The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 11, 1904, Page 3

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. t hear any heard me to, gO more about it! lot than I suppos She home,” she said, g ¢ glad I came. silly young people. e,” Kate begged about a frock for be to cast a friendly house of love 1 She left them } set her face mind and her ¥ e f what she had seen pity of it; for T so short lived? H wn the raptur of feeling— d where it emories came mocking voic been for he ok! For of a she hope to €asy C ne had neither desire to av to refuse the en- ons had been stir- seen at Kate demanded some ex- t forth to a bitterness which hip. The old . When Cayle- quite dark and why he should on greed readily and to him about Eva t her arm in his, da eemed very turned her i fondly about None of the em- h had afflicted her hung about her now. she could talk to as happy in his with a hol- about it. He was always d at the time, to forget what the nd what it when he had tenderness, her Ay e been her E rusement at the v Chey talked ga hour, Christine not which way they went. Then we going right%” she asked. t quite straight home,” he , but we mu she said with & He nodded and took a turn Jeading more directly to her house. “I bear things are much better with John. I met Grantley and he told me they were in much better shape.” “Thanks to Grantley Imason -and Yes, and you.” was very glad to do it. Oh. it's I can trust old John, you he'll pay vou back. Still it was good of you.” She lifted her eves to his. “He knows, Frank,” she said. “The devil he does!” Caylesham was startled and smiled wryly. “I don't know why I told you that. 1 supvose I had to talk to somebody. Yes, Harriet! @ourtland told him—you remember she knew? He made her angry by lecturing her about Tom and she told him.” “He knows, by Jove, does he?” He pulled at his mustache! she pressed his arm lightly. “But, I say, he's tak- en the me He looked at her in a whimsical perplexity. “So you may imagine what it was to 3ut he's taken the money! ‘How could he refuse it? It would nt ruin. Oh, he didn’t know me to you—he'd never e that.” > knew when he kept it?” he knew then. He could when once he'd got it, old Jo et it go u um thing!” Cayle- infringed by John's plain; but his hu- too. “How did he— i he take it?” she answered was with a he kept the no difference—or it worse. Oh, I can’t tell you!” doesn’'t make worse for you It gives you the whip hand, him; she was set r own story. home, Frank. Of to talk to you, of all had two months and was what do I deserve? Oh, be fierce. He doesn’t throw ngs at me, like Harriet Courtland, eat me. But I—" She burst into augh. “I'm stood in t corner time, Frank Christ be friends. He keeps me er touched his hand, or any- long-dormant jealousy sham, Vell, do you rather brusquely. “Oh, that’s all very we stirred in he asked Wz to but imagine like that! nobody to I'm in disgr He doesn't talk about it, but he talks round it, you know. Sometimes he forgets for five minutes. ful. Then something cheer- T and—and me Her Was n from a sob. humili ;" she ended, most frightfylly dull.” can he—?" od scene would have been so ore endurable. But all day and was amused, vexed, ex- good not as if it rdinary case ¥ nember what Why do you stand it n I help it? I did the thing, heavens, it rose a little in his im- taken my money. He's d him. By gad, ything to you after t Yyou got your answe u remind him gently That would hurt him so dreadfully.” “Well, doesn’t he hurt you He'd never be friends with me friendly to him. I want u credit then,” he said his arm lightly again, st his anger and his un- to understand. an end of all hope if I in his teeth. He's ur it as it is.” She , “I've got to , Frank.” a curious quick as h him, with » live with him ; all my It ' she answered. - you hadn’t Yhought of that? as not the of thing which lesham was habit of think- in out, but he tried to follow her of course. It would be better to But you shouldn’t let him s. It's a I mean—I m uch queerer thing th old John! after What he’s done a n you have. How could he help urd, and was he cried, ““Why, 1 didn’t notice where about to where are we Awere going. 2 We're just outside my rooms. Comé in for a bit.” we », I can’t come in. I'm late now nd—really I'm ashamed to tel Well, I'm always questioned w I have to give an ac- count very place. I have to stand with my hands behind me and give an account of all my movements, Frank.” He ed gently and compassion- Like a school girl “How well you follow the metaphor, ! 350 I can’t come in. I'll go , don’t you come.” a bit farther with you. quite dark. , not arm-in-arm!” “But doesn't that look more respect- abl “You're entirely incurable,” she said, with her old pleasure in him all r vived. “It's infernal nonsense,” he went on. “Just you stand up for yourself. It absolute humbug in him. He's de- barred himself from taking up any such attitude—just as much as he has from making any public row about it. Hang it, he can’t have it both ways, Christine!