CHAPTER IX

And that handmaiden glanced down at the stack of buttered toast and the eggs and young home-raised onions, and made answer with a droll not to say sly look in her light blue eye: "Oh, ja! I make goot care mit her, my Miss Ladies—und ven she eat all dese breakfas', she'll be all right, uf she don't be vorse!" And away she went up the groaning stairs with the odor of coffee trailing behind her.

When the three had reached the little station that like a hen covering her brood nestles low at the very foot of the hill, with the glistening metal rails passing on one side and the glittering, dimpling, rippling river flowing by on the other, John Lawton lifted his hat and kissed his daughters good-by with the careful courtesy habitual with him, and holding Sybil's hand a moment he said: "I—I shall walk over to The Beeches to-day, dear——"

"Papa!" exclaimed the girl.

"Yes," he went on; "I shall make my acknowledgments to Miss Morrell. You think she did a fine thing when she sympathized with and promised to help you, but she did a finer thing when she refused to ignore the parents—the old people, who are generally pushed to the wall in such cases. I shall thank her for her consideration, and——" but the roar of the approaching train sent the girls scurrying through the little waiting-room out to the platform and into the car. A pair of kisses were waved, and they had lost sight of the tall, slender, old gentleman.

And Sybil, as she sank into the seat beside Dorothy, exclaimed: "Is he not a dear? Is it not wonderful that this sordid poverty has not made him selfish, narrow-minded, sullen? Poor papa! Do you know, Dorrie, I'm afraid he suffers more than we imagine!"

"Oh!" cried Dorothy, "don't say that! I always thought papa was almost contented with things, except on our birthdays! But now we must love him more than ever, Sybbie!"

And to drive away the anxious look from her sister's eyes, Sybil called attention to the odd appearance of the car, which was almost filled with gentlemen, and remarked, laughingly: "We have taken what mamma calls 'the busy man's train.' They are a sociable lot, are they not—every man-jack of them with his nose in his paper, and a nice little wrinkle between his puckered brows?"

"That's from trying to get and keep the proper focus," laughed Dorrie, who added: "I've a five-cent nickel in my pocketbook, and I'll give it to you, Syb, if you can learn the color of a single pair of eyes in this car—barring mine, of course."

"Well, the nickel must be plugged or you wouldn't have it, so I'm not losing much; but, oh! after all, I may win it—plug and all! One male creature has eyes, for he has lifted them, and they are—are! Pass over the nickel, Miss, they are gray with black lashes, and—oh!"

She stopped in confusion, for the male creature she was watching had lowered his paper a moment, and she recognized the grave young man; and to herself she ruefully remarked: "And the third time's the charm!"

And though Dorothy busied herself in finding the despised nickel, her swiftly deepening color told her sister that she, too, had recognized their fellow-traveller whose calm features showed no trace of the surprised delight he felt at again seeing the face of the "violet-girl," as he termed her in his thoughts. He only gave a severe, scrutinizing glance at the shade of his window, carefully lowered it about an inch, and then returned to his paper, reading over and over and over again how a certain Mr. Somebody had become the benefactor of his race through selling shoes to men for three dollars a pair. Yet, in spite of his steady reading, he kept saying to himself how strange it was that the fair-faced Violet-Girl should cross his path on this the red-letter day of his life—the setting of whose sun would leave him so much better off financially than it had found him in the morning. And he could not help thinking how much sweeter his good fortune would seem if there was someone to share it with him.

If his mother had not left him, what soft, silky, flowery pillows and spreads her couch should have; what rich, dull rugs! But the almost surreptitious care bestowed upon her grave was all that he could give her now. Yet he could imagine how those appealing eyes over there would widen with surprise and dance with pleasure if one she cared for brought a story of endeavor crowned with success. He wondered what her name was. He knew her family name, for he had heard someone at the church corner, on Sunday, refer to them as "those Lawton girls," and had winced at both tone and words.

And the Lawton girls, meantime, were discussing the probable result of their visit to Mrs. Van Camp.

"I'm afraid the chances are against you," said Dorothy, anxiously. "You know how she goes on about family. 'Old families and the proprieties' are words of sweetness to her, though she is as gay as a girl and as droll as a Merry Andrew—on occasions. 'The stage'—only two words—but when spoken in relation to Mrs. Van Camp's god-daughter, Sybbie, I'm afraid you can't manage her."

"She won't need managing, Dorrie. She's mercenary to the point of worshipping Mammon, but, thank heaven, she never meanders as mamma does, who wanders away from the subject into tortuous and serpentine courses. No manœuvring will be required with God-mother Sybil. I shall marshal my facts, dwell upon the honor of being introduced by Miss Morrell into the profession—she has professed the greatest admiration for her all her life—and, as she knows already our unspeakably helpless condition, I'm sure she will come to a quick decision. Oh, mercy! They are already lighting the gas. How I do detest the tunnel! I always come out so sticky and prickly about my face and neck—and grimy, too!"

"Oh," answered Dorothy, "I wouldn't object to being sticky and grimy, if only I were not afraid. But, Syb, I can't help it; I never have passed through this tunnel yet without taking part in an imaginary accident."

"You should follow the example of your religious friend, Mr. Walton," laughed Sybil, "who declares he always fills in the time by praying."

"Yes, and I think he should be ashamed of himself!" indignantly interrupted Dorothy. "It's nothing short of an insult to his Maker to pass through the beautiful green fields and the warm, sunny air reading a newspaper; and, when entering a foul, ill-smelling, black hole of man's creating, to begin praying because he can't do anything else!"

Under cover of the roar of the train Sybil laughed aloud, delighted to have got a rise, as the slang phrase is, out of Dorrie's mild temper.

The men, looking waxy pale under the light of the overhead lamps, were folding up papers, settling hats afresh and preparing for the famous American rush from the train when Sybil, noticing that her sister's eyes were closed, exclaimed, with malicious triumph: "I believe you are praying yourself! You are, at this very moment!"

"Well," smiled Dorothy, "you see, you don't know how frightened I am, and anyway I don't reserve my prayers for an otherwise useless moment. I prayed this morning, with my eyes open, looking right into God's rising sun!"

Crash! Recoil! CRASH! And a swift, appalling darkness, cut across by one woman's piercing scream! Running footsteps! The venomous hissing of escaping steam; the stench of gas; and then in that Stygian darkness, rising clear above the undertone of groans and short-breathed oaths, was a girl's voice crying: "Dorrie! Dorrie! Oh, Dorrie!"

