talk to ME," she said.  "If them pictures ain't the most
wonderful things that ever was, then _I_ don't know.  _I_ never
expected to see such sights--soldiers paradin', and cowboys a-
ridin', and houses a-burnin', and Indians scalpin' 'em!  I was so
worked up I hollered right out."

"I should think you would.  An Indian scalpin' a house is enough to
make anybody holler."

"They didn't scalp the house; what sort of foolishness would that
be--the idea!  They scalped the folks IN the house.  That is, they
would have scalped 'em, only along come the cowboys wavin' pistols
and hurrahin'--"

"Could you hear 'em hurrah?"

"No, but I could see 'em.  And the way they went for them Indians
was a caution.  And--Oh, say, Captain Dott, there was one set of
pictures there made me think of you.  'Twas all about some people
that wanted to go into society.  She had a paralyzed father and
they had a child, a real pretty girl, and, would you believe it,
they commenced to neglect their child and go off playin' cards and
dancin' and carousin' around, and the child was took down sick and
the poor paralyzed grandfather--"

"Grandfather?  Thought you said it was a father."

"'Twas the WOMAN'S father--the child's grandfather.  Well, anyhow,
the poor thing had to take care of it, and the nurse went to sleep
and the father come home and found her dyin'--"

"Who, the nurse?"

"No, no, the child.  The nurse wa'n't sick; but the child was
terrible sick."

"What was the matter with the child; paralysis, too?"

"I don't know what was the matter with it.  'Tain't likely 'twas
paralysis.  You get me so mixed up I shan't know what I AM sayin'
pretty soon.  Well, anyhow, what happened was that the child's
mother and father neglected it on account their fashionable goin's-
on, and the child up and died.  'Twas the most affectin' thing.
There was the child a-dyin', and the mother and father cryin', and
the old grandfather goin' all to pieces--"

"All to pieces!  That's worse than paralysis.  Hold on a minute,
Azuba!  Was all this in the picture?"

"Yes."

"And you paid to see it?"

"Course I paid to see it.  They wouldn't let me in for nothin',
'tain't likely."

"Well, seems to me you've made a mistake.  If cryin' and misery is
what you want, I don't doubt you can find a lot of funerals to go
to for nothin'.  But what was there about all this mess of horrors
that made you think of me?"

"Oh, I don't know, unless the way you and Mrs. Dott are goin' in
for society in Scarford.  Course your child is grown up, so that's
different, though, ain't it?"

"Yes, and there isn't any paralysis in the family, so far as I
know.  That's a mercy.  Don't you get paralysis, Azuba.  If you do,
it will take you longer to get breakfast than it does now."

"That's all right.  You ought to be thankful you've got me to get
breakfast.  If I wa'n't here you'd have to get it yourself, I
cal'late.  Your wife's too busy these days, and that Hapgood man
wouldn't do it.  I know that."

Relations between the butler and Azuba were already somewhat
strained.  He considered her a rude and interfering person and she
considered that he would bear watching.

"He's always recommendin' folks for us to trade with," she told
Captain Dan.  "What business is it to him who we trade with?--
unless he gets a little somethin' for himself out of it.  He won't
do it more than once--not if I catch him at it.  Don't talk to me
about that Hapgood!  I wouldn't trust one of them foreigners,
anyhow."

The invitation to dine with the Fenholtzes came about a week after
the dinner at the Blacks'.  Daniel, who opened the letter
containing the invitation, was very much pleased.  He liked the
Fenholtzes at first sight and felt sure he should like them better
on further acquaintance.  But when Serena came back from the lodge
meeting--the first regular meeting which she had attended since
becoming a member--she received the news rather coldly.

"When is it they want us?" she said.  "Next Tuesday night?  Well,
we could go, I suppose, but I don't believe we shall.  Mrs. Lake
said something about coming around that evening to help me read my
paper and criticise it."

The captain was surprised and troubled.  "She could come some other
time, couldn't she?  I think 'twas real kind of the Fenholtzes to
ask us.  Seems to me we ought to go.  You and I haven't even been
to pay back that call yet."

"I know it.  I've meant to, but I've been so busy.  Besides, I
don't know whether it is worth while or not.  The Fenholtzes have
got a great deal of money, but all the Chapter people say they are
sort of back numbers."

However, she decided to accept the invitation, and they went in
state.  But the state was largely on their part.  The dinner was a
very simple affair compared to the elaborate spread of the Blacks,
and the two or three people whom they met were quite different from
Mrs. Lake and her friends.  Captain Dan enjoyed himself hugely.  He
sat next to Mrs. Fenholtz at the table, and her quiet conversation
on every-day subjects he could understand.  Before the dinner was
over he was thoroughly at ease, and when later on, in company with
the Honorable Oscar and the male guests, he sat smoking in the
library, he found himself spinning yarns and joking as freely as if
he had been in the back room of the Metropolitan Store in Trumet.
The shouts of laughter from the library could be heard in the
parlor, and Serena grew nervous.

"Your husband must be very entertaining," said Mrs. Fenholtz.  "I
haven't heard Mr. Fenholtz laugh so heartily in a long time."

Mrs. Dott was fearful that Daniel might be making himself
ridiculous.  She didn't mention her fears.  Her own remarks were
delivered with a great deal of dignity, and she quoted Mrs. Black
and the encyclopedia often.  On the way home she took her husband
to task.

"What in the world were you talking about with those men?" she
demanded.  "I never heard such a noise as they made.  I do hope you
didn't forget yourself."

The captain rubbed his chin.  "I don't know but what I did forget
myself, Serena," he replied.  "I know I had a good time and never
thought about my clothes after the first ten minutes.  Could you
hear 'em laughin'?  I was tellin' em' about Azuba's goin' to the
movin' pictures then."

His wife was shocked.  "And Azuba is our cook," she said, "and they
know it.  I don't know what sort of servants they think we have.
They must think you're pretty familiar with them."

"Good land, Serena!  I've been familiar with Zuba all my life.  If
I was to put on airs with her she'd take me down in a hurry."

Mrs. Dott sighed.  "I'm afraid you did forget yourself," she
declared.  "I think if you could hear what the Fenholtzes are
saying about us now you'd be ashamed.  I'm sure I should."

And at that very moment Mr. Fenholtz was saying:  "That man Dott is
all right.  I have not laughed so for years.  And he has common
sense, too.  I like him."

His wife nodded.  "So do I," she said; "and I think I should like
Mrs. Dott, too, if she had not been spoiled by Annette Black and
the rest of those foolish women she associates with.  I don't mean
to say that Mrs. Dott is completely spoiled yet, but she will be
soon, I'm afraid, unless I can make her realize that she is
beginning all wrong here in Scarford.  If she could only have gone
to the Woman's Club first I think she might understand, but now I'm
afraid it's too late."

At the next meeting of the Chapter Serena read her paper.  She
mounted the platform with fear and trembling.  She left it exalted
and triumphant.  The paper had been applauded and she had been
congratulated by her fellow members.  Annette was enthusiastic and
Mrs. Lake and the other leaders equally so.  Stories of the "vast"
wealth inherited by the Dotts had been circulated freely, and
these, quite as much as the wonderful paper, were responsible for
Serena's bound into popularity.

But the popularity was there, and the unconscious Serena believed
it to be real.  That meeting was the beginning of her obsession.
Thereafter she talked chapter and society and opportunity and
advancement, and ate them and drank them, too--at least the meals--
those at home--seemed to the captain to be made up of very little
else.  Their evenings alone together became few and fewer.  When
they were not entertaining callers they were calling.  Captain Dan
actually began to feel at home in his evening clothes; a good deal
more than he did in his night clothes, so he told his wife.
Breakfast, which, in the beginning of their Scarford residence, had
been served at seven-thirty, was now an hour later, and even then
Daniel frequently ate alone.

Then came the reception idea.  Annette--she and Mrs. Dott were
calling each other by their Christian names now--had dropped the
hint concerning it.  She had said that a good way in which to repay
social obligations was by doing it all at once, by giving a dinner,
or reception, or a tea, to which everyone should be invited.
Serena decided that the reception was perhaps the better, all
things considered.  And so preparations for the reception began.
There was to be a collation, and when this item of information was
imparted to Azuba the kitchen became a maelstrom of activity in
which Captain Daniel could no longer find rest and refuge.

"But, Zuba," he remonstrated, "what do you think's comin' here; a
drove of hyenas?  You've cooked enough already to victual a ship
halfway across the ocean.  These folks eat sometimes at home.  You
don't think they're comin' here to make up for six months'
starvation, do you?"

"Don't talk to me!" was all the satisfaction he got.  "I've heard
about what they had to eat over there at Barney Black's, and I
don't mean for folks to say that they went hungry when they come
here.  Don't say another word.  I don't know now whether it was a
cup full of sugar or a pinch of salt I put in, or the other way
'round.  Cookin'!  Don't talk to ME."

The captain found it practically impossible to talk to anybody.
Hapgood was busy; Serena was busier, and Azuba was busiest of all.
Wherever he went he seemed to be in the way, and when he fled for
walks up and down the streets the crowds of strange faces made him
feel lonelier than ever.  On the evening before that upon which the
reception was to be held he returned from one of these walks to
find Serena in tears.

"Why, good gracious sakes!" he exclaimed.  "What's the matter?"

"Matter!" sobbed his wife.  "Oh, dear me!  Everything is the
matter!  I'm so tired I don't know what to do, and Annette and Mrs.
Lake were coming here to-morrow to help me, and now they can't
come.  They'll be at the reception, of course, but they can't come
before; and there's so much to get ready and I don't know whether
I'm doing it right or not.  What SHALL I do!"

Daniel shook his head.  "Seems to me I'd do the best I could and
let it go at that," he advised.  "If they ain't satisfied I'd let
'em stay the other way.  I wish I could help you, but I don't know
how."

"Of course you don't.  You don't have any sympathy for the whole
thing, and I know it.  I feel it all the time.  You haven't any
sympathy for ME."

The captain sighed.  He had a vague feeling that he could use a
little sympathy himself, but with characteristic unselfishness he
put that idea from his mind.

"I guess what you need is a manager," he said.  "Somebody that's
used to these sort of things that could help you out.  I wish I
knew where there was one."

Hapgood appeared and announced that dinner was served.  Serena
hurriedly dried her eyes and they descended to the dining-room.
Just as they were about to take their seats at the table the
doorbell rang.  Hapgood left the room and returned a few moments
later bearing a card on a tray.  Serena took the card, looked at
it, and then at her husband.  Her face expressed astonishment and
dismay.

"Why, Daniel!" she exclaimed under her breath.  "Why, Daniel!  WHO
do you suppose is here?"

Her husband announced that he didn't know.  He took the card from
her hand and looked at it.  It was a very simple but very correct
card, and upon it in old English script was the name "Mr. Percy
Hungerford."

Daniel's face reflected the astonishment upon his wife's.

"My soul!" he muttered.  "Percy Hungerford!  Why, that's--that's
the cousin; the one Aunt Laviny cut out of her will; the one that
would have had all this place and all the money if we hadn't got
it.  I thought he was in New York somewhere.  Black said he was,
and now he's here.  What in the world does he want?"

Mrs. Dott rose.  "I don't know," she gasped.  "I can't imagine.
But I suppose we must see him.  We've got to.  Did you ask him to
wait, Hapgood?"

Hapgood bowed respectfully.  "Mr. Hungerford is in the drawing-
room, ma'am," he said.

To the drawing-room moved Serena, followed by her husband.

"Good evening, Mr. Hungerford," said the lady, with a partially
successful attempt at calmness.  "How do you do?  My husband
and I--"

She paused.  The expression on Mr. Hungerford's face was an odd
one.  She turned to Daniel, and his expression was odder still.  He
was standing in the doorway gazing at the visitor, his eyes opening
wider and wider.

Mr. Percy Hungerford was the young man whom his friend had
addressed as "Tacks," the young man with whom Captain Dan had
exchanged repartee in the Rathskeller of the Palatine Hotel.



CHAPTER VII


Of the two men, Mr. Hungerford was the first to recover presence of
mind.  Presence of mind was one of the qualities upon which he
prided himself, and it was a very awkward situation to which he
could not rise.  For just an instant the color rushed to his cheeks
as he recognized the captain and saw that the latter recognized
him.  Then:

"Why, how do you do, Captain Dott?" he said.  "By Jove, this is
extraordinary, isn't it!  Strange that relatives shouldn't know
each other when they meet.  How do you do?"

He stepped forward with extended hand.  Captain Dan, who had
expected almost anything but this bland cordiality, scarcely knew
what to say or do.  He took the proffered hand mechanically and
dropped it again.

"Well!" he stammered.  "Well!--I declare I--I didn't expect to--"

He paused.  Mrs. Dott, who had been watching this scene in
bewilderment, spoke before he could finish his sentence.

"Why, what is it?" she asked.  "Have you--"

Mr. Hungerford smiled.  "Your husband and I have met before," he
explained.  "Just a casual meeting and we weren't aware of each
other's identity.  I'm afraid I was not as cordial as I might have
been on that occasion, Captain.  I was a bit tired and rather out
of sorts.  I hope you'll forgive me, I'm sure."

Daniel hesitated; then he smiled.

"Why, I guess I can forgive my half if you can yours," he said
slowly.

Before the puzzled Serena could ask another question the visitor
turned to her.

"I'm sure you must be very much surprised to see me here," he said.
"I'm somewhat surprised to be here myself.  I've spent a greater
part of the past month in New York and have only just returned--
that is, to stay.  I fully intended to call before, and should if I
had been in town.  How are you getting on?  How do you like the
dear old place?  Ah!" with a sigh, as he seated himself and looked
about him, "how familiar it all seems!"

The Dotts looked at each other.  Serena sank into a chair.  Captain
Dan remained standing.

"Does it?" said the former rather feebly.

"Indeed it does.  One almost expects to see Auntie coming in at the
door.  Dear old Auntie!  I can scarcely realize that she has gone."

Again Serena looked at Daniel and he at her.  This was so strange,
so different from the attitude which a disappointed legatee might
be expected to assume that neither of the pair knew exactly how to
reply.  But Mr. Hungerford did not appear to notice the look or the
hesitation.

"This house seems like home to me," he said.  "I've spent so many
happy hours here.  When old Hapgood opened the door for me I almost
ordered him to take my bags to my room.  Really I did.  That would
have been droll, wouldn't it?"

He laughed languidly.  Serena admitted that it would have been
droll.  Captain Dan remained silent as before.

"Are--are you stopping at the hotel?" queried Mrs. Dott.

"Not yet.  In fact, I'm not really stopping anywhere.  I've just
arrived.  I must be hurrying back to dinner, I suppose, but I
couldn't resist coming here first.  It seemed the natural thing to
do."

Voices were heard in the hall.  One of the voices was Azuba's; she
was informing Mr. Hapgood that if that soup didn't go back on the
stove pretty soon it might just as well be on ice.  The words were
distinctly audible, and Serena colored.  Mr. Hungerford rose.

"I'm sure I must be keeping you from your own dinner," he said.
"Don't let me do that for the world."

"Why--why--" faltered Serena.  She looked appealingly at Daniel,
and the latter's instinctive hospitality asserted itself.  He had
disliked the young man "Tacks" when he met him in the Rathskeller.
Now that "Tacks" had become Mr. Percy Hungerford, Aunt Lavinia's
cousin and his own distant relative, the dislike was only partially
abated.  But to turn him away from the door hungry seemed wrong
somehow.

"Hadn't you better--" he began.

"Have dinner with us?" finished his wife.

Mr. Hungerford protested.

"Oh, I couldn't think of it," he declared.  "No doubt you have
guests--"

"Oh, no, we haven't.  We're all alone and it would be no trouble at
all.  We should like to have you stay.  Shouldn't we, Daniel?"

"Sartin, no trouble at all," said Daniel heartily.  "Like to have
you first rate."

"Well, if you insist.  It is a frightful imposition--I shouldn't
think of it, of course, but--well, thank you so much."

So Hapgood received orders to lay another plate, and Mr.
Hungerford, still murmuring protests, suffered himself to be
conducted to the dining-room.

All through the meal the captain regarded him with puzzled
curiosity.  That he had come to the house merely for a friendly
call he could scarcely believe.  He had heard little or nothing of
the conversation between Hungerford and his friend at the table in
the Rathskeller, and yet the attitude of the former on that
occasion had not indicated a temperament likely to forgive "dear
Aunt Lavinia" so freely or to display such angelic cordiality
toward those who had come into possession of her property.  But the
cordiality remained unchanged, and the visitor, so far from bearing
a grudge toward his more fortunate relatives, continued to treat
them as though they were near and dear friends, and do everything
in his power to relieve their constraint and to make himself
agreeable.  The dinner ended and they adjourned to the drawing-
room, with Captain Dan's mental question "What in the world is this
young chap really up to?" still unanswered.

Serena had asked herself that same question when the caller first
came, but now she was beginning to be ashamed of her suspicions and
to think them unfounded.  Mr. Hungerford was agreeable; there was
no doubt of that.  Also he was good-looking, in an effeminate sort
of way, and his conversation was fluent and cultured.  He led
Serena into speaking of the Chapter and her work there, and he
displayed a knowledge of and an interest in that Chapter and its
members which was very gratifying.

The coming reception was mentioned, and the visitor's interest in
that was more gratifying still.  It was evident that receptions and
society functions generally were matters of every day, or every
night, occurrence to him.  He asked Mrs. Dott who was to assist her
in receiving, and when she answered the question his approval of
the selections was unqualified.  He suggested one or two little
ideas which he said might add to making the affair a success.
Serena welcomed the suggestions as a starving man might welcome a
meal.

"That'll be lovely," she said, "and we can do it just as well as
not.  And I had thought of having some bridge or something
afterwards; but Annette--Mrs. Black, I mean--didn't seem to think
bridge would be just the thing after a reception.  And there's
music; I know we really ought to have music, and I had meant to
have somebody play the piano.  But the woman I wanted can't come,
and now I don't know what to do.  What would you think about that,
Mr. Hungerford?"

Mr. Hungerford suggested hiring one or two professional musicians.
"A violinist, or harpist, or both, perhaps," he said.  "Music is
always, as you say, a great addition to such affairs, Mrs. Dott.  I
happen to know of a young fellow who plays exceptionally well, and
his sister is really a very accomplished performer on the harp.  Of
course they should be engaged in merely a professional capacity.
They are not persons who would mingle with our set, but they're not
at all objectionable, really."

The diplomatic phrasing of this remark had its effect.  It
indicated that Mrs. Dott's "set" was an exclusive one and,
incidentally, that the accomplished and polished Mr. Hungerford
considered his host and hostess as social equals.

"There!" exclaimed Serena.  "I think that will be just fine.  And
you are the first one, Mr. Hungerford, to think of it.  Do you
suppose you could get these--these--er--persons you speak of to
come and play for us?"

"I think so.  I have befriended the young man in various ways, and
he is, if you will excuse my saying so, under some obligations to
me.  I should be glad to make the attempt if you wish it, Mrs.
Dott."

"Cost somethin', won't it?" observed Captain Dan casually.  Mr.
Hungerford regarded him with well-bred surprise.

"Why, of course," he said, "there will be some expense.  I think
fifty dollars will cover the bill.  The usual rate for musicians of
their class is somewhat higher."

There was no doubt that the captain was surprised.  "Fifty
DOLLARS!" he repeated.  "Why--"

His wife interrupted.  "That will be all right, Mr. Hungerford,"
she said.  "That will be quite satisfactory."

"Of course, there are many whom you can obtain for less, and, if
you feel that that figure is too high, I shall be glad to try
elsewhere.  I have had little experience outside of the best, but--
"

Serena interrupted again.  "We don't want anybody but the best,"
she declared, emphatically.  "Be still, Daniel.  This isn't
Trumet."

Daniel drew a long breath.  "There ain't much doubt of that," he
observed.  "But, all right, Serena, if you and Mr. Hungerford think
it's all right, I guess it is.  I'm more used to hirin' sailors
than I am folks to play the harp."

"Music," went on Mr. Hungerford, "is almost a necessity, in these
days, when everyone dances.  Is this a formal reception, or had you
intended clearing a floor for dancing, Mrs. Dott?"

Mrs. Dott had not intended any such thing; she had not thought of
it.  But she concealed the fact from her visitor with remarkable
presence of mind.

"Oh, of course!" she said.

The conversation continued, a conversation limited to Mr.
Hungerford and his hostess, while Captain Dan remained a silent and
amazed listener.  The young gentleman was invited to attend the
reception, Serena making many apologies for the informality of the
invitation, and the guest expressing himself as delighted.

"Of course," he said, "I wouldn't intrude for the world, but I
don't feel like an intruder in this house, where I have spent so
many happy hours.  Feeling as I do, I'm going to make another
suggestion which, under different circumstances, might be
considered an impertinence.  I am at leisure to-morrow--in fact,
all this week--and if there is anything that I can do to help you
and Cousin Daniel, in this matter of the reception or any other, I
shall be at your service.  I do hope you will permit me to help and
that you will not consider me presuming in offering to do so."

It was quite evident that the offer was very welcome.  Mrs. Dott
accepted it with enthusiasm and called upon her husband to confirm
the acceptance.  He did so, but with less warmth, and it was agreed
that the obliging Mr. Hungerford should drop in the next morning
after calling upon his protege, the violinist.  A half hour later
he said "Good-night," and departed.

"There!" said Serena.  "If that isn't Providence, then I don't
know.  And it only goes to show how one person can misjudge another
without knowing anything about him.  I've always had a prejudice
against that Mr. Hungerford simply because of what you told me of
meeting him years ago, and now I don't think I ever met a kinder,
nicer young man.  Did you, Daniel?"

The captain hesitated.  "I--I," he stammered, "well, Serena, I will
give in that he seemed nice and obligin' enough to-night, but you
see there's just one thing that--"

Serena turned on him.  "Yes, I know," she said.  "There's always
'one thing' about everybody that _I_ like.  He's smart and bright
and well dressed and polite.  He's a gentleman! and a different
kind from any that we've ever met.  That makes YOU suspicious, of
course."

"Now you know it isn't that; but--but--"

"But what?"

There was more hesitation on the captain's part.  He had intended
to tell of the meeting at the Rathskeller; then he remembered the
young man's explanation and apology and thought better of it.  He
and "Cousin Percy" might have another interview on the morrow.
Meanwhile, he would keep still, particularly as his wife seemed to
have forgotten their caller's reference to the meeting.  He
finished his sentence in another way.

"But I don't see what he came here for," he said.

"He came here to see us.  And, I think, considering how he was
treated in Aunt Lavinia's will, it was awfully nice of him to come
at all.  And, as for helping me out on that reception, he's been a
perfect godsend already.  I should THINK you would appreciate it."

Before the next day was over, and long before the first of the
evening's guests arrived, the services of the new-found friend of
the family were appreciated even by the reluctant Daniel.  Mr.
Hungerford came early and proceeded immediately to make himself
useful.  He had seen the violinist, and the latter and his sister
had promised to be on hand.  He took Hapgood in charge and
superintended the arranging of the drawing-room and the library for
the reception and the dancing.  When the messenger from the florist
came with the flowers which Serena, acting upon the suggestion of
Mrs. Lake and Mrs. Black, had ordered, he saw that they were placed
in exactly the right positions for effect.  Being urged to stay for
lunch, he stayed.  And his conversation during the meal was so
fluent, so aristocratic in flavor, and yet so friendly, that Serena
became more and more taken with him.  With the captain he was not
quite as much at his ease.  But he did his best to be agreeable,
and Daniel, still vaguely suspicious, found nothing tangible upon
which to base distrust.  There was so much to be done in the
afternoon that, acting upon a hint so delicate that it could
scarcely be called a hint, Mrs. Dott urged him to send to the hotel
for his bag and stay at their home overnight.  He accepted and was
even busier than he had been during the forenoon session.  He was
never so busy as to perform manual labor with his own hands--he
never stooped to that extent--but he managed to convey the
impression of being always ready and always helpful.

To say that Mrs. Black and Mrs. Lake were, upon their arrival,
surprised to find him there would be expressing their feelings far
too mildly.  They knew Mr. Hungerford, but, heretofore, that
gentleman had moved in circles other than their own.  It is true
that he belonged to the same club as did Mr. Black, but Mr.
Hungerford's friends had been younger, the ultra-fashionable set,
the set which Annette had characterized as "rather fast" but which,
because of its money and society connections, she secretly envied.
To find him here, an associate and friend of the people she had
called "countrified," was most astonishing.  She wondered, but
she could not help being impressed, and her attitude toward her
dear friend Serena was never so gushingly cordial.  As for
Mr. Hungerford, he greeted the Chapter representatives with
condescending urbanity.  When the reception began, somehow or
other, Cousin Percy was in the receiving line.

Captain Dan, uncomfortably starched and broad-clothed, received
likewise, but his remarks to those who pressed his hand and
murmured compliments were rather commonplace and very much alike;
this consisted principally of "How d'ye do's" and "Glad to see
you's"; and it was only when the Honorable and Mrs. Fenholtz came
that he appeared to remember anything else.  It was evident that
Mr. and Mrs. Fenholtz were as surprised as the rest to see Mr.
Hungerford there.  The Honorable, seizing an opportunity when the
captain was for a moment alone, whispered in his ear.

"Where did he come from?" he asked, with a jerk of the head in
Cousin Percy's direction.

"Him?" replied Daniel.  "Oh, he came last night."

"Is that so?  Is he a friend of yours?"

"Well, he ain't--isn't exactly a friend, I guess.  He's a sort of
relation, a nephew of Aunt Laviny's."

"Oh, oh, I see--I see."

There was something in the tone which caused Captain Dan to ask a
question in return.

"Know him, do you?" he inquired.

"Yes, I know him, but--it is all right, Olga; I'm coming."

He passed on to make room for another assortment of new arrivals,
lady members of the Chapter, and Daniel's curiosity remained
unsatisfied.

After the reception proper, came a social and, to Daniel, very
uncomfortable hour, and then Mr. Hungerford, who seemed to have
taken upon himself the position of master of ceremonies, suggested
dancing.

Of all the captain's society experiences so far, this was the most
amazing.  He had danced in his younger days, it is true, but his
were dances of quite another variety.  Quadrilles and Virginia
reels he was acquainted with, but tangos and Bostons and all the
infinite varieties of the one-step were to him revelations, and
revelations of a kind which caused him to gasp.  He saw middle-aged
matrons dipping and hopping and twisting about the room in company
with middle-aged, stout, red-faced men who looked as if on the
verge of apoplexy.  He saw Mr. Hungerford laboring dutifully to
pilot a woman of forty through the sinuosities of the "hesitation
waltz," and when the lady, who was inclined toward plumpness, had
collapsed into an armchair, he sought out her late partner and
vented his feelings.

"For the land sakes!" he demanded; "what did you do that for?"

"Do what?" inquired Mr. Hungerford, himself as fresh and unwilted
as an Easter lily.

"Why, that--to her.  Look at her, she's pretty nigh gone!  She
ain't caught more than two breaths in the last minute and a half.
I've been watchin' her."

Cousin Percy condescended to smile.  "It's her own fault," he
observed.  "She said she was dying to learn the 'hesitation' and
asked me to teach it to her."

"Well, she ought to be satisfied.  If she was dyin' before, she's
pretty near dead now.  Why didn't you stop sooner?  She all but
capsized a dozen times in the last two or three turns you and she
took around the room."

Percy's smile became broader.  "That is all part of the dance," he
explained.  "Watch this couple here."

Daniel watched as directed.  The couple were a young man and a girl
about Gertrude's age.  They were doing the "hesitation" with the
hesitancy emphasized.

"My soul!" muttered the captain.  "Where's that girl's mother?
Somebody ought to tell her."

Hungerford smiled once more.  "That was her mother I was dancing
with," he said.

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Daniel.  It was the only comment he made.
He watched the rest of the dancing in silence.

The collation followed the dancing, and Azuba and Mr. Hapgood
served it, assisted by four waiters who, at Mr. Hungerford's
suggestion, had been hired for the occasion.  The butler's serving
was done with grace and elegance, not to mention dignity.  Azuba
served as if the main object to be attained was to provide each
guest with as much food as possible in the shortest possible time.
She was arrayed in a new black gown, worn under protest, for her
own idea had been to wear her Sunday dress, a vivid purple, with
trimmings which, for color and variety, looked "like a patchwork
tidy," as Captain Dan expressed it.  Also, under still greater
protest, she wore a white apron and cap.

"I feel like my grandmother doin' dishes," Azuba declared when Mrs.
Dott brought the cap and apron to her and insisted on a dress
rehearsal.  "The old woman lived to be ninety-five and wore a cap
for all the world like this one for thirty year.  She had some
excuse for wearin' it--it hid the place where her hair was thin on
top.  But I ain't bald and I ain't ninety-five neither.  And why in
the world you want me to put an apron on in the parlor, _I_ don't
see.  You've been preachin' at me to leave one off till I was just
rememberin' to do it, and now you want me to put it on again."

"Not this kind of an apron, Azuba.  Mrs. Black's maids wear aprons
like that, and so do Mrs. Fenholtz's.  It's the proper thing and I
expect you to do it."

"Humph!  All right.  Land knows I don't want to be improper.  But
I'd just like to ask you this:  Does that Fenholtz hired help have
to wear black clothes like this dress?"

"Yes, always."

"Well, then I suppose I'll have to do the same, but I hope they
don't feel as much like bein' in mournin' as I do.  I thought this
reception thing was supposed to be a good time, but when I looked
at myself in the glass just now, all I could think of was the
Trumet post-office draped up for President McKinley's funeral.  I
suppose it's style, so it'll have to be.  But if Labe, my husband,
should see me now, he'd have a shock, I guess.  Cal'late he'd think
he was dead and I'd got word of it afore he did."

But the food was good and the guests seemed to enjoy it.  Some of
them seemed to enjoy Azuba, and Mr. Fenholtz was observed by the
indignant Serena to laugh heartily every time the transformed maid-
of-all-work addressed him.

As they were leaving he said to Captain Dan:  "Captain, that maid
of yours is a wonder.  If you ever want to get rid of her, let me
know.  I thought Mrs. Fenholtz and I had tried every variety of
servant, but she is something fresh."

Daniel grinned.  "She's fresh enough, if that's all you want," he
admitted.  "That's the main trouble with her, accordin' to my wife.
I like her myself.  She reminds me of home."

The Honorable shook his hand.  "Home is a good thing to remember,"
he said earnestly, "and a bedder thing not to be ashamed of.  You
are not ashamed of your home and you do not forget it.  That is why
I like you.  Good night!"

Somehow this remark pleased the captain greatly, but when he
repeated it to Serena, she did not seem pleased.

"I don't know what we shall do with that Azuba," she said.  "She
mortifies me to death, and yet you won't let me get rid of her."

Her husband did not answer.  In the matter of Azuba he was as
determined as ever.  Amid the new life into which he had been
thrown, head over heels, the housekeeper was the one familiar
substantial upon which he could rely.  He was used to her, her
conversation, and her ways.  As he had said, she reminded him of
home, his real home, the home from which he was drifting further
and further every day.

Next morning Serena was suffering from headache and had breakfast
in her room.  Mr. Hungerford, also, did not descend to the morning
meal.  Daniel wrote a long letter to Gertrude, describing the
reception, after his own fashion, but taking care to seem as
cheerful as ever.  He did not feel cheerful, but there was nothing
to be gained by troubling his daughter, as he reasoned.

Mr. Hungerford remained through that day and the next day and the
next.  At the end of that time he sent for his trunks and settled
down to make the Dott house his home, for "a short season," he
said.  This, of course, was done only after much protest on his
part and strenuous urging on the part of Serena.  Cousin Percy had
taken her fancy at the very beginning of their acquaintance, and
his conduct since then had strengthened that liking tremendously.

"Of course he can stay," she said in conversation with her husband.
"Why, Daniel, I don't know what I should do without him.  His
coming was a special Providence, just as I told you.  Just see how
he helped at that reception.  It would never have been the success
it was if it hadn't been for him.  And see how he's helped me
since.  He knows just what is right and proper for people in our
station to do; he's been in society all his life.  He's educated
and he has helped me with my paper for the next meeting of the
Chapter so much already.  There's no reason why he can't be here;
we've got plenty of room.  And it will only be while he's on his
vacation, anyway."

Daniel rubbed his chin.  "I know," he admitted; "so he says.  But
how long a vacation is it goin' to be?"

"How do you suppose I know that?  I haven't asked him, it isn't
likely."

"No, I didn't suppose you had; but it seems kind of funny he hasn't
told you himself.  What's it a vacation from?  What's he do for a
livin'?  Anything but run receptions?"

"That's it--sneer!  He does a great many things.  He is interested
in literary work, so he says.  He writes for a living, I suppose
that means."

"Humph!  Has he got any answer?"

"Answer?  Answer to what?"

"Why, to his writing.  Has the livin' sent him word 'twas on the
way, or anything like that?  I don't want to be mean, Serena.  You
know well enough I ain't stingy.  But I can't quite make that young
fellow out.  Why did he come here, anyway? that's what sticks in my
mind.  What sort of a chap is he?  You know what that lawyer man
said about him.  Nigh as I could make out from that, he thought he
was a kind of high-toned loafer, sportin' round on his aunt's
money.  Why does that kind of a fellow come to live along with us?
WE ain't sports."

"Will you EVER remember not to say 'ain't'?  He came here because
he isn't that kind of a fellow at all.  He explained about that.
It seems that he and that young upstart of a Farwell, the lawyer,
had had some words and Farwell had a grudge against him.  He thinks
it was largely owing to those lawyers' influence that Aunt Lavinia
treated him as she did in her will.  But he doesn't hold any
grudge.  I never heard anybody speak more forgiving or kind than
he did about the whole affair.  I declare, it was positively
affecting!  He told me about his life and about how he was all
alone in the world; how he had never had to earn much--never having
been brought up to it--but that now he was trying to do his best.
I felt so sorry for him, and that was one of the reasons why I
thought we, the only relations he has, ought to be kind and show
him hospitality at least.  I never thought you were inhospitable,
Daniel."

"I ain't, Serena.  That is, I mean I are--am not.  But--but--Well,
I'll tell you.  I haven't told you before, although I meant to, but
he and I met once since we've been in Scarford.  I told you about
the meeting, but I didn't know then who I met.  Now I--"

"I know.  He told me about that, too.  He was the one you met at
the hotel that afternoon.  He said he was ashamed of his behavior
that day, that he was tired, out of sorts, and discouraged.  He
thought you had been listening to what he and his friend had been
saying, and it made him cross.  He said that he apologized when he
first came to the house, and I remember that he did, and he asked
me whether I thought any further apology was necessary.  I said no,
of course it wasn't."

"Well, I don't suppose it is.  But--well, there was somethin' else.
It seemed to me that afternoon at the Rathskeller that he and that
chum of his had been drinkin'."

"Drinking?  Do you mean that they were intoxicated?"

"No, not exactly that; but they had a couple of cocktails while I
was there."

"Is that all?  Oh, dear me!  Daniel, you are SO old-fashioned.
Your ideas don't change a single mite.  In Trumet a cocktail is a
dreadful thing; but here it isn't.  Why, everybody drinks a
cocktail before dinner.  The Blacks always have them.  There were
cocktails at that dinner at their house."

"I know there was, but I didn't see you drinkin' yours, Serena."

His wife hesitated.  "No," she admitted rather reluctantly, "I
didn't.  I've been temperance all my life and somehow I couldn't
bring myself to do it.  I hope Annette didn't think it was bad
manners, but I just couldn't somehow.  Perhaps I ought to have
tried--"

"Tried!  My soul and body, Serena!  Don't talk that way.  If I see
you startin' in to drink cocktails I shall begin to think the
world's comin' to an end.  SOMETHIN' will come to an end right then
and there, I'll tell you that!  The first cocktail you drink will
be the signal for me to clear decks for action.  There's some
things I WON'T stand, and that's one of 'em!"

"There, there!  Don't get excited!  I shan't begin at my time of
life.  But I shan't be narrow, either.  I don't want you to be.  If
all you've got against Cousin Percy is that he drinks a cocktail
once in a while I think you'd better get over it as soon as you
can.  He does help me, Daniel, in my Chapter work and all the rest
of it, and I'd like to have him stay here at present.  Now won't
you be nice and obliging, same as you usually are, and let him
stay, for my sake?  You will, won't you, dear?"

Captain Dan said that he would, and yet he said it with
considerable inward reluctance.  There was no real reason why he
should have distrusted Percy Hungerford.  At least he could think
of none in particular.  His distrust was based upon generalities
and a knowledge of human nature acquired during his years of
knocking about among men.  His wife's words made an impression.  If
what she said was true, his conscience told him that he should be
kind and generous in his attitude toward the literary person.
But--well, the "but" was still there.

It was his intention to seek out Fenholtz and ask a few questions
concerning Cousin Percy, but the opportunity did not offer itself,
and shortly after the reception the Fenholtzes left for the South,
where they were to spend the winter.  So that source of information
was cut off.

During the next fortnight the captain's sense of desertion and of
being almost a stranger in his own house grew stronger than ever.
There were more callers and more calls to return; there were more
bridge parties and teas.  His wife astonished him by announcing
that she was going to take lessons in bridge and that Mr.
Hungerford had found a teacher to perfect her in that branch of
knowledge.

"Of course," she said, "it will cost quite a little, but Cousin
Percy says there's no use having a teacher at all unless you have a
good one, and three dollars a lesson isn't too much, because you
learn so quickly from an expert.  I was sure you would be willing
for me to take the lessons, Daniel."

Daniel shook his head.  "I'm willin' for you to do most anything
that pleases you, Serena," he said, "but three dollars a lesson for
learnin' how to play cards seems to me a pretty good price.  If it
was me I should feel as if 'twas doubtful whether I'd get as much
out of it as I put in.  That's what Ezra Small, back home, said
when he put his sprained foot in a plaster cast.  Ezra said he
never expected to get more than half his foot back, because the way
that plaster stuck he cal'lated it would hang on to the rest.  I
should feel the same way about the three dollars for a bridge
lesson."

"Oh, no, you wouldn't after you had taken a few.  You'll like it
then."

"_I_, like it!  Good Heavens, you don't mean--"

"I meant that you're going to take lessons, too, of course.  You
must learn to play bridge--everybody plays it.  And you used to
like cards."

"I used to like high-low-jack, and I could manage to take a hand at
euchre without raisin' too big a disturbance; but I never could
learn that bridge and play it with those women friends of yours--
never in this world.  More'n that, I don't intend to try."

And he positively refused to try in spite of his wife's pleading.
However, he consented to the employment of the bridge teacher for
her and, thereafter, two hours of each alternate afternoon, Sundays
excepted, were spent by Mrs. Dott and two other female students in
company with a thin and didactic spinster who quoted Elwell and
Foster and discoursed learnedly concerning the values of no-trump
hands.  The lessons were given at the Dott home and Mr. Hungerford
was an interested spectator.  Daniel, who was not interested, and
felt himself in the way, moped in his own room or went upon more of
the lonely walks about town.

Chapter meetings and Chapter activities occupied more of Serena's
time.  There were "open" meetings occasionally and these Captain
Dan seldom attended.  Mr. Hungerford acted as his wife's escort and
seemed to enjoy it, in his languid fashion.  Chapter politics began
now to have their innings.  There was to be a national convention
of the Ladies of Honor, a convention to be held in the neighboring
city of Atterbury, and Scarford Chapter was to send delegates.
Mrs. B. Phelps Black, who aspired to national honors, was desirous
of being one of these delegates, but so were many others, and Mrs.
Black's candidacy was by no means unopposed.  She called upon
Serena for help, and into the fight in aid of her friend Serena
flung herself, heart and soul.

There were meetings, and more meetings, and letter writing, and
canvassing of voters.  Here again, Daniel was of no use.  Cousin
Percy's experience--he seemed to have had all sorts of experience--
helped amazingly.  Mr. Hungerford's willingness to help in all
things where no particular labor was concerned was most
astonishing.  By this time he was as much a member of the Dott
household as Serena herself--more than the captain, who began to
feel that he was not a member at all.  Even bridge was side-tracked
for the more absorbing political game, and evening after evening
Captain Dan spent alone.  Occasionally Mr. Hungerford kept him
company, but his was company not too congenial.  It is true that
the young man was agreeable enough, but he and the captain found
nothing in common to talk about, and Cousin Percy usually gave up
the attempt at conversation rather early and fell asleep upon the
sofa or went out on little excursions of his own to which Daniel
was not invited.

Mr. Hungerford smoked a good deal, and it was Daniel's cigars that
he smoked.  His vacation seemed no nearer the end than it had when
he first came.  The shrewd Azuba informed the captain that she
guessed it was "one of them vacations that didn't have any end, but
was all beginnin'."  Her employer reproved her for speaking in this
way of a friend of the family--he felt it was his duty to do that--
but the rebuke was a mild one.

One night, or rather one morning, for it was nearly two o'clock, he
was awakened by a series of violent shakes, and opened his eyes to
find his wife bending over him.  She had been out, attending a
special meeting of the Chapter, and had hastened upstairs without
stopping to take off her wraps.

"Daniel, Daniel, wake up!" she cried.

The captain groaned.  "Hey! what is it?" he asked sleepily.  Then,
with a little more interest, "Is the house afire?"

"No, no, but do wake up and listen.  I've had the greatest honor
done me.  You will hardly believe it.  The delegates to the
Atterbury Convention were elected to-night.  Annette Black is one--
I just KNEW she'd win--and Mrs. Lake is another, and who do you
suppose is the third?"

Captain Dan sat up in bed.  "Not you?" he shouted.

"Yes, I.  And, more than that, I was the one selected to read a
paper there.  Annette expected to do that, but, when it came to the
vote, my last paper, the one I read Thursday night, the one Cousin
Percy helped me so in preparing, was selected over all the rest.
The vote was nearly two to one.  I am to read it on the second day
of the Convention.  Isn't it wonderful!  Annette was so jealous she
hardly said good-night to me.  But I don't care.  There, Daniel
Dott! aren't you proud of your wife?"

There was a little hesitation in her husband's manner, and yet he
tried his best to be enthusiastic.  "Oh, yes," he said, "but then I
was proud of you before, Serena.  But--but what does this mean?
Have you and I got to traipse way over to Atterbury?"

"Not you.  You're not going.  None of the men are.  This is a
women's convention.  Men are not invited."

"I know.  But I've got to go there with you.  You ain't goin' off
travelin' by yourself."

"I'm going with the other Chapter delegates; we will travel
together."