™ “I've got to live with him, Frank.” szid that ore.” » very fond of him.” t?” He turngd to her in a ine surprise and an obvious vexa- We used We It's s was. were good friends. 1 wish we did. if you feel like that—" felt like that, even—even long ago. I used to tell you I did. I suppose you thought that humbug? “Well, it wouldn’t have been very if I had.” , 1 suppose not. looked like.that. But it was true—and it is true. The only thing I've got left to care much about in life is get- ting to be friends with John again—and I don’t suppose I ever shall.” Her voice fairly broke for a moment. “That's what upset me so much when those silly children at Kate Ray- “1 always ge It must have lesham looked at her. There was guish twinkle in his eye, but he patted her hand in a very friendly sympathy. 1 say, old John’s cut me out after all!” he whispered. You're scandalous! You always were,” she said, smiling. “The way you put things was always disreput- able. Yes, it was, Frank. But no; it's not poor old John whe's cut you out— or at least it's John in a particular capacity. Life’d cut you out—John as life. John, as life, has cut you out of my life—and now I've got to live with Johan, you see.” Caylesham screwed up his mouth ruefully. Things certainly seemed to shape that way. She had to live with John.. John's conduct might be un- reasonable and unjustifiable, but people who must be lived with frequently presume on that circumstance and be- have as they would not venture to behave if living with them were op- tional. John really had not a leg to stard on, if it came to an argument. But arguing with people you have to live with does not conduce to the com- fort of living with them—especially if you get thg better of the argument. her day's doing: he did not sit down, but stood on the other side of his writ- ing table, upright and with her hands actualiy behind her—because she liked the school girl paraliel which Cayle- gham had drawn. John saw the humor and felt the frony, but he was helpiess. She did what she was told; he could not control the manner in which she did it. “And then I walked home—yes, walk- ed. Didn’t take a bus, or a tram, or a steam engine. I just walked on my twa, legs, going about three miles an hour, and—ch, yes—taking one wrong turn which makes me five minutes later than I ought to be. Quite a respecta- ble turn—just out of the way, that's all. May I go and get myself some tea?"” He did so want to tell her about the successes in the city. And in fact he admired the courage and liked the irony. They were her own, and of her. Doing justice was veryhard, with that provoking dainty face at once resent- ing and mocking at it. But justice must be done; his grievance should not He was exceedingly sorry for Christine, h! he didn’t see any way out of it for h “Of course ther's a funny side to it,” she said with a little laugh. “©N, vces, there is,”” he admitted. “But it's deuced rough luck on you.” “Everything's deuced rough luck.” She mimicked his tone daintily. “And 1 don’t suppose it's ever anything worse with vou, Frank! It was deuced rough luck ever meeting you, you know. And s6 it was that John wanted money and sent me to yon. And that Harriet's got a temper, and, I suppose, that P got to be punished for our si took her arm out of his—she had slipped it in again while she talked about John as life. “And here I am, just at home, and—and the corner's waiting for me, Frank.” “I'm devilish sorry, Christine.” “Yes, I'm sure you are. You always meant to be kind. Frank, if ever I do make friends with John, be glad, won’t you?” “I think he's behaved like a—" “Hush, hush!* You've always been be belittled. p prosperous—and you've mnever been _ -1'm not stopping you getting your- good.” She laughed and took his hand. Self tea. Is it a crime to 2sk where my “8¢ ; anything against poor Wife's been?” 2 c.mlj.‘,!g:” s ’ - . t's mere prudence, I'm sure. Only “I tell you what—yow're a brick, What makes you think I should tell you the truth She had her tea no and was sipping it lei y “At any rate I know your account, and if I heard anything different—" “That's the method? I see.” Her tene softened. “Den’t .let’s quarrel. What's the good? Had a good day in Christine. Well, good-by, my dear.” “Good-by, Frank. I'm glad I met you. I've got some of it out, haven't 1? Don’t worry—well, no, you won't—and if I succeed do try to be glad. And never a word to show John that T've told you he knows!” “I shall do just as you like about 3 s Shristine.” the city? e Tert he SMfew ards from her .Justlike other days,” grunted Johr. house, and she stood by the door Nothing particular? “N “There never is now, is there?"” watching his figure till it disappeared in the dark. He had done her o much harm. He was not a good friend. But he was good to talk to and very kind his indolent, carcless way. If you yourself to him he was glad to ou and ready to be talked to.” A ntwof temptation came upon her —the temptation to throw up every- thing, as Tom Courtland had thrown everything up, to abandon the hard task, to give