Noises outside were growing louder, and Sybil scrambled up from the floor, where she had fallen, and, mad with terror, stretched out groping hands in the direction she had last seen Dorothy, and oh! blessed God! encountered two little hands, that closed on hers. The next moment she had her utterly silent sister in her arms, and impatiently shook away something warm that kept creeping, creeping down her temple and her cheek. The din outside was awful, the darkness an anguish! Suddenly there was a flare of a match—it went out! A groping, searching hand struck Sybil's shoulder. Another match, a wax one, was lighted, and the young man she had jested about, hatless and very pale, asked, swiftly: "Is she hurt? I hope she has not fainted?"

He leaned closer, and Dorothy's great, strained blue eyes stared up at him from her sister's breast.

"Can't you speak, dear?" pleaded Sybil. "Oh, she is half killed with fright!" she added, turning to the stranger, and again the creeping thing was on her cheek, and Dorothy cried, sharply: "Blood! blood! Oh! Sybbie's hurt! Can't you help her?" And the match was out, and they were again in that hell of darkness and steam and gas and roar! But a calm and friendly voice came to them, saying: "Stay here; take part of these matches and light one now and then while I get out and find what can be done! Oh, here come the torches! Now we'll soon have help!" But before he left them he drew from a pocket a handkerchief, folded it, and swiftly tied it about Sybil's head, and even then the girl smiled at his naïve, lover-like excuse: "The blood frightens her so!" And through a few agonized minutes the girls clung tightly together, shivering in a very ague of terror. And then, through the billows of steam, the low-hanging, strangling clouds of smoke, they saw men with lanterns, heard orders, short and sharp, then their friend was lifting them down from the high, high step; and Sybil, with her arms about Dorothy, was aided, led, pushed, or pulled along at the will of the only person who noticed their presence or existence.

There had been much noise—noise of voices, of metal ringing on metal, of hurrying feet—but suddenly it ceased. A moment's quiet came into that place of mad excitement. The crowd before them drew apart. Like lightning, their guide threw himself in front of the girls, whispering: "Don't look! Don't let her look!" And Sybil, with chilling blood, recalled that one piercing cry, that woman's cry, and to save her soul could not help sending a glance toward the four men who bore upon a stretcher a hastily covered form, so still, so pathetically slight! Covered? Yes, but one little foot in oxford-tie was exposed. A foot so like—so like— And Sybil caught Dorothy in an embrace fierce enough to wring a cry from her, and the words: "What is it, dear? Are you hurt again? Have you turned your ankle, or— Oh, Sybbie! It was that poor man! Oh, can't we get out? Can't we?" and her voice broke into frightened sobs.

The other two exchanged meaning glances, for, as this outburst had been caused by the sight of two stalwart blue-coated men, who, after the manner of children "making a chair" were carrying on their crossed arms a passenger whose leg was broken, they trembled at the thought of the collapse that must surely have followed upon the sight of that frail, broken thing, whose mute authority had yet the power to silence the awful din.

How they escaped from the stifling, sloppy, grimy place of torment they could not have told, had the saving of an immortal soul depended upon such telling. There was a ladder, and a failure, and a carrying of the ladder to another place by the aid of a trainman, who roared some advice as he stole a few moments for their service. Then coaxings for Dorrie, sharp directions for Sybil, and—and somehow they were standing in a street, dazzled by the sunlight, sick and faint and dirty and drabbled, but out in the pure air once more. And knowing that Dorothy's life might have gone out from sheer terror but for the aid and encouragement of the grave young man, Sybil held out both hands to him, crying: "I thank you from my heart, and I will serve you at command, for Dorrie's sake, who—who——"

Her lips whitened—trembled. She clutched blindly at his arm for support. Her self-control had been wonderful, but, like everything else, it had to be paid for. The shock to her nerves had been terrible, her wound had bled profusely, and when a strong arm about her waist lifted her over the threshold into a quiet pharmacy she was just barely conscious and no more.

The bald-headed little proprietor closed his doors upon the gaping crowd, and, while reviving Sybil and dressing the really ugly cut her head had received from striking against the frame of a seat, when she had fallen to the floor, he called upon his wife to descend from her room above, and she, with ready sympathy, brushed and pinned up Dorothy's raiment and sponged away the smears and smuts from her face. And when the cheerful little woman turned for a moment to the young man, to tell him she could bring him her husband's second hat, if he did not mind its being a bit burned by the suns of last summer, he overheard poor Dorothy saying: "Whatever shall we do, Sybbie? We bought return tickets, and—and we only have left ten cents, that was to have paid our street-car fare to god-mother's."

A swift "S-h-h!" from Sybil silenced her. The man's heart contracted with a pang of pity for their distressful situation. The next moment he stood before them, and, addressing the elder, said: "Miss Lawton, I am going to ask permission to introduce myself to you, as there is no one to perform the service for me. I am a sort of neighbor of your family, since I, too, am summering at Yonkers. My name is Galt—Leslie Galt—and in consequence of this accident I ask you to trust yourself and your sister to my care, until I can leave you at your own front door—will you?" He waited for no answer, but continued: "I will have a carriage here almost directly, and we will board a Harlem train, get off at Mount Vernon, and then drive to your house."

Sybil's spirits began to rise. "Don't you think," she asked, glancing at their sooty, oily, dirty white gowns, "we should be sent to the steam laundry before that?"

"No," he gravely replied, though his eye gleamed; "not before, but after, by all means."

"But," Dorothy began, anxiously, "do you suppose mamma and——?"

"I am going to send them word," broke in Galt, "that you are quite safe before I get the carriage. You are safe, you know, physically, mentally, morally. Only your wardrobe's ruin is complete." And gayly donning the proprietor's ancient hat he hurried away, in their service.

And so it happened that the reassuring telegram had not yet reached the old White house, though a rumor of an accident in the tunnel had, when a shabby old hack came rattling up the grass-grown drive and stopped before the sagging porch, where Letitia, ghastly under all her rouge, stood clinging to John Lawton, who trembled visibly all his length. And when a strange man got out he closed his eyes a moment, and passed his tongue over his dry under lip.

Then, as thrilling sweet as had been their faint birth-cries, there came to his ears two joyous "Papas! Mammas!" And then ensued a very whirlwind of embraces, of kisses, of cries, of exclamations! And when Sybil had said: "Mr. Galt saved us and brought us back to you, papa!" the old man held out his hands and grasped those of the young man. His kindly, frightened blue eyes gazed and gazed. His piteous old mouth trembled and formed words that would not be said. And like a flash Leslie Galt saw again Dorothy's wide blue eyes and fright-stricken mouth, as she lay upon her sister's breast, beneath the flare of the waxen taper. And, recognizing the likeness between father and daughter, he opened his heart to the helpless old gentleman then and there. Though John Lawton never got his thanks into words, his silent gratitude made a deeper impression than did the bursting dam of Letitia's eloquence. And Lena, rushing upon the scene to inquire as to the welfare of her Miss Ladies, started out joyously with: "Ach! You com' all right again? Eh? You com' back mit all your arms und legs und feet, und—und [a look of horror growing on her face] mein Gott! mein Gott! Get avay, quick, und put yourselves by der vash-tubs!" an ending which sent everyone into laughter.