"I want to know!  How long are you goin' to be gone?"

"I'm not sure.  Three or four days probably."

"And I've got to stay here alone?"

"Why, you won't be alone.  Cousin Percy will be here, and there's
Azuba."

"Yes, and that everlastin' Hapgood, I suppose.  Say, Serena, have
you GOT to go?"

"Got to?  Why, I WANT to!  It's an honor.  Don't you want me to
go?"

"Why--why, I suppose I do; but--but--"

"But, what?  Oh, you DON'T want me to go!  I can see--and I thought
you'd be so glad!"

She was almost in tears.  Daniel's sensitive conscience smote him
once more.  "Land sakes!" he protested.  "Of course I want you to
go, Serena!  I wouldn't have you do anything else for the world.
I--I was just kind of lonesome, that's all.  I get that way
sometimes, lately.  Seems as if you and I don't see as much of each
other as we used to.  Do you think it's all worth while?"

"Worth while!  Why, Daniel Dott!"

"There, there! don't take on.  I guess it is.  I suppose you know
best about such things.  But I get kind of blue settin' around here
thinkin', without you to talk to; and Gertie isn't here.  You see,
I miss you both."

"Yes, I suppose you do.  Well, after this convention is over I
shall have a little more time, I hope.  And Gertie will be home
pretty soon.  It's almost time for her Christmas vacation."

"Yes, I know it is.  I was thinkin' that to-day.  My! we'll be glad
to see her, won't we?"

"Of course we will.  But, do you know, Daniel, I've been so busy
that I almost forgot about Christmas and Gertie's vacation and
everything.  It was Cousin Percy that reminded me of it."

"Reminded you of what?--of Christmas?"

"No, of course not--of Gertie's vacation.  He said that she was
coming and that he should be glad to make her acquaintance."

"HE said so?  How did he know?  _I_ never told him."

"I don't remember that I did, either.  But I suppose I must have.
Anyhow, he knew.  He is very much interested in Gertie and how she
was getting on at college and all that.  I saw him looking at her
photograph that very day of the reception.  He knew that it was
she, without being told."

"Humph!  He seems to know a lot.  But, there!  I recollect now--
Gertie said she met him at college.  Well, Serena, I won't complain
any more.  You can go to Atterbury if you want to.  I'll get along
all right."

And to Atterbury Mrs. Dott went.  It was the first time since the
old sea-going days that Captain Dan and his wife had been separated
longer than twenty-four hours.  He saw her off on the train and
then moped drearily back to Aunt Lavinia's mansion, which he was
now beginning to hate, and, seating himself in the library, tried
to find interest in a novel.  He did not find it, however, and went
to bed early.  Cousin Percy, who was out that evening, did not
retire early.  Next morning he seemed to have little appetite for
breakfast, and was less agreeable than usual.

The three days passed somehow.  The wanderer was to return on
Thursday morning, but she did not.  Instead came a telegram,
reading as follows:


"Meeting and paper great success.  Send immediately one of my
latest photographs.  Serena."


The puzzled Daniel sent the photograph preceded by a telegram of
his own which read:


"When are you coming home?  Why don't you write?  Have been worried
about you.  Answer."


The answer was delayed still another day.  When it came, it was in
the shape of a very short note stating that Saturday was the date
of return.  Serena wrote that she was having a lovely time.  She
would tell him all about it when she got back.  "And," she added,
"I am sending you by this mail copies of the Atterbury paper.
Please show it to any of the Chapter members whom you may meet."

Captain Dan unfolded the paper and gazed at the page marked with
blue pencil.  Here, under black headlines, which screamed the
success of the convention of the Ladies of Honor, was a horrible
blotted outrage resembling a stout negress peering through a screen
door and labeled, "Mrs. Serena Sarah Dott, of Scarford, whose
brilliant paper scored the success of the meeting."  It was only by
a process of deduction that Daniel realized the thing to be a
reproduction of the photograph he had sent.  He glanced hurriedly
over the account of the meeting, catching here and there phrases
like "Mrs. Dott's forte is evidently platform speaking"--"clear
thought, well expressed"--"tumultuous applause."  He felt that he
ought to read the account from beginning to end, but also that he
could not.  Azuba, however, when it was shown to her, had no such
feeling.  She bore it to the kitchen, read it all, and returned to
crow vaingloriously.

"Well, there now, Captain Daniel!" she exclaimed.  "Ain't it
wonderful!  Ain't it grand!  Ain't you a lucky man to have a wife
as notorious as she's gettin' to be!  I swan to man, if it ain't--"

The captain interrupted her.  "Azuba," he said, rather testily for
him, "if you use that word again I don't know as I won't make you
eat a dictionary.  My wife may be famous and she may be a platform
speaker, but I'm blessed if I'll have her notorious, not if I can
help it."

"But she is notorious, ain't she?  Look at her right there in the
newspaper, with all that piece about her in print!  I wish Labe
could read such a piece in the paper about me.  Why, what ails you,
Daniel Dott?  Just look at that photograph!"

Captain Dan rose.  "Yes," he said drily, "I've been lookin' at it.
That's part of what ails me."

On Saturday he was at the station to meet his wife.  Serena was
inwardly jubilant, although, because of the presence of Mrs. Lake
and Annette, she tried to appear dignified and calm.  But when she
and her husband were alone on their way to the house her jubilation
burst forth.

"Oh, it was a wonderful success!" she declared.  "I declare, I wish
you might have been there.  The way they applauded!  And the
entertainment they gave me!  And the reporters after interviews!
And the things the women of the other Chapters said!  Oh, Daniel,
it was splendid!"

Lunch was a mere formality on her part.  She talked incessantly,
while Cousin Percy and her husband listened.  Mr. Hungerford's
congratulations were hearty.  His praise was as close to fulsome
flattery as it could be and not overstep the mark.

Daniel offered congratulations, too.  He was glad that his wife had
succeeded, but the pleasure was solely because of her happiness.
He was not as happy on his own account.  Several remarks which
Serena had made seemed to prophesy that the excursion to Atterbury
was but the beginning.

All that afternoon Mrs. Dott spent in her room.  She was going to
be very busy, she said, and she must not be interrupted.  It was
only just before dinner that the captain found a moment for an
uninterrupted interview.  He entered the room to find her seated at
the writing table, her fingers ink-stained, and the table covered
with closely written sheets of manuscripts.  She looked up when he
appeared.

"Oh," she said, "I'm so tired!  I've written steadily all the
afternoon.  My report had to be ready, and there was so much to
say."

Daniel regarded her gravely.  "You look tired, Serena.  You're
doin' altogether too much of this sort of thing.  You ought to
stop, or you'll be sick.  Now, you just rest a while.  My, it does
seem good to have you back again!  We can have an evening together
now.  I'll tell you what we'll do:  You tell Hungerford you're
tired and then come right up here, and I'll come, too.  Then we can
sit and talk.  I've got so much to say to you."

But Serena shook her head.  "No, Daniel," she said.  "I can't talk
to-night."

"Then don't; I'll do the talkin'.  Land's sakes! it'll be enough
just to look at you.  I don't feel as if I'd seen you for a hundred
years."

Another shake of the head.  "I'm sorry, Daniel, but I can't be with
you at all to-night.  I must present my report to the Chapter and I
shall probably not be home till very late."

Daniel sprang from his chair.  "Serena Dott!" he cried.  "Do you
mean to tell me that you're goin' out to that Chapter thing again
TO-NIGHT! after bein' away from me all this time!  Why, you've just
got home!"

"I can't help it, Daniel.  I must present my report.  It's my duty
to do it.  The Chapter expects me and I must be there."

"Expects you!  _I_ expected you, didn't I?  And, by the everlastin',
I think I had a right to expect you!  I'm your husband, ain't I?
Seems to me I am entitled to a little of your society."

"I can't help it, Daniel.  The Chapter--"

Captain Dan's feelings got the better of his prudence.  "Damn the
Chapter!" he shouted.  "I wish you and I had never heard of it, nor
anybody that belongs to it."

The instant after the words left his lips he would have given a
good deal to recall them, but it was too late.  His wife slowly
rose.

"Daniel Dott!" she gasped.  "Daniel Dott!  You--YOU--why--my
husband talking to me like that!  My own HUSBAND! the man of all
men that I expected would be proud of me!  The man who should be
proud and glad that I have found my lifework--speaking to me like
that!  Oh! oh! what shall I do!  How CAN I bear it!"

She fell back into the chair, her head sank upon her arms over the
manuscript of the precious report, and she burst into a storm of
sobs.

Daniel was as much overcome as she.  He hurried to her side and in
an agony of remorse bent over her.

"There, there, Serena," he pleaded.  "Don't do so.  I didn't mean
it.  It kind of--"

He would have put his arms about her but she pushed them away.

"And swearing at me," she sobbed.  "And using language that--"

"I didn't mean to swear, Serena.  I never swore at you before in my
life.  I didn't mean to this time.  It just seemed to come out all
of itself.  Please forgive me, won't you?  Please?"

But Serena was not ready to forgive.  The sleepless nights and days
of wild excitement had thrown her nerves into a state where it
needed but the slightest jar to break them completely.  She sobbed,
and choked, and gasped, her fingers clutching at her hair.  Daniel,
hanging over her, tried in vain to put in a word.

"Please, Serena," he kept saying.  "Please."

Suddenly the sobs ceased.  Serena's hands struck the desk and she
rose so abruptly that her husband had scarce time to get out of her
way.

"Serena," he cried.

But Serena cut him short.  "Go away," she commanded.  "Go away and
leave me.  I don't want to speak to you again."

"But, Serena--"

"Go away.  Don't come near me again to-night.  Go, go, GO!"

And Daniel went, slowly, reluctantly.  He was scarcely past the
sill, his hands still upon the knob of the door, when that door was
closed from within with a slam.  He made one more effort to speak,
but he heard the key turn and his wife's voice commanding him to go
away.  He descended the stairs to the library and threw himself
into a chair.  Mr. Hungerford, smoking one of his host's cigars and
reading the evening paper, looked at him curiously and asked what
was the matter.

Daniel turned on him.  "Nothin'," he roared.  "Nothin', do you
hear?"  Then he rushed from the library to the hall, seized his hat
and coat from the rack and hurried out of the house.  He walked and
walked, but if, upon his return, anyone had asked him where he had
walked he could not have told them.  This was the first serious
quarrel that he and his wife had had during their married life.

It was half-past seven when he returned and found Azuba fidgeting
in the dining-room.  It was Mr. Hapgood's free evening and he had
left early.

"For mercy sakes!" Azuba demanded.  "Where have you been?"

"Out!" was the gloomy rejoinder.  "Where's the rest of the folks?"

"Gone to Chapter meetin'."

"Both of 'em?"

"Yes.  It was an open meeting and Mr. Hungerford went along, too.
Where are you goin' now?  Don't you want anything to eat?  It's
been waitin' for you for an hour."

"Let it wait; I don't want it."

He walked from the room.  Azuba gazed after him open-mouthed.

"Well!" she soliloquized in a voice loud enough for the captain to
hear.  "Well, if anybody'll tell me what's the use of gettin' all
het up cookin' vittles in this house, then I'd like to have 'em do
it.  Here I've worked and worked and fussed and fussed to get
dinner and nobody's ate a mouthful but one, and he's the one that
gets it for nothin'.  I never saw such doin's.  Don't talk to ME!"

Captain Dan didn't talk to anybody.  He sat alone in the library,
miserable and downhearted.  After a while Azuba came and announced
that she guessed she'd get a mouthful of fresh air, if she wasn't
needed.  Receiving no answer, she apparently considered the request
granted and the captain heard the back door shut.  Still the
captain sat in the library, a huddled, pathetic heap in the
armchair, gazing at vacancy.  Occasionally he sighed.

The doorbell rang.  Aroused from his doleful reverie by the sound,
Daniel jumped from his chair and, going to the hall, shouted for
Azuba.  Then he remembered that Azuba was not on the premises and
answered the ring himself.  He had forgotten to push the button of
the porch light and, peering out into the dark, he could see only
that the person standing upon the top step was a woman.  A carriage
had drawn up at the curb and the driver was unloading a trunk from
the rack.

"Good evenin'!" said Daniel.

The answer was a surprise.  There was a laugh, and then a pair of
arms were thrown about Captain Dan's neck and a girlish voice said:
"Good evening!  Is THAT all you've got to say to me?  Why, Daddy,
you dear old goose, don't you know me?"

Daniel's answer was a shout that might have been heard at the next
corner.

"What!" he roared.  "GERTIE!  Good land of love!  Where'd you come
from?"



CHAPTER VIII


"But aren't you glad to see me, Daddy?" asked Gertrude.  They were
in the library.  The trunk had been carried upstairs and the young
lady had assured her father over and over again that she really
didn't want any dinner, as she had eaten on the dining car during
the journey from Boston.

The captain, who had scarcely taken his eyes off her since her
arrival at the house, drew a long breath.

"Glad to see you!" he repeated.  "I never was more glad to see
anybody in MY life.  How'd you happen to come so soon?  We weren't
expectin' you for a week."

"I hadn't expected to come, but I changed my mind.  Now tell me all
about yourself.  How are you, and how's Mother?  And how are you
getting on?  Mother has gone to the Chapter meeting, you say.  Did
she go alone?"

"No, she didn't go alone.  That--Cousin Percy went with her."

"Cousin Percy?  Oh, you mean Mr. Hungerford.  Do you call him
Cousin Percy?  How funny!"

She seemed much amused.  Her father smiled, but it was a rather
sheepish smile.

"'Tis kind of funny, I suppose," he admitted.  "I don't know as he
really is a cousin.  Fact is, I guess he ain't any real relation."

"Of course he isn't.  He was Aunt Lavinia's second cousin, or
something like that, but she was only your aunt by marriage.  I
don't see why you should speak of him as 'Cousin Percy.'  Did he
ask you to?"

"No-o; I don't know as he did.  But, you see, he always calls your
mother Cousin Serena and me Cousin Daniel, and--and--well, I guess
we've kind of got into the habit.  Your mother began it and, now
that he's been here so long, I've caught the disease, I shouldn't
wonder."

"Long!  Why, he hasn't been here more than a month, has he?"

"Hey?  No; no; now that you mention it I don't suppose he has.  But
it seems a lot longer than that to me."

He sighed.  Gertrude regarded him keenly.  Unconscious of the
regard he sat there, lost in thought, apparently forgetful of her
presence.  She reminded him by saying:

"Why does it seem longer?"

He started and looked up.

"Hey?  Why?" he repeated.  "Oh, I don't know.  So many things have
happened, I guess."

"What kind of things?"

"All kinds.  But there--tell me about yourself.  How's college?
And how's John?  Land sakes!  I ain't said a word about John, and
he's about as important as anything on earth just now, or he ought
to be.  Guess you think I'm a selfish old pig, not to ask about him
before this.  How is he?"

"You couldn't be selfish if you tried, Daddy.  You never knew how
to be.  John is well and very busy.  He sent his love to you and
Mother, and he hopes to run down here before very long and spend a
few days with us."

"Does, hey?  That's good.  I suppose YOU don't hope he'll come.
Ha! ha! no, of course not.  He's doin' all the hopin'."

"Well, perhaps not all.  But there, Daddy, don't waste time talking
of John or me.  I want to hear about you and about Mother, and how
you like living in Scarford."

"Why, I wrote you all about that."

"Yes, I know you did, but I want to hear more, lots more.  And I
want to see the house.  Just think, I haven't seen it at all.  Now,
Daddy, you must show me all the rooms right away.  We can talk as
we go.  Come on."

She led the way and Daniel followed.  The house was shown from top
to bottom.  Gertrude asked many questions, the majority of which
seemed to have little to do with the new establishment and more
with the life which her parents had spent in it.  Captain Dan
answered these questions in the intervals between rooms, and his
answers were less guarded than they might have been under different
circumstances.  At length the young lady ceased to question, and
the tour of inspection was finished in silence on her part.

When they returned to the library, the captain, who had been
waiting for some expression of approval from his daughter, suddenly
blurted out:

"Well, why don't you say somethin', Gertie?  Don't you like it?"

Gertrude, seated in the easy chair, her elbow resting on the chair
arm and her chin supported by her hand, answered promptly.

"No," she said, "I don't like it at all."

"What!  Don't LIKE it?  Don't like this house?  Well, for mercy
sakes!"

"Oh, not the house; I like that well enough.  I liked our old one
quite as well--but never mind that now.  The house is all right.
It is the rest of it that is all wrong.  I don't like that."

"The rest of it?  What do you mean?"

Gertrude did not answer.  Instead she raised her head and looked at
him.  It was a long look and a steady one, and the captain found it
hard to bear.  He fidgeted for a moment and then blurted out:

"Well, what is it?  Why are you starin' at me like that?"

The stare continued.

"What is it?" demanded Daniel.  "What does ail you, Gertie?  Or is
it me?"

His daughter nodded.  "Yes," she said, "it is you.  Why don't you
tell me all about it, Daddy?  I have a right to know.  Why don't
you tell me?"

"Tell you?  Tell you what?"

"You know.  Why don't you tell me?  You have told me so much
already that you may as well make a clean breast of it.  Why, you
silly old Dad, what do you suppose brought me here a week ahead of
my vacation?  Why do you think I came?"

"Why do I think--?  Why--why, you came because you wanted to see
your mother and me, I suppose.  That's reason enough--or I
flattered myself that 'twas.  I thought you was as anxious to see
us as we was to see you."

"So I was; but that wasn't reason sufficient to make me leave my
work at college before the term was over, leave it for good, very
likely.  I came because I was sure you needed me.  And your letters
made me sure."

Daniel gasped.  His letters had been triumphs of diplomatic
evasion, so he considered.  He had been so careful to write nothing
of his troubles, to leave out everything which should hint at his
disturbed state of mind.  He had taken pains to express, in each
epistle, his contentment and happiness, had emphasized them.  And
now--

"My letters!" he exclaimed.  "My letters made you think--made you
sure--"

"Yes; your letters and mother's.  Hers were full of all sorts of
things, the very things that you never mentioned.  She didn't say
she was having a good time here, but it was plain enough that she
was.  You said it in every letter--that you were having the good
time, I mean--but it was perfectly plain that you weren't.  And her
last letter was so short--she was so busy with the Atterbury
preparations that she could not write more, she said--and yours was
so very, very long, and SO full of lonesomeness--"

Her father interrupted.  Lonesomeness was the very thing he had
tried to keep out of that letter.

"Gertrude Atwell Dott!" he shouted.  "How you talk!  I never wrote
a word--"

"Yes, you did.  It was all there, between the lines.  I could read
it, for you and I have been acquainted a good many years.  As soon
as I received that letter I made up my mind to come at once.  Since
I have been here I have asked a good many questions, and you have
answered them.  But I didn't need the answers.  Just to look at you
was enough.  You are miserable, Daddy dear, and, because you are
you, you won't admit it.  But you've got to; you've got to tell me
the whole story.  I want to know all about everything."

The wind was taken completely out of Daniel's sails.  He could only
sit there, guilt written plainly upon his face, and stammer frantic
protestations.

"No, no," he declared.  "It ain't so.  You're all wrong, Gertie.
You're way off the course.  The idea of you sayin' your mother was
neglectin' me."

"I didn't say it.  You have said it a dozen times, but I haven't."

"_I_ said it?  I never.  Your mother is a fine woman, Gertie; as
good a woman as ever was."

"I know that.  And she would not neglect you wilfully for the
world.  But she has not had experience.  She takes people and
things at their face value.  She doesn't understand--Why are you
smiling?  Is it so funny?"

Captain Dan rubbed the smile from his lips.  In spite of his
perturbation he had been amused for the moment.

"Why," he observed, "I don't know as 'tis, but--but--well, I
couldn't help wonderin' how old you'd got to be in the last couple
of months, Gertie.  You talk as if you was the grandmother and your
ma and I were young ones just out of school.  About how much
experience have YOU had, young lady? now that we're speakin' of
it."

Gertrude's earnestness was too real to be shaken by this pertinent
inquiry.

"I have had a good deal," she declared.  "One can get a lot of
experience in college.  There are as many kinds of character there,
on a small scale, as anywhere I know.  I have seen girls--but
there! this is all irrelevant, away from the subject.  You ARE
neglected, Daddy; you are lonely and miserable.  Now, I want you to
tell me all about it."

But her father had, in a measure, recovered his composure, and he
declined to tell.  He had been longing for a confidant, and here
was the one he had longed for most; but his sense of loyalty to
Serena kept him silent.

"There's nothin' to tell," he vowed stoutly.  "I'm all right.
You're dreamin', Gertie."

"Nonsense!  I shall lose patience with you pretty soon, and I don't
want to.  Judging by what I have seen and learned so far, I am
likely to need a great deal of patience in this house, and I can't
waste any.  Mother has gone head over heels into this precious
Ladies of Honor work of hers, hasn't she?"

"We-ll, she's terrible interested in it, of course; but she's so
smart anyhow, and here in Scarford she's got the chance she's been
lookin' for."

"And she is very much in society here, isn't she?"

"Yes.  That's natural, too, with her smartness and all."

"What kind of society is it?"

"Hey?  What kind?  Why, it's the genuine gilt-edged kind, I should
say.  _I_ never saw such clothes, nor such dinners, nor dances.
It--"

"Hush!  Yes, I can believe all that.  You wouldn't be likely to see
them--in Trumet.  And I can believe in the gilt; the genuine part
is what I am most doubtful of.  Mrs. Black is as influential with
Mother as ever, isn't she?"

"Yes.  She and Serena bein' such close friends, it--"

"I know.  Tell me, Daddy, are the rest of Mother's friends like the
Blacks?"

"Pretty much.  They're all the same tribe--that is, I mean they're
all brilliant, fashionable folks."

"I see.  What sort of friends have YOU made?"

This was straight from the shoulder and the captain was somewhat
staggered.

"Well," he admitted, after a slight pause, "I--I ain't made so
dreadful many friends, Gertie.  Most of the men here are--are kind
of different from me, seems so.  They belong to clubs and such, and
they're out a lot nights.  I don't care for goin' out much; I've
always been a great home body--you know that, Gertie.  I don't
doubt, if I joined the club and went to 'stag' dinners and so on,
I'd have more friends.  It ain't their fault, you know, it's me."

"Yes, it always is you, isn't it, Daddy?  No one else is to blame,
of course.  Well, I'm very glad I came when I did.  How many
evenings have you spent alone, as you were spending this one?"

"Not a great many.  I just--"

"Why didn't you go to the Chapter to-night?  It must have been an
open meeting, otherwise Mr. Hungerford couldn't have gone.  Why
didn't you go with Mother?"

Here was the one question Daniel had dreaded most.  To answer it
truthfully meant telling of the quarrel between Serena and himself.
He could not tell that, not even to his daughter.

"I--I didn't feel like goin', somehow," he faltered.

"That's strange.  I knew that you were not particularly interested
in the Chapter--at least you never were in Trumet--but I never knew
you to stay at home when Mother asked you to go with her.  Did she
ask you?"

"Now--now, Gertie, 'tain't likely I--I--"

"Never mind; you needn't answer.  Tell me more about this new
relative of ours, 'Cousin Percy.'  Do you like him, now that you
really know him?"

"Why--why, yes, I like him all right enough, I guess.  Course he
and I are different, in some ways; but, then, he's younger by a
good many years."

Gertrude nodded slowly.  "I see," she said.  "You've made up your
mind not to tell me anything, haven't you, Daddy?  You wouldn't
hurt anyone's feelings for the world, and you are afraid I may
blame Mother.  Well, I am not going to blame anyone yet.  And I am
not going to quiz you any longer.  But I came home to find out
things, and I am going to find out.  If you won't help me, I must
help myself."

Her father leaned forward and patted her hand.

"Now--now, Gertie," he pleaded nervously, "don't be foolish.
Everything's all right, I tell you.  Don't go stirrin' up any
trouble.  I am so tickled to have you here I don't know what to do.
Let's be contented with that.  Let's just be happy together.
Don't--Hello!  here comes the Chapter folks now, I guess.  Maybe
your mother won't be glad to see you!  Oh, Serena, who do you think
is here?  I'll bet you'll be some surprised!"

There was no doubt of the surprise; neither was there any doubt as
to Serena's joy at seeing her daughter.  An outburst of greetings
and questions and explanations followed.  Gertrude explained that
she had had an opportunity to leave college a week earlier than the
end of the term and had availed herself of it.

"I just had to see you and father," she declared.  "I couldn't wait
any longer.  I've been telling father so; haven't I, Daddy?"

She accompanied this question with a glance which Captain Dan
recognized as a warning.  He nodded.

"Yes," he said.

Serena suddenly remembered that the family was not alone.

"Oh!" she exclaimed.  "What have I been thinking of?  Your coming
home like this, Gertie, has made me forget everything else.  Cousin
Percy--Why, where is Cousin Percy?"

Mr. Hungerford, who, from motives of delicacy or other reasons, had
stepped back into the hall, where he could see and hear without
being too conspicuous, now made his appearance.

"Gertrude," said Mrs. Dott, "this is our cousin, Mr. Percy
Hungerford.  You've heard him spoken of.  Oh, yes--why, you and he
have met.  I remember now, so you have."

Mr. Hungerford bowed.

"I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Dott one evening a year or two
ago," he observed politely.  "No doubt she has forgotten me,
however, by this time."

Gertrude shook her head.

"Oh, no," she said.  "I remember you very well, indeed.  How do you
do, Mr. Hungerford?"

The young gentleman announced that he was quite well.  He made a
move as if to shake hands, but as there was no corresponding move
on Miss Dott's part, he put his hand in his pocket instead.

"That evening--the evening of the college dance--is one of my
pleasantest recollections," he observed.  "I made some delightful
acquaintances there.  I am ashamed to say that I have forgotten the
names of the young ladies, but forgetfulness is one of my
failings."

"He meets so many people," cut in Serena, by way of apology.

Gertrude smiled.  There was a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

"I'm sure he hasn't forgotten us all," she declared.  "He could not
be so ungallant as that."

"He didn't forget you, anyway," declared Daniel.  "He knew your
photograph just as soon as he laid eyes on it."

"Oh, thank you, Daddy.  You've saved my self-respect.  But I was
not referring to myself.  There are others whom I am sure Mr.
Hungerford has not forgotten.  Isn't that true, Mr. Hungerford?"

Cousin Percy appeared somewhat disconcerted.

"Why," he stammered, "I don't understand.  I can't recollect--"

"Can't you!  Oh, that is dreadful!  Do you correspond with so many
young ladies that you can't remember their identity?  Oh! oh! and
Margaret was SO proud of those letters!  Really, Mr. Hungerford!"

She shook her head.  Her eyes were brimming over with fun.  Cousin
Percy's cheeks had lost something of their aristocratic pallor.
Margaret Babcock, the daughter of a well known glass manufacturer,
had been one of the list of feminine acquaintances whom he had
honored with long distance familiarity.  She was an impressionable
young person and her papa was very wealthy.  The correspondence had
broken off when her mother discovered one of the letters.  Mrs.
Babcock had definite views concerning her daughter's future, and
Mr. Hungerford was not included in the perspective.  The latter had
forgotten, for the moment, that he met Miss Babcock at the college
dance; therefore he was confused.

But the confusion was short-lived.  He recovered quickly.

"I BEG your pardon, Miss Dott," he said with a laugh.  "I had
forgotten Miss Babcock.  Poor Margaret!  She was of an age when
letters, especially masculine letters, are delightfully wicked.
Forbidden fruit, you know.  She asked me to write, and I was
foolish enough to do so.  I presume my humble epistles furnished
harmless amusement for the class.  Very glad to have contributed,
I'm sure."

"You did contribute.  We all enjoyed them so much--especially
Margaret.  She is a year older than I, Mr. Hungerford."

Serena, who, like the captain, did not understand a great deal of
all this, decided to change the subject.  She did not address her
husband--she had not spoken to him since the scene in the room
upstairs--but the exaltation and triumph which the evening just
passed had brought to her soul now burst forth.  She began to
describe the Chapter's meeting and to tell of her great success at
Atterbury, and the enthusiastic reception by the Scarford members
of her report.  Mr. Hungerford seized the opportunity to deprive
the family of his society.  He was rather tired, he explained, had
a bit of writing to do before retiring, and, if they would excuse
him, would go to his room.  Being excused, with reluctance on Mrs.
Dott's part and silence on the part of Gertrude and her father, he
said good-night and withdrew.

"And now, Mother," said Gertrude, "tell me more about yourself, and
about the Chapter, and the friends you have made, and everything.
Father has told me a little, and your letters and his have told me
more, but I want to know it all.  I am very much interested."

Serena did not need to be asked twice.  She told a great deal,
warming to her subject as she proceeded.  She told of their arrival
in Scarford, of the kindness shown by the Blacks and Mrs. Lake and
the rest.  "Wonderful women, Gertie! brilliant, intellectual,
advanced thinkers, every one of them.  Not much like Abigail Mayo
and the rest at Trumet."

She told of their adventures in society, of the Blacks' dinner, of
the reception, of her bridge lessons.  Gertrude listened, saying
nothing, but watching both her parents intently as the narrative
proceeded.

Daniel, fidgeting in his chair, waited, nervously expectant, for
the protest which he felt sure his daughter might make at any
moment.  But no protest came.  Only once did the young lady
interrupt, and then it was to ask a question.

"I suppose Daddy enjoys all this as much as you do, Mother?" she
said.  "Doesn't he?"

Mrs. Dott's expression changed.  The radiant joy, which had
illumined her face as she described her progress at bridge, faded,
and she seemed on the verge of tears.

"Don't, Gertie," she begged.  "Don't ask me about your father,
please.  Enjoy it?  No, he doesn't enjoy it at all.  He has no
sympathy for my aims and ambitions.  He takes no pride in my
advancement.  To-night--only this very night, he said to me--Oh, I
can't tell you what he said!  Don't ask me, please."

Captain Dan almost slipped from his chair in the agony of
justification.

"I never meant it, Gertie," he declared.  "It just happened, I
don't know how.  I'll leave it to you; I'll leave it to anybody,
if--"

For the first time his wife noticed his presence.

"Leave it to anybody!" she repeated wildly.  "You'll leave it to
anybody!  I wish you would!  I wish you could hear what people
think of it.  Why, Cousin Percy said--"

For the second time since lunch the captain forgot to be prudent.

"Cousin Percy said!" he shouted.  "He said!  Do you mean to say you
told him--THAT?  What business was it of his, I'd like to know?
What did he say?  If he says it to me, I'll--I'll--"

Gertrude motioned him to stop.

"There! there!" she commanded.  "Daddy, be quiet.  Mother, you're
tired out.  You must go to bed.  I'll go up with you, and we can
talk while you are getting ready.  Daddy will wait here.  Come,
Mother, come."

She led the sobbing Serena from the room.  Captain Dan, his
feelings divided between deep contrition at his own behavior and
anger at Mr. Hungerford's interference in the affairs of himself
and wife, obeyed orders and remained where he was.

It was a long wait.  He smoked a cigar half through, lighting it
three times in the process.  When it went out for the fourth time
he dashed the stump into the fireplace and took to pacing up and
down the room.  This reminded him of other days, days when he had
paced the deck of his three-master, counting the hours which
separated him from his wife and his home.  He thought of the
welcome he had always received when he reached that home.  Oh, why--
WHY had he ever retired from the sea?  That was where he belonged;
he was of some use in the world there.  With a groan he stopped
pacing and went out into the hall to listen for sounds from above.
He heard the low murmurs of voices, the voices of his wife and
daughter, but he could not distinguish words.  Back he went to the
library and lit another cigar.  These cigars cost three times what
his old Trumet brand had cost, but he got not a hundredth of the
enjoyment from them.

Twelve o'clock struck before Gertrude re-entered the library.  She
entered quietly and, walking over to her father's chair, laid a
hand on his shoulder.  He looked up at her in mute appeal.

"It's all right, Daddy," she said.  "You can go up now."

"But--but she--is she--"

"She has forgiven you, I think.  You must be very kind to her."

"Kind to her?  Kind!  Why, Gertie, I never meant to be anything
else.  I wouldn't have--"

"Of course you wouldn't.  Oh, Daddy, if you weren't the very worst
diplomat in all this world this wouldn't have happened.  Why didn't
you tell me all about it?  Why didn't you write me the truth long,
long ago?  If I had only come sooner!  If I had only known!  Oh,
WHY did you let things reach this state?  Why didn't you stop it?"

"Stop it?  Stop what?"

"Oh, everything.  Don't you remember that I told you to send for me
if you needed me?  To send at any time and I would come?  And don't
you remember that I wrote you if you felt this moving to Scarford
was wrong to say no and stick to it?  Why didn't you do that?"

"Why, I--I--Serena, she was so set on comin' and all that, that--"

"I know.  You needn't tell me.  And yet, in a way, it seems
strange.  I remember some things Laban Ginn, Azuba's husband, told
me about you and your ways aboard ship; he said your crews obeyed
every order you gave as if it was what he called 'Gospel.'  You,
and no one else, was master there.  However, that is not pertinent
just now.  Run along to bed, there's a dear."

Daniel obediently rose.

"But what are you goin' to do, Gertie?" he asked.

"I don't know what I am going to do.  First of all I am going to
see and find out for myself.  Then I shall decide.  One thing seems
certain: I shall not go back to college."

"Not go back!  Not go back to college?  Why, it's your last term!
What'll your mother say?  What'll John say?"

Gertrude's lips closed tightly and she gave a determined toss of
her head.

"John will say what I say, I think," she declared.  "As for Mother--
well, what she says won't make any difference, not at present.
Good-night, Daddy.  Now don't worry, and," she repressed a smile,
"be very careful and, if you must express your opinion of the
Chapter, do it in the back yard or somewhere out of hearing.  Good-
night."

She kissed him and he went slowly and fearfully upstairs.  Serena's
attitude of reproachful and self-sacrificing forgiveness he met
with meek repentance and promises not to offend again.  He got into
bed, worn out and troubled, but with a ray of hope in his bosom,
nevertheless.  Gertie had come home; Gertie was going to do
something or other, he did not know and could not guess what.  At
any rate she was with him, and he could see her every day.
Perhaps--perhaps--still wondering perhapses he fell asleep.

Next morning at breakfast the young lady seemed to be in good
spirits and, except for Serena's absence--Serena had breakfast in
her room, a proceeding which was apparently developing into a
habit--the meal was to Daniel quite like one of the happy
breakfasts of Trumet days.  Mr. Hungerford marred the captain's
pleasure somewhat by joining the pair before they left the table,
and to him Gertrude was surprisingly cordial and communicative.
Cousin Percy, who had been, at first, rather on his guard, soon
thawed and became almost loquacious.  Gertrude and he found a
kindred taste for pictures and art in general, and before the
captain's second cup of coffee was disposed of Mr. Hungerford had
invited Miss Dott to accompany him to a water-color exhibition at a
neighboring studio.  Gertrude said she thought she might accept the
invitation, if the exhibition was to remain for a few days.

"Is the artist a friend of yours?" she asked casually.

"Oh, no," was the languid answer.  "He's a queer old gink--old
chap, I mean--whose work is quite the go about here recently.  Some
very decent people have taken him up, I believe.  He's worth
meeting, so I'm told, as a curiosity.  I've seen only two or three
of his paintings, but they're really not bad.  Some of the fellows
at the club were talking about him the other night.  I think you'd
enjoy the exhibition, Miss Dott."

"I'm sure I should.  I should like to see the pictures and the--er--
gink as well.  Thank you very much, Cousin Percy."

When they were alone, Captain Dan turned to his daughter in puzzled
amazement.

"What did you call him 'Cousin Percy' for?" he demanded.  "Thought
you thought your mother and I callin' him that was funny; you said
you did."

Gertrude laughed.  "Did I?" she replied.  "Well, perhaps I think so
still."

Whatever she may have thought, it did not prevent her continuing to
be very cordial to the newly discovered relative.  He and she were
together a good deal during the day.  She seemed to really enjoy
his society.  The remainder of the time she spent with her mother.
Captain Dan scarcely saw her except at luncheon and dinner.  Once
he found her in the kitchen talking with Azuba, and on another
occasion she and Mr. Hapgood were in conversation, but for her
father she could spare only odd moments.  The captain did not know
what to make of it.  When, taking advantage of a fleeting
opportunity, he asked her she only laughed.

"I am very busy, Daddy," she said.  "You mustn't bother."

"Bother!  Well, I like that!  How long since my company was a
bother to you, Gertie?  It never used to be."

"It isn't now, and you know it.  But, as I say, I am very busy.
Business first, pleasure afterwards."

"Humph!  I'm glad I'm a pleasure, even if it's the kind that comes
after everything else.  What have you and your ma been talkin'
about upstairs for the last hour?"

"A great many things--society and the Chapter and--oh, all sorts."

"Want to know!  What were you and Azuba talkin' about?"

"About household matters and the people IN the house."

"People in the house!  What people?"

"You and mother and Mr. Hun--that is, Cousin Percy--and Hapgood."

"That's all there is, except yourself.  What was you and Hapgood
havin' a confab on; more household matters?"

"Yes, in a way.  Daddy, have Mr. Hungerford and Hapgood known each
other long?"

"I guess so.  He was Aunt Laviny's butler for a good many years,
and Percy was a regular visitor there.  What made you ask that?"

"Feminine curiosity, probably.  Has our cousin many friends here in
Scarford?"

"Why, he seems to know 'most everybody; everybody that's in what he
and your mother call society, that is."

"But has he any intimate friends?  Have you met any of them?"

"I met one once.  He seemed to be pretty intimate.  Anyhow, they
called each other by their first names.  Ho! ho! that whole thing
was kind of funny.  I never wrote you about that, did I?"

He told of the meeting in the Rathskeller.  Gertrude evinced much
interest.

"What was this friend's name?" she asked.

"'Monty,' that's all I heard.  Queer name, ain't it--isn't it, I
mean.  But it ain't any queerer than 'Tacks'; that's what he called
Hungerford."

"Has this 'Monty' called here?  Has he been here at the house?"

"No-o, no, he hasn't.  I caught a glimpse of him at the club, that
time when I went there with Barney--Godfreys! it's a good thing
Serena didn't hear me say that--with Phelps Black, I mean."

"Daddy, sometime when you have an opportunity, ask Mr. Black about
this Monty, will you?"

"Sartin, if you want me to.  But what do you care about Percy
Hungerford's friends?"

"I don't--about his friends."

With which enigmatical remark she moved away to join Cousin Percy,
who had just entered the room.

During the next three days, Daniel's feeling that his daughter was
neglecting him grew stronger than ever.  Her "business," whatever
it might be, occupied practically all her time, and the captain and
she were scarcely ever alone.  He was disappointed.  He had
regarded her coming as the life preserver which was to help him
through the troubled waters to dry land, and so far he was as
helplessly adrift as before.  Serena had forgiven his profane
expression concerning her beloved Chapter, that was true, but
Serena also was "busy" during the days and evenings, and at bedtime
she was too tired to talk.  Gertrude was with her mother a great
deal, and with Cousin Percy almost as much.  They visited the
water-color exhibition together, and would have gone on other
excursions if the cousin had had his way.  Daniel did not like Mr.
Hungerford.  He had grown to tolerate him because Serena liked him
so much, and declared him such a help in her literary and political
labors, but the captain had found secret comfort in the belief that
his daughter did not like him any better than he did.  Now it
looked as if she was beginning to like him, after all.  And there
was no doubt whatever that Cousin Percy liked her.

Gertrude's apparent interest in her mother's social and Chapter
affairs was another disquieting feature of the situation, as Daniel
viewed it.  Mrs. Black and Mrs. Lake called one afternoon and to
them the young lady was cordiality itself.  They talked "Chapter,"
of course, and to her father's horror Gertrude talked it, too.
Being invited to attend the next meeting she announced that she
should be delighted to go.

"You didn't mean it, did you, Gertie?" pleaded the captain, when
Serena had escorted the guests to the door.  "You didn't mean you
was figgerin' to go to that devilish--to that Chapter?"

"Hush!  Yes, of course I meant it."

"But--but YOU!"

"Hush!  Daddy, don't interfere.  I know what I'm about."

Daniel was doubtful.  If she had known she surely would not think
of going.  And yet, on the evening of the meeting, go she did.  The
meeting was a protracted one, and, on their return, Serena, finding
the lower rooms apparently deserted, went upstairs.  Gertrude was
about to follow, but a figure stepped from the shadows of the
library and detained her.

"Why, Daddy!" she exclaimed.  "What are you doing up at this hour?"

"Sh-sh!" in an agitated whisper.  "Don't let your mother hear you.
I--I've been waitin' for you, Gertie.  I just had to talk to you.
Come in here."

He led the way into the library.

"Don't say anything," he whispered; "that is, don't say very much.
Serena'll be wantin' to know where I am in a minute.  Gertie, what
are you up to?  WHY did you go to that Chapter?"

"Hush, Daddy, hush!  It is all right."

"All right!  Yes, I know it's all right so far.  That's what your
mother used to say, back in Trumet, when she first started in.  You
begin by sayin' it's all right and pretty soon it IS all right.  It
ain't all right for me--it's all wrong.  Why did you go to that
meetin'?"

"I went because I wanted to see for myself.  And I saw."

"Yes, you saw.  And you heard, too, I'll bet you.  Well, did you
like it?"

"LIKE it!  Daddy, tell me:  There is another Woman's Club in
Scarford, isn't there?  This can't be the only one."

"No, it ain't.  I believe there's another.  A different one--a
sensible one, so I've heard tell.  Mrs. Fenholtz--you've heard me
speak of her, Gertie; she's a fine woman--she belonged to the other
one.  She wanted Serena to join, but Annette Black had her innin's
first, and after that 'twas all off."

"I see, I see."

"You see; but what are you goin' to do?  Are you goin' to any more
of them blessed meetin's?"

"I may.  I probably shall.  Daddy, dear, you must trust me.  It is
all right, I tell you."

Ordinarily this would have been enough.  But to-night it was not.
Captain Dan had spent some troubled hours since dinner and his
nerves were on the ragged edge.

"All right!" he repeated impatiently.  "Don't say that again.  Is
it all right for you to be gettin' into the same mess your mother
is in?  Is it all right for you to be talkin' about society and
Chapters and--and I don't know what all?  I did trust you, Gertie.
I said so.  I told Serena so this very afternoon.  She was talkin'
about Cousin Percy, she's always praisin' him up, and she said you
liked him just as much as she did.  He was a cultivated, superior
young man, she said, and you recognized it.  I laughed at her.  I
says, 'That's all right,' I says, 'but I wouldn't take too much
stock in that.  Gertie knows what she's up to.  She's got some plan
in her head, she told me so.  She may pretend--'"

His daughter interrupted him.