up trying for the only thing she®wvanted. But Caylesham had given her no such invitation. He did not want her—that was the plain Enge He made no answ Opening the evening paper, he began to read it. Christine knew what that meant. Sav- ing what was unavoidable, he would talk to her no more that night. The wound to her vanity, her thwarts lish of it—and she did not want him in ed affection, her sense of the absurdity the end either. She had loved the thing of such a way of living together, all and still loved the memory of it; but compined to urge her to take Cayle- she did not desire it again, because In cpam's view of the position, and to act it there was no peace. She wanted a d 22 o . Yoo upom it—to make the one reply, the one friend—and John would not be one. No- UPORLIt—to make the OnC roply, The SIS body wanted her —except Jonn: AN bea very words Which she would use came in his turn too hard on John. She was B s e o the only person “kho cfiuld reallzg Ju‘kll_n's 5;::.233;‘; g‘;(;,u'!galt’e if:?ftrlgr:‘\"liel:t position and make allowances for him.« 758 Ft" e t ¢ Yet all the light died out of her face as JOlive came the bounty? It would not she entered her home. . to define that. John could have no an- John was waiting for her. His mind (0 CEURE, C0n -0 C0N T name him to was full of how well things were g0ing (p. con1 At every sullen short word, in the city. In the old_ days this would at every obstinate punitive silence, the have been one of their merry, happy, temptation grew upon her. Knowing united evenings. He would have told . she knew all, how could he have her of his success and “stood” a dinner ypo efrontery to behave in this fash- and a play, and brought her home in ;0 "gh, gsteeled herself to the fight; the height of glee and good companion- gpa'swag ready for it by the time dinner ship, laughing at her sharp sayingsand (c,q gone and they were left alone, admiring her dainty little face. All this jon., gitting in glum muteness as he was just what he wanted to do DOW, grank his port, Christine in her smart and his life was as arid as hers for evening frock, displaying a prettiness want of the comradeship. But he would (hich won no approving glances now. not forgive; it seemed neither possible ¢ \wag insufferable—she would do it! nor self-respecting. That very weak Ah, but poor old John! He had been point in his case, with which Caylesham {hrough so ,many worries, he had so had dealt so trenchantly/ made him 2 narrowly escaped dire calamity. He had great stickler for self-respect; nothing pheen forced into a position so terrible. must be done—nothing more—to make ‘Anq they had been through so many her think that he condoned her offense things together; they had been com- or treated it lightly. It was part of her pades in fair and foul weather. What punishment to hear nothing of the re- woyuld be the look in his eyes when he newed prosperity in the city, to Know heard that taunt from her? He would nothing of his thoughts or his doings, say little, since there would little to b locked out of his heart. This was to say—but he would give her a look one side; the other was that obligation o¢ guch hopeless fierce misery. No; to make full disclosure of all she did, in the end she was responsible for the and of how her time was spent. She thing, and she must bear the burden must be made to feel the thing in of jt. Cayle!him's view might be the these two ways every day. Yet he con- man’s viea, perhaps the right view for sidered that he was treating her very 5 man to take. It could not be the mercifully; he was anxious to do that, woman’s; the wife was not justified in because he was all the time in his heart jooking at it Hke that. No, she couldn’t afraid that she would throw Cayle- gqo it. sham’s money—the money which was But neither could she go on living bringing the renewed prosperity—in his jjke this. Her eyes rested thoughtfully face. on him. He was looking tired and old. She faced the punishment with her Poor old John! He wanted livening up, usual courage and her unfailing humor. some merriment, a little playful petting There was open irony in the mi- to which he might respond in his nuteness with which she catalogued roughly jocose, affectionately homely fashion—with his “old girl” and “old lady” and so on. He never called her “old girl” now. Would she hate it as much now? She longed for it extraor- dinarily, since it would mark happiness and forgetfulness in him. But it seemed as if she would never hear it again. Suddenly she broke out with a passionate question: “Are we to live like this always?” He did not seem startled; h swered slowly and ponderously have vou to complain of? Do I say anything? Do I reproach you? Have I made a row? Look at what I might have done! Some people would think you were very lucky.” “It makes you miserable as well as me. "You should have thought of all that before.” : He took out a cigar and lit it, then turned his chair half way round from the table, and began to read his paper again. Christine could not bear it; she