And as the girls were swept away by their mother, one blue flash met a waiting pair of gray eyes; and as John Lawton walked down to the gate with Leslie Galt, who had asked for and obtained leave from Mrs. Lawton to make a call of inquiry next day as to the young ladies' healths, they paused a moment, and Lawton, holding his new friend's hand tightly, waved his left, indicating all the forlorn and neglected old place in one gesture, and said: "You see, our daughters are all we have left on earth—all, all! And you——"

He gently drew his hand away, lifted his hat punctiliously, and, turning, walked slowly back to the decaying old White house!

CHAPTER X

A large and beefy but an emphatic Romeo, who had to enthuse for two, an exquisite Mercutio, a deliriously droll Nurse, and an excellent general cast by their united efforts gave this very pleasing performance, whose seven repetitions would do much to dim the memory of the many French abominations that earlier in the season had freely scattered wink, innuendo, and double-entendre while trailing their chic indecencies about the same stage. Of course a few real lovers and students of Shakspere felt the pity of the marred, misunderstood characters, while keenly enjoying other more poetic presentations; but Stewart Thrall was appealing to another class, the great uncultivated, who, though secretly bored to extinction, dearly loved to pose (for one week only) as patrons of the Bard; and as they exchanged platitudes with one another, when meeting by chance at the box-office window, they invariably congratulated themselves upon having one manager in their midst who dared to produce Shakspere.

And some declared, with enthusiasm, that he deserved a public vote of thanks for thus giving their sons and daughters an opportunity to study a Shaksperian drama. And Mr. Thrall, sitting in the box-office out of sight, but not out of hearing, smiled sardonically, and signed a cable order to his Paris agent to secure a great Frenchman's newest, wittiest indecency for New York's future delight, knowing well that the Shaksperian poseurs outside would be found among its most generous patrons.

Then, glancing at the treasurer, busy over his floor-plans, change-drawer, and ticket stamps, he said: "By the way, Barney, you reserved the wrong box for Claire Morrell last night. I told you plainly the right box—didn't you understand me so?"

"Yes, sir," replied that young man of amazing collars, throwing back his head and tilting up his cruelly scraped jaw in an effort to escape the strangle-hold of the white linen long enough to answer his employer's question. "Yes, sir; but—but you remember you were standing on the stage when you called out to me to hold the right-hand box, and I thought you meant the box to your right as you stood, and that, of course, is the left box on the seat chart; and so I reserved that, and——"

"And spoiled the evening for Miss Morrell, who, for some reason, will never occupy a seat on the left of the house if she can help it."

"Well, sir, I thought——" writhed and twisted he of the collar.

"Don't think, then, Barney. I'll do the thinking if you'll do the obeying. Next time ask—that's easier than thinking, or [with a laugh] it would be to anyone else. Barney, that infernal collar will cut your head off one of these days. Why don't you have it lowered a couple of inches and enjoy some of the comforts of life?" And, striking a match, he lifted it toward his cigar, stopped suddenly, shook out the small flame, put the cigar back into the box on the shelf, and turning to Barney said: "I'll take your place five minutes. I want you to run as quickly as you can round to the confectioner's and get me some sugared violets. Hurry, now, that's a good fellow!"

And Barney, snatching his hat from the nail, made a dash for the street, wondering as he ran "who was coming to see the governor, for, of course, he wasn't going to squat down there alone and stuff himself with violets." By which anyone can see what a coarse-minded young person this seller of tickets was.

But he was swift of foot, and was soon back in his place at the office window, while, dainty package in hand, his employer came out, crossed the vestibule, and, entering his private office, proceeded to untie his parcel and pour the fragrant, crystallized violets into a charming bonbonnière standing on the corner of his desk.

The prevailing tone of this room was a dull, rich red, and it made an agreeable background for the figure of the man standing there, Stewart Thrall, the actor-manager of the Globe Theatre, who was at that moment expecting a call from the popular actress, Claire Morrell, and a certain young lady who wished (oh, foolish young lady!) to go upon the stage. A tall man, of excellent figure. He was a well-groomed, clean-skinned man. There was nothing of the long-haired, floating necktied, fur-coated, comic-journal actor about him. He was no "beauty man," either; but, as a certain very great lady had once truly said, "He had eyes and a manner."

A charming manner it was—gracious, graceful, sincere. And as one takes a certain simple base for a sauce, and, by adding various flavors or acids, produces innumerable different sauces, so to that natural manner he, by adding a touch of dignity or sternness or jollity or deprecation, came very near making himself all things to all men. His closely cropped hair was black—not the blue-black of the Latins, but that darkest brown that is America's black—and his eyes were those Irish blue ones that are "smudged in" with black lashes, luminous, quick sparkling, softly darkening, wooing, winning, faithless eyes—an actor's eyes par excellence, but with a droop of the heavily fringed lids that played sad havoc with the dreams of the romantic girl patrons of the theatre.

Stewart Thrall was a popular idol. His stroll down the sweet sunny side of Broadway was a triumphal progress. Glances, smiles, turning heads, and flattering remarks trailed after him like a tail to the kite of his vogue. He had earned his popularity—it had not been thrust upon him. He had been shrewd and clever and determined. He had acted up to the motto of his choice: "To be agreeable." He made everything serve him. If he had a friend in a high place he never forgot it or allowed anyone else to forget it either. If he went occasionally to church on a fine Sunday, where wealthy pewholders vied with one another in courteous hospitality, he saw to it that that was the church attended by his banker. "The recollection will do him no harm and may do me a service," he would say to himself with a laugh. When he went to a dance he never failed to bestow attentions upon any homely girl or woman who wore jewels, and in more than one instance the effects of such a one's gratitude had been distinctly felt in the box-office.

But these wealthy wall-flowers were never waltzed with. The very prettiest girl in the room could be relied upon to arrange her card to favor this man with the speaking eyes. And so, with drooping lids in full evidence, he swayed and whirled, reversed and backed, apparently by instinct, since his challenging glance never left his partner's face. He would think triumphantly of the two birds he had brought down with one stone, winning gratitude from one and a flirtation from another.