"Father!" she exclaimed indignantly.  "Why, Daddy! did you tell
Mother THAT?"

"Course I did!  Why not?  It's so, ain't it?  What is the plan,
Gertie?  What are you up to?  You are pretendin', aren't you?
Don't tell me you ain't!  Don't tell me--"

"I shan't tell you anything.  You don't deserve to be told.  I'm
out of patience with you, altogether.  You deserve to be miserable.
You'll spoil--But there! good-night."

"Gertie! Gertie! hold on.  Don't--"

Serena's voice sounded at the head of the stairs.

"Gertie!" she called.  "Who is it you're talking with?  Is your
father there?  Why doesn't he come to bed?"

"He's coming, Mother, right away.  So am I.  Good-night, Daddy."

The next forenoon, as Azuba was blacking the stove, Gertrude
entered the kitchen.

"Good-morning, Azuba," she said.  "Are you alone?"

"Yes, yes, I'm alone."

"Where is Hapgood?"

"Land knows!  Upstairs, lookin' out for that Hungerford man's
clothes, I guess likely.  He waits on that young critter as if he
was the Prince of Wales.  Well, you went Chapterin' and advancin'
last night, I understand.  What did you think of it?"

"Think?  I thought--Oh, Azuba!"

"Yup.  It's 'oh, Azuba,' I guess.  That's what I've been sayin' to
myself for quite a spell.  I'd have said it to your pa, too, if it
would have done any good."

"It wouldn't.  We mustn't say a word to him, or anyone else."

"I know.  And yet, when I think of the way things are goin' at
loose ends I have the shakes.  Do you know what it's costin' to run
this place the way it's run?  I know.  And I know, too, that nobody
else seems to know or care.  Your pa trusts everything to his wife,
and she trusts everything to that Hapgood.  She can't be bothered,
she says, and Hapgood's such a capable buyer.  Capable! he'll be
rich as well as capable if it keeps on, and the rest of us'll be
capable of the poorhouse.  And there's Serena's health.  She's
gettin' more nervous all the time, and just wearin' herself out
with her papers and conventions and politics and bridge and
society.  My land!  Don't talk to me!  And it ain't no use to talk
to her.  There's got to be somethin' more'n talk."

Gertrude nodded.

"So I think," she affirmed.  "Azuba, I have a scheme.  It may be
the best idea in the world and it may be the worst, but I am going
to risk it.  And you must help me.  Will you?"

"Sartin sure I will!"

"And you won't tell a soul, not a living soul?"

"Not one, livin' or dead.  You needn't look at me like that.  I
swan to mercy, I won't tell anybody."

"Good!  Then listen."

Azuba listened, listened in silence.  When her young mistress
ceased speaking she shook her head slowly.

"Well," she observed, "it looks some like hoppin' out of the fryin'
pan into the fire, but, even if it turns out that way, perhaps it's
just as well to be roasted as fried.  Humph! no, 'twon't do to tell
anybody.  I shan't, and you mustn't."

"I don't intend to."

"Um!  Not even John Doane?"

"Well," doubtfully, "I may tell John later on.  But I shall wait to
tell him, I shan't write.  He'll have to trust me, too."

"So he will.  Fur's that goes, it's a good thing for men folks to
learn to trust us women.  If Labe, my husband, hadn't trusted me
all these years, he'd have done some worryin', I cal'late.  All
right, Gertie, I'm with you till the last plank sinks.  But," with
a chuckle, "I'm kind of sorry for your pa.  The medicine may cure
us all in the end, but it'll be a hard dose for him to take, won't
it?"



CHAPTER IX


Captain Dan's foundations were slipping from beneath him.  His
daughter's return had seemed to him like the first ray of sunshine
breaking through the clouds and presaging the end of the storm.
Now, it began to look as if the real storm was but beginning.
Gertrude was apparently contracting the society and Chapter
disease.  Gertrude, upon whose good sense and diplomacy he had
banked so heavily, was rapidly losing that sense.  So far from
influencing her mother to give up the "crazy notions" which were,
Daniel firmly believed, wrecking their home and happiness, she was
actually encouraging and abetting these notions.

The young lady was certainly spending a great deal of time with her
mother and her mother's friends.  When Mrs. Black and Mrs. Lake
called for consultations concerning Chapter affairs, Gertrude took
part in these consultations.  Daniel, peeping into the library, saw
the four heads together over the table, and heard his daughter's
voice suggesting this and that.  Invitations to various social
functions came, and it was Gertrude who urged acceptance of these
invitations.  Captain Dan's pleas for quiet evenings together at
home went for nought.

"You needn't go, Daddy," said Gertrude.  "Mother and I know you
don't care for such things.  She and I can go without you."

"Go without me?  The idea!  Look pretty, wouldn't it, to have you
two chasin' around nights all by yourself, without a man to look
after you!"

"Oh, Cousin Percy will go with us.  He is always obliging that way.
Cousin Percy will go, I am sure."

The captain was equally sure.  Cousin Percy was altogether too
willing to go anywhere, at any time, provided Miss Dott went also.
This very obvious fact did not add to Daniel's peace of mind.
Rather than have his family escorted by its newest member, he
resolved to sacrifice his own inclinations and go himself.



Miss Canby--the blonde young woman who played the piano at the
Black home on the night of the dinner--issued invitations for an
"At Home" in her apartments.  All the Dott household--Mr.
Hungerford included--were invited.  Mrs. Black, who came to call,
was enthusiastic.  Her jealousy of Serena, which had manifested
itself on the night of the latter's appointment as an Atterbury
delegate, had apparently disappeared.  She was again the dear
friend and counselor, with all the old cordiality and a good deal
of the old condescension.

This condescension, however, was confined to Serena and Captain
Dan.  Toward Cousin Percy she was extremely polite, but never
patronizing, perhaps because that gentleman was so languidly at
ease in her presence.  He listened to her conversation with
apparent interest, but his answers, gravely delivered, were at
times a trifle sarcastic.  She seemed to be a bit afraid of Cousin
Percy, afraid and somewhat suspicious.

To Gertrude she was gushingly friendly, overwhelmingly so, and the
friendship was, to all outward seeming, returned.  Daniel, who had
gathered from his daughter's previous remarks that she disliked the
great Annette, was surprised and dismayed.

"For goodness sakes, Gertie," he demanded, "what did you kiss her
for?  Anybody'd think she was somebody near and dear that you
hadn't laid eyes on for ten years.  And she was here only
yesterday.  Do you love her so much you have to hug her every time
you see her?"

Gertrude laughed.  "Do you think I do?" she asked.

"I don't know what to think.  It's a mighty sudden love, that's all
I've got to say.  Do you want her here ALL the time?"

"Well, when she is here I know where she is."

"So does anybody within hearin'.  I never saw such a change in a
person as there is in you.  And all inside of a week.  You used to
go out of the room when that Black woman came into it.  Now you
kiss her when she comes."

"No, Daddy; I kiss her when she goes."

With which puzzling statement the interview ended.

B. Phelps accompanied his wife when the latter called to discuss
the Canby invitation.  His coming was unusual, the Dotts had seen
comparatively little of him since their arrival in Scarford.
Daniel was glad he came.  Black and he were not altogether
congenial; the captain would not have chosen him as an intimate;
but at least there would be someone present with whom he could
exchange a word.  As B. Phelps did not care for Chapters and "At
Homes" any more than he did, there was that bond between them.

Mr. Hungerford was, for a wonder, not in when the callers came.  He
went out very little nowadays, except when Miss Dott and her mother
went; then he was always ready to go.

Annette declared that the Canby "At Home" was certain to be a most
unusual affair.  "So--er--well, so different," she explained.
"Miss Canby is a very unusual woman, a unique woman, and her
affairs are always as unique as she is.  So truly Bohemian.  I
adore Bohemians, don't you, Gertrude?"

Gertrude said she did.  "I don't know that I've met a great many,"
she added, "but I'm sure they must be very enjoyable."

"Oh, they are!  And Miss Canby is one.  The very first time I
attended a gathering at her home I said to myself:  'THIS is true
Bohemianism.'"

Captain Dan was astonished.

"Why!" he exclaimed, "Miss Canby's folks came from Down-East
somewheres--Bangor, Maine, I think 'twas.  She told me so,
herself."

The remark was received in various ways, by various individuals.
Serena frowned; Gertrude bit her lip; B. Phelps Black burst into a
roar of laughter.

"I did not mean my statement literally, Captain Dott," explained
Annette in gracious toleration.  "But when people are independent
and free from the usual conventionalities, as Miss Canby is, we
speak of them as Bohemians.  It is an--er--a term among artists and
musicians, I believe."

Daniel understood little or nothing of this.  He understood
perfectly well, however, that he had blundered somehow, a glance at
his wife's face told him that.  Gertrude smiled at him kindly and
observed:  "Father is like myself, his acquaintance in Bohemia has
been limited."

Captain Dan muttered that he guessed likely that was so, adding
that he had an Armenian steward once who was a pretty good fellow.
Then he subsided.  Serena took up the conversation, changing the
subject to the ever fruitful one of her beloved Chapter.  In a
moment the two ladies were deep in a discussion concerning the
election of National officers for the Legion, an election which was
to take place in Boston a few months later.  Gertrude joined in the
discussion, a proceeding which her father noticed with apprehension.

Mr. Black accepted an invitation to smoke, and he and Captain Dan
went into the library.  After the cigars were lighted, B. Phelps,
lowering his voice so as not to be heard in the adjoining room,
said suddenly:

"Dan, is that daughter of yours going off her head like the rest of
the females?"

Daniel was indignant.

"Off her head!" he repeated.  "Gertie!  She's as smart and sensible
a girl as ever lived.  I say so, even if she is my daughter.  What
are you talkin' about?"

Mr. Black waved his hand.  "Keep your hair on, Dan," he counselled
pleasantly.  "I like Gertrude, always have.  I always thought she
was as sensible as she is pretty, and that's saying something.  But
what has got into her since she got here in Scarford?  You used to
tell me she didn't care anything for society and all the rest of
it; now she seems to be as daffy as her--well, as my wife, if you
like that better."

"Daffy!  See here, Barney Black, I--"

"Hush!  Don't begin to yell or we'll have that hen convention in
the parlor down on us.  I'm not finding any fault with your
daughter.  I'm only talking for her good and yours.  What does she
care about this confounded Chapter foolishness?"

"She don't care nothin' about it."

"Doesn't she?  She seems to be mighty interested in that talk
they're having in there now.  And she was as joyful as the rest of
'em over this Canby woman's 'At Home.'"

The captain was quite aware of the apparent joy; and Gertrude's
growing interest in her mother's Chapter and its members was too
obvious to be denied.  Nevertheless, he tried to deny it.

"Oh, that's nothin'," he declared.  "She and Serena have always
been plannin' together over things, and this Chapter's like the
rest, that's all.  As for the 'At Home,' why--why--well, Gertie's
young, and young folks generally like a good time."

"A good time!  Great Scott!  Have you ever been to that Canby
apartment and seen the crowd that--No, of course you haven't.  Dan,
if my wife heard me she'd take my head off, but you're an old
friend of mine and I like your daughter.  Listen to me:  Don't let
Gertrude go to that 'At Home' if you can help it."

"Don't let her!  How am I goin' to help it?"

"I don't know.  Keep her in the house.  Lock the door and hide the
key.  I would.  If she was my daughter I'd--I'd chloroform her.
Hanged if I wouldn't!"

Captain Dan's indignation was rapidly changing to alarm.

"See here, Barney," he demanded, "what are you tryin' to say,
anyhow?  What's wrong with this Miss Canby?  Out with it."

"Nothing's wrong with her, so far as I know.  And yet there isn't
anything right.  She's good enough, I guess, and she can play the
piano like a streak, but she's a fool.  She and the gang she is
with are bleached-haired, frowzy-headed idiots, who hope they are
Bohemians--whatever that is.  They like to do what they call
unusual things; they like to shock people--think it's smart.  Don't
let your wife or Gertrude--Gertie, especially--get in with that
crowd.  They don't belong there.  And there's something else."

He hesitated.  Daniel, trembling with anxiety, urged him to
continue.

"What is it?" he begged.  "What is the somethin' else?"

"Oh, nothing.  It isn't my business anyhow.  I ought to keep
still."

"Keep still!  After sayin' as much as you have?  You go ahead or
I'll shake it out of you one word at a time.  Heave ahead now!  I'm
waitin'."

"Well, then, don't get mad.  Remember I'm saying it merely as a
friend.  Is Gertie engaged to be married?"

"Sartin she is.  To a fine fellow, too.  What of it?"

"Why, this:  If she is engaged why is she trotting about with this
precious cousin of yours--this Percy Hungerford?"

Captain Dan started violently.  He had asked himself that very
question many times during the week which had just passed.  To have
someone else ask it, however, was too much.  He bristled up like an
angry cat.

"By Godfreys!" he sputtered, "what do you mean?  Do you mean to
hint--"

"I'm not hinting anything.  Be quiet, or I'll stop right here.
What do you know about Hungerford, anyway?  Why is he here at your
house?"

"Here!  Why--why, he's here 'cause we asked him to stay.  He's on
his vacation and he's just makin' us a visit.  As to knowin"
anything about him, what do you mean by that?  Do YOU know anything
about him?"

"Not much.  Neither does anyone else; that's the queer part of it.
While old lady Dott--your Aunt Lavinia--occupied this house, he was
here a good deal.  He didn't do anything then, except to be a
general high-flyer around town with a few chums like Monty Holway,
who is another gay young bird with money.  After Mrs. Dott went
abroad to live, he left Scarford and went to Providence a while;
after that to Boston and New York, and various places.  He had the
reputation of being something of a sport, and in with a fast set.
Now, all at once, he comes back here and settles down on--with you
and your wife.  What did he do that for?"

"I--I don't know.  He didn't intend to settle.  Says he didn't,
anyway.  As for bein' a sport--well, he's told us about that, told
Serena the whole yarn.  He owned up that he never took life very
seriously while Aunt Laviny lived; had plenty of money and didn't
have to.  But now it's different.  He's realized that he must work,
same as other folks, and he's doin' it.  He works for some magazine
or other, doin' what he calls literary work."

"Humph!  What magazine is it?"

"I don't know.  I never asked."

"Well, all right.  I tell you, honestly, Dan, there's a feeling
that he is working you and the family for easy marks.  You give him
a good home and plenty to eat and smoke and it's a pretty soft
thing for him.  As to work--Humph!"

Daniel hesitated now.  He had had faint but uneasy suspicions along
this very line, although these, like other suspicions and
misgivings, he had kept to himself.  And Serena was such a firm
believer in Cousin Percy; at the least hint against that young
gentleman she flew to arms.  The captain remembered this and his
strong sense of loyalty to his wife caused him to remonstrate.  He
shook his head.

"No, no," he said, "you're wrong there, Barney, sure you are.  Why,
Percy has done a lot of writin' and such since he's been here.  He
goes to his room 'most every afternoon to write, and he's helped
Serena with her Chapter papers and speeches more than you could
imagine.  As for Gertie's trottin' around with him, that's just
foolishness.  She's gone to picture shows and such when he asked
her to, but that's only because she likes such things and wanted
company her own age.  It's all foolishness, I tell you.  If anybody
says 'tain't, you tell 'em I say they're lyin'.  By Godfreys! if
they say it to me I'll--"

"There! there!  Keep your hair on, I tell you."

"'Tis on, what there is left of it.  But, Barney, what sort of talk
have you been givin' me?  If Hungerford ain't all right, how is it
that he knows so many folks in this town?  How is it that he's
invited everywhere, to all sorts of places, into everybody's
houses?  Invitations!  Why, he gets more'n we do, and," with a
sigh, "land knows that's enough, nowadays."

B. Phelps grunted contemptuously.  "It is easy enough to get
invitations," he observed.  "When you've been in this town as long
as I have you'll know that any young fellow, who is as good looking
and entertaining as he is, will be invited to all sorts of things.
The girls like him, so do their mothers--some of them.  But there!
I may be all wrong.  Anyhow, I mustn't stay with you any longer or
Annette'll be suspicious that you and I are knocking her dashed
Chapter.  I've told you this for your own good.  Gertrude's a bully
girl; I always liked her--wished a good many times I had a daughter
like her.  I should hate to see her get in wrong like--well, like
some people you and I know.  You keep her at home as much as you
can.  Good Lord, man!" with sudden vehemence, "do you want your
house to get to be an empty d----d hole, only fit to sleep in,
like--like--Yes, Annette, I'm coming."

This conversation remained in Captain Dan's head for days.  It
disturbed him greatly.  Several times he made up his mind to speak
to Serena concerning it, but each time he changed his mind.  He
even thought of writing a note to John Doane, urging the latter to
run down to Scarford for a few days, but he was fearful that to do
this might be a mistake.  John would tell Gertrude, and she might
not like it.  Besides, Gertrude had said that she expected John to
come before very long.  So Daniel did nothing further than to
remonstrate mildly concerning the acceptance of Miss Canby's
invitation.  As he gave no reason for his objection, other than the
general one that he was tired and did not care about it, his
remonstrances were unheeded.  He need not go unless he wished, said
Serena, she and Gertrude and Cousin Percy could go and he could
stay at home and rest.  Gertrude said the same.  When the evening
came, the whole family went, the captain included.

Annette had characterized the gifted Miss Canby as unusual, and the
social affairs given by her as unique.  After the first half hour
in the "Bohemian" apartments, Daniel would have agreed with her,
although his opinion might have been more emphatically expressed.
Miss Canby WAS unusual, her apartments were unusual, and the
"Bohemians" there gathered most unusual of all.

Gertrude, strolling about in the company of a young gentleman--not
a Bohemian, but, like herself, merely a commonplace guest--found
her father seated in a corner, sheltered by a Japanese screen and
an imitation palm, and peering out at the assembled company with a
bewildered expression on his face.

"Well, Daddy," she asked, "are you having a good time?"

Daniel, who had not noticed her approach, started and looked up.

"Hey?" he asked.  "A good time!  My soul and body!  Yes, I'm havin'
a good time.  I haven't had a better one since I went to the
sideshow at the circus.  Who's that long-legged critter with the
lay-down collar and the ribbon necktie?  That one over there,
talking to the woman with the hair that don't match.  What ails
him?"

Gertrude looked and laughed.  "That is Mr. Abercrombie, the poet,"
she said.  "Nothing ails him; he is a genius, that's all."

"Humph!  That must be bad enough, then.  What--"

He stopped.  His daughter's escort had caught his attention.  The
young man's face was familiar.

"Why!" he faltered, "isn't this--"

"This is Mr. Holway, Daddy.  I wanted you to meet him."

Her tone was quite serious, but there was an odd expression in her
eye.  Mr. Holway, blond, immaculate and blase, bowed.  Then he,
too, started.

"Eh!" he exclaimed.  "Why, by Jove!"

Captain Dan nodded.  "Yes," he observed, quietly.  "Well, I'm much
obliged to you, Gertie, but Mr. Holway and I have met before."

Gertrude's surprise, real or assumed, was great.

"Have you?" she cried.  "Why, how odd!  When?"

Mr. Holway, himself, answered.  He seemed confused and his
explanation was hurriedly given.

"Your father and I met one afternoon at--at the Palatine," he
stammered.  "I--I should have known.  Tacks told me, but--but I had
forgotten.  I'm ashamed of my part in that, Mr. Dott.  I really am.
I owe you an apology.  I hope you--I hope--"

Captain Dan nodded.  "All right," he said briefly.  "Don't say any
more about it."

"But--but I hope you and Miss Dott won't--won't think--"

"We won't.  I won't, anyway.  I stopped thinking about it long ago.
Well, Gertie, what have you been doin'?  'Most time to go home, is
it?"

"Time to go home?  Why, Daddy, we've just got here.  We haven't
been here an hour yet."

"Haven't we?  I want to know!  Seemed a good deal longer than that
to me.  All right, don't you worry about me.  I can stand it, I
guess.  Where's your mother and--and Cousin Percy?"

"Mother is in the next room with Mrs. Lake and some more of the
Chapter members.  Cousin Percy is--Oh, here he comes now."

Hungerford appeared, strolling in their direction.  He seemed
surprised when he saw his relatives in company with Mr. Holway.

"Hello, Monty!" he said.  "You here?  How are you?"

The two young men shook hands.  Gertrude smiled upon them both.

"Father and Mr. Holway were renewing acquaintanceship," she
observed, cheerfully.  "It seems that they have met before."

Cousin Percy's acknowledgment of this statement was a brief "Oh,
indeed!"  He and his friend exchanged glances.

"The--er--performance is about to begin, I believe," announced Mr.
Hungerford.  "Our hostess has--er--reluctantly consented to be led
to the piano.  Shall you and I adjourn to the next room, Cousin?"

Gertrude shook her head.

"Oh, thank you," she said, "but Mr. Holway has been telling me the
most interesting stories about Scarford and the people in it, and I
want to hear the rest.  He is dreadfully sarcastic; I should not
listen, I know, but I want to.  Come, Mr. Holway."

She moved away, the flattered "Monty" in her wake.  Mr. Hungerford
gazed after them.  He appeared not altogether pleased.

"Very sociable, chatty chap, that friend of yours, I should judge,"
observed Captain Dan drily.

"Um-hm!" grunted Cousin Percy.  "Been chatting to you, has he?"

"No-o, not much this time.  But you remember I've had the pleasure
before."

Mr. Hungerford doubtless remembered; he looked as if he did.  Then
he, too, strolled away.  The captain, left alone, indulged in a
quiet chuckle.

Miss Canby's rendition on the piano, of what she was pleased to
call "A sweet little thing of Tschaikovsky's--one of my favorites,"
was enthusiastically applauded, and she obliged with another, and
still another.  Then Mr. Abercrombie was prevailed upon to read one
of his own outpourings of genius, a poem called "The Tigress," in
which someone, presumably the author, described the torments
involved in his adoration of a feminine person with "jetty brows
and lambent eyes," whose kiss was like "a viper's sting" and who
had, so to speak, raised the very dickens with his feelings.  He
read it with passionate fervor, and Captain Dan, listening, decided
that the Tigress must be a most unpleasant person.

However, judging by the acclaim of the rest of the audience, she
was a huge success, and the poet was coaxed into reading again,
this time something which he had labeled "Soul Beams," and in which
"love" rhymed with "dove" and "heart" with "dart" and "bliss" with
"kiss" in truly orthodox fashion.  Mr. Abercrombie's poetic gems
were not appreciated by the mercenary and groveling minions who
edited magazines, but here, amid his fellow Bohemians, they were
more than appreciated, a fact which their creator announced
gratified him more than he could express.  And yet, he seemed to
have little difficulty and less hesitation in expressing most
things.

Daniel was not enthusiastic over the poems.  He could not
understand a great deal of them, but he understood quite enough.
When B. Phelps Black winked at him from his seat at the other side
of the room, he did not return the wink, although he knew perfectly
well what it meant.

The poems were bad enough, according to his figuring, but when Miss
Beatrice Dusante tripped into the circle to slip and twist and
slide and gyrate in "one of her delightful Grecian dances," he
found himself looking about for a convenient exit.  Discovering
none he remained where he was and blushed for the company.

The Bohemians, however, did not blush; neither, to his amazement,
did Serena, who looked on and applauded with the rest.  He found
some comfort in the absence of his daughter, who was not among the
seated guests, but, at last, even this comfort was dispelled.  He
caught a glimpse of Gertrude, still accompanied by the attentive
Mr. Holway, standing in the back row.  He tried to catch her eye
and, by frowns and shakes of the head, to indicate his disapproval
of the dance and her presence as a witness.  He did not succeed in
attracting her attention, but when, a moment later, she and her
escort moved off, he was somewhat relieved.  Gertrude looked as if
she did not care for Miss Dusante's dancing any more than he did.
Mr. Hungerford, also, did not appear interested.  He was looking at
Miss Dott and "Monty," and there was a frown on his face.

Upon their return, after they were together in the library at home,
Daniel's shocked indignation burst forth.

"Well!" he declared, "that's enough.  That's the limit, that is!
What kind of a gang IS that, anyway?"

His wife regarded him with astonishment.  Gertrude, after one
glance at his face, turned and walked to the other side of the
room, where she busied herself with a book on the table.  Cousin
Percy smiled broadly.

"Gang!" repeated Serena.  "Gang!  Why, what are you talking about,
Daniel?"

"I'm talkin' about that gang at that Canby woman's place to-night.
I never saw such a brazen gang anywhere.  Haven't they got ANY
respectability?  How'd they come to let that dancin' thing in
there?  Couldn't they see her before she got in?  Couldn't they
stop her?  Why--"

Serena interrupted.  "Stop her!" she repeated.  "How could they
stop her?  She was an invited guest."

"Who invited her?  That's what I want to know.  Who invited her?"

"Miss Canby, I suppose.  She is a friend of hers."

"A friend!  A FRIEND!"

"Yes.  Now, Daniel, don't be silly.  I know what you mean, and I
must say I sympathize with you just a little.  Annette explained to
me afterwards though, so I suppose it is all right.  Annette says
that this Miss Dusante's dancing is all the rage now.  She has made
a study of the ancient Grecian dances and she does them everywhere.
She is paid high prices for it, too."

"I don't doubt it.  I should think she'd want to be.  Did you see
the way she was dressed?  I never--"

"Hush, Daniel!  That was the old Greek costume.  Miss Canby told me
all about it; the old Greeks used to dress like that."

"They did!  Then it didn't take 'em long.  Brazen thing!  Why!"
with a sudden turn upon his daughter, "Gertie--Gertie Dott, stop
fussin' with that book and listen to me.  You were there; I saw you
lookin' on.  YOU didn't like that Greek dancin', did you?"

Gertrude hesitated.  Her cheeks were red and, for a moment, she
seemed to find it difficult to speak.  Then, after a quick look at
her mother, she answered, calmly:

"Like it!  Why not, Daddy?  It is all the rage, just as Mother
says, and it is certainly graceful.  I rather think I should like
to learn it myself.  I understand Miss Dusante gives lessons."

Daniel's mouth opened and remained open.  Cousin Percy stared at
the speaker.  Even Serena, defender of the dances of the ancient
Greeks, looked shocked.

"Why, Gertie!" she cried.  "Gertie!  You! the idea!"

"Why not, Mother?"

"Why not!  I should think you would know why not.  I never heard
you speak like that before."

"I never saw any dances like those before.  I have heard about
them, of course, but I never saw them.  We never did--you or father
or any of us--a great many things that we are doing now.  We are
learning all the time; that's what you told me, Mother.  I never
went to a Bohemian 'At Home' before."

Serena's eyes snapped.  "Well, you'll never go to another one," she
declared, "if it's going to have this effect on you."

The young lady smiled.  "Why, of course I shall," she cried.  "I
want to learn, just as you do, Mother.  And I mean to.  Good-
night!"

She left the room and they heard her ascending the stairs.  Daniel
and Serena looked at each other.  Cousin Percy looked at them both.

Captain and Mrs. Dott had a long talk before retiring.  The captain
derived some satisfaction from the talk; it seemed to him that
their daughter's declaration of independence had startled Serena
somewhat.  She even went so far as to admit that, in spite of Mrs.
Black's explanations and gracious commendations, she, herself, had
not been impressed by Miss Canby's guests.  She and Gertrude would
have an interview in the morning, she declared.

Captain Dan waited hopefully for the result of that interview.  The
hope was crushed when Serena reported to him.

"It is all right, Daniel," said Mrs. Dott.  "I guess Gertie didn't
really mean what she said about taking lessons of the Dusante
woman.  She thought the dances graceful, and they were, of course.
But Gertie is older now--yes, she is older, and she expects to have
her own way more than she has had it.  She said a lot of things to
me, things that she hasn't said before.  It seems that when she
first came home she was inclined to think I had exaggerated when I
wrote her about the lovely people here in Scarford, and the
Chapter, and the brilliant women in it.  Now, she sees I was right.
She has helped me a good deal already with my Chapter work, and she
means to do more.  She is going to join the Chapter herself.  She--
why, what's the matter?"

Daniel had made a choking noise in his throat; he appeared to be
strangling.

"Noth--nothin'," he gasped.  "Nothin' much.  I'm all right.  But--
but you said--why, how can Gertie join the Chapter?  She ain't
goin' to stay here.  She's goin' back to college soon as her
vacation's over."

Serena shook her head.  There was just a shade of doubt, almost of
trouble, in her voice as she answered.

"No-o," she said, "no, Daniel, she isn't.  She isn't going back any
more.  She thinks it isn't necessary."

"Not necessary!  Why, how you talk, Serena!  Not necessary to
finish out her last term!  What do you mean?  One of the things
that troubled me most, back there in Trumet before we was rich, was
that I might not afford for her to finish out at that college, and
now, when I can, she ain't goin'.  I say she is.  I say she's got
to."

"I don't believe that will make any difference, Daniel.  She seems
to have made up her mind.  I'm kind of sorry, I must say, but she
is obstinate.  She says it is so much more interesting here that
she is going to stay.  You can talk to her, if you want to, but I
don't think it will do any good."

Serena was right; although Captain Dan did talk to his daughter his
arguments and persuasions were quite useless.

"No, Daddy," said Gertrude, "I am going to stay right here.  I told
you that if I were needed I should come home.  I have come home and
I am needed.  I shall not go back.  It is only the last half term,
anyway."

"Yes, but then's when the girls have all their best times, all the
dances and--and entertainments and society times.  You said so.  Do
you want to miss all those?"

Gertrude smiled.  "Oh," she observed, "I expect to have a great
many 'society times,' as you call them, right here in Scarford.
There seems to be no lack of them, and Mother is decidedly in the
swim.  It's no use, Daddy; my mind is made up.  Don't you worry, it
is all right."

"Well--well, I--I must say--See here, are you really going to join
that Chapter thing?"

"Yes."

"You are!  After all you said--"

"Yes, no matter what I may have said."

"By--by time!  I don't know what to do with you.  I--I set a lot of
store by you, Gertie.  I kind of banked on you.  And now--"

Gertrude's expression changed.  She patted his cheek.

"Keep on banking on me, Daddy dear," she whispered, "perhaps I'm
not altogether hopeless, even yet."

But her father, for once, refused to believe her.

"I don't like it," he declared.  "And other folks don't like it,
either.  Why, Barney Black got after me only the other day about
you.  He wanted to know why you--you, an engaged girl--was cruisin'
around so much with this Cousin Percy of ours.  He thought 'twas
queer.  I said--"

Gertrude rose to her feet.  Her arm was snatched from the captain's
shoulder so quickly that he jumped.

"Daddy!" she cried, her cheeks blazing, "do you mean to say that
you have been discussing me with--with Mr. Black?"

"I didn't start it, he did.  He said--"

"I don't care what he said.  Oh, the impertinence of it!  And you
listened! listened and believed--"

"I didn't say I believed it."

"You did believe it, though.  I can see you did.  I shan't try to
comfort you any more.  You deserve all that is coming to you.
And," with a deliberate nod, "it is coming."

"Comin'!  It's HERE!  Gertie, there's another thing:  What about
John?  What do you think John would say if he knew you weren't
goin' back to college?"

Gertrude looked at him.  Her lips twitched.

"Oh," she said, mischievously, "as to that--well, Daddy, you see,
he DOESN'T know it."

That afternoon Daniel wrote a letter.  He said nothing to anyone,
not even Serena, about the letter, but wrote it in the solitude of
the library and posted it with his own hands.  Just before sealing
the envelope he added this postscript:  "Whether you come or not,
don't tell a soul that I wrote you this.  And, if you do come, just
let them think it was all on your own hook.  THIS IS IMPORTANT."

On Saturday evening there was to be a meeting of the Chapter, and
on Tuesday Serena returned from committee with the joyful news that
Gertrude was to be admitted to membership at that meeting.  The
young lady expressed herself as delighted.  Cousin Percy extended
congratulations.  Captain Dan said nothing.  Later, he visited
Azuba in the kitchen, and there he received another shock.

Azuba was not, as usual, busy with her cooking or scrubbing.  She
was seated in a chair by the window, reading a paper.  She looked
up as he entered, but immediately resumed her reading.  The captain
waited for her to speak.  As a general thing he did not have to
wait.

"Hello, Zuba," he hailed.

Azuba turned a page of the paper.  She did not answer.

"Hello!" he hailed again.  "What's the matter, Zuba?  Gone into a
trance, have you?"

"Hey?"  Azuba did look up then, but at once looked down again.
"Hey?" she repeated.  "No, I ain't in no trance.  I'm readin',
that's all."

"I should think that was enough, if it fixes you so you can't speak
to anybody.  Must be mighty interestin' readin'."

"Hey?  Interestin'?  I guess 'tis interestin'!  It's more'n that,
it's upliftin', too.  I'm just beginnin' to realize what I am."

"That so?  Well, what are you?"

"I'm a woman, that's what I am."

She made the declaration with the air of one imparting news of a
startling discovery.  Daniel laughed.

"Is that so!" he exclaimed.  "Well, well!  I want to know!  I
always suspected it, Zuba, but I'm glad you told me, just the same.
Does it say so in that paper?"

Azuba rose from her chair.  She did not laugh; she was intensely
serious.

"It says a lot of things," she announced, "a lot of things I never
thought of afore.  I don't mean that exactly.  I've thought of 'em,
but I never knew how to make anything out of my thoughts.  I just
kept thinkin' and let it go at that.  Now, I'm beginnin' to
realize.  I'm a woman, I am, a free woman.  That paper is for free
women.  Have you read it, Cap'n Daniel?"

Captain Dan took the paper which she extended to him at arm's
length.  He recognized it immediately.  It was "The Woman's Voice,"
official organ of the National Guild of Ladies of Honor.  Serena
was a subscriber.

He glanced at the paper and tossed it on the table.

"Yes," he said shortly, "I've read some of it."

Azuba seized the discarded journal as if it were a precious
treasure, a thing to be treated tenderly and with reverence.

"Some of it!" she repeated.  "Humph!  I'd read all of it, if I was
you.  'Twould do the men good if they was made to read every number
ten times over.  It's a wonderful paper.  It's opened MY eyes, I
can tell you that."

It had, apparently, opened her mouth as well, although to do that
required no great urging at any time.  She went on to preach the
glories of the "Voice," and concluded by reading an editorial
which, like Mrs. Lake's addresses at Chapter meetings, contained a
great many words and, to the captain's mind, little understanding.

He listened, fidgeting impatiently, to perhaps two-thirds of the
editorial, and then he interrupted.

"Hold on!  Heave to!" he ordered.  "For the land sakes, Zuba,
what's set you goin' like this?  Are YOU goin' to--to--"

"To what?  Am I goin' to what?"

"Are you goin' to 'advance' or whatever you call it?  What ails all
you women, anyway?"

"What ails us?  Hain't I been readin' you what ails us?"

"You've been readin' a whole lot, but I've heard it all before.
You want to be 'free'!  Confound it, you ARE free, ain't you?  You
want to take your place in the world!  Why, you've had the front
place ever since Eve got Adam to eat the apple.  She was skipper of
that craft, wasn't she!  And us men--most of us, anyhow--have been
fo'mast hands ever since.  What is it you want?  Want to vote?  Go
ahead and vote.  I'M willin'."

But Azuba laughed scornfully.

"Vote!" she repeated.  "I don't care whether I vote or not."

"Then what do you want?"

"We want--" Azuba hesitated, "we want--what this paper says we
want.  And," with determination, "we're goin' to have it."

"All right, have it, then!  Meantime, let's have dinner.  It's
pretty nigh half-past five, and the table ain't set.  And," with a
sniff, "there's somethin' burnin' somewheres, I smell it."

This statement had an effect.  Azuba dropped the precious paper and
sprang to open the oven door.

"Well!" she declared, "it's all right.  'Twas that cranberry pie,
and 'twas only beginnin' to scorch.  It's all right."

"Glad to hear it.  Now, say, Zuba, you take my advice; you're a
practical, sensible woman, I always said so.  Don't you get to be
silly, at your age."

It was an impolitic remark.  Azuba bristled.

"At my age!" she repeated.  "Humph!  I ain't so much older than
some folks in this kitchen, nor in the rest of the house, either.
What do you mean by silly?"

"I mean--I mean--well, I mean don't you get to joinin' lodges and
readin' papers and racin' out every night in the week to somethin'
or other.  It ain't worth while.  It's silly--just silly."

"Oh, is it!  Well, other women do it.  Your wife's been doin' it
ever since we got here.  And now Gertie's startin' in.  You always
made your brags that she was about as sensible, smart a girl as
ever drawed breath.  _I_ ain't got money; nobody's left ME a cart
load of dollars and a swell front house.  But I've got rights and
feelin's.  I'm a woman, a free woman, and if it ain't silly for
Mrs. Dott and Gertie to want to advance and--and so on, I cal'late
'tain't silly for me either.  Perhaps you'd like to have me tell
Serena that you said she was silly.  Shall I?"

Daniel did not answer, but his look was answer sufficient.  Azuba
smiled triumphantly.

"Practical," she sneered.  "No, Cap'n Daniel, I ain't been
practical so far, but I'm goin' to be.  I'm a-goin' to be.  You
watch me."

Her employer's guns were spiked.  He marched out of the kitchen,
slamming the door viciously.  The library was tenanted by Cousin
Percy, who was taking a nap on the lounge.  Upstairs, Gertrude was
helping her mother with a "report" of some kind.  Hapgood, the
butler, was in the hall, and he bowed respectfully.

"Yes, sir," he said.  "Did you wish anything, sir?"

"No," snarled Captain Dan, and went out for a walk.  This was the
last straw.  If Azuba was going crazy the situation was hopeless
indeed.  And he had received no reply to his letter.

Hapgood, left alone in the hall, grinned, strolled into the library
and, regardless of Mr. Hungerford's presence, filled his pockets
with cigars from his employer's box.  Downstairs, in the kitchen,
Azuba was busy getting dinner.  At intervals she burst out
laughing.

That evening Mr. "Monty" Holway called.



CHAPTER X


Mr. Holway's call was, ostensibly, a call upon the Dott family in
general, but it was to Gertrude that he addressed most of his
conversation.  The young lady was very affable and gracious.  She
expressed herself as glad to see him, and she appeared to be.
"Monty" was a voluble person, and he talked a great deal, although
a critic might possibly have considered his remarks more remarkable
for quantity than quality.  In the presence of Captain Dan he
appeared a trifle ill at ease, a fact which the captain attributed
to circumstances attending their first meeting.  Serena seemed
somewhat surprised at the call.  She regarded her daughter and Mr.
Holway with an odd expression, and, so it seemed to her husband,
was apparently dissatisfied or disturbed.  At all events she said
little and, when addressed, answered absent-mindedly.

Mr. Hungerford was the most surprised of all.  He had been out, and
when, returning, he found his friend in the drawing-room, his
greeting was not too cordial.  Mr. Holway also seemed embarrassed,
and a bit on his guard.

"Hello, Tacks!" he said, rising and extending his hand.

Cousin Percy did not see the hand, or, if he saw it, did not offer
his own.

"Hello," he said, gruffly.  Then, after a quick glance at the
quartette in the drawing-room, he pulled forward a chair and,
without waiting for an invitation, seated himself.

"How goes it?" inquired Monty.

"All right enough.  Oh--er--Gertrude, I've found out about that
recital affair.  It is next Wednesday afternoon.  I have arranged
for us to go.  Rather difficult business to manage, at such a late
date, but I managed to pull it off."

Gertrude smilingly declared that she was much obliged.  "I don't
know, of course," she added, "what Mother's plans for that day may
be, but if she is not busy I'm sure we shall be pleased to go.
Thank you for thinking of us."

Mr. Hungerford hesitated.  "Well," he said, "to tell you the truth,
I had supposed that Mrs. Dott might be rather busy.  It is your
committee meeting afternoon, isn't it, Mrs. Dott? and so I arranged
for only two.  Awfully stupid of me, I know."

"Oh, that will be all right.  You and Mother can go, then.  I don't
mind at all.  Really, I don't.  And Mother is so fond of music.  It
is all right, Mother," turning to Serena, who had been about to
speak, "you can go just as well as not.  You must.  Never mind the
committee meeting; I'll act as your substitute there."

Cousin Percy was not overcome with joy; at least, he managed to
restrain his ecstasy.  Mr. Holway volunteered a word.

"Is it the Wainwright Recital you are talking about?" he inquired,
eagerly.  "That's all right.  I can get cards for that.  It's a
cinch.  I'll see that you go, Miss Dott.  By George!  I'll--I'll go
myself.  Yes, I will, really.  We'll all go."

This prompt suggestion should have cleared the air.  Somehow it did
not.  Mr. Hungerford merely grunted.  Gertrude shook her head.

"No," she said, "I think, perhaps, I had better not go, after all.
But it is ever so nice of you to offer, Mr. Holway.  You and Cousin
Percy can take Father and Mother.  That will be splendid."

"Don't bother about me," put in Daniel, hastily.  Recitals were
almost as distasteful as Chapter meetings or "At Homes" to his
mind.

"It won't be any bother, I'm sure," declared Gertrude.  "Will it,
Cousin Percy?  Will it, Mr. Holway?"

Both the young gentlemen murmured their pleasure at the prospect of
acting as escorts to the elder members of the Dott family.  Serena
said she would "see about it," she couldn't say for certain whether
or not she would be able to attend the recital.  Captain Dan said
nothing.

The conversation dragged somewhat after this.  "Monty" and Mr.
Hungerford addressed the greater portion of their remarks to
Gertrude, only occasionally favoring Serena and Daniel with a word
or question.  To each other they were very uncommunicative.  At
last, however, after Mr. Holway had given a very full account of a
"dinner dance" which he had recently attended, "a very exclusive
affair, only the best people, you know," Percy, who had been
listening impatiently, turned toward him and drawled:

"I remember that dance.  Beastly tiresome, I judged it would be, so
I sent regrets.  I heard you enjoyed yourself, old chap.  Said I
imagined so, considering your company.  By the way, that must be
getting quite serious, that affair of yours.  When may we expect
the announcement?"

Holway colored.  His usual facility of speech seemed to have
deserted him.

"Announcement!" he stammered.  "Announcement!  What--what--"

His friend laughed.

"Oh, it's all right, old man," he observed.  "Don't get excited.
She's a charming girl.  No one blames you."

"Monty" continued to sputter.  Gertrude was all excitement.

"Oh, how interesting!" she said.  "Do tell us about her, Mr.
Holway.  Do I know her?"