began to sob softly. He took no visi- ble notice of her; his eyes were fixed on a paragraph and he was reading it over and over again, not following in the least' what it meant. She rose and wealked toward the door; he re- mained motionless. - She came back to- ward him in a hesitating way. “I want to speak to you,'” she said, choking down her sobs and regaining composure. « He looked up now. There was fear in his eyes. a hunted look which went to her heart. At the least invitation she would have thrown herself on her knees by 'him and sought every means to comfort him. She was thinking only of him now, and had forgotten Cayles- ham’s gay attractiveness. And in face of that look in his eves she could not say a word about Caylesham’s money. “I'm going away for a little while, John, I'm going to ask Sibylla to let me come down to Milldean for a bit.” ““What do you want to go away for?” “A change of air,” she answered, smiling de:isively. “I can’'t bear this, you know. It's intolerable—amd it's absurd.” ~‘Am I to blame for it?"” “I'm not talking about whd's to blame. But I must go away.” “How long do you want to stay away? “Till you want me to come back."” questioningly. It must be one thing or the other,” she went on. “It's for me to decide what it shall be.” *“Yeu; e back—till you ask He looked at her which of the two possible things. It's for you to decide that. But this state of things isn’'t possible. If you don’t want me back, well, we must make arrangements. If you ask me to come back you’ll mean that you want to forget all this wretchedness and be really friends. Her feeling broke out. “Yes, friends again,” she repeated, holding her arms out toward him. “You seem to think things are very easily forgotten,” he growled. “God knows I don’t think so,” she said. “Do you really think that's what I've learnt from life, John?" “At any rate I've got to forget them pretty easily!™ She would not trust herself to argue, lest in the heat of contention the one forbidden weapon should leap into her kand. “We can neither of us forget. But there’s another thing,” he said. He would not give up his idea, his theory of what she deserved and of what morality demanded. “You may go for a visit. I shall ¢x- pect you back in two or three weeks.” “Notsback to this,” she insisted. He shrugged his shoulders and held the paper up between them. “If you don't want me back, well, I shall understand that. But I shan’t ccme back to this.” She walked to the door and looked back; she could not see his face for the paper. She made 2 little despairing movement with her ‘hands, but turned away again without saying more and stole quietly out of the room. John Fanshaw dashed his paper to the ground and sprang to his feet. He gave a long sigh. He had been in niortal terror—he thought she was go- ing to talk about the money. That nci: was past. He flung his hardly lighted cigar into the grate and walked up and down the room in a frenzy of unhappiness. Yes, that peril was past —she NHad said nothing. But he knew it was in her heart; and he knew how it must appear to her. Heavens, did it not appear like that to him? But she should never know that he felt like that about it. That would be to give up his grievance, to abandon his st periority, to admit that there was little or nothing to choose between them— between her, the sinner, and him, who profited by the sin, whose saivation the sin had been, who knew. been his salvation and had ac salvation from .it. No, no; he must never acknowledge that. He must stick to his position. It was monstreus to think he would own that his guiit was comparable to hers. He sank back into his chair again and looked round the empty room. He thought of Christine upstairs, alone tco. What a state of things! hy did she? My Geod, why did she?” he muttered, and then fell to lashing him- self once more into a useless fury, pricking his anger lest it should sleep, tting imagination to work on recol- lzction, torturing himself, living aga through the time of her treachery, elab- orating all his grievance—lest by chance she should seem less of a sin- ner than before, lest by chance his own art should loom too large, lest by chance he might be weak and open his heart and find forgiveness for his wife and comrade. “By God, she had no excuse!” he muttered, striking the table with his fist. “And I—why, the thing was set- tled before I knew. It was.settled, I say!"” Then he thought that if things went on doing well he would be able to pay Caylesham sooner than the letter of his bond demanded. Then, when he had paid Caylesham off—ah, then the superiority would be in no danger, there would be no taunt to fear. Why, ycs, he would pay Caylesham off quite goon. Because things were going so Now, to-day, in the city, what a stroke he had made! If he were to tell Christine that—! a moment he smiled, thinking how she would pat well. his chee ever old John!