Nor did he fail "to be agreeable" to humble people, for no one knew better than he how swift were the ups and downs of his profession. Therefore, he treated with friendly consideration the "nobody" who might be a "somebody" the next time he saw him. Gravely respectful to the gray old solid men of commerce, hail fellow with that body of men known as "the boys," gambling just enough to keep in friendly touch with the big guns of the business, and seemingly ready to give up his very soul to the reporters, he was a matinée idol, a successful man, a general favorite. And yet, after all, disappointed; so many brief, transient loves had he known; so many charming hypocrites had made a farce of the grand passion, depriving it of any touch of sanctity, that now an apathetic weariness had come upon him, and yet that was not the worst. No one could have forced the confession from him, but in his heart he admitted his defeat. He had started out to win fame, but had attained only notoriety; and though he sneered and said to himself: "Fame has generally gone hungry, and I at least am well fed and have a nice little story to read in my bank-book," he was, all the same, a disappointed man.

As he turned to toss the paper wrapper and bits of ribbon from his parcel into the waste-basket his eyes encountered a picture of himself as the young Laertes. And he paused, looked at it frowningly, and commented: "You poor young fool! What a burning mass of hope and ambition you were! So honestly believing in acting as a veritable art, and—and forgetting everything in the joy of it! Damned if you didn't! But Lord! that was before you found your motto and began 'to be agreeable' to the world! Couldn't serve two gods, could you, sonny? Well, being agreeable has paid, in some ways. But I have put up with your reproachful glances long enough. I think I'll take you down from there and send you over to the Missus. You won't hurt her the way you do me!" And, with a half-laughing, half-frowning face, he stepped on a low couch, that he might reach and lift down the offending, boyish Laertes.

He hurried a bit, for he knew that Claire Morrell was very exact in keeping her appointments, and that she might come in at any moment now, with her confounded stage-struck protégée, to whom he would never have given a thought, let alone an engagement, for he hated amateurs, had it not been that he had met the clever and witty, if ancient, Mrs. Van Camp, and knew her to be of the best old Dutch stock. Therefore, it would rather flatter his vanity to be able to exploit the name of her god-daughter as a member of his company, if only she might not be too heavy a load of awkward self-consciousness—if only she might be moderately good-looking. And then he set the picture down hard, with its long wire hooping, and coiling, like a live and very angry thing about it, and whistled, exclaiming aloud: "Oh, by Jove! I wonder if either of those bright and pretty girls the Morrell had with her last night might be the protégée? They were both charming, but how that dark one did light up when Morrell led the applause for my Queen Mab speech! But no such luck, I suppose!"

And, man-fashion, he drew out his handkerchief to dust the small wingless Love on the pedestal between the draped curtains of a mock-window, whose long Holland shade really covered a very narrow door, spring locked and never used—never, one could readily understand that from the inconvenience of its approach, but Mr. Thrall carried the key.

And out in Broadway Claire Morrell was saying: "It's so very tiring, this shopping; suppose, Miss Lawton, that we step in at the theatre and see if Mr. Thrall is there now, instead of making a special trip to-morrow. If he is in he will see us, if he has gone home we can cool off in the dark auditorium. What do you say, Miss Dorothy?"

For Miss Morrell had kept her talk with the manager and her appointment a secret, feeling that Sybil would thus be more at her ease, more natural in manner, than she could possibly be if she knew she was being inspected or examined, like a servant seeking a new place. And now, as the sisters smilingly consented to her plan, she turned in between the big billboards that announced the week's run of "Romeo and Juliet," with the name of the lady star in very, very large letters and "supported by" in small type. Then the name of the gentleman who played Romeo appeared in letters two sizes smaller than those of the star, and lower down, in quite small type, one read: "Mr. Stewart Thrall as Mercutio."

And Sybil tapped the letters with her parasol-tip, and said: "His performance was the best in the play. Why are his letters not the biggest?"

And the actress laughed, as she answered: "Children always ask difficult questions. Wait till you're older, my dear. Perhaps this time next year all this mystery of type and printers' ink will be clear to your understanding. But you are right about the acting of Thrall; his Mercutio is the best of his time."

She went to the box-office window, and learning from the half-strangled Barney that the manager was in his private office, she swept them across the vestibule, from whose walls the gold-framed pictured actors looked down inquiringly, tapped at a door, and, in answer to a cheery "Entrez!" entered the room, crying: "May I bring up my light infantry?"

And in answer to his laughing "By all means—I'm in need of reinforcements, you know!" she drew the girls inside, saying: "The Misses Lawton, Mr. Thrall, who ask of your grace a few moments hospitality and rest, as they, like myself, are country bred, and therefore easily shop-wearied."

"Well, none of you are shop-worn, at all events!" He laughed, as he found seats for them by the simple process of sweeping manuscripts, sheet-music, and what-not from the chair to the floor in a corner.

"Ah!" exclaimed Miss Morrell to the girls, "would he not make a blithe and bonnie housekeeper?"

And Sybil acquiesced with: "A place for everything and everything in that one place," while Thrall drew up the shade of the one real window, and let the full light into the dull red room, showing the age-blackened, iron-heavy, splendidly carved table and desk and chair and the freshness of the two young creatures looking up at him with such honest admiration in their innocent eyes as to fairly embarrass him. And, so strange a thing is memory, for just one moment he was a boy again in roundabout jacket and broad white collar, and his only sister, seventeen years old, stood at the altar with her young minister bridegroom, and looked at him with just such sweetly innocent eyes. He shook his head sharply and passed his hand across his eyes. His sister had been dead these twenty years—what had come over him?

And then Miss Morrell, who had been peering under and over everything in the room, asked, plaintively: "Where is it, Stewart, mon ami? What have you done with it? Am I to die before your eyes from sheer exhaustion, and without even an effort on your part to save me?"

And he, pointing to a hanging cabinet, said: "There's the life-saving station!" and threw open the door, revealing a complete outfit for coffee-making. Then, noting the girls' surprised looks, he went on: "Ah! I see you are not very well acquainted with my friend here, or has she been clever enough to conceal her dissipation? Be that as it may, we have here an awful example—a victim to——"

"Stewart Thrall!" threateningly exclaimed Miss Morrell, as she lighted the spirit-lamp beneath the coffee-pot.

"A victim to coffee! Morning, noon, or night, her one cry is 'Coffee!' Ah, it's sad! Such a promising young-creature as she was, too! But you see what coffee has brought her to!"

"I'll buy a French pot and a bottle of alcohol on the way home," laughed Sybil, "and see where it will land me!"

"Gracious!" cried Dorothy, "you will land in a sanitarium if you attempt to increase the amount of coffee you are taking already!"

"Oh, are you one of the devotees of the little brown berry?" asked Miss Morrell. "Well, we are three, then, for that man there adores it, in spite of his jibes at me!"

"I drink but a reasonable amount," declared Thrall, "while you—Miss Lawton, will you push that biscuit-jar this way? Do you know, when the rehearsal is called, this enslaved creature drinks coffee because work is beginning. Later she drinks coffee because work is over. When it is cold, she drinks coffee to warm her. When it is warm, she drinks coffee to cool her!"