"Know her!"  Mr. Holway's indignation was intense.  "I--I don't
know her myself.  He's just guying, Miss Dott.  He--he thinks
because he--he is so confoundedly fascinating, and has so many--so
many--

"Oh, that reminds me, Tacks," turning upon the smiling Hungerford,
"I saw a friend of yours yesterday.  She looked quite desolate,
quite broken-hearted, my word she did.  You were a little cruel
there, weren't you, my boy?  Just a bit cruel.  Everyone expected--"

He did not finish the sentence, but his expression indicated that
much was expected.  It was Cousin Percy's turn to color.

"Don't be an idiot, Monty," he snapped.  "That is, more of an idiot
than you can help.  Don't mind him, Gertrude; he has an amazing
idea of repartee, that's all."

Serena volunteered a remark concerning the weather just then.  She
observed that it might be raining, it had looked that way before
dinner.  Mr. Holway possibly considered that a hint was involved;
at any rate, he rose and announced that he must be going.  Gertrude
begged him not to hurry, they had all enjoyed his call so much, she
said.  Cousin Percy suddenly declared that he would accompany his
friend on his way, a walk would do him good.  Monty expressed no
enthusiasm at the prospect of company, but the pair left the house
together.

After they had gone, Daniel turned to his wife.

"Humph!" he observed, "what sort of talk do you call that?  I
thought those two were chums; and yet I didn't know but they was
goin' to fight one spell.  It's a good thing you hove in that about
the rain when you did, Serena."

Serena was grave.  "Gertie," she inquired, "did you ask that young
man to call here?"

Gertrude was the picture of surprised innocence.

"Ask him to call?" she repeated.  "Mr. Holway, do you mean?  I
don't know.  I think not.  Why?"

"WHY?"  Captain Dan almost shouted it.  His wife motioned him to be
quiet.

"Hush, Daniel," she said.  "You know why, Gertie, as well as I do.
You are engaged to be married."

Gertrude smiled.  "Of course I am," she answered.  "What of it?"

"What OF IT?"

"Hush, Daniel, hush!  Engaged girls, Gertie, are not supposed to
have young men calling upon them."

"Oh," with a shrug.  "I don't know that he was calling on me.  He
did not ask for me when he came.  And you and Daddy were here all
the time.  Besides, merely because I am engaged isn't any reason
why I should retire from the world altogether, is it?  Mrs. Lake
says--"

Daniel struck the table with his fist.

"Mrs. Lake!" he shouted.  "Mrs. Lake don't live with her husband.
She's a grass widow, that's what she is."

"She is one of Mother's dearest friends, and any friend of Mother's
should be good enough for me."

The captain choked.  "You--you talk to her, Serena," he stammered;
"I can't."

Serena looked more troubled than ever.

"Gertie," she faltered, "if Mrs. Lake has been advising you--to--
to--"

"She hasn't advised me at all.  Now, Mother, what IS the use of all
this?  If I have learned anything from you and your Chapter friends
it is to be broad-minded and independent.  If Mrs. Lake is not a
living example of independence, who is?"

Serena could not seem to find an answer at the moment.  Her husband
tried again.

"Gertie Dott," he declared, "I--I don't know what to make of you,
all at once.  And John Doane wouldn't either.  If John knew--"

Gertrude interrupted.  "That's enough, Daddy," she said, firmly.
"I am quite willing John shall know; when I am ready I shall tell
him.  He is a dear, good fellow, in his way, but--"

She hesitated.  Her parents asked a question in concert.

"But what?" they demanded.

"Why--why, nothing of importance.  But I am learning here in
Scarford.  My opportunity has come, just as yours did, Mother.  I
am a free woman and I shall not be a slave--a SLAVE to any man."

With which remark, a quotation from a paper read at the most recent
Chapter meeting, she walked from the room.  Her astonished parents
looked at each other.  Daniel was the first to speak.

"My soul and body!" he gasped.  "What--what--Serena, did you hear
what she said?  That about John?  That he was a good fellow--in his
way?  In his WAY!  My soul and body!"

Serena shook her head.

"I--I don't believe she meant it, Daniel," she said.  "I'm sure she
didn't.  She's just a little carried away, that's all.  All this
society--this altered social position of ours--has turned her head
the least bit.  She didn't mean it.  I'll have another talk with
her pretty soon."

"I should say you'd better.  Serena, do you know what I've done?
Done on my own hook, I mean.  I've written--"

He paused.  The disclosure which, on the impulse of the moment, he
had been about to make was, for him, a serious one.  He had written
the letter "on his own hook," without telling his wife of his
action.  What would she say if he told her now, so long afterward?

"You've done?  What have you done?" asked Serena sharply.

The captain still hesitated.  Before his mind was made up the front
door opened and Cousin Percy made his appearance.  He entered the
hall quickly, and to Mr. Hapgood--who hastened from somewhere or
other to take his coat and hat--he said nothing, except to snarl a
comment on the butler's slowness.  He did not speak to the Dotts
either, but tramped savagely up the stairs.  His face, as seen by
the electric light, was flushed and frowning.

Serena turned to her husband.

"How cross he looked," she said, wonderingly.  "I never saw him so
before.  What do you suppose has happened?"

Speculation concerning Cousin Percy's evident perturbation caused
her to forget the disclosure Captain Dan had been about to make.
By the time she remembered to ask about it the captain had decided
not to tell.  He fabricated some excuse or other, and the excuse
was accepted, to his great relief.

None of the Dott household attended the Wainwright recital.  Mr.
Holway called on Wednesday, just after luncheon, to say that he had
obtained the necessary cards, but his kindness went for nought.  He
stayed, so it seemed to Daniel, a good deal longer than was
necessary, and Mr. Hungerford, who remained in the room every
moment of the time, evidently thought so, too.  So did Serena.
Gertrude, however, was very cordial, and again begged the visitor
not to hurry.

Saturday evening was that of the Chapter meeting, the meeting at
which Gertrude was to be made a member.  That forenoon Azuba
electrified her mistress by expressing an ardent desire to become a
member also.  Her wish was not received with enthusiasm.

"Why, what do you want to do that for, Azuba?" asked Serena in
amazement.

"Why shouldn't I want to?  You're a member, ain't you?  Gertie's
goin' to be a member to-night, ain't she?"

"Yes.  But--but--"

"Well, but what?"

"I didn't know you were interested in such things.  You never were
when we lived in Trumet."

Azuba dismissed the past with a scornful sniff and a wave of the
hand.

"Trumet!" she repeated.  "Trumet ain't nothin'.  Nobody's anything
in Trumet.  We're in Scarford now, and Scarford's a progressive,
up-to-date place.  We've all changed since we've been here, and I'm
changin' much as anybody.  I've been hearin' your papers, when you
read 'em to Gertie and the cap'n, and I've been readin' 'The
Voice,' too.  Yes ma'am, I've read it and I've found out what a
back number I've been.  But, I ain't goin' to be so no more.  I'm
goin' to be as up-to-date as the next one, even if I do have to
wash dishes for a livin'.  Serena--Mrs. Dott, I mean--I'd like
first rate to join that Chapter of yours.  You put my name in to-
night and maybe it can be voted on next meetin'."

"But--but, Azuba, are you sure you know what it means?  Do you
think your husband would want you to--"

"My husband!  What's he got to do with it?  If we free women have
got to be slaves to our husbands it's a pretty state of things, I
must say.  You don't ask your husband every time you go to meetin'
whether he likes it or not.  No, ma'am, you don't!  You're above
that, I cal'late.  And I shan't ask Labe neither--even if he was
where I could ask him, which he ain't.  Husbands!  Don't talk to me
about husbands!  THEY don't count."

Serena said that she would see what could be done and hurried away
to discuss the new development with the family.

"Of course she can't join," she declared.  "It is ridiculous.  The
idea!  I supposed she had more sense."

Daniel chuckled.  "So did I," he observed, "until she got shoutin'
independence to me the other day.  But it looked then as if she'd
got it bad.  All right, Serena, if Zuba Jane Ginn is goin' to make
speeches at your Chapter meetin's, I'll go any time.  You won't
have to ask me but once."

He laughed aloud.  His wife was vexed.

"Of course you think it's a great joke," she said.  "Anything that
makes trouble for me is a joke to you.  She can't join.  What do
you suppose Annette and Mrs. Lake and the rest would say if I
proposed my servant girl as a member?  Do stop being silly, if you
can.  What are you grinning at now?"

Captain Dan, repressing his grin with difficulty, explained that he
was thinking of what they would say.  Serena, giving him up in
disgust, turned to her daughter.

"Gertie," she begged, "why don't you say something?  Azuba can't
join that Chapter and you know it."

Gertrude shook her head.

"I suppose, she can't," she replied.  "And yet, I'm afraid, Mother,
that you will find that fact rather hard to explain to her.  Azuba
doesn't consider herself a servant, in the ordinary sense, at all.
She feels, I think, that she is a friend of the family.  And she
has a right, of course, to improve and advance in every way.  I am
very much pleased to know she is so ambitious."

"Ambitious!  Azuba Ginn!  What does she know about progress or
advancement?  Who put such ridiculous ideas in her head?"

"Perhaps I did.  She and I have had some long talks on the subject.
She asked questions and it was duty--and my privilege--to answer
them.  I am very hopeful of Azuba.  She is my first convert.  I
shall help her all I can."

"Help her!  Help her to what?  To be too high and mighty for her
place?  Help her to be dissatisfied with her station in life?"

"Yes; why not?  None of us should be satisfied, short of the very
highest.  Why, Mother, if you had been satisfied we might all be
stagnating in Trumet."

Serena abandoned the argument.  She refused to mention Azuba's
desire for advancement again.  Several times during the day Captain
Dan saw her regarding her daughter with the same odd, doubtful look
that she had worn when Mr. Holway made his first call.

After dinner that evening Gertrude and Serena hastened upstairs to
dress for the Chapter meeting.  Mr. Hungerford, after expressing
his regret that the gathering was not to be an "open" one and he,
therefore, would not be permitted to see Miss Dott become one of
the elect, went out.  When he first became a member of the
household it was his custom, on occasions of this kind, to remain
in the library as "company" for Captain Dan.  Now, however, he
seldom did this.  The captain did not mind; he preferred his own
society to that of Cousin Percy.

Just as the ladies descended the stairs the doorbell rang.  Hapgood
answered the ring, and the voice which replied to his polite query
concerning the caller's name was a familiar one.

"Why!" exclaimed Serena, "it is--isn't that--"

"It's John!" cried Gertrude.  "Why, JOHN!"

Mr. Doane pushed past the butler and entered the hall.  His glance
took in the group at the foot of the stairs, but it lingered upon
only one member of it.

"Gertie!" he said, and stepped forward.  Captain and Mrs. Dott
looked the other way; Hapgood gave his attention to the closing of
the door.

A moment later the young man was ready to shake hands with the less
important inhabitants of the mansion.  He did so heartily.

"My!" he exclaimed, "but I'm glad to see you all.  It seems a
hundred years since I did see you.  How are you?"

Serena answered.  Captain Dan, his first surprise over, seemed
nervous.

"We're real well," declared Serena.  "And it seems awfully good to
have you here.  Gertrude and I--"

Gertrude interrupted.

"But, John," she said, "how did you happen to come so unexpectedly?
I didn't know--you didn't write me a word about it."

"I didn't know it, myself.  That is, I wasn't sure of it.  You know
our junior partner, Mr. Griffin, has been very ill--I wrote you
that.  He is very ill even yet, but he is a little better, and so I
grabbed the opportunity.  I should have come before, just as soon
as--"

He paused.  Daniel, in the background, was grimacing and shaking
his head.

"As soon as what, John?" asked Gertrude.

"As soon as--as soon as I could.  You're glad I came, aren't you;
even if it was rather sudden?"

"Of course I am.  You know it."

Her tone was hearty enough, and yet Mr. Doane seemed to find
something lacking in it.  Serena, too, looked quickly at her
daughter.

"Of course she's glad," she declared.  "So are we all.  But what
are we thinking of?  Take off your things.  Where's your trunk?
Have the man bring it right in."

"There isn't any trunk.  There's a bag outside there, that's all.
My visit is likely to be a very short one.  If I should have a wire
that Mr. Griffin was worse it might be shorter still.  I should
have to go at once.  But we won't worry about that.  Dinner?  No,
thank you, I have dined."

Captain Dan ushered the newcomer into the drawing-room.  John
exclaimed at the grandeur of the apartment.

"Whew!" he whistled.  "You're fine, aren't you?  Gertie wrote me
how grand you were and I have been anxious to see the new house.
Gertie--why, Gertie! what is it?"

Gertrude was standing in the doorway.  She looked perplexed and
troubled.  John noticed, for the first time, that she was wearing
her coat and hat.

"Were you going out?" he asked.

Gertrude hesitated.  Serena answered for her.

"Gertie and I were going out," she said.  "It is Chapter night and
she was going to be made a member.  But you won't go now, of
course, Gertie.  I'll go--John will excuse me, I know--and you can
join at the next meeting.  It will be all right, I think.  It will
have to be, of course."

But Gertrude still hesitated.  Her father was surprised.

"Why, Gertie!" he cried.  "What are you standin' there for?
'Tain't likely you'll go to that meetin' now that John's come all
the way from Boston to see you.  Tell him you ain't goin'."

The young lady was plainly much disturbed.  She looked at Mr. Doane
and it was evident that she wanted to say something very much
indeed.  What she did say, however, was a surprise to everyone.

"I--I ought to go, John," she faltered.  "It is a very important
meeting.  I can't tell you--now--how important it is."

John's disappointment showed in his look, but his answer was
prompt.

"Then go, by all means," he said.  "I'll go with you, if I won't be
in the way."

But this self-sacrificing proposal was dubiously received by both
the ladies.  Serena shook her head.

"I'm afraid you couldn't do that, John," she said.

"It isn't an open meeting, and men are not admitted.  But Gertie
doesn't need to go."

"Yes, I do, Mother."

"No, you don't.  I'll explain to Mrs. Lake and the rest.  Of course
you won't go and leave John here alone."

"Daddy will be with him and I shall hurry home as soon as I can.  I
must go, John; I really must.  I will explain why later.  If I had
only known that you were coming!  If you had only written me!  WHY
did you come without writing?"

Captain Dan, fearful of the answer, and indignant at his daughter's
conduct, burst into protest.

"You ought to be glad he's come, anyhow," he declared.  "I cal'late
he thought--I don't care, Serena, I've said 'cal'late' all my life,
and I can't help forgettin' once in a while--I suppose John thought
he'd surprise you, Gertie.  And now you're goin' to clear out and
leave him, just on account of that--that Chapter of yours.  You
never used to be crazy about Chapters.  You used to poke fun at
'em.  You did and you know it.  But since you've got here to
Scarford--I can't help it, Serena; I'm mad clean through.  Can't
YOU tell that girl to stay to home where she belongs?"

"Gertie," began Serena, again; but her daughter would not listen.

"Don't, Mother!" she cried, "you are wasting time.  We shall be
late, as it is.  John knows that my going is necessary, or I should
not do it.  He trusts me to that extent, I hope."

"Of course," said Mr. Doane heartily.  "Run along and don't say any
more about it.  Come back as soon as you can, that's all.  Shan't I
come after you?  I can wait outside until the thing is over."

"No; I don't intend to wait until it is over.  Mother and I can
take a cab.  Come, Mother."

Serena reluctantly led the way to the hall.  Hapgood opened the
door.

"One moment, Mother," said Gertrude.  She left Serena on the step
and hurried back to the drawing-room.  Captain Dan and John were
standing there in silence.

"Daddy," said the young lady, "I think I left my pocketbook
upstairs in my room.  Will you get it for me?"

The captain ran to the stairs.  Gertrude stepped quickly over to
her lover.

"John," she whispered, "you will forgive me, won't you, dear?  I
MUST go.  It will spoil everything if I don't.  You see--why,
Daddy! you haven't found that pocketbook so soon!"

Daniel had reappeared in the doorway.

"I sent Hapgood for it," he announced.  "It's a good thing to make
him work once in a while.  What's the use of my runnin' errands
when I pay him wages to run 'em for me?  He'll be down in a
minute."

Gertrude did not seem pleased.  "Oh!" she exclaimed.  "Well, never
mind.  Why! here is the pocketbook in my bag, after all.  Good-by,
John.  I will hurry back.  You and Daddy will have a lot to talk
about, I know.  Good-by."

The door closed behind her.  Captain Dan stepped to the foot of the
stairs.

"Found it yet?" he shouted.

Hapgood answered from above.

"No, sir, not yet."

"Then keep on lookin' till you do.  It's a good excuse to keep him
out of the way," he explained, turning to Mr. Doane.  "He makes me
nervous, hangin' around and lookin' at me.  I never was brought up
to a butler and I can't get used to this one.  Come on into the
sittin'-room--library, I mean.  The furniture ain't so everlastin'
straight up and down there and there's somethin' to smoke--or there
ought to be, if Cousin Percy ain't smoked it first.  Come on,
John."

In the library, with lighted cigars and in comfortable easy chairs,
the two men looked at each other.

"Well, John," began the captain, "you--you come, didn't you?"

"Yes, of course.  I should have come as soon as I got your letter,
but I couldn't get away.  I was going to tell you that."

"Yes," drily, "I know you was.  If I hadn't cut across your bows,
you would.  Whew! if you had I guess likely there'd have been
somethin' doin'.  If Gertie or Serena knew I wrote you that letter
I'd stand to lose what hair I've got left.  Didn't I write you not
to mention that letter to a livin' soul?"

"You did.  But I couldn't understand why.  What is all this
secrecy, anyhow?  And what is troubling you about Gertie?"

"Well, now, I don't know as there's anything."

"Humph!  I judged there was a little of everything.  What is the
matter?  Out with it.

"Well--we-ell--you see--you see--"

"I don't see anything, Captain Dott."

"You saw how she was set on goin' to that Chapter meetin', didn't
you?  You saw that?"

"Yes, but what of it?"

"What of it?  What OF it?  Did she ever use to want to go to such
things?  Down in Trumet did she ever want to go?  I bet she didn't!
But now she does.  And she's goin' to join the thing--join it,
herself!  As if one loon--I mean as if one Chapter member in the
family wasn't enough.  I thought when Gertie come home she'd
probably keep her ma from goin' off the course altogether.  I
thought, with her level head, she'd swing us back into the channel
again.  But she didn't--she didn't.  John, Gertie's got the Chapter
disease worse than her ma ever had it, I do believe.  You've got to
talk to her, John, that's what you've got to do--talk to her."

John laughed.  He did not take the situation very seriously.  If
Gertrude wished to become interested in the Chapter, he was willing
she should.  She probably had a good reason for it.  Her insisting
upon attending a meeting on the very evening of his arrival was
odd--it did not seem like her--but she doubtless had a good reason
for that, too.

"Why don't you talk to her yourself, Captain?" he asked.

"Me!  Me talk to her!  I have, and what good has it done?  She
won't listen to me any more.  I don't mean she ain't kind to me and
lovin' and all that--she wouldn't be Gertie if she wasn't that--but
when it comes to Chapter business she's all on her ma's side."

"Why not talk to her mother, then?"

Daniel straightened in his chair.  "To Serena!" he repeated.  "Talk
against Chapter to Serena!  John, you don't know what you're
sayin'.  One time--just one--I did talk that way.  I biled over and
I damned that Chapter and the gang in it, cussed 'em in good plain
United States.  But I'll never do it again.  Once was enough."

He was so very serious that his companion fore-bore to laugh.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why!  John, you ain't married or you wouldn't ask that.  I'm a
peaceable body and I like peace in the house.  More'n that, I hate
to go 'round feelin' like a sneak thief.  That one damn made me
miserable for two days.  I never swore to Serena afore and I never
will again.  She was all cut up over it and in a way she was right.
No, swearin' aboard ship is one thing--I've had mates that couldn't
navigate without it--but ashore in your own house, to the women
folks you care for, it don't go.  I can't talk to Serena about that
Chapter--not even if I'm left alone ALL the time, same as I'm left
to-night."

John nodded.  He thought that, at last, he had reached the milk in
the cocoanut.  Captain Dan, with his love for home and his hatred
of lodges and societies, had refused to be interested in his wife's
pet hobby, and felt himself neglected and forsaken.  He had brooded
upon it, and this outburst and the letter he had written were the
consequences.

"Oh, well," he said.  "I shouldn't worry.  The Chapter here is a
large one and Mrs. Dott is interested in it.  The interest will
wear off when it gets to be an old story."

"Wear off!  With Gertie goin' it harder than her mother ever
thought of?"

"Oh, Gertie doesn't mean it."

"She DON'T!  She don't!  Perhaps you don't think she means it when
she goes to every 'tea' and 'recital' and 'at home' and crazy dido
from here to Beersheba and back.  Is THAT goin' to wear off?
Chasin' around with Cousin Percy and that Holway and land knows
who?"

"What?  Captain Dott, you're making mountains out of mole hills.
Gertie isn't that kind."

"That's what I said.  That's what I used to think.  It's this
Scarford that's doin' it.  It's this Scarford and the society crowd
we've got in with.  Annette Black--Barney Phelps's wife--is in
society, and so's the Lake woman and that Canby piano pounder and
that Dusante--my Godfreys! you ought to have seen her, John!  She
was the brazen thing.  Dancin' around!  And all hands sittin'
lookin' at her as if she was a Sunday School.  Everybody!  Serena
and Gertie and that Holway man and all.  And Gertie up and says she
might like to dance that way.  She!  And Cousin Percy laughin'
because she said it."

"Hold on!  Wait a minute, Captain.  I never saw you so excited.
What about this Cousin Percy of yours?  He's living here with you,
I know that; but what sort of a chap is he?  And Holway--who is
Holway?"

Daniel went on to explain who Holway was.  Also he spoke of Mr.
Hungerford and his ways and his intimacy with the family,
particularly Gertrude.  For weeks the captain had been wanting to
talk to someone about these things and, now that he had that
opportunity, he made the most of it.  He spoke of his own
loneliness, and of Serena's infatuation for society, of Gertrude's
coming and the great change in her, of the gay life in Scarford,
and of his daughter's apparent love for it.  He gave his opinion of
Hungerford and of Holway, the latter's friend.  When John asked
questions which implied a belief that the situation was not really
as bad as the narrator thought it, Captain Dan, growing warmer and
more anxious to justify himself, proceeded to make his statements
stronger.  He quoted instances to prove their truth.  Serena was
crazy on the subjects of Chapter and Chapter politics and fashion
and money and society, and Gertrude was getting to be even worse.
It wasn't any use to talk to her.  He had tried.  He had told her
she was engaged and ought to be more careful.  He wasn't the only
one who thought so.  Barney Black had said the same thing.  He
quoted from Mr. Black's conversation.

John Doane listened, at first with the smile of the disbeliever,
then with more and more uneasiness.  He trusted Gertrude, he
believed in her, she was not a flirt, but if these stories were
true--if they were true--he could not understand.  He asked more
questions and the answers were as non-understandable.  Altogether,
Captain Dan, with the best intentions in the world, and with the
happiness of his daughter and John uppermost in his mind, succeeded
in laying a mine which might wreck that happiness altogether.

At last something--perhaps the expression on his visitor's face--
caused him to feel that he might have said too much.  He hastened
to rectify the mistake.

"Of course you mustn't think Gertie ain't all right, far's you're
concerned, John," he said.  "She is--I--I'm dead sure she is.  But,
you see--you see--You do see, don't you, John?"

Mr. Doane did not answer.  He seemed to be thinking hard.

"You see, John, don't you?" repeated Captain Dan.

"Yes, I suppose I do."

"And you know Gertie's all right--at heart, I mean?  You mustn't be
jealous, nor anything of that kind."

John laughed.  "Don't talk nonsense," he said curtly.

"No, I won't.  But--er--what are you thinkin' about?"

"Nothing.  Humph!  I can't understand--"

"Neither could I.  That's why I wrote you.  You see why I wrote
you, don't you, John?"

"Yes--yes, I see why you wrote me; but--but I can't see why she
didn't.  She hasn't written me a word of all this."

And then the captain, in his anxiety to explain, made another
indiscreet remark.

"Well," he observed, "I suppose likely she was afraid you might
think that, now she had money--more money than she ever had before,
I mean--and was in a different, a higher-toned crowd than she had
ever been, that--that--well, that she was likin' that crowd better
than the old one.  She might have thought that, you know, mightn't
she?"

Mr. Doane did not answer.  Daniel had made a pretty thorough mess
of it.

"Of course," went on the captain, "as far as Cousin Percy is
concerned--"

John stirred uneasily.  "Cousin Percy be hanged!" he snapped.
"That's enough of this foolishness.  Let's change the subject.  How
is Nate Bangs getting on with the store at home?"

The Metropolitan Store at Trumet was the one thoroughly satisfactory
spot on the checkered map of Daniel Dott's existence at the present
time.  Nathaniel Bangs was making a success of that store.  He
reported each week and the reports showed increasing business and a
profit, small as yet, but a profit nevertheless.

So the captain was only too glad to speak of the store and did so.
John appeared to listen, but his answers and comments were absent-
minded.  He accepted a fresh cigar, at his host's invitation, but
he permitted it to go out.

At half-past ten the doorbell rang.  Daniel sprang to his feet.

"Here they are!" he declared.  "Gertie come home early, just as she
said she would.  That's 'cause she wanted to see you, John.  Hi!"
shouting at Mr. Hapgood, who had long since given up the search for
the missing pocketbook and had been dozing upstairs, "Hi! you
needn't mind.  Go aloft again!  Go below!  Go somewhere!  We don't
need you.  I'll let 'em in, myself."

The butler, looking surprised, obeyed orders and went--somewhere.
The captain flung open the door.

"Well!" he hailed.  "Here you are!  And pretty early for Chapter
night, too.  We're waitin' for you, John and I.  Shall I pay the
cab man?"

Serena, the first to enter, answered.

"No," she said, "he is already paid."

"That so?  Did you pay him, Serena?  Thought that was my job
usually.  I--"  Then, in a tone go entirely different that John
Doane, in the drawing-room, noticed the change, he added, "Oh! oh!
I, see."

"Come in," went on Serena.  "Come right in, Cousin Percy."

She entered the drawing-room, followed by Gertrude and--Mr. Percy
Hungerford.  Captain Dan, remaining to close the door, came last.

"John," said Serena proudly, "we want you to meet our cousin, Mr.
Hungerford.  Percy, this is John."

John and Hungerford exchanged looks.  The latter gentleman extended
a gloved hand.  "Charmed," he observed.

John expressed pleasure at the meeting.  The pair shook hands.

"So--so Cousin Percy came home with you, did he?" inquired Daniel.
"That was kind of unexpected, wasn't it?"

Mr. Hungerford himself answered.

"Why," he declared, "not altogether, on my part I hoped for the
pleasure.  It seemed rather rough for Miss Dott and her mother to
come alone, and so I hung about until the affair was over."

"He had a carriage all ready for us," declared Serena.  "It was so
thoughtful of him."

"Not at all.  Great pleasure, really."

Gertrude made the next remark.

"We did not need a carriage," she said.  "Or, if we did, we could
easily have gotten one.  Cousin Percy need not have troubled."

"John offered to come for you," said Daniel.  "So did I.  We'd have
both come, but you wouldn't have us.  Wouldn't accept our
invitation, would they, John?  Gave us to understand they didn't
like our company."

"Cousin Percy did not wait for an invitation," explained Serena.
"He just came.  He is so thoughtful."

Gertrude looked annoyed.  She had been regarding Mr. Doane.

"Mother," she said sharply, "don't be silly.  We did not ask for an
escort and we didn't need one.  The whole thing was quite
unnecessary and unexpected.  Come, Mother, do take off your things.
Oh, I'm so glad to get home."

The ladies retired to remove their wraps.  John made a move to go
to their assistance, but Mr. Hungerford, attentive as usual, got
ahead of him.

"Well, Daddy dear," said Gertrude, as they re-entered, "what have
you and John been doing while we were away?  I suppose you've had a
long talk?"

Daniel colored.  He looked at Mr. Doane, who, in spite of himself,
colored also, and was tremendously annoyed because he did so.

"Yes," said the captain hastily.  "Yes, we talked.  We talked,
didn't we, John?"

"We did," affirmed John.

"I'm sure you did.  And what about?"

"Oh--oh, about everything.  How did the Chapter doin's go off?
You're a member now, I suppose, Gertie?"

"Yes," was the brief reply, "I am a member."

"Um-hm!  Well, I hope you're satisfied--I mean I hope you'll like
it.  Didn't make a speech, did you?  Ha! ha!"

Gertrude did not answer.  Serena, to her husband's surprise,
appeared vexed.

"But she did though, by Jove!" exclaimed Cousin Percy.  "She did,
and I'm told it created a great sensation.  Miss Canby told me
about it as I was waiting for you to come out, Gertrude.  She said
you gave them a brand-new idea.  Congratulations, Gertrude.  Wish I
might have heard it.  Something about the privileges of the Chapter
being extended to the hoi polloi, wasn't it?"

The new member of Scarford Chapter looked more annoyed than ever.

"I spoke of the Chapter's advantages being extended," she said,
"that's all."

"And enough, too," cried her mother, impatiently.  "Quite enough, I
should think.  If I had known you were going to do that, I should
have stayed at home.  It was that foolish Azuba who put the notion
in your head.  You'll be proposing her name next, I suppose.  The
idea!"

Daniel burst into a roar of laughter.

"What do you think of that, John?" he cried.  "Zuby Jane makin'
speeches!  There's advancement for you, ain't it?"

John smiled, but rather faintly.  He had scarcely taken his eyes
from Cousin Percy's aristocratic presence.  The latter gentleman
turned to him.

"Well--er--Mr.--Mr. Doane," he observed carelessly, "how do you
like Scarford, as far as you've seen it?"

John replied that he had seen very little of it.

"You will find it a bit different from--er--what is it?  Oh, yes,
Trumet.  You'll find it a bit different from Trumet, I imagine."

"No doubt.  I can see that already."

"But John doesn't come from Trumet," explained Serena; "that is,
not now.  He is in business in Boston."

Cousin Percy seemed surprised.  He favored the visitor with another
look.  "Indeed!" he drawled.  He did not add "He doesn't look it,"
in words, but his manner expressed just that.

Daniel caught his wife's eye.  "Well, Serena," he observed, with a
meaning wink, "I guess likely you're tired, ain't you?  Time to go
aloft and turn in, I should say."

Serena nodded.  "Yes," she answered.  "Gertrude, you and John will
excuse us, won't you?  John, Captain Dott and I will see you in the
morning.  Good-night!  Good-night, Cousin Percy."

"Good-night!" said Mr. Hungerford.

"You'll excuse us, John, I'm sure," went on Serena.  "Of course you
and Gertie will want to talk, and," with a slight pause and a
glance at Percy, "we will only be in the way.  Come, Daniel."

Captain Dan paused in the doorway.  "Ain't you tired, too, Cousin
Percy?" he inquired.

It was a fairly broad hint, but Mr. Hungerford did not take it.

"Oh, no," he replied; "not at all.  Good-night, Captain."

He seated himself on the sofa.  Daniel, frowning, followed his wife
upstairs.

The conversation which ensued was confined almost altogether to
Hungerford and Gertrude.  John Doane had little to say, and less
opportunity to say it.  Each remark made by the young lady was
answered by Percy, and that gentleman talked almost incessantly.
His remarks also were of a semi-confidential nature, dealing with
happenings at various social affairs which Gertrude and he had
attended, and hints at previous conversations and understandings
between them.  John began to feel himself an outsider.  After a
time he ceased trying to talk and relapsed into silence.

Gertrude noticed the silence and, seizing a moment when her
entertaining cousin had paused, perhaps for breath, said, almost
sharply:

"John, why don't you say something?  You haven't spoken for five
minutes."

John said very little, even in reply to this accusation.

"Haven't I?" he observed.  "Well, what shall I say?"

"You might say something, considering that you and I haven't seen
each other for so long."

Mr. Hungerford rose.  "I hope I haven't interfered," he announced.
"Didn't mean to intrude, I assure you.  Beg pardon--er--Doane."

John did not answer.  Gertrude also rose.

"Good-night, Cousin Percy," she said, with a gracious smile.
"Thank you so much for the carriage and your escort."

"Quite welcome.  Pleasure was mine.  Goodnight, Gertrude.  Oh, by
the way, I believe you and I are to go over that paper of your
mother's tomorrow.  She asked my advice and said you would assist,
I think.  I shall look forward to that assistance.  Good-night,
Doane.  Glad to have met you, I'm sure."

He strolled out.  Upon reaching his room he discovered that his
cigar case was empty.  Hapgood not being on hand and, feeling the
need of a bedtime smoke, he tiptoed down the stairs and through the
back hall into the library.  The room was dark, but sufficient
light shone between the closed curtains of the drawing-room to
enable him to locate Captain Dan's box.  Silently and very slowly
he refilled the case.

John Doane and Gertrude, alone at last, looked at each other.  The
former was very solemn.  Gertrude, quite aware of the solemnity,
but not aware of its principal cause--her father's impolitic
disclosure of his apprehensions concerning herself--was nervous and
a bit impatient.

"Well, John," she asked, after a moment's wait, "aren't you going
to say anything to me even now?"

John tried his best to smile.  It was a poor attempt.

"Why, yes," he said slowly, "I came all the way from Boston to see
you and talk to you, Gertie.  There is no reason why I shouldn't
say--whatever there is to say, I suppose."

Gertrude looked at him.  The tone in which this speech was
delivered, and the speech itself--the first part of it, especially--
amazed and hurt her.  Incidentally, her temper having been sorely
tried already that evening by Mr. Hungerford, it made her angry.

"All the way from Boston," she repeated.  "Well, I never knew you
to complain in that way before.  I'm sorry to have caused you so
much trouble."

"It wasn't a trouble, Gertie.  You know I would go around the world
for you."

"Then why speak of coming all the way from Boston?  Whose fault was
it, pray?  Did I ask you to come?"

And now, John, who had been fighting his own temper for some time,
grew angry.

"You did not," he declared.  "But I judge it was time I did."

"Indeed!  Indeed!  Why?"

"Well--well, for various reasons.  Of course, had I known my coming
would interfere with your--your precious Chapter affairs and--"

"John, I had to go to that meeting.  If you had written you were
coming I shouldn't have gone.  I should have made other
arrangements.  But you didn't write."

"I wrote every day."

"Yes, but you did not write you were coming here."

"I didn't think it was necessary.  You wrote every day, too, but
you didn't write--you didn't write--"

"What?"

"A good many things that--that I have learned since I came here."

"Indeed!  What things?  How did you learn them?"

"I--"  John hesitated.  To bring Captain Dan's name into the
conversation would be, he felt, disloyal.  And it would surely mean
trouble for the captain.  "I--I learned them with my own eyes," he
declared.  "I could see.  Gertie, I can't understand you."

"And I don't understand you.  I told you, at the only moment we
have had together, I told you then that I would explain about the
Chapter.  I said that I must go or everything would be spoiled.
You very nearly spoiled it by coming as you did."

Mr. Doane's expression changed.  It had softened when she reminded
him of the whispered word in the drawing-room.  The last sentence,
however, brought his frown back again.

"Well!" he exclaimed.  "Well--humph! that's easily remedied.  I
came in a hurry and I can go the same way."

"John!  John, what do you mean?  How can you speak so to me!  Would
you go away now that--that--"

"You wouldn't miss me so much, I should imagine.  Cousin Percy will
be here, and you and he seem to be very confidential and friendly,
to say the least."

Gertrude gasped.  She was beginning to understand, or imagined that
she was.  She laughed merrily."

"John!  Why, John!" she cried.  "You're not jealous!  YOU!"

John looked rather foolish.  "No-o," he admitted doubtfully, "I'm
not jealous.  Of course I'm not, but--"

"But what?  Don't you trust me, John?  Don't you?"

"Of course I do.  You know I do, but--See here, Gertie, you said
you were going to explain--to explain something or other.  Do it,
then.  I think I am entitled to an explanation."

But Gertrude's merriment had vanished.  Her eyes flashed.

"I shall not explain," she said.  "You don't trust me.  I can see
you don't."

"I do.  I do, Gertie, really; but--but--"

"But you don't.  You think--you think--oh, I don't know WHAT you
think!  No, I shall not explain, not now, at all events.  Good-
night!"

She hastened from the room.  John ran after her.

"Gertie," he cried, "you're not going?  You're not going to leave
me in this way, without a word?  I do trust you.  I only said--"

"It wasn't what you said; it was the way you said it.  I am going.
I am shocked--yes, and hurt, John.  I shall not speak to you again
to-night.  To-morrow perhaps, if you beg my pardon and I am really
sure you do trust me, I may tell you--what I was going to tell.
But not now.  I--I didn't think you would treat me so."

She put her handkerchief to her eyes and hurried up the stairs.
John, standing irresolute on the lower step, hesitated, fighting
down his own pride and sense of injury.  That moment of hesitation
was freighted with consequence.  Then:

"Gertie," he cried, hastening after her, "Gertie, wait!  I do beg
your pardon.  I'm sorry.  I didn't mean--"

But it was too late.  Gertie's chamber door closed.  John went
slowly up to his own room, the room to which the butler had carried
his bag.  A few minutes after he had gone the curtains between the
library and drawing-room parted and Mr. Hungerford appeared.  He
was very cautious as he, too, ascended the stairs.  But his
expression was a pleasant one; there was no doubt that Cousin Percy
was pleased about something.



CHAPTER XI


Captain Dan stirred uneasily.  In his dream he had navigated the
Bluebird, his old schooner, to a point somewhere between Hatteras
and Race Point light.  It was night all at once, although it had
been day only a few minutes before, and Azuba, who, it seemed, was
cook aboard the Bluebird, was washing breakfast dishes in the
skipper's stateroom.  She was making a good deal of noise about it,
jingling pans and thumping the foot of the berth with a stick of
stove wood.  The captain was about to remonstrate with her when
Serena suddenly appeared--her presence on the schooner was a
complete surprise--to ask him if he had not heard the bell, and why
didn't he come into the house, because dinner was ready.  Then
Azuba stopped pounding the foot of the berth and began to thump him
instead.

"Don't you hear the bell?" repeated Serena.  "Wake up!  Daniel!
Daniel!"

Daniel stirred and opened his eyes.  The Bluebird had vanished, so
had Azuba, but the thumps and jingles were real enough.

"Hey?" he mumbled, drowsily.  "Stop poundin' me, won't you?"

"Pounding you!  I've been pounding and shaking you for goodness
knows how long.  I began to think you were dead.  Wake up!  Don't
you hear the bell?"

Daniel, still but two-thirds awake, rolled over, raised himself on
his elbow and grunted, "Bell!  What bell?"

"The door bell.  Someone's at the door.  Don't you hear them?"

Captain Dan slid out of bed.  His bare feet struck the cold floor
beneath the open window and he was wide awake at last.  The room
was pitch dark, so morning had not come, and yet someone WAS at the
door, the front door.  The bell was ringing steadily and the ringer
was varying the performance by banging the door with his feet.  The
captain fumbled for the button, found and pressed it, and the
electric light blazed.

"For mercy sakes!" he grumbled, glancing at his watch hanging
beside the head of the bed, "it's quarter past one.  Who in time is
turnin' us out this time of night?"

Serena, nervous and frightened--she, too, had been aroused from a
sound sleep--answered sharply.

"I don't know," she snapped.  "It's something important though, or
they wouldn't do it.  Hurry up and find out, can't you?  I never
saw such a man!"

Her husband hastened to the closet, found his slippers and
bathrobe--the latter was a recent addition to his wardrobe, bought
because his wife had learned that B. Phelps Black possessed no less
than three bathrobes--and shuffled out into the hall.  The bell had
awakened other members of the household.  A light shone under the
door of John Doane's room, and from Gertrude's apartment his
daughter's voice demanded to know what was the matter.

Daniel announced that he didn't know, but cal'lated to find out,
and shuffled down the stairs.  The lights in the hall and drawing-
room were still burning, Gertrude and John having forgotten to
extinguish them.  Captain Dan unlocked the front door and flung it
open.  A uniformed messenger boy was standing on the steps.

"Telegram for John Doane," announced the boy.  "Any answer?"

Daniel seized the proffered envelope.  "How in time do I know
whether there's any answer or not?" he demanded pettishly.  "I
ain't read it yet, have I?  Think I've got second sight?  Why in
the nation didn't you ring up on the telephone, instead of comin'
here and routin' out the neighborhood?"

The boy grinned.  "Against the rules," he said.  "Can't send
telegrams by 'phone unless we have special orders."

"Well, I give you orders then.  Next time you telephone.  Hold on a
minute now.  John! oh, John!"

Mr. Doane, partially dressed, his coat collar turned up to hide the
absence of linen, was already at the head of the stairs, and
descending.

"Coming, Captain Dott," he said.  "For me, is it?"

"Yes.  A telegram for you.  What--good land, Gertie! you up, too?"

Gertrude, in kimono and cap, was leaning over the rail.  "What is
it?" she asked quickly.

John announced, "A wire for me," he said.  "I'm afraid--"  He tore
open the envelope.  "Yes, I thought so.  Mr. Griffin is worse and
they want me at once.  Every minute counts, they say.  I must go--
now.  When is the next train for Boston, Captain?"

Daniel was very much flustered.  "I don't know," he stammered.
"There's a time-table around on deck somewheres, but--you ain't
goin' now, John?  To-night?"

"Yes, I must."

Gertrude hastened to find the time-table.  John turned to the
messenger.

"Know anything about Boston trains?" he asked.

"Yup.  Two-twenty express through from New York.  That's the next."

John stepped to the drawing-room and looked at the clock.  "I can
get it, I think," he announced.  "I must.  If I can get a cab--"

"I'll 'phone for one.  But--but, John, you hadn't ought to--"

"Any answer?" demanded the messenger boy, intent on business.

"Yes.  Say that I am leaving on the two-twenty.  On the two-twenty.
Got that, have you?"

"Sure, Mike!  Prepay or collect?"

"I'll--I'll pay it, John."  Captain Dan reached under his bathrobe.
"Hey!" he exclaimed.  "I declare I forgot I didn't have on--All
right, John, I'll pay it.  You go get ready."

Mr. Doane was on his way to his room.  Daniel hurried after him, a
difficult progress, for the slippers and bathrobe made hurrying
decidedly clumsy.  He located his trousers and the loose change in
their pockets, explaining the situation to Serena as he did so.  He
and his wife descended the stairs together.  The captain paid the
messenger and hastened to telephone for the cab.

