Chapter V: Part 5

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

The youth eyed Mrs. Slawson dubiously.

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

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

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

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

"_I'll_ get you out," answered Martha confidently.

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

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

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

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

Sam came forward to meet her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Slawson regarded him blandly.

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

The telegraph-operator grimaced.

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

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

The youth regarded her with level eyes.

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

"Good bey!" said Martha.

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

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

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

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

"What is it?" she asked calmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Find her," said Sam.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*CHAPTER X*

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

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

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

Madam Crewe glanced around as the doctor entered.

"Oho, so _you're_ back, are you?"

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

"You speak the truth."

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

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

Madam Crewe deigned no response.

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

"Fudge! Have you the Journal there?"

"Yes."

"You have read it?"

"Quite so."

"Then you--know?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

"Indeed I am."

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

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

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

"You haven't proved it."

"You have my word."

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

Madam Crewe turned her body stiffly toward Katherine.

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

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

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

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

"Very well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'Still she would not touch them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dr. Ballard broke the silence.

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

Madam Crewe was silent.

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

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

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

"Certainly. Why not?"

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

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

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

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

"You hear that, Katherine? It's _your_ faults and virtues he----"

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

Katherine had grown very white.

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

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

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

Katherine shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you no tongue in your head?"

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

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

Dr. Ballard laughed out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A familiar figure appeared in the open doorway.

Martha paused a moment, then came forward swiftly.

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

He shook his head. "No."

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

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

Dr. Ballard laid a restraining hand upon her shoulder.

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

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

Martha answered in the doctor's stead.

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

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

Dr. Ballard gave Martha a look.

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

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

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

"Oh--Miss Katherine!" she called softly.

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

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

Katherine looked up, her face changing quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At the sound of her voice Martha turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who's he?" asked Sammy.

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

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

*CHAPTER XI*

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

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

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

"You mean----" she pondered.

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

"Risk?" repeated Martha.

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

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

Madam Crewe brought her teeth together with a snap.

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

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

"And Buller?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

"O--oh, Martha!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old woman slowly, tremulously undressed.

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

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

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

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

"Then you don't think----?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Certaintly," said Martha.

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

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

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

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

"Oh, no!"

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

"No--but----"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martha winked solemnly across at Claire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And does she----?"

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

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

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

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

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

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