"My very dear friend," interrupted Miss Morrell, "there is a strangely familiar sound about all that. Do you really believe no one else ever heard of Thackeray?"

"And Thackeray's daughter?" laughed Sybil.

"Who read Dickens," added Dorothy, with dancing eyes.

"'When she was glad, she read Dickens,'" quoted Miss Morrell.

"'When she was sad, she read Dickens,'" added Sybil.

"So you see, sir," continued the actress, "even if quotations are not exact to the letter, they are sufficient to prove you are a plagiarist!"

"Good heavens! Who would have believed so many people remembered a man named Thackeray!" said Thrall, with mock astonishment. "Now Vanity Fair forgets him entirely."

"A very natural revenge! Who cares to remember the artist who paints an unflattering portrait? Poor Vanity Fair wanted to be idealized a bit. Oh, wait, Stewart—wait! Don't pour yet, there's a cigar-clip and a postage-stamp in the bottom of that cup! Now pour! If only you could be induced to write a few 'Household Hints' for the aid of young house-keepers!"

"Yes! My services to domestic science would about equal in value my services to art!" he jeered.

Honest little Dorothy, accepting the Sèvres cup extended to her, lifted clear blue eyes to her host's face, saying: "You should not speak so contemptuously of what you have done, Mr. Thrall. If acting is an art, as persons say, a man who acts Shaksperian characters very beautifully does a real service to that art—I think!"

"Bravo!" cried Miss Morrell, tapping her spoon against her cup. "Bravo, little play-lover! A charming compliment, and a very just rebuke also for your insincerity of speech, Stewart, my friend!"

And he, jumping to the conclusion that it was Dorothy who wanted to go upon the stage, felt a pang of disappointment that surprised him by its sharpness, as he somewhat gravely answered: "It was not insincere. You know well enough," nodding his head toward Claire Morrell, "that this week's return to the fountain-head of English drama has not been made from love or from a desire to improve public taste. You know it is but a catch-penny device—an advertisement. I might"—he glanced at the wrapt face of the young Laertes as he spoke—"I might have served art once. Indeed, I know it; but"—he laughed a hard little laugh—"art and mammon are no more to be served by the same man than God and mammon, and he who serves art entirely and lovingly will have mighty little to show for his labor!"

"At least," broke in Sybil, hotly, with dark face aglow, "he would have the joy of his unskimped service and the comfort of a thorough self-respect!"

And again Thrall felt that swift pang of regret that this was not the stage aspirant. For to himself he had been saying: "These innocent, wholesome girls are two buds in the garden of life. This fair one, like a pale blush-rose, reaches her most perfect beauty now, in the close-folded bud form; later its perfect blossoming will reveal it pale and shallow, though very sweet. But the other one, she with the lustrous eyes and the mutinous red mouth, is like one of the red damask buds of Southern France, now ideally beautiful, yet the opening of velvety petals will betray depth after depth of deepening color, free wave after wave of perfume, until the very sweetest, the very purest tint of glowing color, will be found at last in the deep splendor of the fully open heart! Yes, this girl will blossom into a splendid womanhood. And what a face for the stage!"

And then he was aware of Miss Morrell setting down her cup and saying, briskly: "A little business now, Mr. Manager, if you please! Miss Lawton here is very keen to go upon the stage. She is immensely ambitious, absolutely without experience, but humble in mind enough to be willing to begin at the bottomest bottom. I would gladly give her her start in my company, if I had room for her, and I would not ask you to consider her wish if I did not truly believe she had in her the making of a good actress."

Mr. Thrall turned surprised eyes toward the happily smiling Dorothy. Sybil had gone white when her friend began to speak for her, and sat still and cold, waiting for her doom.

"In heaven's name!" thought he. "What has come to the Morrell—to think that child can act?" Then he glanced at the rigid figure of Sybil, and said, slowly: "And you—have you no desire for the stage life?"

She raised her dark eyes, and said, very low: "I would give my soul to act!"

Miss Morrell's nervous fingers closed sharply. She wished the girl had not said that, and in the same instant Dorothy exclaimed: "Oh, Miss Morrell, Mr. Thrall thought you were speaking of me!"

And actor as he was, the man turned suddenly to his desk to hide the color he knew was burning over his face, and the senseless delight that flashed through him at the words. Presently he asked if her friends permitted her to take this step. Being reassured on that point, he inquired if she had had any experience as an amateur. And when she replied "No!" with a sadly fallen countenance, he smilingly commented: "No tears are called for yet!"

And Miss Morrell broke in with: "And no lessons in elocution has she had—no, not one!"

"Thank God!" fervently exclaimed Thrall. "Decidedly, your case looks hopeful, Miss Lawton."

After some further conversation, finding Sybil would be in town for a day or two, he asked permission to call on her at Mrs. Van Camp's home and let her know what his decision was. As he spoke he caught the swift expression of anxiety on Dorothy's face and followed her glance, and, noting the close attention Sybil was bestowing on a picture, knew she was hiding the tears of disappointment, of fear, and felt a throb of sympathy. Poor little soul! Had he not been just as impatient, just as sensitive—once? So, while Dorothy gathered up the fans and parcels, and Miss Morrell paused to place a candied violet between her lips, Stewart Thrall stepped close to Sybil's side, and said, very low: "Don't be distressed—you shall have the engagement. Only I don't know yet just how or where I can place you!"

And the incredulous joy flashing through the tears, the tremulous smile on her lips, as she turned her face to him, made him exclaim, mentally: "Good God! If she could do but the half of that upon the stage!"

Then, as they were ready to depart, ever punctually exact in the small courtesies, he placed himself at Miss Morrell's side and led the way to the vestibule, where a tall, shabby fellow was slouching before the box-office window, while young Barney could be plainly heard refusing to give him money without Mr. Thrall's order.

Hearing advancing footsteps, the man turned a pale, liquor-soddened face toward them, and, seeing the ladies, he let go of the window-ledge he had clung to, removed his hat with a trembling hand, advanced hesitatingly, and attempted to address Thrall, who said, savagely: "Step aside! I'll speak to you presently!" And, as the poor wreck drew back, they passed on to the open front doors.

And Claire Morrell raised mildly surprised eyes, and said: "Jim Roberts is still with you, then?"

And Thrall, with a shrug of his shoulders, answered, flippantly: "Like the poor!" and bowed them out.