When the vehicle arrived, John was ready.  His farewells to Daniel
and Serena were hurried ones.

"I'm awfully sorry I can't stop longer," he declared.  "I really
shouldn't have come at all, under the circumstances.  I--"

He paused.  Gertrude was standing by the door.  She was very grave
and her eyes looked as if she had not slept.  John went over to
her; he, too, was grave.

"Gertie," he faltered, "Gertie--"

Serena interrupted.  "Daniel!" she said, "Daniel!"

The captain looked at her.  She frowned and motioned with her head.
The light of understanding dawned in her husband's eyes.

"Hey?  Oh, yes!" he cried hastily.  "Come into the front room,
Serena, just a minute.  I want to speak to you."

They entered the drawing-room together.  Gertrude and John were
alone.  For a moment neither spoke.  Then the young man, bending
forward, whispered:  "Gertie," he asked anxiously, "aren't you--
haven't you anything to say to me?"

"I thought, perhaps, you had something to say to me, John."

"I have.  Gertie, I--"

There was a sound from above.  Cousin Percy Hungerford, fully
dressed and debonnair as always, was descending the stairs.

"What's the row?" he drawled.  "I heard the racket and decided the
house must be on fire.  What's up?"

Whatever else was "up" it was quite plain John was sorry that Mr.
Hungerford was up because of it.  His tone was decidedly chilly as
he answered.

"A wire for me," he said shortly.  "I'm called to Boston at once."

"Really!  How extraordinary!  It wasn't a fire then, merely a false
alarm.  Sorry to have you go, Doane, I'm sure."

He spoke as if he were the host whose gracious pleasure it had been
to entertain the guest during the latter's stay.  John resented the
tone.

"Thanks," he said crisply.  "Gertie, I--I hope--"

He hesitated.  It was not easy to speak in the presence of a third
person, particularly this person.  Cousin Percy did not hesitate.

"Gertie," he observed, "your--er--friend is leaving us at the wrong
time, isn't he?  There's so much going on this coming week.
Really, Doane, you're fortunate, in a sense.  Miss Dott and I are
finding the social whirl a bit tiresome; you will escape that, at
least."

Captain Dan appeared at the entrance to the drawing-room.

"I say, Hungerford!  Percy!" he hailed impatiently.

Mr. Hungerford did not seem to hear him.  He was regarding Miss
Dott with anxious concern.

"Really, Gertrude," he said, "I shouldn't stand by that open door,
if I were you.  You have a slight cold and for--all our sakes--you
must be careful.  Step inside, I beg of you."

His begging was so tender, so solicitous, so intimate.  John
Doane's fists clenched.

"Hi!"  It was the cabman calling from the street.  "Hi! we've only
got twelve minutes to catch that train."

John turned, involuntarily, toward the door.  Gertrude, startled by
the cabman's voice and aware of the need of haste, stepped to one
side.  Cousin Percy chose to put his own interpretation upon her
movement.

"Thank you, Gertrude," he said feelingly.  "That's better; you will
be out of the draft there.  Thank you."

John Doane, who was still hesitating, hesitated no longer.  He
seized his bag.

"Good-by, all," he said, in a choked voice.  "Good-by, Captain
Dott."

He strode through the doorway.  Gertrude, for a moment, remained
where she was.  Then she followed him.

"John!" she cried, "John!"

John, half way down the steps, halted, turned, and looked up at
her.

"Good-by, Gertie," he said.

"But, John, are you--aren't you--"

She stretched out her hands.  Mr. Hungerford, pushing by the
captain and Serena, stepped in front of her.

"Here, you!" he shouted, addressing the cabman; "what are you
thinking about?  Why don't you take the gentleman's bag?"

The driver sprang to get the bag, incidentally he seized his
prospective passenger by the arm.

"Come on!" he shouted.  "Come on!  We'll miss the train.  Ten to
one we've missed it, anyhow."

"Oh, DO hurry, John!" cried Serena, anxiously.  "You WILL miss it.
You MUST go!"

And Mr. Doane went.  The cab rattled away up the street, the old
horse galloping, the driver shouting, and the whip cracking.
Daniel drew a long breath.

"Well!" he said slowly, "he's gone.  Yes, sir, he's gone, ain't
he."

Serena turned on him.

"Yes, he's gone," she observed sarcastically, "but he isn't going
very fast.  Why in the world didn't you order an electric cab
instead of that Noah's Ark?  Half the neighbors have been waked up
and they'll see it.  How many times must I tell you?  You NEVER
learn!"

"Well, now, Serena--"

"Don't talk to me!  Don't!  My nerves are all of a twitter.  I--I--
oh, do let me go to bed!  Gertie--why, Gertie, where are you
going?"

Gertrude was on her way to the stairs.  She did not appear to hear
her mother's question.

"Gertie!" cried Serena again.

There was no answer.  The young lady hurried up the stairs and they
heard her chamber door close.  Cousin Percy shrugged his shoulders.

"Too bad our friend was called away so suddenly," he observed.
"Very much of a surprise, wasn't it?  Too bad."

No one replied, not even Serena, who was not wont to ignore the
comments of her aristocratic relative.  Her next remark was in the
nature of an order and was addressed to her husband.

"Come!  Come!  Come!" she said fretfully.  "Do come to bed!"

Daniel, pausing only to extinguish the lights, obeyed.  Mr.
Hungerford, with another shrug and a covert smile, preceded him up
the stairs.  As the captain was about to enter his bedroom, a
voice, which sounded as if the speaker was half asleep, called from
the third floor.

"Is there anything I can do, sir?" asked Hapgood.  "I 'ave just
been aroused, sir."

Daniel turned.  Here was a heaven-sent vent for his feelings.

"Do!" he repeated.  "Anything you can do?  Yes, there is.  Shut
your door and turn in."

"But, sir--"

"And shut your head along with it!"

There were some inmates of the Dott mansion who, probably, slept
peacefully the remainder of that night, or morning.  Cousin Percy
doubtless did, also Mr. Hapgood.  Azuba, sleeping at the rear of
the house, had not been awakened at all.  But neither Captain Dan
or Serena slept.  Mrs. Dott's nerves kept her awake, and the
combination prevented Daniel from napping.  Nerves were a new
acquisition of Serena's; at least she had never been conscious of
them until recently.  Now, however, they were becoming more and
more in evidence.  She was fretful and impatient of trifles, and
the least contradiction or upset of her plans was likely to bring
on fits of hysterical weeping.  It was so in this case.  Daniel,
trotting for smelling salts and extra pillows and the hot water
bottle, was not too calm himself.  His plans, the plans founded
upon John Doane's remaining in Scarford for a time, had been
decidedly upset.  He pleaded with his wife.

"But I don't see what ails you, Serena," he declared.  "John's
gone, that's true enough, but you didn't know he was comin'.  He
was here, a little while, and that's some gain, ain't it?  I don't
see--"

"See!  You wouldn't see if your eyes were spyglasses.  Oh, dear!
why does everything have to go wrong with me?  I thought when John
came that Gertie--"

"Yes.  That Gertie what?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing!  Oh, my poor head!  It aches so and the back
of it feels so queer.  Where are the pillows?  Can't you get me
another pillow?"

"Sure I can!  You've got three already, but I can fetch another.
It's all this society business that's breakin' you down, Serena.
That everlastin' Chapter--"

He was sorry as soon as he said it, but said it had been.  He spent
the next hour in explaining that he did not mean it.

Serena was not on hand at breakfast time.  Neither was Gertrude.
That young lady came into the library at ten o'clock, looking pale
and worn and with dark circles under her eyes.  She had a thick
envelope in her hand.

"Daddy," she said, "will you post this for me?"

Her father looked up from the pile of papers on the writing table
before him.  He, too, appeared somewhat worried.

"Sartin," he announced promptly.  "I've got a stack of stuff for
the postman, myself.  Bills and checks they are, mostly.  Serena
usually attends to the house bills, but she's kind of under the
weather this morning.  Say, Gertie," gravely, "it costs a sight to
run this place, did you know it?"

"I suppose it does."

"You bet it does!  Why, I never realized--But there, I suppose
likely these bills are heavier than usual.  I suppose they are.
Good land! if they ain't!  But, of course they are.  I'll ask
Serena about 'em by and by, when she's better.  Give me your
letter, Gertie, I'll mail it."

"You won't forget?"

"Not a mite.  I'll put it right here with the others and give 'em
to the postman when he comes.  Humph! it's to John, isn't it?
You're pretty prompt in your writin', ain't you?  But that's
natural; I remember when I used to write your mother twice a day.
It's a wonder she stood it and kept her health, ain't it.  Ha! ha!"

He chuckled and turned back to his bills and the checkbook.
Gertrude left the room.

Captain Dan wrote and enclosed and affixed stamps.  The pile of
envelopes on the table grew steadily larger.  Mr. Hungerford
entered, seeking the cigar box.

"Good-morning," he observed, cheerfully.

Daniel looked up, grunted, and went on with his work.  Cousin Percy
smiled.  A querulous voice called from the second floor.

"Daniel!" called Serena.  "Daniel, where are you?  Why don't you
come up?  I am all alone."

The captain sprang to his feet, "Comin'! Serena!" he shouted.
"Comin'!"

He hurried out.  Mr. Hungerford, left alone, helped himself to a
cigar and strolled about the room.  The pile of letters on the
table caught his attention.  Idly he turned the envelopes over,
examining the addresses.  All at once his interest became less
casual; one of the written names had caught his attention.

Five minutes later the postman rang the doorbell.  Captain Dan ran
downstairs, entered the library, seized the letters from the table
and hastened to hand them to the carrier.

"Daddy!" called Gertrude from above, "did you post my letter?"

"Sure!" was the prompt answer.  "Just gave it to the mail man.
It's on the road now."

Serena's "nerves" were in much better condition the following day,
and her spirits likewise.  Gertrude, however, was still grave and
absent-minded and non-communicative.  Toward Mr. Hungerford in
particular she was cool and distant, answering his chatty remarks
and solicitous inquiries concerning her health with monosyllables,
and, on several occasions, leaving the room when he entered it.
This state of affairs was even more marked on the second day after
Mr. Doane's abrupt departure, and still more so on the third.  She
seemed nervously expectant when the postman brought the mail, and
depressed when each consignment contained no letter for her.  On
the fourth day this depression was so marked that her father asked
the cause.

"What ails you, Gertie?" he inquired.  "You look as if you just
come from a funeral.  What's wrong?"

Gertrude, who was standing by the window, looking out, answered
without turning her head.

"Nothing," she said shortly.

"Well, I'm glad of that.  I thought you was troubled in your mind
about somethin'.  Ain't frettin' about John, are you?"

His daughter looked at him now, and the look was a searching one.

"About--Why should I fret about him, pray?" she asked slowly.

"I don't know.  I thought maybe his goin' away so sudden was a sort
of disappointment to you.  'Twas to the rest of us.  Hey?  Did you
say somethin'?"

"No."

"Oh, I thought you did.  Well, you mustn't be disappointed, Gertie.
You see, business is business.  John did what he thought was right
and--"

"Daddy, do be still.  I do not intend to trouble myself about--him.
Don't talk to me, please.  I don't feel like talking."

Daniel talked no more, at that time, but he wondered, and
determined to ask Serena her opinion when the opportunity came.

It did not come immediately.  A new development in Chapter politics
was occupying Mrs. Dott's mind, a development so wonderful and so
glorious in its promise that that lady could think or speak of
little else.  Mrs. Lake's term as president of Scarford Chapter was
nearing its end.  Annette Black, the vice-president, would have
been, in the regular course of events, Mrs. Lake's successor to the
high office.  But Mrs. Lake and Annette, bosom friends for years,
had had a falling out.  At first merely a disagreement, it had been
aggravated and developed into a bitter quarrel.  The two ladies did
not speak to each other.  Annette announced her candidacy in
meeting, and the very next day Mrs. Lake came to Serena with an
amazing proposition.

The proposition was this:  Mrs. Lake, it seemed, wished to become
secretary of the National Legion.  In order to do this--or to
become even a prominent candidate--it was necessary for her to have
the support of the officers of her own Chapter.  If Mrs. Black was
elected president she most decidedly would not have this support.

"That woman is a cat," she declared, "a spiteful underhanded cat.
After all I have done for her!  Why, she never would have been
vice-president if it had not been for me!  And just because she
heard that I said something--something about her that was perfectly
true, even if I did not say it--she broke out in committee and said
things to me that--that I never shall forget, never!  She shan't be
president.  I have as many friends as she has and I'll see to that.
Now, my dear Mrs. Dott, I am counting on you--and your daughter, of
course--as among those friends.  We must select some woman for the
presidency who will command the respect and get the votes of all
disinterested members.  Miss Canby wants the office, but she is too
closely identified with me to be perfectly safe.  But our party--I
and my friends, I mean--have been considering the matter and we
have decided that a dark horse--that is what the politicians call
it--a dark horse is bound to win.  We must get the right kind of
dark horse.  And we think we have it--him--her, I mean.  YOU shall
be our candidate.  YOU shall be president of Scarford Chapter."

Serena gasped.

"Me?" she cried, forgetful, for once, of her carefully nurtured
correctness of speech.  "Me?  President?"

"Yes, you.  You are liked and respected by every member.  You are
known to be rich--I mean cultured and progressive and broad-minded.
We can elect you and we will.  Isn't it splendid?  I'm SO proud to
be the one to bring you the news!"

There was one strong qualification possessed by Mrs. Dott which the
bearer of good news omitted to mention.  Serena was supposed to be
Annette Black's most devoted friend.  Announcement of her candidacy
would have the effect of splitting the Black party in twain.  Mrs.
Lake and her followers were very much aware of this, although their
spokeswoman said nothing about it.

"You'll accept, of course," gushed Mrs. Lake.  "Of course you will.
I shall be so proud to vote and work for you."

Serena hesitated.  The honor of being president of her beloved
Chapter was a dazzling prospect.  And yet--and yet--

"You will, won't you?" begged the caller.

"No," said Serena.  "No, Mrs. Lake, I can't.  I could not run
against Annette Black.  She is my best and dearest friend.  If it
were not for her I should not have come to Scarford at all.  It
would be treachery of the meanest kind.  No, Mrs. Lake, I am not
that kind of a friend.  No."

"But--"

"Please don't speak of it again.  I am ashamed even to hear you.
Let's talk of something else."

But Mrs. Lake did not want to talk of anything else.  She urged and
argued and pleaded in vain.  Then she began to lose her temper.
The parting was not cordial.

And then came Mrs. Black, herself.  She, somehow or other, had
learned of the offer to be made Serena.  When she found that the
latter had refused that offer because of loyalty to her, she fairly
bubbled over.

"You dear!" she cried, embracing her hostess.  "You dear, splendid
thing!  It was what I expected; I knew you'd do it; but I'm SO
happy and SO grateful.  I never shall forget it--never.  And
whenever I can prove my loyalty and devotion to you, be sure I
shall do it."

Serena was touched and gratified, but there was just a shade of
disappointment in her tone as she answered.

"I know you will," she said.  "Of course, I had rather be president
of Scarford Chapter than anything else in the world, but--"

And then Annette had an idea.  She clasped her hands.

"You shall be," she cried.  "You shall be.  Not this term, but the
next--the very next.  This term I shall be president, and you--YOU
shall be vice-president.  With you as our candidate we can beat
that Canby creature to death.  Oh, lovely!  It is an inspiration."

And on that basis it was settled.  The opposing tickets were Black
and Dott against Canby and a lady by the name of Saunderson,
another of Mrs. Lake's "dear friends."  The Chapter was racked from
end to end.  Politics became the daily food of its members.

For Serena it was almost the only food.  She was too busy to eat,
except at odd times and hurriedly, and she slept less than ever.
Her nervousness increased and she lost weight.  Daniel was worried
concerning her health and would have mentioned his worriment to
Gertrude had not that young lady's mental state and behavior
worried him almost as much.

Gertrude, for the first week after John Doane's departure, was
depressed and silent and solemn.  Once, her father found her in her
room, crying and when he anxiously asked the reason she bade him go
away and leave her, so sharply and in a tone so unlike her, that he
went without further protestation.  He did, however, go to Serena
for advice.

"Oh, I don't know," said Serena impatiently.  "She misses John, I
suppose.  She thought he was going to stay and he didn't, and she
was disappointed.  Don't bother me!  Don't!  I've checked this
voting list over three times already and it has come out different
each time.  I'm so tired and headachy and nervous I think I shall
die.  Sometimes I don't care if I do.  Go away."

"But, Serena, there's--there's somethin' queer about Gertie and
John.  I don't believe she's heard from him since he left.  I don't
believe she has."

"Then, why doesn't she write and find out what is the matter?
Perhaps he's sick."

"Maybe so, but perhaps she don't want to write.  Perhaps she's
waitin' for him to do it."

"He can't write if he's sick, can he?  Why don't she telegraph
him?"

"That would be just the same, the way she may look at it."

"Then wire him yourself, why don't you?  Oh, please go away--
PLEASE.  I'll speak to her, Daniel, when I get time; I was going
to.  But just now I--oh, my POOR head!"

Daniel made up his mind to telegraph Doane that very afternoon, but
he did not.  A happening in the household prevented him.  Mr.
Hapgood was summarily discharged.

Azuba was responsible for the affair.  Serena was out--"committeeing"
as usual--Gertrude was with her.  Mr. Hungerford, also, was absent.
Captain Dan, in the library, dolefully musing in an arm chair, heard
a violent altercation in the kitchen.  As it did not cease, but
became more violent, he hastened to the scene.

Azuba was standing in the middle of the kitchen, her back against
the table, facing the butler.  Mr. Hapgood's face was red, his
fists were clenched, and he was shaking one of them under the
housekeeper's nose.

"Give it to me!" he ordered.  "'And it over now, or I'll bash you
good and 'ard."

Azuba merely smiled.  "You'll bash nobody," she declared.  "You're
a thief, that's what you are--a low-down thief.  I've always
cal'lated you was one, ever since I laid eyes on you; now I know
it.  Don't you dare shake your fist at me.  If my husband was here
he'd--"

Hapgood interrupted, savagely consigning the Ginns, both male and
female, to a much hotter place than the kitchen.  Captain Dan
strode into the room.

"Here!" he said sharply.  "What's all this?  You," addressing
Hapgood, "what, do you mean by shakin' your fist at a woman?"

Mr. Hapgood's bluster collapsed, like a punctured toy balloon.
He cringed instead.

"W'y, sir," he pleaded, "it wasn't anything.  I lost my temper a
bit, sir, that's all.  She"--with a malignant snarl at Azuba--
"she's got a letter of mine.  She stole it and won't give it up.
I was angry, sir, same as any man would 'ave been, and I forgot
myself.  Make 'er 'and over my letter, sir."

The captain turned to the defiant Mrs. Ginn.

"Have you got a letter of his, Zuba?" he demanded.

Azuba laughed.  "I have," she declared, "and I'm glad of it.  I've
been waiting to get somethin' like it for a long spell.  Stealin'!
HE accuse anybody of stealin'!  Here, Daniel Dott, you read that
letter.  Read it and see who's been doin' the stealin' around
here."

She extended the letter at arm's length.  The butler made a snatch
at it, but Captain Dan was too quick.  He unfolded the crumpled
sheet of paper.  It bore the printed name and address of one of
Scarford's newer and more recently established grocers and
provision dealers, and read as follows:


EDWARD H. HAPGOOD,

SIR:--Our order clerk informs us that you expect a higher
percentage of commission on goods ordered by your household.  We do
not feel that we should pay this.  While we, being a new house,
were willing, in order to obtain your business, to allow a fair
rate of commission to you for putting it in our way, and while,
during the past three months, we have paid such commission, we do
not feel--


Daniel tossed the note on the floor.  He marched to the door
leading to the back yard and threw it open.  Then he turned to the
butler.

"See that door?" he inquired, pointing toward it.  "Use it."

Hapgood did not seem to comprehend.

"Wh-what, sir?" he faltered.

"Use that door.  Get out!  Out of this house, and don't you dare
show your nose inside it again.  Here!" stepping to the rack behind
the open door.  "These are your--duds--aren't they?  Take 'em and
get out.  Quick!"

He threw an overcoat and hat at the astonished man-servant, who
caught them mechanically.

"Get!" repeated the captain.

Hapgood apparently understood at last.  His usual expression of
polite humility vanished and he glowered malevolently.

"So I'm fired, am I?" he demanded.  "Fired, without no notice or
nothin'.  'Ow about my two weeks' wages?  'Ow about square
treatment?  'Ow about my things upstairs?  I've got rights, I 'ave,
and you'll find it out.  Blame your eyes, I--"

He darted through the doorway just in time.  Captain Dan was on the
threshold.

"You can send for your things upstairs," said the captain.
"They'll be ready--either up there or on the sidewalk.  Now, my--
hum--thief," with deliberate and dangerous calmness, "I'm comin'
out into that yard.  If I was you I'd be somewhere else when I get
there.  That's my advice."

The advice was taken.  Mr. Hapgood was in the street by the time
his employer reached the gate.  Bolting that gate, Daniel walked
back to the kitchen.

"Thank you, Zuba," he said quietly.  "You've only confirmed what I
suspected before, but thank you, just the same."

Azuba was regarding him with a surprise in which respect was
strongly mingled.

"You're welcome," she said drily.  "It's good riddance to bad
rubbish, that's what I call it.  But," her surprise getting the
better of her judgment, "I must say I ain't seen you behave--I
mean--"

She stopped, the judgment returning.  But Captain Dan read her
thoughts and answered them.

"He's a man," he said shortly, "or an apology for one.  I know how
to deal with a MAN--his kind, anyway."

Azuba nodded.  "I should say you did," she observed.  "Well, if
you'd like to hear the whole yarn, how I come to suspect him and
all, I can tell you.  You see--"

But Daniel would not listen.  "I don't want to hear it," he said.
"Tell Serena, if you want to, when she comes home.  I've got too
much else on my mind to bother with swabs like him.  If he should
try to come back again you can call me, otherwise not.  I ain't
interested."

And yet, if he could have seen and heard his ex-butler just at that
moment, he might have been interested.  Hapgood, on the next
corner, out of sight from the Dott home, had met and waylaid Mr.
Percy Hungerford.  To the latter gentleman he was telling the story
of his discharge.  Cousin Percy seemed disturbed and angry.

"It's your own fault," he declared.  "You ought to have been more
careful."

"Careful!  'Ow should I know the fools was going to write a letter?
I told 'em not to.  And 'ow did I know the old woman--blast 'er--
was watchin' me all the time?  And now I've lost my job, and a good
soft job, too.  You've got to get it back for me, Mr. 'Ungerford;
you've got to 'elp me, sir."

"I'll help you all I can, of course, but I doubt if it will do any
good.  I can't stand talking with you here.  Drop me a line at the
club, telling me where you are, and I'll let you know what turns
up.  Oh, say, have any more letters come for--you know who?"

"No, that was the only one, sir.  But a telegram came this
morning."

Mr. Hungerford started.  "A telegram?" he repeated.  "For her?"

"Yes, sir.  And from 'im, it was, too."

"Did she get it?"

Mr. Hapgood winked.  "It was 'phoned up from the telegraph office,
sir," he said, "and I answered the 'phone.  'Ere's the copy I made,
sir."

He extracted a slip of paper from his pocket.  Cousin Percy
snatched the slip and read the penciled words.  Hapgood smiled.

"Looks good, don't it, sir," he observed.  "'Frisco's a long way
off."

Hungerford did not answer.  He tore the paper into small pieces and
tossed them away.

"Well," he said, after a moment, "good by and good luck.  Let me
know where you are and meanwhile I'll see what can be done for you.
Good by."

He was moving off, but his companion stepped after him.

"Just a minute, sir," he said.  "Could you 'elp me out a bit, in
the money way?  I'm flat broke; the old 'ayseed chucked me without
a penny; 'e did, so 'elp me."

Cousin Percy looked distinctly annoyed.

"I'm pretty nearly broke myself," he declared, impatiently.

"Is that so, sir, I'm sorry, but I think you'll 'ave to 'elp me a
bit.  I think--I think you'd better, Mr. 'Ungerford, sir."

Hungerford looked at him.  The look was returned.  Then the young
gentleman extracted a somewhat attenuated roll of bills from his
pocket, peeled off two and handed them to his companion.

"There you are," he replied.  "That's all and more than I can
spare, just now.  Good by."

"Good by, sir--for now.  And thank you kindly."

Captain Dan, for all his prompt handling of the thieving butler and
his professed ability to deal with men--Mr. Hapgood's kind of man--
awaited the return of his wife and daughter with considerable
uneasiness.  Hapgood, in his capacity as trained, capable,
aristocratic servant, had been a favorite of Serena's.  The captain
dreaded telling his wife what, in the heat of his anger, he had
done.  But his dread was needless.  Serena's mind was too much
occupied with politics and political ambition to dwell upon less
important matters.

"I suppose it is all right," she said.  "If he was a thief he
should be discharged, of course.  No doubt you did right, Daniel,
but we shall miss him dreadfully.  I don't know where we can get
another butler like him."

Daniel gasped.  "Good land of love!" he cried; "we don't WANT
another like him, do we!  I should hope we didn't."

"I don't mean another thief.  Oh, dear me!  Why do you pick me up
in that way?  One would think you took a delight in worrying me all
you could.  Get me a cup of tea.  I want it right away.  My nerves
are all unstrung.  Gertie--"

But Gertie had gone to her room; she spent the greater part of her
time there now.  Her mother sighed.

"She's gone," she declared.  "Just when I need her most, of course.
I can't see what has got into her for the last few days.  She was
so interested in the Chapter.  Even more than I, I began to think.
And yet, at the committee meeting this afternoon--the most
important meeting we've had; when we were counting the votes which
we can be sure of and those that are doubtful, she scarcely said a
word.  Just sat there and moped.  I don't know what is the matter
with her."

Daniel nodded.  "I think I do," he said.  "It's John.  Somethin's
the matter between her and John.  If he had only stayed here!  If
he would only come back!"

"Then for mercy sakes get him back!  Telegraph him.  You said you
were going to."

Captain Dan rose.  "I will," he declared.  "I'll do it right now,
this minute.  Not till I see you to your tea, Serena," he added,
hastily.  "I'll tell Zuba about that first, of course."

He sent the telegram within the hour.  It was an inquiry concerning
Mr. Doane's whereabouts, his employer's health, how he was getting
on, and when he--John--was to return to Scarford.  The answer
arrived, via telephone, about eight that evening.  It was a
surprising answer.

"Doane gone to San Francisco on business of the firm," it said.
"Left at midnight yesterday."

It was signed by the senior partner.  Serena had gone out, of
course; she was scarcely ever in now, but Gertrude, having finished
dinner, was in her room as usual.  Her father hurried up the
stairs.

"Gertie," he cried, entering without knocking, "Gertie, what do you
suppose I've just found out?  It's the most astonishing news.  John
is--he has--Why, you'd never guess!"

Gertrude, who was sitting in the rocking chair by the window,
showed her first sign of interest.  At the mention of the name she
turned quickly.

"What?" she cried, in a startled voice.  "What?  Is it--is it bad
news?  He isn't--isn't--"

"No, no!  No, no!  He's all right.  Don't look like that, you scare
me.  John's all right; that is, I suppose he is.  But he--Here!
read it yourself."

Gertrude took the paper upon which he had written the message.  She
read the latter through; read it and reread it.  Then she turned to
her father.

"But I can't understand," she faltered.  "I can't--I can't
understand.  He didn't send this himself.  He has gone to San
Francisco; but--but this is signed by someone else.  What does it
mean?"

Daniel was frightened.  It was time to explain, and yet,
considering his daughter's look and manner, he was afraid to
explain.

"You see," he stammered, "well, you see, Gertie, that's an answer,
that is.  John didn't send it, he'd gone.  But, I presume likely
they thought my telegram ought to be answered, so--"

Gertrude interrupted.  "Your telegram?" she repeated.  "YOUR
telegram?  What telegram?"

"Why, the telegram I sent to John.  I knew you hadn't heard from
him, and I thought probably--"

"Wait--wait a minute.  Did YOU send a telegram to--to him?"

"Yes; sure I did.  I--"

"What did you say?"

"I said--why, I said that you--we, I mean--was wonderin' about him
and--and missin' him and when was he comin' back here.  That's
about what I said.  I wrote it in a hurry and I don't remember
exactly.  That's about it, anyhow.  Why, what's the matter?"

Gertrude had risen.

"You said that!" she cried.  "You--without a word to me--said--you
begged him to come back!  Begged him! on your knees! to--to--"

"No, no!  I never got on my knees.  What would I do a fool thing
like that for, when I was sendin' a telegram?  I just asked--"

"You just asked!  You said that I--_I_--And this was your answer!
THIS!"

She dashed the message to the floor, covered her face with her
hands and threw herself upon the bed.  Daniel, aghast and alarmed,
would have raised her but she pushed him away.

"Oh!" she cried.  "The shame of it!  Don't touch me!  Please don't
touch me!"

"But, Gertie--what on earth?"

"Don't touch me.  Please don't touch me.  Just go away, Daddy.  Go
and leave me.  I mustn't talk to you now.  If I do, I shall say--
Please go.  I want to be alone."

Daniel went.  That he had made another blunder was plain enough,
but just now he was too hurt and indignant to care a great deal.

"All right," he said shortly; "I'm goin'.  You needn't worry about
that.  That's about all the orders I get nowadays--to go away.  I
ought to be used to it, by this time.  I'm a fool, that's what I
am, an old worn-out, useless fool."

He slammed the door and descended the stairs.  He had been in his
accustomed refuge, the library, for perhaps twenty minutes, when
the bell rang.  He waited for Hapgood to answer the ring and then,
suddenly remembering that the butler had departed, answered it
himself.

Mr. Monty Holway smiled greeting from the steps.

"Good evening, Captain Dott," he said.  "Is Miss Dott in?"

Daniel hesitated.  "Yes," he said, "she's in, but--"

"May I see her?  Will you be good enough to give her my card?"

The captain took the card.

"Ye-es," he said, "I'll give it to her, but--but--Well, you see,
she ain't feelin' very well this evenin' and I don't know as she'll
want to see anybody."

Gertrude herself called from the head of the stairs.

"Who is it, Daddy?" she asked.  "Someone for me?"

"It's--er--Mr. Holway."

"Oh, is it!"  The tone was one of delighted surprise.  "Ask him to
come in, Daddy.  I'll be right down."

She came almost immediately.  She greeted the caller with
outstretched hand.

"I'm so glad to see you, Mr. Holway," she said.  "I was lonely.  It
was nice of you to come."

She was pale, and the dark circles under her eyes were more
apparent than ever, but the eyes themselves were shining brightly.
She was gay and, for her, extremely vivacious.  Mr. Holway looked
gratified and happy.  Captain Dan looked astonished and bewildered.



CHAPTER XII


The bewilderment and astonishment remained with the captain for
some time, just as his daughter's apparent light heartedness
remained with her.  Holway's call was longer than usual, lasting
until Serena, escorted by Mr. Hungerford, returned from Mrs.
Black's, where they had been discussing the all-important election.
Hungerford and his friend greeted each other with a marked lack of
warmth; in fact, they scarcely spoke.  Serena was too tired to
talk, but Gertrude talked enough for all.  She chatted and laughed
with almost feverish gaiety until the caller, after many false
starts and with evident reluctance, finally tore himself away.
Then her manner changed, she was silent and thoughtful and, soon
afterward, said goodnight and went up to her room.

Captain Dan forebore to trouble his wife with the news of the
telegram announcing John Doane's departure for the West, and the
reception of that news by Gertrude.  After hearing Serena's
complaints of her "nerves" and weariness, he decided that there was
trouble sufficient for that night.  But the next morning he spoke
of it.  Serena was surprised, of course, and worried likewise.

"You're right, Daniel," she said, "I am afraid you're right.  She
and John must have had some disagreement.  I suppose it is only a
lover's quarrel--young engaged people are always having foolish
quarrels--and they always get over them and make up again.  But,
oh, dear! why did they quarrel just now?  Haven't I got enough on
my mind without fretting about them?  Well, I'll talk to Gertie
this very forenoon."

She did, but the talk was unsatisfactory.  When Daniel, waiting
anxiously to learn what had taken place, questioned her she shook
her head.

"I can't make Gertie out," she declared pettishly.  "She acts so
queer.  Doesn't want to talk about John at all.  Says it is all
right, and why should I worry if she doesn't?  And she is so
different, somehow.  She was willing enough to discuss my chances
for the vice-presidency.  She asked twenty questions about that and
declares she is going to help me.  And yesterday, when I wanted her
to help, she didn't take any interest.  I never saw such a change.
And she is so--so fidgety and--and nervous and high-spirited and
silly.  She laughed at nothing and kept jumping up and walking
about and sitting down again.  I declare! it made ME jumpy just to
look at her."

Gertrude's conduct was certainly surprising.  It caused Captain Dan
to feel "jumpy" more than once.  Her determination to help her
mother in the campaign she put into immediate practice.  She called
Cousin Percy into council, borrowed Serena's list of Chapter
members, and the pair spent hours checking that list together.
Then Gertrude announced that she was going to make some calls.  She
made them and returned, exultant.

"I think I have made two converts this afternoon," she said.  "I am
almost sure they will vote for you, Mother.  You and I must go to
Mrs. Black's to-night and talk it over with her.  We MUST; it is
very important."

Serena, who had hoped for an early bedtime, expressed weariness,
and protested, but her protests were overruled.  They went to the
Blacks' and Captain Dan and Mr. Hungerford went, also.  Annette was
delighted to see them.  Mr. Black succeeded in repressing his joy.

"For the Lord's sake, Dan!" he exclaimed, when, he and the captain
were alone, "isn't there EVER going to be any let-up to this tom-
foolery?  Are these women of ours going stark crazy?"

Daniel gloomily replied that he didn't know.

"You're worse off than I am," continued B. Phelps.  "There's two
lunatics in your family and only one in mine.  Your daughter's just
as bad as her mother, every bit--worse, if anything.  But, it seems
to agree with HER.  I never saw her so lively or so pretty either.
Humph! your pet cousin there is badly gone, or I'm no judge.  Well,
you remember what I told you about him."

Daniel nodded.  He was too depressed for words.

"All right, it's your funeral, not mine.  But, say! there's one ray
of hope.  The whole crowd may be licked to death in this election.
If they are, my wife says she'll resign from the Chapter and never
speak to one of the bunch again.  It sounds too good to be true,
but it may be.  It's enough to make a fellow hop in and do some
political work himself--for the other side.  What?"

The political work continued, mornings and afternoons, evenings and
far into the nights.  Serena was in it, Gertrude was in it, and
Cousin Percy and Mr. Holway were in it because she was.  Monty's
calls were of frequent occurrence.  Mr. Hungerford and his
erstwhile chum did not speak to each other at all now.  But at
receptions and teas and dances and musicals and committee meetings
one or the other was on hand at Miss Dott's elbow.  And Gertrude
was very gracious to them both; not more to one than the other, but
exceptionally kind and agreeable to each.

The social affairs were of almost as frequent occurrence as the
political meetings.  Gertrude accepted all invitations and urged
her mother to accept.

"You must, Mother," she declared.  "Now is the time when you can't
afford to offend or neglect anyone.  You may need their votes and
influence."

"But, Gertie," pleaded poor, tired Serena, "I can't go everywhere."

"You must.  If this vice-presidency is worth all the world to you,
as you say it is, you must sacrifice everything else to get it."

"But, I can't!  I'm almost worn out.  I--I--oh, sometimes I feel
almost willing to give it all up and go back to--to--almost
anywhere, even Trumet, if I could rest there."

"You don't mean that, Mother."

"No; no, of course I don't."

"Because if you do, why--well, that is different.  If you WANT to
go back to dead and alive old Trumet--"

"I don't.  I--I wouldn't for anything.  I shouldn't think you, of
all people, would hint at such a thing.  You!  When I have climbed
so high already; when our social position has become what it is.
You! talking of going back to Trumet."

"I'm not.  You mentioned it; I didn't.  I'm having a beautiful
time.  I just love our social position.  The Blacks and the Kellys
and--er--that Miss Dusante!  Oh, I adore them.  I wouldn't leave
such cultured people for anything.  And you enjoy it so, Mother.
You look so happy."

Was there a trace of sarcasm in this outburst?  Serena was, for the
moment, suspicious.  She tried her hardest to look very happy
indeed.

"I am happy, of course," she declared.

"I know it.  And we want to keep on being happy, don't we.  So we
must not decline anyone's invitation.  We must go, go, go, all the
time."

"But some of the invitations are from people I scarcely know at
all.  And some I don't like."

"That makes no difference.  They may be of value to you in your
campaign, or socially, or somehow.  Don't you see, Mother?  In
politics or society one wishes to advance, to climb higher all the
time.  And to do that one must use one's acquaintances as rounds in
the ladder.  Use them; get something from them; pretend to love
them, no matter whether you really hate them or not.  They may hate
you, but they want to use you.  That's part of the game, Mother."

This was worldly advice to be given by a young lady scarcely out of
college.  And it sounded so unlike Gertrude.  But, then, Gertrude
had changed, was changing more and more daily.

"We don't entertain enough," went on the adviser.  "We should be
giving some affair or other at least once a week.  Invite everybody
you know--everyone but the Lake crowd, of course.  I'll make out a
list of eligibles to-day and we'll give an 'At Home' next week."

"But, Gertie--the expense.  It costs so dreadfully.  We're not
rich; that is, not very rich."

"No matter.  Everyone thinks we are.  If they didn't, most of them
would cut us dead to-morrow.  We must pretend to be very rich.
I'll make out the list.  Mr. Holway will help me.  He is coming to
call this evening."

Serena looked more troubled than ever.

"Gertie," she said earnestly, "I think I ought--yes, I am going to
warn you against that Mr. Holway.  I don't like your having him
call or being seen in his company."

"You don't!  I am surprised.  I'm sure he is very polite and
agreeable.  He belongs to the best club and he dresses well, and as
to society--why, he is in the very heart of it; our kind of
society, I mean."

"I know, I know.  But--well, Cousin Percy doesn't speak well of
him.  He says he is a very fast young man."

Gertrude bit her lip.  "Did Percy say that!" she exclaimed.  "How
odd!  Why, Monty--I mean Mr. Holway--said almost the same thing
about him.  And I KNOW you like Cousin Percy, Mother."

Mrs. Dott scarcely knew how to answer.  As a matter of fact she did
not like their aristocratic relative quite as well as she had at
first.  There were certain things about him, little mannerisms and
condescensions, which jarred upon her.  He was so very, very much
at home in the family now; in fact, he seemed to take his permanent
membership in that family for granted.  He had ceased to refer to
himself as being on a vacation, and, as for his "literary work," he
appeared to have forgotten that altogether.

But these were not the real reasons for Serena's growing dislike
and uneasiness.  She hinted at the real reason in her next remark.

"I don't think," she said, "I don't think, Gertie, that you and he
should be so much together.  You are engaged to be married, you
know, and John--"

Gertrude interrupted.  She ignored the mention of Mr. Doane's name.

"Oh, Cousin Percy is all right," she said lightly.  "He's good
company.  Of course he may be something of a sport, but that is to
be expected.  The trouble with you and me, Mother, is that we are
too old-fashioned; we are not sporty enough."

"GERTIE!"  Serena's horror was beyond words.

Gertrude laughed.  "But that can be mended," she went on.  "Mother,
you should learn to drink cocktails and tango.  I think I shall.
Everybody's doing it, doing it, doing it!"

Humming this spirited ditty, which the street pianos had rendered
popular, and smiling over her shoulder at her mother, she "one-
stepped" from the room.  Serena put both hands to her head.  Her
"nerves" were more troublesome than ever the remainder of that day.

There were enough troubles to rack even a healthy set of nerves.
The domestic situation was decidedly complicated.  No successor to
the departed Hapgood had, as yet, been selected.  Mr. Hungerford
was partially responsible for this.  At first, when told of the
butler's misbehavior and its consequences, he had expressed sorrow,
but had advised forgiveness and the reinstallation of the
discharged one.  The crime was, after all, not so very serious.
Most butlers exacted commissions from tradespeople, so he had been
told.  Of course it was all wrong, a pernicious system and all
that, but they did do it.  And many employers winked at the system.
Hapgood was an exceptional fellow, really quite exceptional.  Aunt
Lavinia had treated him as one of the family, almost.  Captain Dan,
to whom these statements were made, was stubbornly indignant.  He
wouldn't wink at a thief, and he wouldn't fire him and then hire
him over again, either.  If "that everlastin' sneak showed his
white-washed face on the premises again, he'd have that face
damaged."  All the captain hoped for was a chance to inflict the
damage.

So Cousin Percy, finding Daniel obdurate, tried his influence upon
Serena, whom he regarded, and justly, as the real head of the
house.  But Serena, too, refused to consider Mr. Hapgood's re-
employment.  She had talked with Azuba, and Azuba had declared that
she should leave in "just about two-thirds of a jiffy" if the
butler came back.  "When he comes into my kitchen," she said, "I
get out.  I should hate to quit the folks I'd worked for the
biggest part of my life, but there's some things I won't stand.
He's one of 'em.  Don't talk to me about HIM!"

Mr. Hapgood was not re-engaged nor forgiven, and Hungerford kindly
volunteered to find a competent successor.  He would make some
inquiries among his friends, the right sort of people, he said, and
his manner indicated that the said people were accustomed to
employing butlers in droves.

Azuba, therefore, was left with all the domestic cares upon her
hands.  These hands were quite competent, had they been disengaged,
but just now they were full.  Azuba was "advancing," just as she
had proclaimed to Captain Dan that she intended to do.  She read
"The Voice" and kindred literature a great deal, and quoted from
her readings at every opportunity.  Denied admittance to the
Chapter, in spite of Gertrude's efforts in her behalf--Gertrude had
warmly advocated the formation of a Servants' Branch--she had made
search on her own hook and suddenly announced that she had found
what she was looking for.  This, so she affirmed, was an
organization called "The Free Laborers' Band," and it met in a hall
somewhere or other, though no one but its members seemed to know
just where that hall was.  Serena made inquiries, but neither
servants nor mistresses had ever heard of the "Band."  Gertrude,
when she heard of it, at first seemed to be much amused, and
laughed heartily.  Then she became very grave and declared it a
splendid thing and that she was delighted because Azuba had found
her opportunity.  She was entitled to that opportunity, as was
every free woman, and certainly neither Gertrude or her mother,
being "free women" themselves, must offer objection or permit mere
household drudgery to interfere.

So Azuba "advanced" and preached and went out at night and
occasionally during the day.  Gertrude and Serena went out all the
time, when they were not entertaining themselves.  Life became a
never-ending round of politics and society functions, followed by,
on Mrs. Dott's part, sleepless nights and "nerves" and fretful
worriment concerning Gertrude.  Gertrude did not appear to worry.
She grew gayer and more gay, more careless in her manner and more
slangy in her speech.  Mr. Holway continued to call and Cousin
Percy to dance solicitous attendance.  John Doane's name was never
mentioned in his fiancee's presence.  She would not speak, or
permit others to speak, of him.

And then Mr. Holway ceased to call.  His final call was a lengthy
one, and he and Gertrude were alone during the latter part of it.
The following day Daniel met him on the street and was barely
recognized.  The captain was not greatly troubled at the slight--he
did not care greatly for the lively Monty--but he was surprised.
When he mentioned the meeting to his daughter the young lady
smiled, but offered no explanation.  Her father did not press the
point.  As Holway came no more and it became apparent that he was
not coming, the captain was satisfied.

Gertrude's strange behavior alarmed and troubled him, but his
wife's ill health and her worn, weary expression alarmed him more.
He was actually frightened concerning her.

"Oh, Serena," he begged, "what makes you do it?  It isn't worth it.
You're killin' yourself.  Let's give it up and go somewhere and
rest.  The Queen of Sheba's job ain't worth it, let alone just
bein' vice-president of Scarford Chapter."

But Serena shook her head.  "I can't give it up, Daniel," she
declared hysterically.  "I--I think I would if I could.  I really
do.  Sometimes I feel as if I would give up everything just to be
at peace and happy and contented again."

"You bet!" with enthusiasm.  "So would I.  And we were contented at
Trumet, wasn't we?  That is, I was; and you was enough sight better
contented than you are now."

"I know, I know.  But I can't give it up, Daniel.  Don't you see?
I can't!  I mustn't think of myself at all.  See how loyally
Annette and the rest have stood by me.  Their splendid loyalty is
the one thing that makes it worth while.  I must keep up and fight
on for their sakes.  I must be as true to them as they are to me.
Would they desert me for anything?  No!  And I shan't desert them.
I am going to be elected.  I know it.  After that, after the
election is over, I may--I might, perhaps--"

"You might go somewhere with me and have a good, comfortable time.
All right, we will.  And Gertie can go, too."

The mention of her daughter's name seemed to be more disturbing
than all the rest.  Serena burst into tears.

"She wouldn't go, Daniel!" she cried.  "You know she wouldn't.
She--she is going crazy, I do believe.  She is wild about society
and bridge--she told me only yesterday she wasn't sure that playing
for money was wrong.  All my friends and her friends did it and why
shouldn't we?  And she dances all these dreadful new dances and
uses slang and--and--oh, she is--I don't know WHAT she will be if
this keeps on.  Why does she do it?  WHO is responsible?"

Daniel did not answer.  He had a feeling that he could, without
moving from his chair, lay a hand upon the person chiefly
responsible, but he kept that feeling to himself.

"She'd go, if we wanted her to," he affirmed stoutly.

"No, she wouldn't."

"By time! she would.  You and I would make her.  I couldn't do it
alone, I know that, but if you'll say the word and stand by me
she'll go, if I have to--to give her ether and take her while she's
asleep.  Say the word, that's all I want you to do."

Serena did not say the word, not then.  She continued to moan and
wring her hands.

"She's all wrong, Daniel!" she cried.  "She does wrong things.  She
is with--with Cousin Percy too much.  He and she are getting to be
altogether too friendly.  She has dropped John for good, I'm
afraid.  Oh, suppose she should--"

The captain's anger burst forth at this expression of his own
secret dread.

"Suppose she should marry that Hungerford, you mean!" he cried.
"She won't!  She won't!  She's too sensible, anyway; but, if she
should, I--I'd rather see her dead.  Yes, sir, dead!"

"So had I.  But Cousin Percy--"

"D--n Cousin Percy!"

For once his profanity met with no rebuke.  Serena did not appear
to notice it.

"He is not the right sort of man for her," she declared.  "He is
polite and aristocratic and he has helped us in society; but he is
dissipated and fast, I'm sure of it.  He has been out a great deal
lately and comes home late, and I have heard him come up the stairs
as if--as if--Oh, WHY did you insist on his staying here, living
here with us?"

"Why did _I_--Humph!  Well, that's all right.  That's all right,
Serena.  You back me up in that, too, and he'll go out a sight
quicker than he came in.  I'll see that he does.  He'll fly.  I can
handle MEN even yet--though I don't seem to be good for much else."

But Mrs. Dott wouldn't hear of it.  They couldn't PUT him out, she
declared; think of the scandal!  No, no, no!  The interview ended
by the captain's dismissal and Serena's getting ready for that
evening's committee meeting.

It developed that Azuba's "Band" met on that same evening.
Gertrude and her mother had gone--they were to dine with the
committee at Annette's--and when Daniel, at seven o'clock, shouted
for his dinner, no dinner was ready.

"I can't stop to fuss with dinner," said Azuba firmly.  "I've got
to get ready for my Band meetin'.  All the afternoon I've been
fussin' with my speech--I'm goin' to speak to-night--and now it's
time for me to change my clothes.  I'm sorry, Cap'n Dott; I never
neglected you afore; but this time I've got to.  There's plenty to
eat in the ice-chest and you must wait on yourself.  No use to
talk!  I ain't got time to listen."

Captain Dan was furious.  This was a trifle too much.

"You get that dinner!" he roared.  "Get it, or you'll never get
another meal in this house!"

"Won't I?  Why not?  Mrs. Dott said I might go to this meetin'.
She'll understand."

"By time, Zuba Ginn, I'll discharge you!  I will!  I don't care if
you have been with us since Methusalem's time.  You old foolhead!
At your age--"

"I'm no older than your wife, Dan'l Dott.  And you can't discharge
me, neither.  I wouldn't go.  I'm no Hapgood.  I've got rights and
I'll stand up for 'em.  You ain't the boss, I guess.  If Serena
discharges me, all right; but she won't.  There! don't talk to ME.
I've got other fish to fry."

She marched up the back stairs.  Daniel sprang after her, but she
closed the door in his face.  For a moment he hesitated.  Then he
turned back and, re-entering the kitchen, began to pace up and
down, his hands in his pockets.

He strode from the sink to the back door, wheeled and strode back
again.  There was an odd expression on his face.  He frowned,
muttered to himself, whistled, smiled, and once broke into a short
laugh.  But, as he continued the pacing, gradually the frown
and smile disappeared and his expression became one of grim
determination.  His lips closed, his eyes puckered, and his stride
lengthened.  His heels struck the oilcloth with sharp, quick
thumps.  If one of his former shipmates, a foremast hand on the
schooner Bluebird, could have seen him then, that foremast hand
would have interpreted his behavior as a forerunner of trouble.  He
would have known that the "old man" was making up his mind to a
definite course of action and that, having made it up, he would
keep to that course so long as he could see or breathe.

And that interpretation would have been correct.  Captain Dan was
desperate.  He had made up his mind to fight, to "put his foot
down" at last.  Serena's ill health, Gertrude's conduct, the
aggravating insolence of Cousin Percy, all these had helped to spur
him to this pitch.  And now came Azuba's open rebellion and her
declaration that his command amounted to nothing, that he was not
the "boss."  It was true, that was the humiliating fact which
stung.  He was not the boss; he was not even cabin boy, and he knew
it.  But, to be openly told so, and by his cook, was a little too
much.  The worm will turn--at least we are told that it will--and
Daniel Dott was turning.

He jerked his hands from his pockets and opened his mouth.

"Azuba!" he roared.  "You, Zuba, come here!"

Azuba did not answer.  She was in her room at the top of the house
and, of course, did not hear the shout.  Before the captain could
repeat it someone knocked at the back door.

The knock was no hesitating, irresolute tap.  It was an emphatic,
solid thump.  Daniel heard it, but, in his present state of mind,
was in no mood to heed.

"Zuba!" he repeated.  "Zuba Ginn, are you comin' here or shall I
come after you?  ZUBA!"

The back door was merely latched, not locked.  Now it was thrown
open, a heavy step sounded in the entry and a voice, a man's voice,
said, in a shout almost as loud as the captain's, "Yes, Zuba;
that's what I was cal'latin' to say, myself.  Who--why, hello,
Cap'n Dan!  How are you?"

Daniel turned.  A man had entered the kitchen, a big man, wearing a
cloth cap, and carrying in one hand a lumpy oilcloth valise.  He
tossed the valise to the floor, grinned, and extended a hand.

"Well, Cap'n Dan," he observed, "you look as natural as life.  _I_
must have changed, I cal'late.  Don't you know me?"

The captain's eyes were opening wider and wider.  "Labe!" he
exclaimed; "Laban Ginn!  Where in the world did you come from?"

The person who had so unceremoniously entered the kitchen was
Azuba's husband, mate of the tramp steamer.



CHAPTER XIII


"For the land sakes!  Laban Ginn!" repeated Daniel.

Mr. Ginn grinned cheerfully.  He was six feet tall, or thereabouts,
and more than half as wide.  His hair and beard were grayish red
and his face reddish brown.  He was dressed in the regulation
"shore togs" of a deep sea sailor, blue double-breasted jacket,
blue trousers and waistcoat, white "biled" shirt, low collar--
celluloid, by the look--and a "made" bow tie which hung from the
button by a worn loop of elastic.  His hands were as red as his
face and of a size proportionate to the rest of him.  He seized the
captain's hand in one of his, crushed it to a pulp, and returned
the remains to the chief mourner.

"Well, say," he cried, his grin widening, "that feels natural,
don't it?  Last time you and me shook hands was over three years
ago.  How are you?  Blessed if it ain't good to see you again."

Captain Dan was slowly regaining his equilibrium.

"Same to you, Labe," he returned heartily.  "But--but, by Godfreys,
you're the last person I expected to see just now."

"Yep, I shouldn't wonder."

"Sit down, sit down.  Humph!  Does Azuba know you're comin'?"

"No, not yet."

"Well, sit down and I'll call her.  She's here with us, of course."

"Sartin she is.  Where else would she be?  I knew she was here;
heard you hailin' her just as I made port at the back door.  Set
down?"  He threw himself into a chair, which groaned under the
pressure.  "Sure, I'll set down!  Feels kind of good to drop anchor
when you've been cruisin's long as I have.  No, Zuby don't know I'm
comin'.  Last time I wrote her was from Mauritius.  I've been to
clink and gone since.  She WILL be surprised, won't she?  Ho! ho!
Did I leave the hatch open?  Here, let me shut it."

But Daniel himself shut the "hatch," that is to say, the back door.
He was on his way to the stairs, but Mr. Ginn detained him.

"Hold on a shake, Cap'n," he said.  "I ain't hardly seen you yet.
Let's have a look at you."  Crossing his legs--his feet were like
miniature trunks--he added, "How are you, anyway?"

Daniel replied that he was fair to middling.

"Sit still and make yourself comfortable, Labe," he went on.  "I'll
tell Zuba you're here."

"What's your hurry?  Give me a chance to catch my breath.  I lugged
that dunnage bag," indicating the valise, "from the depot up here,
and I feel as if I'd strained every plank in my hull.  Ought to go
into dry dock and refit, I had.  I landed in Philadelphy a week
ago," he continued.  "Quit the old steamer for good, I have.  Me
and the skipper had some words and I told him where he could go.
Ho! ho!  I don't know whether he went or not; anyhow, I started for
Trumet.  Got there and found you'd come into money and had moved to
Scarford and was livin' with the big-bugs.  Some house you've got
here, ain't it!  Soon's I see it I headed for the back door.  'A
first cabin companion like that's no place for me,' I says.  Ho!
ho!  Besides, I cal'lated to find Zuby Jane out in the fo'castle
here.  Didn't expect to locate you, though, in this end of the
ship.  How's it seem to be rich?  Ain't got fat on it, have you."

Daniel, amused in spite of his recent ill temper, shook his head.

"Not yet," he answered.  "So you've been ashore a week and your
wife doesn't know it?  Why didn't you write to her from
Philadelphia?"

"Oh, I don't know.  Zuby and me's got an understandin' about that,
and other things.  There's nothin' like havin' a clear understandin'
to make married folks get along together.  We write letters, of
course, but we don't write very often.  I'm li'ble to be 'most
anywheres on the face of the earth, and it makes me fidgety to think
there's letters chasin' me round and I ain't gettin' 'em.  I say to
Zuby, 'Long's you don't hear from me you'll know I'm all right, and
long's I don't hear from you I'll know the same.  We'll write when
we feel like it.  I'll come home as often as I can, and when I come
I'll fetch you my share of the wages.'  That's our understandin' and
it's a good one.  We ain't had a fight since we was spliced; or, if
we have, I always stop it right off--stop her part, I mean.  Where
IS the old gal, anyhow?"

"She's up in her room, I presume likely."

"Oh, is she?  Well, she'll be down in a jiffy.  If she ain't I'll
go up and give her a surprise."

"I'll call her, if you give me a chance."

"No, no, you needn't.  No 'special hurry.  She's waited for three
years; cal'late ten minutes more won't hurt neither of us.  Had
your supper yet?"

Daniel smiled grimly.  "Not yet," he replied.

"Then she'll be down to get it, of course.  I shan't stop her; I'm
empty as a rum bottle four days out of port.  You folks eat late,
don't you?"

"Sometimes."

"I should think so.  What's Zuby doin' up in her room this time of
night?"

"She said she was goin' to change her clothes."

"Oh, yes, yes; I see.  Well, 'twon't take her long.  If I went up
I'd only hold her back, and I want my supper.  Let's have a smoke,
Dan, while we're waitin'."

He patted one pocket after the other and finally located a chunky,
battered pipe, which he proceeded to fill with shavings from a
black plug.  Daniel watched him.  A new idea was dawning in his
mind, an idea which seemed to afford him some pleasurable
anticipation.  Mr. Ginn looked up from his tobacco shaving.

"Now, tell me about all this money of yours," he commanded.  "I
didn't hear nothin' else at Trumet; that and your wife's gettin' to
be commodore of some woman's lodge or other was all they talked
about.  Hey?  Why, where's your pipe?  Ain't you goin' to smoke?
I've got plenty terbacker."

Daniel looked dubious.  "I guess not, Labe," he said.  "Zuba--well,
the fact is, Zuba doesn't like people to smoke in her kitchen."

Laban's face expressed astonishment.  "She don't!" he cried.  "She
don't?  How long since?"

"Oh, almost ever since she came here.  It is one of her new ways."

"'Tis, hey?  Well, I like the old ones better, myself.  Never you
mind her ways; trot out your pipe and light up.  I--"

He was interrupted by his companion, who made a flying jump toward
the stove.  The teakettle was boiling over.

"Let it bile," commented Mr. Ginn.  "'Tain't your funeral, is it?
You ain't supposed to boss the galley.  That's the cook's business,
not the skipper's."

But Daniel carefully removed the kettle to a place of safety.

"It's my business to-night," he said.  "I'm gettin' my own supper."

Mr. Ginn straightened in his chair.  "You be?" he exclaimed.  "You
BE?  What for?  Ain't there no women folks in the house?  Ain't
Zuby--why, you said--"

"I know I said, but what I say don't seem to amount to much.  You
see, Labe, your wife has got some of what MY wife calls advanced
ideas.  She belongs to some kind of a lodge herself, and this is
their meetin' night.  Just before you came Zuba made proclamations
that I could cook my own supper.  She said she couldn't stop to do
it; she'd be late to the meetin' if she did."

Laban's mouth opened.  The pipe fell from it, scattering sparks
like a Roman candle, and bounced upon the spotless floor of the
kitchen.  Daniel would have picked it up, but his visitor
intervened.  He put one mammoth foot upon the sparks and, leaning
forward, demanded instant attention.

"For thunder sakes, Dan Dott!" he cried.  "Never mind that pipe;
let it alone.  For thunder sakes, tell me what you're talkin'
about?  Zuby--Zuby Jane Ginn racin' to lodges and tellin' you--YOU--
to cook your own meals!  Go on!  You're loony."

"Maybe I am, Labe, but it's so."

"It's so?  And you let it be so?  I don't believe it.  What do you
mean?  How long has it been so?"

Captain Dan proceeded to tell of his housekeeper's conversion to
progress and advancement.  He did not suppress any of the details;
in fact, he magnified them just a bit.

"She's a free woman, so she says, Labe," he said, in conclusion.
"And a free woman has a right to be free."

"Is that so!  That's what she says, hey?  And you let her say it?
Why, you--you--"  He hesitated, hovering between candid expression
and the respect due an ex-skipper of a three-master.  "Wh-what do
you have such goin's on in your house for?" he demanded.  "What
makes you let the gang afore the mast run over you this way?  Why
don't you--who's that upstairs; your wife?"

"No, my wife is out.  I shouldn't wonder if that was Zuba.  She's
on her way to the door, probably."

"She is, hey?  Call her down here.  Sing out to her to come down.
Hi!" as the captain stepped to the stairs, "don't say nothin' about
me."

Daniel, suppressing a grin, shouted up the stairs.

"Zuba!" he called.  "Zuba, come down here a minute."

Azuba answered, but in no complacent tone.  "Don't bother me, Cap'n
Dott," she protested.  "I'm late as 'tis."

"Just a minute, Zuba, that's all.  One minute, please."

Mr. Ginn snorted at the "please."  They heard the housekeeper
descending.  At the bottom step she sniffed loudly.

"I do believe it's tobacco smoke!" she exclaimed.  "Cap'n Dott,
have you been smokin' in my kitchen?"

She entered the room, waving an indignant arm.  She was dressed in
her Sunday best, bonnet and all.

"What!" she began, and then, suddenly aware that her employer was
not alone, turned to stare at his companion.  "Why!" she exclaimed;
"who--oh, my soul!  LABAN!"

"Hello, Zuby!" roared her husband, rising to greet her.  "How be
you, old gal?"

Before she could speak or move he seized her in his arms, squeezed
her to him, and pressed a kiss like the report of a fire-cracker
upon her cheek.  "How be you, Zuby?" he repeated.

"Oh, Labe!" gasped Azuba.  "Labe!"

"I'm Labe, all right.  No doubt about that. . . .  Well, why don't
you say somethin'?  Ain't you glad to see me?"

Azuba looked as if she did not know whether she was glad or not; in
fact, as if she knew or realized any little of anything.

"Labe!" she said again.  "Laban Ginn!  When--WHERE did you come
from?"

"Oh, from all 'round.  Trumet was my last port and I made that by
way of Malagy and Philadelphy.  But I'm here, anyhow, and that's
somethin'.  My! it's good to see you.  You look as natural as life.
Set down and let's look at you."

The housekeeper sat down; she appeared glad of the opportunity.
Her husband faced her, grinning broadly.

"Just as handsome as ever; hey, old lady," he observed.  "And look
at the duds!  Say, you're rigged up fine, from truck to keelson,
ain't you, Zuby!  Never seen you rigged finer.  A body would think
she knew I was comin', wouldn't they, Cap'n Dan?"

Daniel did not answer, although he seemed much interested in the
situation.

Azuba drew a hand across her forehead.

"I DIDN'T know it," she declared emphatically.  "Indeed, I didn't!
Why didn't you write me, Laban Ginn?"

"Write!  Write nothin'!  I wanted to surprise you.  But there,
there!  Don't set around in that rig any longer.  Makes me feel as
if you'd come to call on the parson.  Take off your coat and bonnet
and let's be sociable.  And while we're talkin' you turn to and get
supper.  I'm pretty nigh starved to death.  So's the cap'n; he said
so."

Mrs. Ginn looked at Captain Dan.  There was a twinkle in his eye.
Azuba noticed that twinkle.

"Laban," she stammered, "I--I--I CAN'T stay here and get supper to-
night.  I can't."

Laban was tremendously surprised--at least he pretended to be.

"Can't!" he repeated.  "Can't stay here, when I've just got home?"

"No, I can't.  If I had known you was comin' 'twould have been
different.  But I didn't know it."

"What difference does that make?  Zuby, don't make me laugh; I'm
too hungry for jokin'.  Take off your bonnet, now; take it off."

"I mustn't, really, Labe.  It's lodge night and they expect me.
I--"

"Take off your bonnet!"

"I can't! . . .  Well, I will, for just a minute."  The last
sentence was added in a great hurry, for her husband showed signs
of preparing to remove the headgear with his own hands.  She placed
the bonnet on the table and fidgeted in her chair, glancing first
at her employer and then at the clock.  Captain Dan was smiling
broadly.

"That's fine!" exclaimed Mr. Ginn.  "Now you look like home folks.
Now she'll get us some supper, won't she, Cap'n?"

Again Daniel did not answer, but his smile, as Azuba interpreted
it, was provokingly triumphant.  Her lips closed tightly.

"I can't get any supper to-night, Laban," she declared firmly.  "I
just can't.  I'm awful sorry, bein' as you've just got home, but
you'll have to forgive me.  I'll explain when you and me are
alone."

"Explain?  Explain what?"

"Why--why--" with another look, almost vindictive, at the grinning
captain, "what my reason is.  But I can't tell you now--I can't."

"That's all right.  I don't care about explainin's.  You can
explain any old time; just now, me and the cap'n want our supper."

"I shan't get your supper.  I told Cap'n Dott I couldn't before I
went upstairs.  I'm goin' out."

"No, no, you ain't.  Quit your foolin', old lady.  I'm gettin'
emptier every minute.  So are you, ain't you, Cap'n?"

Daniel hesitated, looked at his housekeeper's face, and burst into
a roar of laughter.  That laugh decided the question.  Azuba rose.

"Don't talk to me," she snapped.  "I'm sorry, but it serves you
right, Laban, for comin' home without sendin' me word; and just at
the wrong time, too.  Give me that bonnet."

She reached for the bonnet, but her husband reached it first.
"'Tain't much of a bonnet, anyhow, Zuby," he said.  "Now I look at
it closer I don't think it's becomin' to your style of complexion.
Some day I'll buy you another."

"Give me that bonnet, Laban Ginn!"

"I don't like to see that bonnet around, Zuby.  Let's get it out of
sight quick."

His wife sprang at the bonnet, but he barred her off with an arm
like a fence-rail, removed a lid from the stove, put the unbecoming
article in on the red-hot coals, and replaced the lid.  "There!" he
said, "that helps the scenery, don't it?  Now let's have supper."

Captain Dan laughed again.  For an instant Azuba stared, white-
faced, at the cremation of the bonnet.  Then she darted to the
door.  "I'll go now," she cried, "if I have to go bareheaded!  I'll
show you!  Let go of me!"

Mr. Ginn had thrown an arm about her waist.  She pulled his hair
and gave him some vigorous slaps on the cheek, but he smiled on.
"You want to get supper, Zuby," he coaxed.  "I know you do.  You
just think it over now.  It's too noisy out here to do much
thinkin'.  Where's a nice quiet place?  Oh! this'll be first rate."

He bore her, kicking like a jumping-jack, across the kitchen to the
closet where the pans and cooking utensils were kept.  "Think it
over in there, Zuby," he said calmly, shutting the door and
planting himself in a chair against it.  "That's a fine place to
think.  Now, Cap'n, you and me can have our smoke, while she's
thinkin' what to give us to eat; hey?"

Judging by the thumps and kicks and screams inside the closet the
housekeeper's thoughts were otherwise engaged.

"You let me out, Labe Ginn!" she screamed.  "Cap'n Dott, you make
him let me out!"

Daniel, weary from laughing, could only gasp.

"I can't, Zuba!" he answered, choking.  "I can't!  It ain't my
affair.  I couldn't interfere between husband and wife.  You're a
free woman, Zuba, you know.  You ought to be advanced enough by
this time to fight your own battles."

"That's right, Zuba," counseled Mr. Ginn.  "Fight 'em out in there.
You can be just as free in there as you want to.  Have some of my
terbacker, Cap'n?"

Captain Dan declined.  The prisoner continued to thump and kick and
threaten.  Her jailer refilled and lighted his pipe.

"Thought over that bill of fare, Zuby?" he shouted, after a time.

More thumps and threats; tears as well.  Daniel began to feel pity
instead of triumph.

"Hadn't you better, Labe," he began.  Mr. Ginn waved him to
silence.

"How about supper, Zuby?" he called.  "Oh, all right, all right.  I
don't know as I'm as hungry as I was, anyway.  Appetite's kind of
passin' off, I cal'late.  You stay in there and think till mornin',
and we'll have it for breakfast."

Silence--actual silence--for a moment.  Then Azuba asked, in a
half-smothered but much humbler voice, "Oh, Labe! WON'T you let me
out?"

"Sure thing--if you've thought up that supper for me and Cap'n
Dan'l."

"But I did so want--oh, if I could only tell you!  It was SO
necessary for me to go to that meetin'.  You've spiled everything,
and just as 'twas goin' so nice.  What Gertie'll say I don't know."

Daniel developed a new interest.

"Gertie?" he repeated.  "Hush, Labe! wait a minute.  What's Gertie
got to do with it?"

"Nothin', nothin'.  Oh, Labe, PLEASE."

"Well, I tell you, Zuby: it's close to nine now, and that's too
late for you to be cruisin' out to meetin's.  Sorry you have to
miss the speeches and things, but--Say, I tell you what I'll do.
If it's a sermon you want I'll preach you one, myself.  Make it up
while you're settin' the table.  Ready to come out and be good?
That's right.  Now, I bet you she's thought up somethin' that'll
make our mouths water, Cap'n."

The crestfallen housekeeper emerged, blinking, from her thinking
place.  She removed her coat and, without even a glance at her
employer, proceeded to adjust the dampers of the stove.  Captain
Dan rose from his chair.

"I'm afraid I can't stop to have supper with you, Labe," he said.
"I've got an--an errand to do outside, myself.  I'll eat at a
restaurant or somewhere.  You'll stay here to-night, of course.
I'll see you in the mornin'.  Good-night!  Good-night, Zuby!"

Azuba did not reply.  Laban shouted protests.  What was the sense
of going just when supper was being made ready at last?  Daniel,
however, did not stay to listen.  He climbed the back stairs to the
hall, put on his overcoat and hat and went out.  He had been too
tender-hearted to remain in the kitchen and gloat, or appear to
gloat, over a "free woman's" humiliation.  Nevertheless, he
astonished the waiter at the restaurant where he ate dinner by
bursting into laughter at intervals, and with no obvious cause.
The waiter suspected that the old gentleman from the country had
been drinking, and the size of the tip he received helped to
confirm his suspicion.

His dinner eaten, Captain Dan walked slowly home.  Unlocking the
front door with his latchkey he tiptoed through the hall and
listened at the head of the back stairs.  There was a steady murmur
of voices in the kitchen.  He heard a bass grumble from Mr. Ginn
and Azuba's shrill reply.  Then the pair burst into a laugh.
Evidently some sort of understanding on a peaceful basis had been
reached.  Still chuckling, the captain went up to his bedroom,
removed his outer garments and his shoes, put on his bathrobe and
slippers, and settled himself, with the evening paper, to await his
wife's return.  He resolved to be awake when she did return; he had
news for her.  Filled with this resolution, he read for three-
quarters of an hour steadily, then at intervals between naps, and
at last dropped into a sound sleep, the paper in his lap.

Gertrude and Serena came home at a surprisingly early hour.  Not
that the committee meeting was over; it was not.  In fact, the
elaborate dinner spread before her supporters by the grateful Mrs.
Black had scarcely reached its last course when Gertrude suddenly
rose from the table and hastened to her mother's side.  She had
been watching the latter with increasing anxiety all the evening.

"What is it, Mother?" she asked.  "What is it?"

Serena, sitting with her elbow on the table, her hand to her
forehead, and her untasted ice before her, looked up in a
bewildered way.

"What--why, what do you mean, Gertie?" she stammered.  "What--I
don't think I understood you."

"What is the matter, Mother?" repeated Gertrude.  "Don't you feel
well?"

Still Mrs. Dott did not seem to understand.  She tried to smile,
but the vague uncertainty of the smile caused even Annette, who had
been deep in discussion of a plan for securing the vote of a still
doubtful member, to cease speaking and regard her guest with
surprise.

"What is it, Mother?" urged Gertrude.  "You look so strange.  Are
you ill?"

Serena gazed at her for a moment, rose, stood looking about in the
same hesitating, uncertain manner, and then, throwing her arms
about her daughter's neck, burst into hysterical sobs.

The alarmed guests clustered about them, asking questions,
exclaiming, and offering suggestions.

"What IS it?" demanded Annette.  "My DEAR!  What IS it?"

Serena, still clinging to Gertrude, continued to sob.

"I--I don't know," she moaned.  "I--I feel so strange.  I'm--I'm
tired, I guess.  I'm--I'm worn out.  I--oh, Gertie, take me home.
Take me home--please."

"Yes, yes, Mother, dear.  We will go home at once.  Come."

She led her into the next room.  Annette, hastening with a glass of
wine and the smelling salts, caught the young lady's arm.

"She isn't going to be ill, seriously sick, is she?" she demanded.
"You don't think she is.  It would be dreadful if she was."

Gertrude shook her head.

"I don't know," she answered.  "I certainly hope not.  Will you
call a carriage, Mrs. Black?"

"Yes, yes, I'll call one right away.  Oh, I hope she isn't going to
be sick.  It would be dreadful--just now.  The election is only two
weeks off, and without her I--we should be almost certain to lose.
I know we should.  Oh, Serena, DEAR! you WON'T be sick, will you?
for my sake!"

It did not seem to occur to the agitated Annette that her friend
might not care to be ill, for her own sake.  But it was evident
that Gertrude was thinking just that.  The young lady's tone was
sharp and decidedly cold.

"She is tired out," she said.  "She has worn herself out working
for her--for her friends, Mrs. Black.  Will you call the carriage?"

"Yes, yes.  They are calling it now.  I'm so sorry the chauffeur--
or--or Phelps--is out.  If he--if they were not you could use our
car.  But, oh, Serena--"

Serena looked up.  She was calmer now, she had heard, and loyally
she answered.

"Don't worry, Annette," she said.  "I am not going to be sick.  I
won't.  You can depend on me.  Oh, Gertie, I'm SO tired!  My poor
head!"

The carriage came and she and Gertrude were driven home.  Annette
did not offer to accompany them.  It was such an important meeting
and there were so many things to talk about, she explained.  She
would call the very next day.  Serena thanked her; Gertrude said
nothing.

Serena seemed better on the way home.  When they reached the house
she announced bravely that she was all right again; all she needed
was a night's rest, that was all.  Gertrude insisted on accompanying
her to her room.  They found Daniel asleep in the chair, and to
him his daughter explained the situation.  The captain was too
greatly disturbed to think of his "news," the news of Mr. Ginn's
arrival and Azuba's subjection.

"You get right into bed, Serena," he ordered.  "Gertie, you call
the doctor."

But his wife would not hear of the doctor.  "Nonsense!" she
declared.  "I don't need any doctor.  I want to go to bed.  I'm
tired--tired.  I won't see the doctor or anybody else.  Go, Gertie,
please go.  Your father will be with me.  Please go!  I am all
right now."

Gertrude went, but she whispered to the captain that she would wait
in the library and, if they needed her, he was to be sure and call.

In the library she took a book--one of Aunt Lavinia's legacies--
from the shelf and tried to read, but that was impossible.  She
could not read, she could only think, and thinking was most
unpleasant.  Her conscience was troubling her.  Had she been wrong?
Had she gone too far?  She had meant well, her plan had seemed the
only solution of the family problem, but perhaps she had made a
mistake.  She loved her mother devotedly.  Oh, if anything serious
should happen--if, because of her, her mother should be ill--if--if
she should.  She could not think of it.  She would never forgive
herself, never.  It had been all wrong from the beginning, and she
had been wicked and foolish.  It had cost her so much already; her
own life's happiness.  And yet--and yet, she had meant to do right.
But now, after that misunderstanding and consequent sacrifice, if
her mother should--

She broke down and was very, very miserable.

Someone was at the front door, fumbling with a latchkey.  Gertrude
hurriedly sprang from her chair, wiped her eyes with her
handkerchief and was on her way to the hall when the door opened.
The hall was dark; she had turned off the light when she came
downstairs; and for a moment she could not see who it was that had
entered.  She, however, was in the full glow from the electrolier
in the library and Mr. Hungerford saw her.

"Ah, Gertrude," he said cheerfully.  "Is that you?  Don't go.
Don't go."

He was at the doorway before she could reach it.  He had been
dining out with some masculine friends--"old college chums," he had
explained when announcing the situation--and was in evening dress.

"Don't go," he repeated.  "What's the hurry?  Wait a minute and
I'll join you."

He removed his overcoat and silk hat and tossed them carelessly
upon the hall table.  The hat fell to the floor, but he did not
heed it.  Then he entered the library.

"What!" he exclaimed.  "Alone?  Burning the midnight oil and all
that sort of thing.  Where is old--er--where's your father?"

Gertrude replied that her father had retired.  She was about to do
so, she added.  It was untrue, but she was not in the mood for a
conversation with anyone, least of all with Cousin Percy.

Cousin Percy, however, appeared decidedly conversational.  His face
was a trifle flushed and he smiled more than seemed necessary.

"Well," he observed, "this is an unexpected pleasure.  Didn't
expect to find anyone up at this hour."

Gertrude curtly remarked that it was not late.

"I didn't mean up, I meant in.  Did I say 'up'?  Most extraordinary.
I thought you and Mrs. Dott were playing the political game this
evening.  Expected to find you out and old--the respected captain,
I mean--in the arms of--what's his name?--Morpheus.  That's all
right, though; that's all right.  So much the better.  We can talk--
you and I."

"I don't feel like talking.  You must excuse me."

"What?  Don't feel like talking?  Cruel!  Why not?  It isn't late;
you said so yourself."

"I know but--really, you must excuse me."

She was moving toward the door, but again he stepped in her way.

"Now, Gertie," he said.  Then he broke into a laugh.  "Called you
Gertie, didn't I?" he said.  "Beg pardon.  Quite unintentional.  It
slipped out before I thought.  But you don't mind, do you?  It's a
pretty name.  Just a little bit less formal than Gertrude, eh?
Don't you think so--Gertie?"

Gertrude hesitated.  She was humiliated and angry, but she did not
wish a scene.  Her parents might hear and her mother must on no
account be disturbed.

"Perhaps it is," she answered.

"Then you don't mind?"

"No.  Now, Percy, you must excuse me.  Goodnight!"

"Wait!  Wait!  Gertie, I have something to say to you.  Been
wanting to say it for a long time, but haven't had the opportunity.
You have kept out of my way.  Ha! ha! you know you have.  Perhaps
you guessed I wanted to say it.  Was that it?  Ha! ha! was it now?
Confess; was it?"

Gertrude did not answer.  She moved toward the door.  Mr.
Hungerford laughingly blocked the passage.

"No, no!" he cried.  "No, no!  Mustn't run away.  I am going to say
it, and you must hear me.  Come, don't be cross."

"Mr. Hungerford, will you stand aside?  I can not talk with you to-
night, or listen.  I am going to my room."

The tone in which this was uttered should have been a warning, but
Cousin Percy was in no condition to recognize warnings, or to heed
them if he had.  His smile grew more tender and his tone more
intimate.

"Not yet," he smiled; "not just yet.  I can't permit it.  Gertie,
I--"

"If you don't stand aside I shall call my father."

"What?  Call the old gentleman?  No, you don't mean it.  Of course
you don't.  You wouldn't be so unreasonable.  Come, come! we're
friends at least.  We understand each other, don't we?"

"I understand YOU, thoroughly."

"Of course you do," with a triumphant leer.  "And you know what I
am going to say.  Ah ha!  I was sure you did.  And you've
confessed.  Gertie, my dearest girl, I--What!  Going?  Not until
you pay toll.  I'm keeper of the gate and you must pay before you
pass, you know.  If you won't listen you must pay.  Ha! ha!"

He held out his hands.  Gertrude shrank back.  She was not afraid
of him, but she did fear a scene.  She had threatened to call her
father, but she could not do that.  If she did her mother would be
frightened.  She moved away, to the other side of the library
table.

Cousin Percy interpreted her retreat as a sign of surrender.  He
followed her, laughing.

"Come!" he insisted.  "I knew you didn't mean it.  Come, my dear!
Just one.  I--"

He tripped over the captain's favorite footstool and fell to his
knees.  With a sudden movement Gertrude jerked the cord of the
electrolier on the table.  The lights went out.  She dodged around
the table, through the doorway, into the hall, and up the stairs.
Mr. Hungerford, pawing in the darkness at the offending footstool,
swore.  Then he laughed.

"Good!" he exclaimed.  "Very good, but not good enough.  You can't
escape that way.  I shall find you.  Where are you hiding?  Eh!
Ah, there you are!"

He had scrambled to his feet and hurried to the doorway.  There
were the sounds of footsteps and the rustle of skirts at the other
end of the hall.

"There you are!" he cried.  "I've caught you.  Now you must pay--
twice."

He put his arm about a feminine waist and imprinted a kiss upon a
feminine cheek.  Then his own cheek received a slap which made his
head ring, and the hall echoed with a shrill scream.

"Labe!" shrieked Azuba.  "Oh, Labe!  Help!  Come quick!"

Mr. Ginn came up the back stairs three steps at a time.

"What is it?  What's the matter, Zuby?" he demanded.

"A man!  A man!  He--he--"

"Where is he?  What's he doin'?"

"He--there he is.  Hear him?  There!"

Mr. Hungerford, paralyzed with astonishment and dizzy from the
slap, had moved, injudiciously.  Laban heard him.

"Hey?" he bellowed.  "Ah!  I've got him.  Stand still, dum you!
I've got him, Zuby.  Who is he?  What did he do?"

"I--I don't know who he is," panted the frightened housekeeper.
"He--he kissed me."

"KISSED you!  YOU?  Why--"

"It's a mistake!" cried Cousin Percy, frantically struggling in the
grasp of his captor.  "I--Stop!  Stop!  Help!  Help!"

The hall became a pandemonium of thumps, struggles, cries for help,
and pleas for mercy.  Azuba added her shrieks to the tumult.  From
above Captain Dan shouted and Serena screamed.  Then the chandelier
blazed.  Gertrude had pressed the button at the top of the stairs.

"Let him be!" ordered the young lady, rushing to the rescue.
"Don't! don't!  Azuba, stop him!"

"Labe! stop! stop!" pleaded the housekeeper.  "You--My soul! it's
Mr. Hungerford."

It was what there was left of Mr. Hungerford.  Mr. Ginn extended
the disheveled, whimpering remnant at arm's length and regarded it.

"Humph!" he grunted.  "You know him, do you?"

"Know him!  Of course I do.  But--but I must say--"

Captain Dan came tearing down the stairs, his bathrobe fluttering
and a slipper missing.  In one hand he held a pair of scissors, the
only offensive weapon which he had found available at the moment.

"What in blazes?" he demanded.  "Burglars, is it?"

Gertrude answered.  "No, Daddy," she said gravely.  "It's no one
but Cousin Percy.  And--and Mr. Ginn.  Why, Mr. Ginn, is--is it
you?"

Laban nodded.  "It's me, all right," he observed grimly.  "Who the
devil is this?  That's what I want to know."

Daniel turned to the captive.

"Why--why, Percy!" he gasped.  "What--what's happened to you?  Let
go of him, Labe Ginn!  Percy Hungerford, what--what's all this?"

Mr. Hungerford, suddenly freed from the grasp upon his torn shirt
collar, staggered against the wall.

"It's--it's a mistake," he panted.  "I--I--this--this blackguard
assaulted me.  I--I--"

"Assaulted you!  I should say he had.  Labe Ginn, what did you
assault him for?"

Mr. Ginn glared at his victim.

"Blackguard, am I?" he growled.  "Humph!  Well, if he starts to
callin' me names, I'll--"

"Belay!  Answer me!  What have you been doin' to him?  Look at him!
What do you mean by assaultin' him that way?"

"What do I mean?  When a man comes home from sea and finds another
man kissin' his wife, what would he be likely to mean?"

Daniel could not answer.  He looked about him in absolute
bewilderment.  Gertrude choked and turned away.

"Kissin'!" repeated Captain Dan.  "Kissin' your wife?  Kissin'
ZUBA!  I--I--am I crazy, or are you, or--or is he?"

Apparently he judged the last surmise to be the most likely.
Cousin Percy, frantic with rage and humiliation, tried to protest.

"It's a lie!" he cried.  "It's a lie!"

The captain turned to his housekeeper.

"Zuba," he demanded, "what sort of lunatic business is this?  Do
you know?"

Azuba straightened.

"I don't know much," she announced sharply.  "All I know is that I
come upstairs in the dark and he grabbed me and--and said somethin'
about my payin' him--and then he--he--done the other thing.  That's
all I know, and it's enough.  Don't talk to ME!  I never was so
surprised and mortified in MY life."

"But--but what's it mean?  Can't anybody tell me, for the Lord
sakes?"

Gertrude stepped forward.  "I think I understand," she said.  "Our
cousin made a mistake, that's all.  I will explain at another time,
Daddy.  If--if you will all go away, he and I will have an
interview.  I think I can settle it better than anyone else.  Go,
please.  I'm sure Mother needs you."

The mention of his wife caused her father to forget everything
else, even his overwhelming curiosity.

"My soul!" he cried.  "She heard this; and--and I left her all
alone."

He bolted up the stairs.  Gertrude's next remark was addressed to
the housekeeper.

"Azuba," she said, "would you and your husband mind leaving us?
Perhaps you'd better not go to bed.  I--I may need Mr. Ginn later
on; perhaps I may.  But if you and he were to go down to the
kitchen and wait just a few moments I should be so much obliged.
Will you?"

Azuba hesitated.

"Leave you?" she repeated.  "With--with him?"

"Yes.  I have something to say to him.  Something important."

She and Azuba exchanged looks.  The latter nodded.

"All right," she said decisively; "course we'll go.  Come, Labe."

But Laban seemed loath to move.

"I ain't got through with him yet," he observed.  "I'd only begun."

"You come with me.  Have you forgot all I told you so soon?  Come!"

"Hey?  No; no, I ain't forgot.  Is this part of it?"

"Part of it's part of it; the rest ain't.  You come, 'fore you do
any more spilin'.  Come, now."

Mr. Ginn went.  At the head of the back stairs he paused.

"You'll sing out if you need me?" he asked.  "You will, won't you?
You'll only have to sing once."