CHAPTER XI

With June a renewal of life seemed to have come to the old White house. A riotous maple massed its vivid green canopy over a side door, tender young vines with small, tenacious fingers felt their way over its southern wall, an old-time peony at the corner of the porch lifted its enormous, bitter-sweet blossoms of deepest pink. A length of white matting lay on the porch, two neatly painted butter-tubs (in lieu of majolica jars) held plants, a few chairs and a table kept them company, and every wind that blew the white curtains in or out of the upper windows brought forth a ripple of laughter or a snatch of song. For the old house had received the gift of tongues, and spoke, not only with the voice of age and disappointment and regret, but with that of youth and hope and joy; and Dick's yellow throat, like a small golden ewer, poured forth trill and gurgle all day long in happy answer to all the delightful sounds about him. And two little paths were creeping through the thick-growing grass—one, leading up to the tangle of orchard and an oft-mended old hammock, had been worn by the feet of the sisters; the other, leading down to a side lane, was shorter but broader, for Lena's feet were sturdy, her step heavy, and her "mash-man's" whistle called her often to the lane in the twilight. So, with love flitting about the kitchen door and youth and beauty dreaming dreams in its ancient chambers, no wonder the White house seemed rejuvenated.

Sybil was happy—happy as she had never been before. Nothing definite had yet been decided beyond the fact that she was to begin her work in September. Mr. Thrall might let her play a small part in New York, or he might send her with a travelling company and let her have something better to start with. Meantime, he had advised her to learn several small parts, and when she had done so, swiftly and willingly, he told her it would be good practice for her to study a number of important characters, since she might be called upon to play a Jessica or a Nerissa, if not the difficult Portia, a Celia, if not a Rosalind; and it would give her an immense advantage if she were already familiar with the lines, while, if she had not to play any of them, she would herself be the richer for her knowledge and her brain would be trained to the habit of quick study.

Then Mrs. Van Camp, flattered by the popular actor's deferential attitude toward herself and his warily moderate admiration for Sybil—well he knew that any rapturous praise of her beauty would act as a danger-signal to the ancient butterfly of fashion—had not only consented to her god-daughter's going upon the stage, but for a birthday gift had lined her hungry little purse with crisp bank-notes, of modest denomination, it is true, but with power to free her from the care of things bodily and temporal for all that coming summer, and had added a note to her "very dear Letitia" earnestly requesting her "not to make a fool of herself!"

So Sybil, having passed the pocketbook over to Dorothy's management, knowing that she would get twice as much out of it, gave herself up to study and to dreams.

John Lawton's misty old eyes noted how she sweetened under this small ray of prosperity; missed the old sharpness from her tongue, the sting from her words; saw the increase in her beauty, and was tortured with shame that his child's happiness came to her from strangers. His wistful, apologetic eyes often hurt Sybil to the heart, and one morning, on her way to the orchard, play-book in hand, she saw him leaning against the grape arbor, gazing at her with such jealous pain in his face that suddenly she understood, and, throwing an arm about his neck, she exclaimed: "I am so happy, father, I just have to stop and thank you!" and she kissed him soundly.

He drew away a little, saying, incredulously: "Thank me? Your happiness does not come from me, poor little one; to my sorrow, dear—to my sorrow!"

"Not from you?" cried the girl. "Why—why, what could I have done without your consent, dada? That was the very corner-stone of my whole plan!"

His face brightened, then clouded again, as he asked, hesitatingly: "Supposing I—had—refused, daughter; would—would that have made any difference to you?"

"Oh, father!" cried Sybil, reproachfully, "you would have closed the incident with a vengeance—I could not have moved another step!" Seeing the troubled old face beginning to brighten, she laid her arm upon his shoulder, and added: "Everything depended on your word. No one wanted to help a girl who had not the backing of her own father. So, you see, all hung on your 'yes' or 'no,' dear!"

And the poor old gentleman, comforted and heartened up, kissed her and patted her back and told her, quite patronizingly, she should have had more confidence in his willingness to assist her, and, seeing she was studying Jessica that morning, he devoted himself to a careful reading of Shylock down under the monster willow. Thus Sybil, with passions and desires all sleeping, studied and dreamed, and wondered vaguely would she always be unknown, or would she, some day, some far away radiant day, be a crowned Queen of the Drama?

And to Dorothy—the patient, practical Dorothy, who knew to the hour how long a pound of tea would last; who knew to a spoonful how much sugar, salt, or baking-powder there was in the house—there had come a habit of musing, a trick of sudden and utter abstraction at the most improbable moments, when her hands would drop idly at her sides, and, gazing into space, she would wonder vaguely why all her anxieties, worries, and annoyances could be so swiftly drowned in the depths of a pair of gray eyes, whose steely look always darkened and softened when their owner spoke to her. For so swift is the blossoming of love when once the magic hour has struck, that already Leslie Galt, the friend of three weeks' standing, was her reliance and her ever-quoted authority.

Sybil quite understood the situation, and when she jibed gently at the girl's fits of abstraction, Dorothy would answer nothing, save with smile and blush and dimple, and surely they were eloquent enough.

John Lawton, considering his daughters as mere well-grown babes, saw nothing but a liking for himself in young Galt's visits, and Letitia's usually quick eyes were so dazzled by a certain jack-o'-lantern of her own discovery that she saw in the young man only a patient listener, whom she believed she was training to fetch and carry quite nicely.

The discordant note in all this melody of love was William Henry Bulkley. The overbearing, consequential manner, the fine raiment, and the red face and neck of the elderly beau aroused the imagination of Lena, and she named him "Dat Herr Gobbler-mans," and it was with ill-suppressed laughter and but half-hearted severity that Miss Dorothy called her to account for her disrespect; and Lena, somewhat sullenly, made answer that "she guessed she had youst as much respect for der Herr Bulkley as der Herr Bulkley has for himself. For her mash-mans, he knowed some tings about——"

"Lena!" interrupted Dorothy, warningly. "Lena!" And Lena, catching the laughing eyes of Sybil, grinned broadly back at her while in the very act of making her apologetic peasant bob to Dorothy, and murmuring: "Oxcuse me! I don't make mit der Herr Gobbler name, nein! no more!"

She retired to the kitchen, while the laughing Sybil inquired of Dorothy how much she thought she had gained by her lecture on propriety to the sharp little German girl.