He tramped heavily down.  Gertrude walked over to the victim of the
"mistake" and its consequences.

"I think," she said coldly, "that you had better go."

"Go?"  Mr. Hungerford looked at her.  "Go?" he repeated.

"Yes.  I give you this opportunity.  There will not be another.  Go
to your room, change your clothes, pack your trunk, and go--now,
to-night."

"What do you mean?  That I am to go--and not come back?"

"Yes."

"But, Gertrude--Gertie--"

"Don't call me that.  Don't DARE to speak to me in that tone.  Go--
now."

"But, Ger--Miss Dott, I--I--don't you see it was all a mistake?
I--"

"Stop!  I am trying very hard to keep my temper.  We have had
scenes enough to-night.  My mother is ill and she must not be
disturbed again.  If you do not go to your room and pack and leave
at once, I shall call Mr. Ginn and have you put out, just as you
are.  I am giving you that opportunity.  You had better avail
yourself of it.  I mean what I say."

She looked as if she did.  Cousin Percy evidently thought so.  His
humbleness disappeared.

"So?" he snarled angrily.  "So that's it, eh?  What do you think I
am?"

Gertrude's eyes flashed.  She bit her lip.  When she spoke it was
with deliberate distinctness.  Every word was as sharp and cold as
an icicle.

"Do you wish to know what I think you are?" she asked.  "What I
thought at the very beginning you were, and what I have been taking
pains to make sure of ever since I came to this house?  Very well,
I'll tell you."

She told him, slowly, calmly, and with biting exactness.  His face
was flushed when she began; when she finished it was white.

"That is what you are," she said.  "I do not merely think so.  I
have studied you carefully; I have stooped to associate with you in
order to study you; I have studied you through your friends; I KNOW
what you are."

His anger and mortification were choking him.

"You--you--" he snarled.  "So that is it, is it?  You have been
using me as a good thing.  As a--as a--"

"As you have used my father and mother and their simple-minded
goodness and generosity.  Yes, I have."

"You have been making a fool of me!  And Holway--confound him--"

"Mr. Holway was useful.  He helped.  And he, too, understands,
now."

"By--by gad--I--I won't go.  I'll--"

Gertrude walked to the rear of the hall.

"Mr. Ginn!" she called, "will you come, please?"

Laban came.  He looked happy and expectant.

"Here I be," he observed eagerly.

"Mr. Ginn," said Gertrude, "this--gentleman--is going to his room
for a few minutes.  He is preparing to leave us.  If he doesn't
come down and leave this house in a reasonable time will you kindly
assist him?  He will, no doubt, send for his trunks to-morrow.  But
he must go to-night.  He must.  Do you understand, Mr. Ginn?"

Laban grinned.  "I cal'late I do," he said.  "Zuba's been tellin'
me some.  He'll go."

"Thank you.  Good-night!"

She ascended the stairs.  The first mate looked at his watch.

"Fifteen minutes is enough to pack any trunk," he observed.  "I'll
give you that much.  Now, them, tumble up.  Lively!"

At the door of her parents' room Gertrude rapped softly.  Captain
Dan opened it and showed a pallid, agitated face.

"She's mighty sick, Gertie," he declared.  "I wish you'd telephone
for the doctor."



CHAPTER XIV


The doctor came, stayed for some time and, after administering a
sleeping draught and ordering absolute quiet for his patient,
departed, saying that he would come again in the morning.  He did
so and, before leaving, took Captain Dan and Gertrude into his
confidence.

"It is a complete collapse," he said gravely.  "Mrs. Dott is worn
out, physically and mentally.  She must be kept quiet, she must not
worry about anything, she must remain in bed, and she must see no
one.  If she does this, if she rests--really rests--we may fight
off nervous prostration.  If she does not--anything may happen.
With your permission I shall send a nurse."

The permission was given, of course, and the nurse came.  She was a
quiet, pleasant, capable person, and Daniel and Gertrude liked her.
She took charge of the sick room.  Azuba--the common sense,
adequate, domestic Azuba of old, not the rampant "free woman" of
recent days--was in charge of the kitchen.  Her husband remained,
at Daniel's earnest request, but he spent his time below stairs.

"Sartin sure I won't be in the way, Cap'n, be you?" he asked
earnestly.  "I can go somewheres else just as well as not, to some
boardin' house or somewheres.  Zuby Jane won't mind; we can see
each other every day."

"Not a mite of it, Labe," replied Daniel earnestly.  "There's
plenty of room and you can stay here along with your wife just as
well as not.  I'd like to have you.  Maybe--" with a suggestive
wink, "maybe you can kind of--well, kind of keep things runnin'
smooth--in the galley.  You know what I mean."

Laban grinned.  "Cal'late you won't have no more trouble that way,
Cap'n," he observed.  "I guess that's over.  Zuby and I understand
each other better'n we did.  I THOUGHT she was mighty--"

"Mighty what?"  Mr. Ginn had broken off his sentence in the middle.

"Oh, nothin'.  It's all right, Cap'n Dott.  Don't you worry about
Zuby and me.  We'll boss this end of the craft; you 'tend to the
rest of it.  Say, that Hungerford swab ain't come back, has he?"

"No.  No, he hasn't.  He's gone for good, it looks like.  Sent for
his trunk and gone.  That's queer, too.  No, he hasn't come back."

Laban seemed disappointed.  "Well, all right," he said.  "If he
should come, just send for me.  I'd just as soon talk to him as
not--rather, if anything."

The captain shook his head in a puzzled way.

"That business of--of him and Zuba was the strangest thing," he
declared.  "I can't make head nor tail of it, and Gertie won't talk
about it at all.  He said 'twas a mistake, and of course it must
have been.  Either that or he'd gone crazy.  No sane man would--"

"What's that?"  It was Mr. Ginn's turn to question, and Daniel's to
look foolish.  "What's that no sane man would do?" demanded Laban
sharply.

"Why--why, go away and leave us without sayin' good-by," explained
the captain, with surprising presence of mind.  "Er--well, so long,
Laban.  Make yourself at home.  I've got to see how Serena is."

He hurried up the back stairs.  Mr. Ginn, who seemed a trifle
suspicious, called after him, but the call was unheeded.

At the door of his wife's room--his room no longer--Captain Dan
rapped softly.  The nurse opened the door.

"How is she?" he whispered.

"She is asleep now," whispered the nurse in reply.  "You must not
come in."

"I wasn't goin' to.  But--but--has she been askin' for me?"

"Yes.  I told her you were out.  If she wakes and asks for you I
will call.  You may see her then for a minute or two.  She is
easier when you are with her--or near by."

This was true.  The one person Serena wished to see most of all was
her husband.  She asked for Gertrude, of course, but it was Daniel
for whom she asked continually.  If he were near her she seemed
almost happy and contented.  It was when he sat beside the bed that
she ceased tossing upon the pillow and lay quiet, looking at him.

"You are a good man, Daniel," she whispered, on one of these
occasions.  "A dear, good, unselfish man."

"No, no, I ain't any such thing," protested the captain hastily.

"But you are.  And--and WHAT should I do without you now?"

"Sh-sh!  I'm not much help.  Land knows I wish I was more."

"You ARE the help; all the help I have.  Gertie--Daniel, you will
keep an eye on Gertie, won't you.  You won't let her do anything
foolish."

"Who?  Gertie?  She won't do foolish things.  She ain't that kind."

"I know, but she has changed so.  It worries me.  Percy--"

"Now don't you worry about Percy.  He isn't here now."

"Not here?  Where is he?"

"I don't know.  He's gone away--for a spell, anyhow.  Maybe that
vacation he used to talk about is over.  I guess that's it."

Serena was too weak to ask further questions, even concerning so
surprising a matter as Cousin Percy's sudden departure.  But she
did make one further plea.

"Daniel," she begged, "if Annette calls about the Chapter you tell
her--"

"I've told her.  She understands.  She says it's all right."

"Does she?  I'm so glad.  Oh, Daniel, you'll have to take charge of
everything now.  I can't, and Gertrude--you must do it, yourself,
Daniel.  You MUST.  Of Azuba and Gertie and everything.  I rely on
you.  You WILL, won't you, Daniel?"

"Sure I will.  I'm skipper now, Serena.  You ought to see how the
hands jump when I give an order."

It was true, too; the hands did "jump" at the captain's orders.  He
was skipper, for the time being.  His wife's illness, Mr.
Hungerford's absence, Gertrude's meekness--she was a silent and
conscience-stricken young lady--all combined to strengthen Daniel's
resolution, and he was, for the first time in years, the actual
head of the household.  He took active charge of the bills and
financial affairs, he commanded Azuba to do this and that, he saw
the callers who came and he sent them to the rightabout in a hurry.

His statement concerning Mrs. Black was not the literal truth.
Annette had called, that was true; she had called the very next
morning after her chief aide was stricken.  But she had not
declared that everything was "all right"; far from it.

"But can't I see her, Captain Dott?" she begged.  "I MUST see her
for just a minute."

"Sorry, ma'am, but you can't do it.  Doctor's orders.  She mustn't
be disturbed."

"But I've got to see her.  I must talk with her."

"I know, but I'm afraid you can't.  You can talk to me, if that
will do any good."

"It won't.  Of course it won't.  Where is Gertrude?  Let me talk to
her."

Daniel climbed the stairs to his daughter's room.  He found her
sitting at her desk; she had been writing "regrets" in answer to
various invitations.  She turned a careworn face in his direction.

"What is it, Daddy?" she asked.  "Mother is not worse, is she?"

"No, no; she's better, if anything.  But that--er--Annette Black
has come and, long as she can't see Serena, she wants to talk to
you."

"About her precious politics, I suppose."

"Your supposin' is as nigh right as anything mortal can be, Gertie.
That's what she wants."

"I can't see her.  I don't want to see her.  I don't want to hear
the word politics.  I--"

"That's enough, that's enough.  I'll 'tend to HER.  You stay right
here."

He descended to the drawing-room, where Annette was fidgeting on
the edge of a chair, and announced calmly that Gertrude was not at
home.

The caller's agitation got the better of her temper.

"Nonsense!" she snapped.  "I don't believe it.  How do you know she
isn't?"

"Because she said so.  Lovely mornin' for a walk, isn't it?"

Mrs. Black rose and stalked to the threshold.  But there she turned
once more.

"If your wife knew," she cried hysterically, "how I, her best
friend, was treated in her house, she--she--"

Daniel stepped forward.  "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Black," he said.
"Maybe I have been pretty plain spoken.  I'm sorry if I've hurt
your feelin's.  But, you see, we're all upset here.  I'm upset, and
Gertie's as much so as the rest.  She can't talk to you, or anybody
else, now.  I'm willin' to try, but you say my talkin' won't do any
good."

"Of course it won't.  Oh, don't you SEE?  I'm sorry Serena is not
well, but this is IMPORTANT."

"I know, but so's her health, 'cordin' to my thinkin'."

"If I might see her just a moment.  It is so provoking.  Just at
this critical time!  Doesn't my--her election mean ANYTHING to you?
Don't you care about the cause?"

The captain shook his head.  "All I'm carin' for is my wife, just
now," he said.  "She's all I can think about.  If some of us had
thought more about her, maybe--"  He stopped, cleared his throat,
and added:  "I know you'll understand and forgive us, when you
think it over.  I'll tell her you called.  Good-mornin'."

If he supposed this was the end, he was mistaken.  Annette was not
so easily whipped or discouraged.  She called again that afternoon,
and again the next day.  Each morning for a week she came, and,
between times, other adherents of the Black-Dott party called.
They all asked concerning the invalid, but their interest plainly
centered upon her part in the campaign.  Would she be well enough
to take part in the election, that was the question.  They sent
flowers and notes.  The flowers reached the lady for whom they were
intended; the notes did not.  And, after the first week, the calls
became fewer.  Annette and her followers had, apparently, given up
hope of aid and advice from their candidate for vice-president.  At
any rate they ceased to trouble the captain and his daughter.

"It's all the better, Daddy, dear," said Gertrude.  "Mother will
have a chance to rest and improve now."

And Serena did improve, slowly at first, then with gratifying
rapidity.  She began to sit up for a portion of each day and to
sleep through the greater part of each night.  At the end of the
tenth day the doctor announced that the nurse's services were no
longer necessary.

"She will be all right now," he said, referring to his patient.
"But she must continue to have absolute rest and she must not be
worried or permitted to worry.  If you and she could go somewhere,
Captain Dott, to some quiet place in the country, and stay there
for six months, I think it would help her more than anything.  Can
you do it?"

"_I_ can do it, Doctor," replied Daniel eagerly.  "I'd like to do
it.  I'll go anywhere, if it will help her."

"Good!  Then I will advise it and you and Miss Dott must back my
advice.  Will you?"

"I will, and so'll Gertie, I'm sure.  You speak to her, Doctor.
We'll do the backin' up."

So the doctor made the suggestion.  Serena received it quietly,
but, when her husband came to do his share of the "backing up," she
shook her head.

"I'd like to, Daniel," she said.  "I'd like to, but I can't."

"You can't?  Course you can!  Now let's think where we'll go.
Niagara Falls, hey?  You always wanted to go to the Falls."

"No, Daniel."

"No?  Well, then, how about Washin'ton?  We'll see the President,
and the monument, and the Smithsonian Museum, and Congress--we'll
see ALL the curiosities and relics.  We'll go to--"

"Don't, Daniel.  It makes me tired out just to hear about them.  I
couldn't stand all that."

"Course you couldn't!  What a foolhead I am!  The doctor said you
needed rest and quiet, and Washin'ton is about as quiet as the
Ostable Cattle Show.  Well, what do you say to the White
Mountains?"

"In winter?  No, Daniel, if I went anywhere I should like to go to--
to--"

"Where, Serena?  Just name it and I'll buy the tickets."

"Daniel, I'd rather go to Trumet than anywhere else."

Captain Dan could scarcely believe it.

"WHAT!" he cried.  "Trumet?  You want to go to Trumet, Serena?
YOU?"

"Yes.  I've been wanting to go for some time.  I never told you; I
wouldn't even admit it to myself; but I've thought about it a great
deal.  I was getting so tired, so sick of all the going about and
the dressing up and the talking, talking all the time.  I longed to
be somewhere where there was nothing going on and where you and I
could be together as we used to be.  And, oh, Daniel--"

"Yes, Serena?  Yes?"

"Oh, Daniel, since I've been really sick, since I've been getting
better and could think at all, I've been thinking more and more
about our old house at Trumet, and how nice and comfortable we were
there, and what pleasant evenings you and I used to have together.
It was home, Daniel, really and truly home, and this place never
has been, has it?"

"You bet it hasn't!  It's been--well, never mind, but it wasn't
home.  Lordy, but I'm glad to hear you talk this way, Serena!  _I_
haven't thought anything else since we first landed, but I never
imagined you did."

"I didn't, at first.  It has been only lately since I began to feel
so tired and my head troubled me so.  Daniel, I'm not sure that our
coming here wasn't a mistake."

The captain was perfectly sure.  He sprang to his feet.

"That's all right, Serena," he cried.  "If it was a mistake it's
one that can be straightened out in two shakes of slack jib sheet.
You stay here and rest easy.  I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to make arrangements for our trip to Trumet.  'Twon't
take me long."

"Daniel, stop!  Sit down.  I didn't say I was going.  I said I
should like to go."

"That's the same thing.  Now, Serena, I know what's frettin' you.
You're thinkin' what'll become of this house and all the fine
things in it.  They'll be all right.  We could rent this house in
no time, I know it.  I ain't sure but what we could sell it if we
wanted to.  That real estate fellow, the one Barney--B. Phelps, I
mean--introduced me to down street one time, met me t'other day and
told me if I ever thought of sellin' this place to let him know.
Said he had a customer, or thought he had, that knew the house well
and always liked it.  He believed that feller would buy, if the
price was right.  Course I didn't pay much attention then; I judged
you wouldn't think of sellin', but--"

"Stop! stop, Daniel!  You are so excited it makes me nervous again
to hear you.  I wasn't thinking of the house at all.  The way I
feel now I had as soon sell it as not.  But that isn't it.  I can't
leave Scarford.  I can't!"

Daniel's enthusiasm faded.  There was determination in his wife's
tone.  He sat down again.

"Oh!" he observed wistfully, "you can't?  You're sure you can't,
Serena?  You know what the doctor said.  Why can't you go?"

"Because I can't.  It is impossible.  I couldn't leave the Chapter.
Don't you SEE, Daniel?  I am a candidate for vice-president.  My
friends--the truest, most loyal friends a woman ever had--are
depending upon me.  I couldn't desert them.  I told you that
before.  Would they desert me?"

"I suppose likely they wouldn't," reluctantly.

"You know they wouldn't.  No personal considerations, no selfish
reasons, NOTHING could make them do it.  But I've said this all
before, Daniel.  You must see why I have to stay.  I'd like to go,
I'd love to, but I can't.  Let's talk of something else."

Captain Dan sighed.  "I presume likely you're right, Serena," he
admitted.  "It would seem like a mean trick, the way you put it.
But after the election?  You said, when we was talkin' before, that
after you was elected maybe you would go with Gertie and me
somewhere.  And we'll go to Trumet, that's where we'll go."

"All right, Daniel, dear, we'll see.  And don't worry about me.  I
am almost well again and I am going to be completely well.  Now
won't you ask Gertie to come in and talk with me?  I am beginning
to think about the election.  Gertrude must go.  We need her vote
and her influence.  Has she been helping Annette?  I hope she has.
Send her to me, Daniel, please."

So the captain, his hopes somewhat dashed, but finding comfort in
his wife's new longing to visit the one spot on earth which spelled
home to him, left the room to carry Serena's message to their
daughter.

He was busy at the desk in the library when, several hours later,
Gertrude entered.  She was wearing her hat and coat and, coming
into the library, stood beside him.  He looked up.  His expression
surprised and alarmed her.

"Why, what's the matter, Daddy?" she asked anxiously.  "You look as
if something dreadful had happened.  What is it?"

Her father put down his pen.  A sheet of paper, covered with
figures, was on the desk before him; so, also, was the family
checkbook which had been, until the illness of Mrs. Dott, in that
lady's sole charge.

"Matter?" he repeated.  "Matter?  Humph!  Do I look as if somethin'
was the matter?  Where have you been?"

"I have been out.  Mother was so anxious about the election that I
promised her I would see Mrs. Black and some of the others this
very day.  I have been calling on them."

"Have, hey?  Well, what's the prospect?  The cause of right and
Black, and justice and Dott is goin' to prevail, I presume likely,
isn't it?"

"I don't know.  I couldn't find out anything.  Mrs. Black was not
in, at least that is what the maid said; but I am almost sure she
was in.  I think I saw her peeping between the curtains as I went
down the steps."

"That so?  Perhaps she was dosin' you with the same medicine I
handed her when she called that first day after Serena was taken
down."

"I thought of that.  But I called on three other leaders of
Mother's party--"

"Yours and your mother's, you mean?"

"Yes, of course.  I called on three of our leaders.  Two of them
were in and I talked with them.  I could learn nothing from either
about the election.  They would not discuss it, except to say that
everything would be all right.  They behaved so oddly and were so
embarrassed.  It was perfectly obvious that they wanted to get rid
of me.  I can't understand it."

"There's lots of things we can't understand in this world.  Don't
fret your mother about it."

"I shan't, of course.  But what is troubling you, Daddy?
Something, I know."

"Look that way, do I?  My looks don't belie me, then.  See here,
Gertie, I'm stumped.  I've been goin' over back bills and the
bankbook and the checkbook and--and--well, I'm on my beam ends,
that's where I am."

"Why?  Don't the books balance?"

"They balance all right.  That's what's kicked me over.  If they're
true--course they can't be, but IF they are--we've spent close to
five thousand dollars since we made this town."

"Indeed!  Well?"

"WELL!  Five thousand dollars!  I'm sayin' five THOUSAND; do you
understand?"

"I understand.  I'm not surprised.  Living as we do, and moving in
the--in the best society as we have, the expense is large,
naturally.  You must expect that."

"Expect!  Gertie Baker Dott, STOP talkin' that way!  Our income,
not countin' what the store at Trumet is fetchin' in, ain't over
six thousand at the outside.  Six thousand a YEAR, that is.  And
we've got rid of five thousand in a few months!  We've got a
thousand or so to live the rest of this year on.  One thousand--"

"Hush, Daddy!  Don't shout and wave your arms.  We shall have to
use a part of the principal, I presume."

"Part of the prin--Oh, my soul and body!  Use part of it this year,
and some more next year, and some more the next, and--and--Do you
know where we'll be ten year from now?  In the poorhouse, that's
where."

"Oh, I hope not as bad as that.  And, besides, think what a
beautiful time we shall have during those ten years.  Just as
beautiful as we have had so far; better, no doubt, for we have
really only begun."

"Ger-tie DOTT!"

"Just think of it, Daddy.  We have only begun."

"I--I won't think of it!  I'll stop it, that's what I'll do!"

Gertrude smilingly shook her head.

"Oh, no, you won't, Daddy," she said.  "You never stop anything."

She turned to go.  Captain Dan sat, speechless in his chair,
staring at the bills, the figures, the checkbook, and the prospect
of the poorhouse.  Then he felt her hand upon his shoulder.

"Never mind, Daddy, dear," she said softly.  "I wouldn't worry any
more, if I were you.  I think--I am beginning to hope that YOUR
worries are almost over."

She kissed him and hurried out before he could collect his senses
sufficiently to ask what she meant.  He did ask her at their next
meeting, but she only smiled and would not tell him.

The next morning Serena's first remark was concerning the election,
which was to take place that evening.  All that day she spoke of
little else, and when the evening came she insisted upon Gertrude's
leaving for the hall immediately after dinner.  Laban went with her
as escort, Mr. Hungerford's former enviable duty, and one which
that gentleman had appeared to enjoy more than did its present
occupant, who grumbled at missing his "after supper" smoke.  Laban
returned early.  Gertrude did not.

It was after ten when the young lady appeared.  She was very grave
when her father met her in the hall.

"How is Mother?" she asked.  "Asleep, I hope."

Daniel nodded.  "Yes," he said, "she's asleep, for a wonder.  She
vowed and declared she was goin' to stay awake until you came, but
I read out loud to her and she dropped off while I was doin' it."

"Then don't wake her, for the world.  Tell her I have returned,
that I am tired and have gone to bed, and will give her the news in
the morning."

"That won't do.  She'll want to know to-night.  What is the news?
Can't you leave some message?  She won't rest if you don't."

Gertrude pondered.  "Tell her," she began slowly, "tell her Mrs.
Black is elected.  That is all to-night.  Perhaps she will take--
other things for granted."

But when morning, very early morning, came, Captain Dan summoned
his daughter from her room.

"She's wide awake, Gertie," he said, "and she wants to know it all.
You'd better come and tell her."

But Gertrude had been thinking.  "I think you had better tell her
first, Daddy," she said.  "I think it may be wiser for you to tell
her.  Things were said and done at that election which she must not
know.  They were so mean, so contemptible that she ought never to
know.  If I am not there she cannot ask about them.  I will tell
you the result and how it came about and you can tell her.  Perhaps
that will be sufficient.  I hope it may be.  Listen, Daddy."

Daniel listened.  "My soul and body!" he exclaimed, when the tale
was ended.  "My Godfreys! and those were the folks she figgered
were her friends!"

"Yes."

"And Annette Black--"

"She was the moving spirit in the whole of it, I'm certain."

"My Godfreys!  And she--and she--well, I guess maybe Serena'll be
willin' to go back to Trumet NOW.  She wanted to go before; 'twas
only loyalty to that gang that kept her from goin'.  She's sick of
society, and sick of politics, and sick of Scarford.  She said
she'd give anything to go back to the old house and be comfortable
same as we used to be; she said--"

"Daddy!"  Gertrude seized his arm.  She was strangely excited.
"Did she--did Mother really say that?" she demanded eagerly.

"Sure, she said it!  Twice she told me so."

"And she meant it?"

"She acted as if she did.  Course we both realized 'twould be hard
for you, Gertie, but--"

"Go!  Go and tell her about the election.  Quick! quick!"  She
fairly pushed him from her.  "Don't wait," she urged, "go."

Daniel was on his way when she called him back.

"I almost forgot, Daddy, dear," she said repentantly.  "I was so
gl--I mean--well, never mind.  What I want to say is that if you
think the news will be too great a shock, if you think she is not
strong enough to hear it now--"

Her father interrupted.  "She's stronger than I've seen her for a
fortnight," he declared.  "And one thing's sure, she won't rest
till she does hear it.  I shall tell her, and get it over."

"Then be as gentle as you can, won't you?"

"I'll try.  But, Gertie, what did you mean by sayin' you was so--so
glad?  That was what you was goin' to say, wasn't you?  I don't see
as there's much to be glad about."

"Don't you?  Well, perhaps. . . .  Run along, Daddy, run along."

She closed the door of her room.  Daniel, much perplexed, departed
on his unpleasant errand.

His wife was eagerly awaiting him.

"Where's Gertie?" she demanded.  "Isn't she coming?"

"She'll come by and by, Serena.  She isn't quite dressed yet."

"What difference does that make?  Why doesn't she come, herself?
Didn't you tell her I was dying to hear about the election?  She
must know I am."

"She does; she knows that, Serena.  But she thought--she thought
I'd better tell you first, myself."

Serena leaned forward to look at him.  His expression alarmed her.

"Why don't you tell, then?" she asked.  "Is it--oh, Daniel, it
isn't bad news, is it?"

"It ain't very good, Serena."

"You don't mean--why, you said that Annette was elected; you said
so last night."

"Yes--yes, she was elected, Serena; but--"

"But--but _I_ wasn't.  Is that what you mean, Daniel?"

"Well now, Serena--"

"I wasn't.  Yes, it is true, I can see it in your face.  I was
defeated.  Oh--oh, Daniel!"

Captain Dan put his arm about her.

"There! there! Serena," he said chokingly, "don't cry, don't.
Don't feel too bad about it.  Politics is politics, inside Chapters
and out, I guess.  I'm as much disappointed as you are, for your
sake, but--but don't care too much, will you?  Don't make yourself
sick again.  Don't cry no more than you can help."

Serena raised her head from his shoulder.

"I'm not crying," she said.  "Really I'm not, Daniel.  It is a
relief to me, in a way."

"A RELIEF?"

"Yes.  If it had happened a month ago I should have felt it
terribly.  I was crazy for office then.  But lately I have dreaded
it so.  If I were vice-president I should have so much care, so
much responsibility.  Now, I shan't.  The honor would have been
great, I appreciate that.  But, for the rest of it, I don't really
care."

"Don't CARE!  My soul and body!"

"No, I don't.  And now," bravely, "tell me all about it.  I don't
quite see how Annette could win if I did not; but Miss Canby is
popular, she has a great many friends.  I hope," wistfully, "I hope
I got a good vote.  Did I, Daniel?"

Daniel's indignation burst forth.

"You didn't get any votes, Serena," he cried angrily.

"What?  What?  No votes?  Why--"

"Not a blessed one.  They put up a low-down political trick on you,
Serena.  They left you out to save themselves.  They took advantage
of your bein' sick to--to--Here, I'll tell you just what they did."

What they had done was this:  Mrs. Lake and Mrs. Black, heads of
the opposing factions, each realizing how close the vote was likely
to be, had, with their lieutenants--Mrs. Dott excepted--gotten
together five days before the election and arranged a compromise, a
trade.  By this arrangement, Annette was to receive the Lake
party's support for president; Miss Canby was to be given the Black
support for vice-president; and the united support of both factions
was to be behind Mrs. Lake in her struggle for office in the
National body.  This arrangement was carried through.  Serena, not
being on hand to protect her own interest, had been sacrificed, her
name had not even been brought before the members to be voted upon.

Captain Dan told of this precious scheme, just as it had been told
him by his daughter.  At first his wife interrupted with
exclamations and questions; then she listened in silence.

"That's what they did," cried the captain angrily.  "Chucked you
into the scrap heap to save themselves.  And you sick abed!  This
was the gang you worked yourself pretty nigh to death for.  These
were the FRIENDS you thought you had.  And Annette Black was the
worst of all.  'Twas her idea in the first place.  Why, Serena--"

But Serena could hear no more.  She threw her arms about her
husband's neck and the tears, which she had so bravely repressed at
the tidings of her own disappointment, burst forth.

"Oh--oh, Daniel," she sobbed, "take me away from here.  I hate this
place; I hate Scarford and all the dreadful people in it!  Take me
to Trumet, Daniel.  Take me home!  Take me home!"

Half an hour later Captain Dan shouted his daughter's name over the
balusters.

"Gertie!" he called; "Gertie! come up here, will you?"

Gertrude came.  She entered the room hastily.  She had feared to
find her mother prostrate, suffering from a new attack of "nerves."
She was prepared to obey her father's order to 'phone for the
doctor.

But Serena did not, apparently, need a doctor.  She was not
prostrate, and, although she was nervous, it was rather the
nervousness of expectancy, coupled with determination.

"Gertie," said the captain, "I've got some news for you.  Your
mother and I have made up our minds to go back to Trumet, and we
want you to go along with us."

The young lady did not answer at once.  She looked first at Serena
and then at Daniel.  The troubled expression left her face and was
succeeded by another, an odd one.  When she spoke it was in a tone
of great surprise.

"To Trumet?" she repeated.  "Go back to Trumet?  Not to live
there?"

Captain Dan hesitated, but his wife did not.

"Yes," she said decidedly, "to live.  For the present, anyhow.  At
least we shan't live here any longer."

"Not live here?  Not live in Scarford, Mother!  Why, what do you
mean?"

Her father answered.  "She means what she says, I presume likely,"
he observed impatiently.  "Think she's talkin' for the fun of it?
This ain't April Fool Day."

"But she can't mean it.  She can't!  Give up the Chapter, and all
our friends--"

"Friends!  They're a healthy lot of friends, they are!"

"Hush, Daddy; I'm not talking to you.  Do you realize what you are
saying, Mother?  Give up the Chapter, and all your ambitions there?
Give up Mrs. Black and Mrs. Lake and Miss Canby--"

"And that twist and squirm, antique Greece disgrace of a Dusante
woman--don't forget her.  Gertie, you stop now.  Your ma knows--"

"Daddy, be still.  Be still, I say!  Mother, are you willing to
give them up?  And all our society!  You say yourself--I've heard
you often--that there is no society in Trumet.  Give up our bridge
lessons, and our dancing, and our teas, and--"

"For the land sakes!  What is this; a catalogue you're givin' us?
Stop it!  Serena, you tell her to stop."

But Gertrude would not stop.  She ignored her father utterly.

"Think what it would mean," she protested.  "Think of your social
position, Mother, the position we have worked so hard to attain."

Serena shook her head.  "I don't care," she said firmly.  "Our
social position was good enough in Trumet."

"WHAT!  Why, Mother! how often I have heard you say--"

"Never mind what I said.  I have said a lot of foolish things, and
done a lot, too.  But I'm through.  I'm sick and disgusted with it
all.  I'm going to be simple and comfortable and happy--yes, happy.
Oh, Gertie, DON'T talk to me about society!  There isn't a real,
sincere person in it, not in the set we have been in.  I hate
Scarford and I hate society."

"Mother! how can you!  And opportunity and advancement--"

"I hate them, too."

Gertrude gasped.  "Why, Mother!" she exclaimed.  "And it was you
who first showed me the way.  Who showed me how common and dull and
unambitious I had been all my life?  Think what leaving here would
mean to me.  What would Miss Dusante think?  I had almost arranged
to take dancing lessons of her.  Think of Mr. Holway.  Is there a
young man like him in Trumet?  Think of Cousin Percy!"

That was quite enough.  Serena rose, her eyes flashing.

"Stop!" she cried.  "Stop this minute!  Gertrude Dott, your father
and I are going back to Trumet and you are going with us."

"Oh, no, I'm not.  Why, Cousin Percy--"

"Don't you dare mention his name to me."

"Why not?  He is very gentlemanly and very aristocratic.  You told
me that when I first came, Mother.  You were always talking about
him and praising him then.  And I'm sure he moves in the highest
circles; he says he does, himself."

"He is a good-for-nothing loafer.  He has sponged upon your
father--"

"You have often spoken of him as an honor to the family."

"A good-for-nothing, dissipated, fast--"

"Oh, a little dissipation is expected in society, isn't it?"

"I should think you would be ashamed!"

"Why?  I haven't done a thing that you haven't done, Mother.  That
is, nothing which your friends don't do every day.  They are ever
so much more advanced than I am.  I have only begun.  No, indeed, I
am not going back to plain, common, everyday old Trumet.  I shall
stay here and progress.  You and your friends have shown me what is
expected of a girl in my position and I shall take advantage of my
opportunities.  Why, Mrs. Black says that, if I play my cards well,
I may catch a millionaire, perhaps a foreign nobleman.  How would
you like to be mother-in-law to a--well, to a count, for instance?"

Mrs. Dott did not answer this question.  Instead she turned to her
husband.

"Daniel," she cried, "are you going to stand this?  Are you that
girl's father, or aren't you?  Are you going to make her mind, or
not?"

Daniel would have spoken, but his daughter got ahead of him.

"Oh, Father doesn't count," she observed lightly.  "No one minds
what he says.  He didn't want to move to Scarford at all.  No one
minds him."

Serena stamped her foot.  "Daniel Dott," she cried, "do you hear
that?  I call upon you, as the head of this family, to tell that
girl what she's got to do, and make her do it."

Captain Dan stepped forward.  Gertrude merely laughed.  That laugh
settled the question.

"Gertie," ordered the captain, his voice, the old quarter-deck
voice which had been law aboard the Bluebird, "you march your boots
to your room and pack up.  We're goin' to Trumet and you're goin'
along with us.  March! or, by the everlastin', I'll carry you there
and lock you in!  You speak another word and I'll do it, anyway.
Serena, I'll 'tend to her.  You're tired out; lie down and rest."

"But, Daniel--"

"Lie down and rest.  I'm runnin' this craft.  Well," wheeling upon
his daughter, "are you goin'?  Or shall I carry you?"

Gertrude looked at him and then at her mother.  Her lips twitched.

"I'll go, Daddy," she said meekly, and went.

When Captain Dan descended to the lower floor he found Mr. Ginn in
the library.

"Hello!" hailed the latter, "you look kind of set-up and sassy,
seems to me.  YOU ain't had nothin' to drink, have you?"

"Drink?  What do you mean by that?  Has anybody around here had
anything to drink?"

"I don't know.  Some of 'em act as if they had.  When I came into
the kitchen a spell ago I found my wife and Gertie dancin' like a
couple of loons."

"Dancin'?"

"Yes, sir, holdin' hands and hoppin' around like sand fleas in a
clam bake.  I asked 'em what set 'em goin' and they wouldn't tell
me.  I couldn't think of anything but liquor that would start Zuby
Jane dancin'.  I don't know's that would--I never tried it on her--
but 'twas the only likely guess I could make."



CHAPTER XV


Captain Dan was seated in his old chair, at his old desk, behind
the counter of the Metropolitan Store.  His pipe, the worn, charred
briar that he had left in the drawer of that very desk when he
started for the railway station and Scarford, was in his mouth.
Over the counter, beyond the showcases and the tables with their
piles of oilskins, mittens, sou'westers, and sweaters, through the
panes of the big front windows, he could see the road, the main
street of Trumet.  The road was muddy, and the mud had frozen.
Beyond the road, between the shops and houses on the opposite side,
he saw the bare brown hills, the pond where the city people found
waterlilies in the summer--the pond was now a glare of ice--the
sand dunes, the beach, the closed and shuttered hotel and cottages,
and, beyond these, the cold gray and white of the wintry sea
rolling beneath a gloomy sky.  To the average person the view would
have been desolation itself.  To Captain Dan it was a section of
Paradise.  It was the picture which had been in his mind for
months.  And here it was in reality, unchanged, unspoiled, a part
of home, his home.  And he, at last, was at home again.

They had been in Trumet a week, the captain and Serena and
Gertrude.  Azuba had been there two days longer, having been sent
on ahead of the family to open the house and get it ready.  Laban
remained behind as caretaker of the Scarford mansion.  His term of
service in that capacity was not likely to be a long one, for the
real estate dealer was in active negotiation with his client, and
the dealer's latest report stated that the said client was
considering hiring the house, furnished, for a few months and, in
the event of his liking it as well as he expected, would then, in
all probability, buy.

Laban's remaining as caretaker was his own suggestion.

"Me and the old gal--Zuby Jane, I mean--have talked it over," he
explained, "and it seems like the best thing to do.  You've got to
have somebody here, Cap'n Dott, you've got to pay somebody, and it
might as well be me.  I'm out of a job just now, anyway.  As for me
and my wife bein' separated--well, we're different from most
married folks that way; it seems the natural thing for us to BE
separated.  We're used to it, as you might say.  I don't know as
we'd get along so well together if we wasn't separated.  There's
nothin' like separation to keep husband and wife happy along with
one another.  I've been with Zuby for most three weeks steady now;
that's the longest stretch we've had in a good many years.  We
ain't quarreled once, neither."

He seemed to consider the fact remarkable.  Captain Dott grinned.

"I suppose that shuttin' her up in the dish closet wasn't what
you'd call a quarrel, hey?" he observed.

Mr. Ginn was momentarily embarrassed.

"Oh, that!" he exclaimed.  "Humph!  I forgot that, for the minute.
But that wasn't a quarrel, rightly speakin'.  'Twas just a little
difference of opinion on account of my not understandin' her reason
for bein' so sot on havin' her own way.  Soon's I understood 'twas
all right.  And you see yourself how peaceable she's been ever
since."

So, after consultation with Azuba, the arrangement was perfected.
Laban was to receive ten dollars a week, from which sum he was to
provide his own meals.  He was to sleep in the house, but the meals
were to be obtained elsewhere.  Mrs. Dott would not consider his
cooking in her kitchen.

Serena bore the fatigue of the journey well and the sight of her
old home, with the table set for supper, plants in the dining-room
windows, and all the little familiar touches which Azuba's
thoughtfulness had supplied, served to bring her the contentment
and happiness she had been longing for.  Each day she gained in
health and strength, and the rest and freedom from care, together
with the early hours--they retired at nine-thirty each night--were
doing wonders for her.  Her husband was delighted at the
improvement.  He was delighted with everything, the familiar
scenes, the smell of the salt marshes, and of the sea, the clear,
cold air, the meeting with friends and acquaintances, the freedom
from society--he had not even unpacked his dress suit, vowing to
Gertrude that it might stay buried till Judgment, he wouldn't
resurrect it--all these things delighted his soul.  And now, on the
Saturday morning at the end of his first week at home, as he sat in
his arm chair behind the counter of the Metropolitan Store, looking
at the view through the windows and at the store itself, he was a
happy man.  There was one flaw in his happiness, but that he had
forgotten for the moment.

He glanced about him, took a long pull at his pipe, and said aloud:
"Well, if I didn't know 'twas the same place, I wouldn't have known
it.  I never saw such a change in my life."

Nathaniel Bangs, standing by the front window, turned.

"I don't see much difference," he said.  "The old town looks about
the same to me."

The captain smilingly shook his head.

"'Tain't the town," he observed.  "It's this store.  Nate, you're a
wonder, that's what you are, a wonder."

For, if the view had not changed, if it was the same upon which
Daniel Dott had looked for many winters, through the windows of
that very store, the store itself had changed materially.  Mr.
Bangs had wrought the change and it was distinctly a change for the
better.  The stock, and there was a surprising deal of it, was new
and attractively displayed.  The contents of the showcases were
varied and up-to-date.  Neatly lettered placards calling attention
to special bargains hung in places where they were most likely to
be seen.  There was a spruce, swept, and garnished look to the
establishment; as Azuba said when she first saw it after her
return, it looked as if it had had a shave and a hair cut.  In
other words, the Metropolitan Store appeared wide awake and
prosperous, as if it was making money--which it was.

It was not making a great deal, of course, as yet.  This was the
dullest season of the year.  But the Christmas trade had been good
and, thanks to Nathaniel's enterprise and effort, the scallop
fishermen, the quahaug rakers, and the members of the life-saving
crews were once more buying their outfits at the Metropolitan Store
instead of patronizing Mr. J. Cohen and The Emporium.  Mr. Bangs
was already selecting his summer stock; and his plans for the
disposal of that stock were definite and business-like.

"If you don't say no, Cap'n Dott," he had explained, "I'm going to
try putting on a horse and wagon this summer.  There's no reason
why we shouldn't get the cottage trade down at the Neck, and all
along shore.  Jim Bartlett, Sam's older brother, would like the job
driving that wagon.  He's smart as a whip, Jim is, and he's willing
to work on commission.  Let him start out twice a week with a load
of hats and oilskins and belts and children's shovels and pails--
all the sort of stuff the boarders and cottage folks buy and that
they'd buy more of if it was brought right to their doors--and
he'll catch a heap of trade that goes to Bayport or Wellmouth or
The Emporium now.  What he don't carry he can take orders for and
deliver next trip.  If you don't say no, Cap'n Dott, I'm going to
try it.  And I'll bet a month's wages it's a go."

Captain Dan had not said no.  On the contrary he expressed
enthusiastic approval of his manager's plans and enterprise.  Also,
he had been thinking of some adequate reward, some means of proving
his gratitude real.

"You're a wonder, Nate," repeated Daniel.  "I don't know how to get
even with you, but I've got an idea.  I've talked it over with
Serena already and she's for it.  I want to ask Gertie's opinion
and if she says yes, and she will, I'm almost sartin, I'll tell you
what it is."

"All right, Cap'n.  Don't you worry yourself trying to 'get even,'
as you call it, with me.  I've enjoyed being in charge here.  I
always said there was money in a store in Trumet, if it was run as
it should be.  One year more and I can show you a few things, I'll
bet."

"You've shown 'em already.  Land of love!  I should say you had."

"Give me time and I'll show you more.  We have only begun. . . .
Why, what's the matter?  What made you look that way?"

"Oh, nothin', nothin'.  Only your sayin' we'd only begun reminded
me of--of other things.  I don't suppose I'll ever hear 'only
begun' without shiverin'.  Humph! there's some kind of beginnin's I
hope I'll never hear of again.  Gertie been in this mornin', has
she?  She isn't in the house."

"No, I saw her go down street a little while ago.  Gone for her
morning walk, perhaps.  How is Mrs. Dott to-day?"

"Fine.  Tip top.  I ain't seen her so satisfied with life for two
months or more.  She's gettin' better every minute."

"That's good.  Contented to be back in Trumet, is she?"

"Seems to be.  _I_ am; you can bet high on that."

"And--er--Gertie, is she contented, too?"

This question touched directly the one uncertainty, the one
uncomfortable doubt in the captain's mind.  He looked keenly at the
questioner.

"What makes you ask that?" he demanded.

"Oh, nothing much.  She seems changed, that's all.  She used to be
so full of spirits, and so bright and lively.  Now she is quiet and
doesn't talk much.  Looks thinner, too, and as if something was
troubling her.  Perhaps it is my imagination.  When's John Doane
coming down?  'Most time for him to be spending a Sunday with you,
ain't it?  Engaged folks don't usually stay apart more than a week,
especially when the one is as near the other as Boston is to
Trumet."

Daniel knocked the ashes from his pipe into the wastebasket.

"Oh, oh, John'll be along pretty soon, I shouldn't wonder," he said
hastily.  "He--he's pretty busy these days, I suppose."

"Nice thing his bein' taken into the firm, after Mr. Griffin died,
wasn't it.  Well, he's a pretty smart fellow, John is, and he
deserves to get ahead.  Did he tell you the particulars about it?"

"No.  No, not all of 'em.  Is that a customer in the other room?"

Mr. Bangs hurried away to attend to the customer.  The captain
seized the opportunity to make a timely exit.  He went into the
house, remained a while with his wife, and then returned.
Nathaniel had gone on an order-taking trip and Sam Bartlett, the
boy, was in charge.  Just as Daniel entered the store from the side
door Gertrude came in at the front.

"Hello, Daddy," she said.  "All alone?"

"Not quite, but I'd just as soon be.  Sam, go into the other room;
I'll hail you if I need you.  Gertie, come here.  I want to have a
talk with you."

Gertrude came.  She took her old position, perching upon the arm of
her father's chair, with her own arm about his neck.

"Gertie," began the captain, "what would you think of my makin'
Nate Bangs a partner in this concern?"

Gertrude uttered an exclamation of delight.

"Splendid!" she cried.  "Just what I wanted you to do.  I thought
of it, but I said nothing because I wanted you to say it first.  It
will be just the right thing."

"Ye-es, so it seemed to me.  All that's good here in this store is
due to Nathaniel.  He's made a real, live business out of a remains
that was about ready for the undertaker.  I ought to give him the
whole craft, but--but I hate to."

"You could.  You could sell out to him and still have sufficient
income to live upon in comfort here in Trumet.  You might sell out,
retire, and be a gentleman of leisure, one of the town's rich men.
You could do that perfectly well."

Daniel grunted in disgust.

"Don't talk that way," he repeated.  "I've had enough gentleman of
leisure foolishness to last me through.  What do you think I am; a
second-hand copy of Cousin Percy, without the gilt edges?  _I_
might be kissin' Zuba by mistake if I did that."

The story of that eventful evening and the "mistake" had been told
him by his daughter since the return home.  Gertrude smiled.

"I guess not," she declared.  "You are not in the habit of 'dining
out'--in Trumet, at any rate.  Have you told Mother?"

"Yes, I told her.  I don't think she was much surprised.  She'd
guessed as much before, so I gathered from what she said."

"No doubt; the explanation was obvious enough.  Well, Daddy, I did
not expect you would be contented to retire and do nothing.  That
is not your conception of happiness.  But, if you do take Mr. Bangs
into partnership, let him manage the entire business.  You can be
in the store as much as you wish, and be interested in it, so long
as you don't interfere.  And you and Mother can be together and
take little trips together once in a while.  You mustn't stay in
Trumet ALL the time; if you do you will grow discontented again."

"No, no, I shan't.  Serena may, perhaps, but I shan't."

"Yes, you will.  You both have seen a little of outside life now,
and it isn't all bad, though you may think so just at this time.
You mustn't settle down and grow narrow like some of the people
here in Trumet--Abigail Mayo, for instance."

"Humph!  I'd have to swallow a self-windin' talkin' machine before
I could get to be like Abigail Mayo.  But you may be right, Gertie;
perhaps you are.  See here, though, how about you, yourself?
You've seen a heap more of what you call outside life than your ma
and I have.  How are YOU goin' to keep contented here in Trumet?"

"Oh, I shall be contented.  Don't worry about me."

"But I do worry, and your mother is beginnin' to worry, too.
There's somethin' troublin' you; both of us see that plain enough.
See here, Gertie, you ain't--you ain't feelin' bad about--about
leavin' that Cousin Percy, are you?"

The young lady's cheeks reddened, but with indignation, not
embarrassment.

"DADDY!" she protested sharply.  "Daddy, how can you!  Cousin
Percy!"

"Well, you know--"

"I hate him.  I've told you so.  Or I should, if he was worth
hating; as it is I despise him thoroughly."

"That's good!  That's one load off my mind.  But, you see, Gertie--
well, when your mother and I first told you we'd made up our minds
to come back here, you--you stood up for him, and said he was
aristocratic and--and I don't know what all.  That's what you said;
and 'twas after the Zuba business, too."

Gertrude regarded him wonderingly.  "Said!" she repeated.  "I said
and did all sorts of things.  Daddy--Daddy, DEAR, is it possible
you don't understand yet that it was all make-believe?"

"All make-believe?  What; your likin' Cousin Percy?"

"Yes, that and Mr. Holway and everything else--the whole of it.
Haven't you guessed it yet?  It was all a sham; don't you see?
When I came back from college and found out exactly how things were
going, I realized at once that something must be done.  You were
miserable and neglected, and Mother was under the influence of Mrs.
Black and that empty-headed, ridiculous Chapter and would-be
society crowd of hers.  I tried at first to reason with her, but
that was useless.  She was too far gone for reason.  So I thought
and thought until I had a plan.  I believed if I could show her, by
my own example, how silly and ridiculous the kind of people she
associated with were, if I pretended to be as bad as the worst of
them, she would begin by seeing how ridiculous _I_ was, and be
frightened into realizing her own position.  At any rate, she would
be forced into giving it all up to save me.  Of course I didn't
expect her to be taken ill.  When THAT happened I was SO
conscience-stricken.  I thought I never should forgive myself.  But
it has turned out so well, that even that is--"

"Gertie!  Gertie Dott! stop where you are.  Do you mean to tell me
that all your--your advancin' and dancin' and bridgin' and tea-in'
and Chapterin' was just--"

"Just make-believe, that's all.  I hated it as much as you did; as
much as Mother does now."

"My SOUL! but--but it can't be!  Cousin Percy--"

"Oh, do forget Cousin Percy!  I was sure he was exactly what he was
and that he was using you and Mother as conveniences for providing
him with a home and luxuries which he was too worthless to work
for.  I was sure of it, morally sure, but I made up my mind to find
out.  So I cultivated him, and I cultivated his particular friends,
and I did find out.  I pretended to like him--"

"Hold on! for mercy sakes, hold on!  YOU pretended, but--but HE
didn't.  If ever a feller was gone on a young woman he was, towards
the last of it.  Why, he--"

"Hush! hush!  Don't speak of it.  It makes me disgusted with myself
even to think of him.  If he was--was as you say, it is all the
better.  It serves him right.  And I think that it was with my--
with your money, Daddy, much more than your daughter, he was
infatuated.  I had the satisfaction of telling him my opinion of
him and his conduct before he left."

"Ho! you did, hey?  Humph!  I wish I might have heard it.  But,
Gertie," his incredulity not entirely crushed, "it wasn't ALL make-
believe; all of it couldn't have been.  Even Zuba, she got the
advancin' craziness.  She joined a--a 'Band,' or somethin'."

"No, she didn't.  She pretended to, but she didn't.  There wasn't
any such 'Band.'  She was helping me to cure Mother, that's all.
It was all part of the plan.  Her husband understands now,
although," with a laugh, "he didn't when he first came."

Daniel drew his hand across his forehead.

"Well!" he exclaimed.  "WELL! and I--and I--"

"I treated you dreadfully, didn't I?  Scolded you, and told you to
go away, and--and everything.  I COULDN'T tell you the truth,
because you cannot keep a secret, but I was sorry, so sorry for
you, even when you were most provoking.  You WOULD interfere, you
know.  Two or three times you almost spoiled it all."

"Did I?  I shouldn't wonder.  And--and to think I never suspicioned
a bit of it!"

"I don't see why you didn't.  It was so plain.  I'm sure Mother
suspects--now."

"Probably she does.  If I wasn't what I've called myself so much
lately, an old fool, I'd have suspected, too.  I AM an old fool."

"No, you're not.  You are YOU, and that is why I love you--why,
everyone who knows you loves you.  I wouldn't have you changed one
iota.  You are the dearest, best father in the world.  And you are
going to be happy now, aren't you?"

"I--I don't know.  I ought to be, I suppose.  I guess I shall be--
if I ever get over thinkin' what a foolhead I was.  So Zuba was
part of it all, hey?  And John, too?  He was in it, I presume
likely."

Gertrude's expression changed; so did her tone.

"We won't talk about John, Daddy," she said.  "Please don't."

"Why not?  I want to talk about him.  In a way--yes, sir! in a way
I ain't sure that--that I didn't have a hand in spoilin' that, too.
Considerin' what you've just told me, I wouldn't wonder if I did."

His daughter had risen to go.  Now she turned back.

"What do you mean?" she asked.  "What do you mean?  Spoiling--
what?"

"Why--why, you and John, you know.  Whatever happened between you
and him happened that night when he come to Scarford.  And he
wouldn't have come--not then--if I hadn't written for him."

Gertrude was speechless.  Her father went on.

"Long's we're confessin'," he said, "we might as well make a clean
job of it.  I wrote him, all on my own hook.  You see, Gertie,
'twas on your account mainly.  I was gettin' pretty desperate about
you.  Instead of straightenin' out your ma's course you were
followin' in her wake, runnin' ahead of her, if anything.  It
looked as if you'd have her hull down and out of the race, if you
kept on.  _I_ couldn't hold you back, and, bein' desperate, as I
say, I wrote John to come and see if he could.  And I told him to
come quick. . . .  Hey?  What did you say?"

The young lady had said nothing; she had been listening, however,
and now she seemed to have found an answer to a puzzle.

"So that was why he came?" she said, in a low tone, as if thinking
aloud.  "That was why.  But--but without a word to me."

"Oh, I 'specially wrote him not to tell you he was comin'.  I
didn't want you to know.  I wanted to have a talk with him first
and tell him just how matters stood.  After you'd gone to Chapter
meetin' that night--I always thought 'twas queer, your bein' so
determined to go, but I see why now; 'twas part of your plan,
wasn't it?"

"Yes, yes, of course.  Go on."

"Well, I judge John thought 'twas funny, too--but never mind.
After you'd gone, he and I had our talk.  I told him everything.
He was kind of troubled; I could see that; but he stood up for you
through thick and thin.  He only laughed when I told him--told him
some things, those that worried me most."

Gertrude noticed his hesitation.

"What were those things?" she asked.

"Oh, nothin'.  They seem so foolish now; but at that time--"

"Daddy, did you tell him of my--my supposed friendship for Mr.
Hungerford?"

Daniel reluctantly nodded.  "Yes," he admitted.  "I told him some.
Maybe I told him more than was absolutely true.  Perhaps I
exaggerated a little.  But he was so stubborn in not believin',
that. . . .  Hey?  By Godfreys!" as the thought struck him for the
first time, "THAT wasn't what ailed John, was it?  He wasn't
JEALOUS of that consarned Percy?"

Gertrude did not answer.

"It couldn't be," continued Daniel.  "He's got more sense than
that.  Besides, you told him, when you and he were alone together,
why you was actin' so, didn't you?  Or did he know it beforehand?
I presume likely he did.  Your mother and I seem to have been the
only animals left outside the show tent."

Again there was no answer.  When the young lady spoke it was to ask
another question.

"Daddy," she said, not looking at him, but folding and unfolding a
bit of paper on the counter, "are you SURE you mailed that letter I
gave you the morning after--after he went away?"

"What?  That letter to John that you gave me to mail?  I'm sure as
I can be of anything.  I put it right in amongst the bills and
checks I had ready, and when the postman came I gave 'em all to him
with my own hands.  Yes, it was mailed all right."

"And no letters--letters for me--came afterwards, which I didn't
receive?  You didn't put one in your pocket and forget it?"

"No.  I'm sure of that.  Why, your mother's cleaned out all my
pockets a dozen times since.  She says I use my clothes for
wastebaskets, and she has to empty 'em pretty nigh as often.  No, I
didn't forget any letter for you, Gertie.  But why?  What made you
think I might have?"

"Oh, nothing; nothing, Daddy.  Then, throwing down the bit of paper
and moving toward the door, "I must go in and see Mother.  I have
scarcely seen her all the morning."

"But hold on, Gertie!  Don't go.  I haven't found out what--Stop!
Gertie, look at me!  Why don't you look at me?"

She would not look and she would not stop.  The door closed behind
her.  Captain Dan threw himself back in the chair.  When Mr. Bangs,
returning from his trip after orders, entered the store he found
his employer just where he had left him.  Now, however, the
expression of high, good humor was no longer upon the captain's
face.

"Well, Cap'n," hailed Nathaniel cheerfully.  "Still on deck, I see.
What are you doing; exercising your mind?"

"Humph!  What little mind I'VE got has been exercised too blessed
much.  It needs rest more'n anything, but it don't seem likely to
get a great deal.  Nate, this world reminds me of a worn-out
schooner, it's as full of troubles as that is full of leaks; and
you no sooner get one patched up than another breaks out in a new
place.  Ah hum! . . .  What you got there?  The mail, is it?
Anything for me?"

There was one letter bearing the captain's name.  Nathaniel handed
it to the owner of that name and the latter inspected the envelope
and the postmark.

"From Labe Ginn," he observed.  "Nobody else in Scarford that I
know would spell Daniel with two 'l's and no 'i.'  What's troublin'
Laban?  Somethin' about the house, I presume likely."

He leisurely tore open the envelope.  The letter was a lengthy one,
scrawled upon a half dozen sheets of cheap note paper.  The
handwriting was almost as unique as the spelling, which is saying
considerable.

"From Laban, is it?" asked Mr. Bangs casually.

"Yup, it's from Labe."

"There was another from him, then.  At any rate there was one
addressed in the same hen-tracks to Azuba.  I met her as I was
coming out of the post-office and gave it to her; she was on her
way to the grocery store, she said."

Daniel nodded, but made no comment.  He was doing his best to
decipher Mr. Ginn's hieroglyphics.  Occasionally he chuckled.

Laban began by saying that he expected his term as caretaker of the
Scarford property to be of short duration.  He had dropped in at
the real estate office and had there been told that arrangements
for the leasing of the mansion, furniture, and all, were
practically completed.  The new tenant would move in within a
fortnight, he was almost sure.  Mr. Ginn, personally, would be glad
of it, for it was "lonesomer than a meeting-house on a week day."

"I spend the heft of my daytimes out in the Back yard," he wrote.
"I've lokated a bordin house handy by, but the Grub thare is tuffer
than the mug on a Whailer two year out.  I don't offen meet anybody
I know, but tother day I met barney Black.  He asked about you and
your fokes and I told him.  He was prety down on his Luck I thort
and acted Blue.  His wife is hed neck and heles in Chapter goins
on.  I see her name in the Newspaper about evry day.

"He said give you his Regards and tell you you was a dam lukky
Man."

Captain Dan's chuckle developed into a hearty laugh.  He
sympathized with and understood the feelings of B. Phelps.

"He has sold his summer Plase at Trumet," the letter went on.
"Mrs. Black don't want to come thare no more.  He wuddent say why
but I shuddent wonder if it was becos she ain't hankering to mete
your Wife after the way she treted her.  He has sold the Plase to
some fokes name of Fenholtz.  I know thats the rite name becos I
made him spel it for me.  Do you know them?"

Daniel uttered an exclamation of delight and struck his thigh a
resounding slap.

"What's up?" asked Nathaniel.  "Got some good news?"

"You bet!  Mighty good!  Some people I knew and liked in Scarford
have bought the Black cottage here in Trumet.  I rather guess I am
responsible in a way; I preached Cape Cod to 'em pretty steady.
The Fenholtzes!  Well, well!"

"What I realy wrote you for," continued Mr. Ginn, at the top of
page four, "was to tell you that I had a feller come to see me
Yesterday.  It was that forriner Hapgood who used to work for you.
He looked prety run to seed.  He haddent got anny Job since he left
you, he sed, and he was flat Broke.  I gave him a Square meel or
what they call one at the bordin' house and he and me had a long
talk.  He told me a lot of things but manely all he wanted to talk
about was that Swab of a Coussin of yours, that Hungerford.
Hapgood was down on him like a Gull on a sand ele.  He sed
Hungerford was a mene sneak and had treted him bad.  He told me a
Lot about how Hungerford worked you fokes for sukkers and how he
helped.  Seems him and Hungerford was old shipmates and chums and
had worked your ant Laviny the same way.  Hungerford used to pay
him, but now that he is flat Broke and can't help no more, he won't
give him a cent.  Hapgood says if you knew what he knows you'd be
intterested.  He says Hungerford pade him to get a hold of
Tellygrams and letters that he thort you had better not see.  He
had one Coppy of a tellygram that he says come to him over the
Tellyfone 3 days after John Doane left your house.  I lent him a
cupple of dollars and he gave me the Coppy.  It is from John to
Gertie, but she never got it becos Hapgood never told her.  I send
it in this letter."

Captain Dan, who had read the latter part of this long paragraph
with increasing excitement, now stopped his reading and began a
hurried search for the "Coppy."  He found it, on a separate sheet.
It was written in pencil in Hapgood's neat, exact handwriting and
was, compared to Mr. Ginn's labored scrawl, very easy to read.  And
this was what the captain read:


"MISS GERTRUDE DOTT,

"No. -- Blank Avenue,
"Scarford, Mass.

"Why haven't you written?  Did you receive my letters?  The firm
are sending me on urgent business to San Francisco.  I leave to-
night.  If you write me there I shall know all is well and you have
not changed.  If not I shall know the other thing.  I shall hope
for a letter.  San Francisco address is--"


Then followed the address and the signature, "John Doane."

The "Coppy" dropped in Daniel's lap.  He closed his eyes.  Nate
Bangs, glancing at him, judged that he was falling asleep, but Mr.
Bangs's usually acute judgment was, in this instance, entirely
wrong.  So far from sleeping, the captain was just beginning to
wake up.

"Why haven't you written?"  That meant that John had never received
the letter which Gertrude wrote, the letter which she had given
him--her father--to post.  Why had it not been received?  It had
been posted.  He gave it to the carrier with his own hands.

Before the captain's closed eyes that scene in the library passed
in review.  He was at his desk, Gertrude entered and handed him the
letter.  He commented upon its address and placed it with the
others, the envelopes containing bills and checks, upon the table.
Then the postman came and--

No--wait.  The postman had not come immediately.  Serena had called
and he, Daniel, had gone up to her room in answer to the call.  But
he had come down when the postman rang and. . . .  Wait again!
There had been someone in the library when he was called away.  He
dimly remembered. . . .  What? . . .  Why, yes!  Cousin Percy had
come in and--

Daniel leaped to his feet.  His chair slid back on its castors and
struck the safe behind him.  Mr. Bangs looked up.

"Why, what's the matter?" he cried, in alarm.  "Is--Where are you
going?"

Captain Dan did not answer.  He was running, actually running,
toward the door.  Bareheaded he dashed across the yard.  His foot
was on the threshold of the back porch of the house, when he
stopped short.  For a moment he stood still; then he turned and ran
back to the store again.

Nathaniel, who had followed him to the side entrance of The
Metropolitan, met him there.

"For mercy sakes, Cap'n Dott!" he began.  "What IS it?"

Daniel did not answer.  He pushed past his perturbed manager and,
rushing to the closet in which the telephone instrument hung,
closed the door behind him.  He jerked the receiver from the hook,
placed it at his ear, and shouted into the transmitter.

"Hello!  Hello there, Central!" he bellowed.  "I want a long
distance call.  I want to talk to Saunders, Griffin and Company,
Pearl Street, Boston. . . .  Hey? . . . Yes, I want to talk to Mr.
Doane. . . .  NO, not Cone!  Doane--Doane--Mr. John Doane. . . .
Hey? . . .  You'll call me? . . .  All right, then; be as quick as
you can, that's all."

He hung up the receiver and, flinging the door open, dashed out
into the store again, and began pacing up and down.

Nathaniel ventured one more question.

"Of course it ain't any of my business, Cap'n Dott," he stammered,
"but--"

Daniel waved his hand.

"Sshh! shh!" he commanded.  "It's all right.  I'll tell you by and
by.  But now I want to think.  To think, by time!"

Ten minutes later the telephone bell rang.

"Hello!  Here is your Boston call," announced Central.

"All right! all right!  Is this Saunders, Griffin and Company? . . .
Hey? . . .  Is Mr. Doane there? . . .  What?  I want to know!
Is that you, John? . . .  This is Dott, speakin'. . . .  Yes, Dan
Dott. . . .  No, no, of Trumet, not Scarford. . . .  Yes. . . .
YES. . . .  Here! you let me do the talkin'; you listen."



Captain Dan ate scarcely any luncheon that day.  He seemed to have
lost his appetite.  This was a good deal of a loss and his wife
commented upon it.

"What does ail you, Daniel?" she asked anxiously.  "Why don't you
eat?"

"Hey?  Oh, I don't know, Serena.  Don't feel hungry, somehow."

"Well, it's the first time you haven't been hungry since you came
back to Trumet.  I was beginning to think Azuba and I couldn't get
enough for you TO eat.  And now, all at once, you're not hungry.
What does ail you?"

"Ail me?  Nothin' ails me."

"Don't you feel well?"

"Never felt better in my life.  Don't believe I ever felt quite so
good."

"You act awfully queer."

"Do I?  Don't you worry about me, Serena.  My appetite'll be back
all right by dinner time.  You want to lay in an extra stock for
dinner.  I'll probably eat you out of house and home then.  Better
figure on as much as if you was goin' to have company.  Ain't that
so, Zuba?"

He winked at the housekeeper.  His wife noticed the wink.

"What is it?" she demanded.  "There's something going on that I
don't know about.  Are you and Azuba planning some sort of
surprise?"

"Surprise!  What sort of surprise would Zuba and I plan?  She's had
one surprise in the last six weeks and that ought to be enough.
Laban's droppin' in unexpected was surprise enough to keep you
satisfied, wasn't it, Zuba?  I never saw anybody more surprised
than you was that night in the kitchen.  Ho! ho!"

Azuba smiled grimly.  "A few more surprises like that," she
observed, "and I'll be surprised to death.  Don't talk to ME about
surprises."

"_I_ wasn't talkin' about 'em, 'twas Serena that started it."

Mrs. Dott was still suspicious.  She turned to her daughter.

"Gertie," she asked, "do YOU know what your father is acting so
ridiculous about?  Is there a secret between you three?"

Gertrude had been very quiet and grave during the meal.

"No," she said.  "There is no secret that I know of.  Father is
happy because we are back here in his beloved Trumet, I suppose."

"Humph!  Well, his happiness hasn't interfered with his appetite
before.  There's something else; I'm sure of it.  Why, Gertie!
aren't you going to eat, either?  You're not through luncheon!"

The young lady had risen from the table.

"You've eaten scarcely anything, Gertie," protested her mother.  "I
never saw such people.  Are YOU so happy that you can't eat.  Sit
down."

Gertrude did not look happy.  She did not sit down.  Instead she
hastily declared that she was not hungry, and left the room.

Serena stared after her.

"Was she crying, Daniel?" she asked.  "She looked as if she was
just going to.  Ever since she came in from her walk she has been
so downcast and sad.  She won't talk and she hasn't smiled once.
Daniel, has she said anything to you?  Do you know what ails her?"

The captain shook his head.

"She and I had a little talk out in the store," he admitted.  "I
shouldn't wonder if she was thinkin' about--about--"

"About John, do you mean?"

"Maybe so."

"Did she talk with you about HIM?  She won't let me mention his
name.  Daniel, I feel SO bad about that.  I'm afraid I was to
blame, somehow.  If we hadn't gone to Scarford--if . . . Daniel,
I'm going to her."

She rose.  Her husband laid a hand on her arm.

"Sit down, Serena," he urged.  "Sit down."

"But, Daniel, let me go.  I must go to her.  The poor girl!
Perhaps I can comfort her, though how, I don't know.  John Doane!"
with a burst of indignation.  "If I ever meet that young man I'll
give him my opinion of his--"

"Sshh! shh! Serena!  You sit down and finish your luncheon.  Don't
you worry about Gertie.  And you needn't worry about her appetite
or mine.  I tell you what I'll do:  If she and I don't have
appetite enough for dinner to-night--or breakfast to-morrow
mornin', anyhow--I'll swallow that platter whole.  There!  A sight
like that ought to be worth waitin' for.  Cheer up, old lady, and
possess your soul in patience.  This craft is just gettin' out of
the doldrums.  There's a fair wind and clear weather comin' for the
Dott frigate, or I'm no sailor.  You just trust me and wait.  Yes,
and let Gertie alone."

He positively refused to explain what he meant by this optimistic
prophecy, or to permit his wife to go to their daughter.  Gertrude
went out soon afterward--for another walk, she said--and Serena
retired to her room for the afternoon nap which the doctor had
prescribed as part of her rest cure.  For a time she could not
sleep, but lay there wondering and speculating concerning her
husband's strange words and his equally strange attitude of
confident and excited happiness.  What did it mean?  There was some
secret she was sure; some good news for Gertrude; there must be.
She, too, began to share the excitement and feel the confidence.
Daniel had asked her to trust him, and she did trust him.  He, and
not she, had been right in judging Mrs. Black and Cousin Percy, and
Scarford, and all the rest.  He had been right all through.  She
had reason to trust him; he was always right.  With this comforting
conclusion--one indication of the mental revolution which her
Scarford experience had brought about--she ceased wondering and
dropped to sleep.

Captain Dan and Azuba had a short conference in the kitchen.

"Understand, do you, Zuba?" queried the captain.  "A late dinner
and plenty of it."

"I understand.  Land sakes!  I ain't altogether a numskull or a
young-one, even if I do have to be shut up in the closet to make me
behave."

"Ho! ho!  I expect you could have knocked my head off for bein' in
the way just at that time."

"Humph!" with a one-sided smile, "I could have knocked my own off
for not listenin' afore I come downstairs.  If I'd heard Laban's
voice I bet you I wouldn't have come.  All I needed was a chance to
be alone with him and explain what Gertie and I were up to."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't have the chance.  I wouldn't have missed
that show for somethin'.  It beat all my goin' to sea, that did.
How you did holler!"

He roared with laughter.  Azuba watched him with growing
impatience.

"Got through actin' like a Bedlamite?" she inquired tartly, when he
stopped for breath.  "If you have you can clear out and let me get
to my dish-washin'."

"I'm through.  Oh, by the way, what did Labe say in your letter?
I've told you what he wrote me, but I forgot that he wrote you,
too."

Mrs. Ginn looked troubled.  "I don't know what to do with that
man," she declared.  "I expect any minute to get word that he's
been put in the lock-up.  If that house of yours ain't rented or
sold pretty quick, so he can get to sea again, he will be.  Do you
know what he's done to that Hungerford critter?"

"DONE to him!  What do you mean?  He hasn't seen him, has he?"

"No, he ain't seen him, thank goodness, but Labe is so wrought up
over what that Hapgood thief told him, about your precious cousin
stealin' your telegrams and so on, that he and Hapgood have gone in
cahoots to play a trick on Mr. Percy.  Labe says Hapgood told him
that Percy was keepin' company now with another woman there in
Scarford, a young woman with money, of course--he wouldn't chase
any other kind.  Well, Hapgood--he's a healthy specimen for my
husband to be in with, he is--Hapgood knows a lot about Hungerford
and his goin's on in the past, and he's got a lot of the Percy
man's old letters from other girls.  Don't ask ME how he got 'em;
stole 'em, I suppose, same as he stole that telegram from John.
Anyhow, Labe and Hapgood have sent those letters to the present
young woman's pa."

Daniel whistled.  "Whew!" he exclaimed.  "That's interestin'."

"Ain't it, now!  Laban says the old commodore--meanin' the pa, I
suppose--is a holy terror and sets more store by his daughter than
he does by his hopes of salvation, enough sight.  Good reason, too,
I presume likely; he's toler'ble sure of the daughter.  Well,
anyhow, the letters are gone and Labe says he's willin' to bet that
Cousin Percy'll be GOIN'--out of the window and out of Scarford--
when papa gets after him.  Nice mess, ain't it!"

Captain Dan whistled again.  "Well, Zuba," he observed, "we can't
help it, as I see.  What's done's done and chickens do come home to
roost, don't they?"

"Humph!  I wish my husband would come home and roost where I can
keep my eye on him.  He says he's gettin' sick of bein' a land
lubber.  He'll be aboard some ship and off again afore long, that's
some comfort.  The only time I know that man is safe is when he's a
thousand miles from dry land."



CHAPTER XVI


Serena and Daniel were together in the parlor.  It was past dinner
time, but Azuba, for some reason or other, had not gotten dinner
ready.  This was unusual for, if there was one thing upon which the
housekeeper prided herself, it was in being "prompt at meal times."
She was setting the table now, however, and they could hear her
rattling the knives and forks and singing, actually singing.

"Azuba is in good spirits, isn't she," observed Serena.  "I haven't
heard her sing before for a long time.  I suppose, like the rest of
us, she has been too troubled to sing."

Captain Dan listened to the singing, shook his head, and remarked
whimsically, "There's some comfort to be got out of trouble, then.
Say, the 'Sweet By and By' would turn sour if it could hear her
sing about it, wouldn't it?"

"Hush, Daniel, don't be irreverent.  Why don't you light the lamp,
or let me light it?  It's getting so dark I can hardly see you."

"Never mind; let's sit in the dark a spell.  Gertie comin' down
pretty soon, is she?"

"Yes.  She's changing her dress, because you asked her to.  Why did
you ask her?  Why should she dress up just for you and me?"

"Oh, just a notion of mine.  I like that red dress of hers, anyway;
the one with the fringe trimmin's along the upper riggin'."

"That dress isn't red, it's pink."

"I don't care.  I thought 'twas about the color of my nose, and if
that's pink then I'm losin' my complexion."

"Daniel!" with a laugh, "how you do talk and act to-day!  At
luncheon you were as queer as could be and now you're worse.  I
never saw you so fidgety and excited.  What IS going to happen?
Something, I know.  You wouldn't tell me this noon; will you tell
me now?"

"Pretty soon, Serena; pretty soon.  Now let's talk about somethin'
interestin'; about ourselves, for instance.  How do you like bein'
back here in Trumet?  Ain't gettin' tired of it, are you?  The old
town doesn't seem stupid; hey?"

"No, indeed!  Don't speak that way, Daniel."

"Well, I just mentioned it, that's all.  Soon as you do get tired
and want to see somethin' new, we'll take that cruise to Washin'ton
or the Falls or somewheres.  Never mind the price.  Way I feel now
I'd go to the moon if 'twould please you.  Say the word and I'll
hire the balloon to-morrow--or Monday, anyway; no business done in
Trumet on Sunday."

Serena laughed again.  "I shan't say it for a long while," she
declared.  "I am having such a good time.  The house seems so snug
and homey.  And all our old friends and neighbors have been so
kind.  They seemed so glad to see us when we came, as if they were
real friends, not the make-believe sort."

"Not the Annette kind, you mean.  That particular breed of cats is
scarce on the Cape--at least I hope it is."

"So do I.  I never want to see her again.  I am so glad they have
sold their cottage here, and that the Fenholtzes have bought it--if
they have bought it, as you say you heard.  You always liked the
Fenholtzes, Daniel.  I did, too, or I should if Annette hadn't told
me--"

"I know, I know.  Some day that woman will tell the truth by
accident and the Ladies of Honor crowd'll be mournin' a leadin'
light that went out sudden.  But never mind her.  The folks here
HAVE been nice to us, haven't they?"

"Indeed they have!  And so thoughtful!  Why, Sophronia Smalley even
came to ask me if I wouldn't consider taking my old place as
president of Trumet Chapter.  She is president now, but she
declared she would resign in a minute in my favor."

For an instant Captain Dan's exuberant spirits were dashed.

"She did!" he cried.  "Well, if that woman ain't. . . .  Humph!
Are you thinkin' of lettin' her resign, Serena?"

"No."

"I--I wouldn't stand in your way if you did, you know.  I mustn't
be selfish.  Trumet ain't Scarford, and if you want to--"

"I don't, I don't.  I may attend a meeting once in a while, later
on, but I never shall hold office again.  I have had all the
'advancement' I want."

"Advancin' backwards, some folks would call what you're doin' now,
Serena, I cal'late.  There!  I've said 'cal'late' again.  I haven't
said it before for a long time.  This Cape sand has got into my
grammar, I guess.  I must be careful."

"You needn't be.  Say 'cal'late' if you want to, I am not going to
fret you about your grammar any more, Daniel.  I've got over that,
too.  I'd rather have you, just as you are, than any other man in
the world, grammar or no grammar."

"Whew!  Hold on, old lady!  If you talk that way I'll get so puffed
up I'll bust into smoke when you touch me, like a dry toadstool.
I--Hello! what was that?  The train whistle, was it?"

"Yes.  Here is the night train in; it is almost mail time, and no
dinner yet.  What IS the matter with Azuba?  I'll speak to her."

She was rising to go to the dining-room, but her husband detained
her.

"No, you wait; no, you mustn't," he said, hastily.  "Sit right
down, Serena.  Speakin' of dinners, this talk of ours is like that
everlastin' long meal that you and I went to at Barney Black's
house just after we landed in Scarford.  You remember it took half
an hour to get to anything solid in that dinner, don't you?  Yes,
well, I'm just gettin' to the meat of my talk.  And I want Gertie
to come in on that course.  She is on her way downstairs now; I
hear her.  Hi!  Gertie! come in here, won't you!"

Gertrude entered the room.

"Where are you, Daddy?" she asked.

"Here I am, over here by the window."

"But why haven't you lighted the lamp?  Why are you sitting here in
the dark?"

Serena answered.  "Goodness knows," she replied.  "Your father
would insist on it.  I think he is going crazy; he has acted that
way ever since lunch."

The demented one chuckled.

"You see, Gertie," he explained, "'twas on account of my
bashfulness.  Your mother, she wanted to sit along with me and hold
hands, so--.  Oh, all right; all right.  You can show a glim now,
Serena, if you want to.  I'll cover up my blushes."

The maligned Mrs. Dott announced that she had a good mind to box
his ears.  "That's what I should do to a child," she added, "and
nobody could act more childish than you have this afternoon."

"Second childhood, Serena.  Second childhood and dodderin' old age
are creepin' over me fast.  There!" as the lamp blazed and the
parlor was illuminated, "now you can see for yourself.  Do I dodder
much?"

Even Gertrude was obliged to laugh.

"Daddy!" she cried; "you silly thing!  I believe you ARE getting
childish."

"Am I?  All right, I'm willing to be, at the price.  My! Gertie,
you look awfully pretty.  Don't she look 'specially pretty to you
to-night, Serena?"

Serena smiled.  "That gown was always becoming," she said.

"I know it was; that's why I wanted her to put it on.  And she's
fixed her hair the way I like, too.  My! my! if some folks I know
could see you now, Gertie, they'd. . . .  Ahem!  Well, never mind.
She looks as if she was expectin' company and had rigged up for it,
doesn't she, Serena?"

Gertrude paid little attention to this rather strained attempt at a
joke.  She merely smiled and turned away.  But her mother appeared
to suspect a hidden meaning in the words.  She leaned forward and
gazed at her husband.

"Daniel," she cried, sharply and with increasing excitement;
"Daniel Dott, what are you--"

The captain waved her to silence.  She would have spoken in spite
of it, but his second wave and shake of the head were so emphatic
that she hesitated.  Before the moment of hesitation was at an end
Captain Dan himself began to speak.  He spoke in a new tone now and
more and more rapidly.

"Serena, don't interrupt me," he ordered.  "Gertie, listen.  I'm
goin' to tell you both a story.  Once there was a couple of married
folks that had a daughter. . . .  Hush, I tell you!  Listen, both
of you.  I AIN'T crazy.  If ever I talked sense in my life I'm
talkin' it now. . . .  This couple, as I say, had a daughter.  This
daughter was engaged to be married.  The old folks moved away from
the place they had always lived and went somewhere else.  There
they both commenced to make fools of themselves.  The place was all
right enough, maybe, but they didn't belong in it.  The daughter,
she came there and she saw how things were goin' and, says she:
'I'll fix 'em.  I'll cure 'em and save 'em, too, by showin' 'em an
example, my example.  I'll--'"

Gertrude broke in.

"Daddy," she cried, with a warning glance at her mother, "be
careful.  Don't be silly.  What is the use--"

"Hush!  Hush and be still!  Never mind what she did.  All is, she
showed 'em and she cured 'em and she saved 'em.  But meanwhile her
meddlesome old father had got worried, not understandin' what was
goin' on, and he put his oar in.  He wrote for the young chap she
was engaged to to come down and help cure HER.  The father meant
all right.  He--"

Again the young lady interrupted.

"Mother," she said, "this is nonsense, the way father is telling
it.  I meant to tell you, myself, by and by.  I'm sure you have
guessed it, anyway, but--"

"There's one part she hasn't guessed," shouted Captain Dan; "or
that you haven't guessed either, Gertie, God bless you.  _I_
guessed it myself, this very day, and I guessed it because I had a
letter from Labe Ginn up at Scarford that put me on the right
track.  Gertie, that letter you wrote to John WASN'T mailed; the
postman DIDN'T get it; John himself never got it."

"Daddy!  Daddy, what--"

"Wait! wait!  How do I know? you were goin' to say.  I know because
I know who did get it.  Cousin Percy Hungerford--confound his
miserable, worthless hulk!  HE got it; he stole it from my table,
where it laid along with my other letters, when I was out of the
room.  And--wait! that isn't all.  John DID write you, Gertie.  He
wrote you two or three times and he telegraphed you once.  And you
didn't get either letters or telegram because that Hapgood butler--
Oh, if I had only known this when I chased him out of the back
yard!  He'd have gone over the fence instead of through the gate--
he was helpin' our dear cousin and gettin' paid for it, and HE
stole 'em.  There! that's the truth and. . . .  My soul!  I believe
I've scared the girl to death."

He sprang forward.  Serena, too, although she was almost as much
surprised and agitated as her daughter, hastened to the latter's
side.

But Gertrude, although white and shaken, was far from being "scared
to death."  She was very much alive.

"Are you sure, Daddy?" she cried.  "Are you SURE?  How do you
know?"

"I know because Labe wrote that Hapgood told him.  That's how I
know about the telegram.  And I know that's what happened to your
letter because John didn't get it."

"How do you know he didn't get it?  Please, Mother, don't worry
about me.  I am all right.  How do you know John didn't get my
letter, Father?"

"I know because. . . .  Is that a wagon stoppin' at our gate,
Serena?"

"Never mind if it is.  Answer Gertie's question.  HOW do you know?"

Steps sounded on the front porch.  Captain Dan strode to the hall
and stood with one hand on the knob of the front door.

"I know," he declared triumphantly, "because I telephoned John this
very day and he told me so.  And now, by the everlastin', he'll
tell you so himself!"

He flung the door wide.

"Come in, John!" he shouted, in a roar which was heard even by deaf
old Ebenezer Simpkins, driver of the depot wagon, who was just
piloting his ancient steed from the Dott gate.  "Come in, John!"
roared Captain Dan.  "There she is, in there, waitin' for you."

And Mr. Doane came, you may be sure.

Serena and Daniel waited in the dining-room.  They were obliged to
wait for some time.  The captain's triumphant exuberance continued
to bubble over.  He chuckled and laughed and crowed vaingloriously
over his success in keeping the secret ever since noon.

"I was bound I wouldn't tell, Serena," he declared.  "I was bound I
wouldn't.  I told John over the 'phone; I said:  'I won't tell a
soul you're comin', John.  We'll give 'em one surprise, won't we.'
And, ho! ho! he didn't believe I could keep it to myself; he said
he didn't.  But I did, I did--though I felt all afternoon as if I
had a bombshell under my jacket."

Serena laughed; she was as pleased as he.  "You certainly exploded
it like a bombshell," she declared.  "I didn't know at first but
that you really had gone crazy.  And poor Gertie! you didn't
prepare her at all.  You blurted it out all at once.  The words
fairly tumbled over each other.  I wonder she didn't faint."

"She isn't the faintin' kind.  Serena, we never can be grateful
enough to Gertie for what she's done for us.  And she sacrificed
her own happiness--or thought she did--for you and me and didn't
whimper or complain once."

"I know, Daniel, I know.  And pretty soon now we must give her up
to someone else.  That's the way of the world, though.  WE'LL have
to be brave then, won't we."

"So we will.  But I'd rather give her to John than any other man on
earth.  The thought that it was all off between them and that she
was grievin' over it was about the hardest thing of all."

"So it was.  Well, now we can be completely happy, every one of
us."

Azuba flounced in from the kitchen.  "Ain't they come out of that
parlor YET?" she demanded.  "I can't keep roast chicken waitin'
forever, even for engaged folks."

But the "engaged folks" themselves appeared at that moment.  As one
of those who, according to Mrs. Dott, were to be completely happy,
Mr. Doane looked his part.  Gertrude, too, although her eyes were
wet, was smiling.

John and the Dotts shook hands.  Daniel turned to his daughter.

"Well, Gertie," he asked, "are you ready to forgive me for what
happened on account of my sendin' that summons to John--that one up
in Scarford, I mean?"

"I think so, Daddy."

"I thought maybe you would be, considerin'," with a wink at Mr.
Doane, "the answer you got to my telephone to-day.  But, see here,
young lady, I want to ask you somethin' and I expect a straight
answer.  Can I keep a secret, or can't I?"

"You can, Daddy, dear.  You kept this one almost seven hours."

"Eight! eight, by Godfreys!  'Twas a strain, but I kept it."

"You managed it all beautifully, Daniel," declared Serena.  "I am
proud of you."

"We're all proud of you, Captain Dan," said John.

The captain smiled happily.

"Much obliged," he said, "but I ain't the one you ought to be proud
of.  When it comes to real managin' I ain't knee-high to the ship's
cat alongside of Gertie there.  She's the one who pulled this
family through.  No sir-ee! if you've got any time to spare bein'
proud of folks, don't be proud of Cap'n Dan, but of Cap'n Dan's
daughter.  Sit down, all hands.  Here comes dinner--at last."



THE END






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