'Twas well for all of them that Mrs. Lawton had not heard of the "Herr Gobbler" episode, for she alone approved of William Henry Bulkley, she alone greeted him warmly, effusively, and urged him to repeat his patronizing visits. She passed much of her time in trying to appraise at its exact value that long gloating look of admiration he had bestowed upon the fair Dorothy that day of his first visit to them, back in May. Like a very small cat in waiting for a very large mouse, she sat with unwinking eyes, with sharply alert ears, with every strained nerve ready, like a sensitive whisker, to warn her back from a dangerously tight place, and watched tensely, patiently watched, ready to spring upon the silky-coated, cheese-fed big mouse and drag him in triumph to the feet of her little white kitten, whom she would instruct to pat him judiciously, with velvet paw, or tear punitively, with sharp curved claws, just as pussy-mamma should think fit. Nothing in all Letitia Lawton's silly, superficial life had betrayed so completely her absolute selfishness as did this eager desire to secure a son-in-law in the person of William Henry Bulkley. Her knowledge of the man in the past, and the piteous picture her memory held of Mrs. Bulkley's pale, fast-thinning face, when, bravely hiding her wounded pride and slain affection, she received her sympathetically prying neighbors with uncomplaining chill courtesy, but such woful eyes, that they had withdrawn without daring to speak one word of condemnation against the man of whom a certain splendid infamy had but recently caused it to be said: "Why, his conduct brings a blush of shame to the cheek of impropriety's self!"

These memories should have filled her mother's heart with sick repulsion, but, instead, it was filled with fallacies. His conduct had not been quite what it should have been, perhaps, but then, no one knew—perhaps his wife had not been entirely faultless. She may not have been a suitable companion for so jovial and high-spirited a man. She had probably not known how to manage him. Now she herself had had no such trouble with her husband, though, of course, she had been a much prettier woman than had been the late Mrs. Bulkley. Then he had been a very wealthy man (Letitia's eyes gleamed at the thought), and much was to be forgiven to the wealthy, they were more tried and tempted than other men, and—and—oh, well! someone had said that a man had to break the heart of one wife before he learned how to care properly for a second one. Dorothy, too, was so young and unsuspicious that he would probably justify her sweet confidence in him, while she, Letitia, would keep her eyes very wide open. Not that she would ever interfere between husband and wife—not she! But still there could be no harm in keeping a mother's eye upon what was going on. And then, her very soul hungered after the unforgotten flesh-pots. She calculated to a nicety what William Henry would in common decency have to do for the parents of his bride. They could not be left in that shackly old White house, that was sure; and, of course, she would pay very long visits to her daughter, and—and assist her in guiding her household. Almost she felt the caressing touch of rich furs about her; in imagination she ordered "the brougham," and closely inspected the liveries of the men on the box; and, in fact, was so dazzled with the gleam of Mr. Bulkley's money, so a-hungered for the flesh-pots in his keeping, that she was almost blinded to the sin and shame and degradation that covered his moral character like a leprosy. Yet, not quite—surely not quite! Else why was she so silent as to her wild hopes? A secret she had never kept in all her life before! For years she had crowded the portals of John Lawton's unwilling ears with not only her own secrets but all those she could come by of other people's. Why, then, did she often catch herself up, in that expansive and confidential chat or monologue, peculiar to the marital chamber?

Why did she press her thin, rouge-tinted lips so closely and stop so suddenly every time she started to speak of a "splendid chance"? Whose "chance" was she thinking of, and why did she not complete her sentence?

John, slow John, began to wonder to himself. It was odd. All her married life Letitia had exalted herself—had proclaimed herself; her superiority, mentally and spiritually, had usurped the husband's authority; yet now it was that helpless, broken gentleman, whose pathetic eyes she shrank from meeting, into whose ears she dared not pour her shameful secret wish: to marry little Dorothy to William Henry Bulkley.

Slow and uncertain, foolishly trustful, weak as he had been in business matters, there was a certain austerity in John Lawton's moral character. His life had been singularly clean and wholesome. He had known how to resist the temptations that many men consider it rather "goody-goody" or "middle-class" to resist. The "high-roller" and the gambler he classed together, but the immoral married man was, to his old-fashioned belief, the man unspeakable! And that was why Letitia was learning to keep a secret! She, the tyrant, was afraid of her slave! So John Lawton was the only person in that house who was not dreaming dreams or weaving plans for the future! He was like a mossy stone, immovable, in the middle of a gentle stream. The water does not rush over it, but parts and races about it with touches of white caressing foam, then joins again below it and continues on in one united stream.

But this June day was a special one in the Lawton family, since on it fell the birthdays of both Mrs. Lawton and Sybil; a fact sufficiently unusual to justify the mentioning of it, according to Mrs. Lawton's ideas, though her doing so to such mere acquaintances as Mr. Galt and Mr. Bulkley covered the girls with mortification. "Poor Sybil!" said Dorothy, sympathetically, when the mother had mentioned the interesting coincidence to the second gentleman, "but don't mind, dear! Anyone can see you are innocent of—of——"

"Of giving a disgracefully broad hint! Oh, what is coming to mamma! Her pride—where is it? Poor papa simply tries to hide his needs, as mamma did formerly, at least from strangers. She would always demand help from any relative, but of late—oh, nothing is so humiliating as the hint direct! There's no use denying it, mamma reminds me of one of those creamy-white, fine silky sponges——"

"Oh, don't!" almost whispered Dorothy. "For truly, I'd a great deal rather hear her say boldly: 'Stand and deliver!'" At which both girls had broken into laughter.

Now Sybil, who had read his signs of love aright from the first, was greatly admired and honestly liked by young Galt, and he was quick to turn to her when he needed a friend at court. Sybil had noted the swift disappointment clouding his face when he learned that it was not Dorothy who shared the honors of the twenty-fifth of June with Mrs. Lawton. More, with swift intuition she had even guessed the exact gift he wished to offer her young sister; for, being very short of fans, Mrs. Lawton, when on dress parade, nearly always took Dorrie's little fan from her, with "Just for a moment, my dear," which moment generally reached to her final withdrawal, while the owner meantime crimped up a sheet of newspaper with which to fan her flushed cheeks or defend herself from the persistent fly. And Galt's brows would knit and his lips twitch nervously as he helplessly noted the need of his Violet Girl. So it was easy to guess, when Mrs. Lawton had, with joyous abandon, confided to him the date of the double birthday, that a fan for his adored was the first thought that sprang into his mind, and lo! the name of Sybil dashed all his hopes to flinders.

Though she laughed at his disappointed face, she felt sorry for him too, and determined to help him to his wish if possible, for she argued: "He simply can't help himself; he is forced to accept that coy hint—not more than a yard broad—of mamma's offering, but I think he is a gentleman sufficiently well-bred not to humiliate us with extravagant offerings, and he ought to have the pleasure of remembering Dorrie." So: "Mr. Galt!" she cried, "will you help me fasten up a bit of vine on the side of the house? It's just above my reach." And, as he obediently followed her, she continued: "Now, you may weep unobserved."

He looked frowningly at her, and she went on: "You are not going to deny your vexed disappointment, are you?"

A wry smile twisted his lips as he murmured: "I beg your pardon— I did not mean— I was not aware——"

"No, I suppose not," she laughed; "but you must better control your features or wear a good heavy veil, to hide them, after this."

"Good Lord! What an idiot you must think me," he said. "But honesty is the best policy, and I admit I want awfully to offer a certain trifle to Dor—to Miss Dorothy, and I fancied the opportunity had arrived, and—and——"

"And it hadn't!" laughed Sybil. "But see here, now, you don't know much about our family—you are a stranger to us."

"Oh! Miss Sybil!" gasped Leslie Galt. "That's downright cruel. You said the other day——"

"Do be still!" snapped Sybil, "and attend to what I am saying. You are—or you ought to be—a stranger yet to the Lawton family history. You have learned of a double birthday, and you wish to mark the occasion with some small remembrances; but, for the life of you, being a stranger, you can't remember which girl it is who shares the day with Mrs. Lawton, therefore——"

But Galt, with a whoop, had both her hands in his, crying, rapturously: "Oh, you angel! You angel! Of course I am uncertain, and so I have taken the liberty! Oh, what a blessed little brick you are!" and on that hint he acted.

So, on this twenty-fifth of June, many kisses had been exchanged, some piteously small gifts offered and joyously accepted. A few mixed roses, with very plenteous greens, were presented by the tremulous hand of John Lawton to his Letitia, but he had laid aside all the deep red ones, then made them into a knot, with thorns all carefully removed, and, as he kissed his first-born daughter on lip and brow and from his soul wished happy returns of the day, he laid them against her rounded throat, and said: "Because they are so like you, dear!"

Later in the day Leslie Galt drove up in the dusty old station hack, carrying in one hand his mandolin and in the other a basket of the choicest, rarest fruits, prettily decorated with vines and blossoms. These being accepted, he next brought forth two slim parcels in white wrappers—but standing before Mrs. Lawton, and suddenly conscious that Sybil's laughing eyes were upon him, he blushed and stammered and lied his lie, so redly, so confusedly, that anyone would have sworn he told the truth, and did not know which girl to congratulate. And Mrs. Lawton clapped her hands in juvenile delight, and gave consent to Dorothy's acceptance of the gift. "She really had no right to, naughty thing!"

And the boxes being opened revealed two little Empire fans: one a bit of scarlet gauze, gold flecked in sandal frame, and the other of cream-tinted silk, which some true artist's hand had showered thick with violets so heavenly blue, so mauve, so white, so real that involuntarily one bent to catch the perfume. No apportionment had been made at all, yet with a single blue gleam of an upward glancing eye, a swirl of color in a peachy cheek, Dorothy put out her hand unhesitatingly and claimed her own, thus proving that she knew herself to be the Violet Girl, and Sybil, fluttering her gay fan above her head, said, aside to Galt: "I suppose then, I am a sort of dahlia-girl or a—a—hibiscus-girl?" And he, being merry and light of heart because of that sweet, comprehending blue-eyed glance, caught up the mandolin and sang in answer: "My love is like the red, red rose!" At this Mrs. Lawton, speaking against a rather large portion of fruit which gave her words a somewhat muffled sound, remarked that "that used to be a very popular air in her own blooming days. She had been serenaded by it once; that is, those who serenaded her sang it; and a public singer—oh, mercy goodness!" coughed and choked the fruit-eater. Then, the unexpected pit having been ejected from her throat, she proceeded, with quite watery eyes—"A public singer, of no breeding at all, no offence meant to you, Sybil, though of course you will not be a singer—but she was stopping a few days next door, and if you'll believe me, that creature came to her window and bowed and smiled, when my serenaders sang: 'Red, red rose!' Her name, by the way, was Roze—with a z, you understand, not an s. Did you ever hear of anything more incredibly impertinent? Well, I was a very pretty woman in those days! Sybil, here, is almost my exact image—not quite so rich in coloring, perhaps, even now. You may have noticed my color is good for a poor buried-alive creature who knew only luxury in the past and knows only penury in the present. I'm sorry I ate the last of those strange Japanese plums; I meant to save one to show to John. Yes, that's right, practice a little, my dears—as much as you like—but—but if that is what you are going to do I won't urge this fruit upon you—it's fatal to the voice."

And thus it was that Sybil took her place at the piano—which she hated—and played accompaniments stumblingly but cheerfully, because she knew that, to the pair behind her, singing together thus unobserved by others was as the joy of Paradise.

And finally it was upon the picture of Leslie Galt, bending over and half encircling Dorothy with his arm, as he tenderly placed her unaccustomed little hands in position to hold the mandolin correctly, that William Henry Bulkley stumbled, and stood and glared and mentally swore. Loaded with gifts whose expense made their acceptance a humiliation, he had, without hesitation, included Dorothy in his list of recipients, and oddly enough he too presented a fan—a gorgeous affair of white ostrich plumes mounted on sticks of carved white pearl; and when Mrs. Lawton had rather sharply commanded its acceptance by the reluctant girl, Sybil remarked, sweetly: "It is so beautiful, and will be so useful when you attend balls or the opera, my dear! I suppose you will hardly care to carry it with a white linen gown to church, will you?" And truly Mr. Bulkley could have strangled her. The men understood each other in an instant, and each measured the other swiftly and savagely. Leslie Galt, who was supposed to be a very poor young lawyer, yielded not one inch before the old friend-of-the-family air of the wealthy visitor, and held his place by his Violet Girl's side as long as it was possible. He was quick to recognize Mrs. Lawton's efforts to throw Dorothy and Bulkley together, and he was filled with a sick rage as he saw the blasé old eyes greedily devouring the innocent loveliness of the girl he adored.

This undercurrent of concealed hatred made itself so plainly felt that no one was sorry when the little party broke up. Mr. Bulkley, after using a heavy gold-handled pocket knife in cutting some cord from his parcels, had left it on the piano. As he was leaving he remembered it and thought to secure a few moments alone with Dorothy, so he paused at the porch-step and with amazing ill-breeding called familiarly to Dorothy to bring his knife to him. But Leslie Galt, black-browed, took the knife from her a moment, and, going to Mr. Bulkley, said, as he extended it to him: "Permit me to be your servant, sir, for this occasion!"

For a moment they glared at each other, then Bulkley went his way, saying to himself: "The impudent young upstart!" while Galt turned back, muttering, with curling lip: "Gross old animal!"

And when Mrs. Lawton had moaned several times that she "did not know—no, she was sure she did not know—what was the matter with dear Mr. Bulkley that day," Sybil, on mischief bent, whispered to Galt: "Do you know what is the matter with him, by any chance?"

And the young man's eyes were very hard and bright as he replied, slowly: "Yes, I know what is the matter with him," and then, with a grim smile, he added, "just as well as he knows what is the matter with me!"