™ in her how she would— He broke off w , by heaven, lite nothing to what Oh, ven to think e had done. lest perchance fqr- adeship should win 0o he struggled, CHAPTER The Hour of Wrath. As soon as the first shot Tom Courtiand struck his flag. XX. fired The was was no f His car compror k now his vere seriously ed. He resigned s he wa g to wait to be out, he said, either by divor r by bankruntcy, or by both at o ver went home now. As a sion to appearances, he took & at his club. Bolton nov things had would ha to fight— Of cou to tell lies; but there were _circum- stances in which vbody told lies. he was ready to him through Lady examine could rely on a from a jury of husbar vas 1ly a good fight- ing case—given the lies, of course. She urged fighting, which was unselfish of her from cne point of view, since an undefended case would do her little real harm, while a cross-examination in open court could not bs a pleasant ordeal for her, any more than it ought to be for Harriet Courtland. But she liked Tom-aithough incur e habit had caused her to make his affa involved—and she hated that Harr should “have valkover.” She was a ry with Tom because he gave in di- nd took it all “lying down,” as a But Tom was broken; he d “only, mutter that he did not e a ddmn” what they did; it was all over for him. . His bristly hair be- gan to turn a dull gray in these trou- thick and thin If they could get to th s great deal of blesome days. When he was not with Mrs. Bolton he was haunting, the streets and parks, hoping he might meet his girls ing their walk with the maid or with h. Such stray encounters ly chance of seeing them now—the only chance of ever seeing them in the future, he sup- posed, unless the court gave him “ac- cess.” And much pleasure there would be in access, with Harriet to tell them the sort of man he was before every such Visit as the law might charingly dole out to him! He grum solately about everything: i his children, the access, all of it—to Mrs. Bolton, but he did and at- tempted nothing. He was in a condi- tion of moral collapse. Harriet Courtland’s stafe was even worse. She was almost unapproach- able by the children and Suzette Bligh —and none other tried to approach her. She had no friends left. Not one of Tom's set was on her side; she had wearied them all out. The last to keep up the forms of friendship had been Christine Fanshaw. -Now that was at an end, too. She had heard nothing from Christine. From the day of John’s visit there had been absolute gilence. She knew well what that meant, She brooded fiercely over what she had done to Christine—her one re- maining friend—had done not because she wanted to hurt Christine or to lose her friendship, had done with no rea- sonable motive at all, but just in blind rage, because in her fury she wanted to strike and wound John, and this had been the readiest and sharpest eveapon. She could not get what she had done out of her head; she was driven to see what a light it cast on the history of her own home: it showed her the sort of woman she was. But she held on her way, and pressed on her suit. Realizing what she was bred in her no desire to change. There was no changing such a woman as she was—a crushed woman, as - she called herself again and again. So there she sat, alone in her room, save when her nervous children came perforcetocower before her—alone in the ruin she had made, in bitter wrath with all about her, in bitterest wrath with herself. She was a terror in the house and knew it. Nobedy in the house loved her now—nay, nobody in the world. It had come to this be- cause of her evil rage. And the rage was not satiated; it had an appetite still for every misfortune and every shame which was to amlict and dis- grace her husband. In that lay now her only pleasure; her scle joy was to give pain. Yet the thought that her girls had ceased to love her, or had come to hate her. drove her to a frenzy of anger and wretchedness. What had they to complain of? How dared they not love her? She exacted signs of love from them. They dared not refuse a kiss for fear of a blow being given in its place; but Harrlet knew now why they kissed her and accepted her kisses. “Little hypocrites,” she would" mut- ter when they went out, accusing the work of her own hands. But they should love her—aye, and they should hate their father. She swore they should at least hate their father, even if they only pretended to love her. The ‘woman grew mad at the idea that in their hearts 'y loved their father, pitied him, thought him ill used, grieved because he came no more; that they were in their hearts on' their father’s side and against her. She wished they were older so that they could be told all about the case. Weil, should-be told even now, if need be, ¥f that proved .the only way of rooting the love of their father out of their heart: An evil cas They had no for these poor children! comfort save in gentle colcrless Suzette Bligh. To all her frier she had seemed a superfluous person. he used to be invited just to »r parties, or on a stray of kindness. But fate had other work her now. The superfluous woman was all the th children had: & > gave them. She st *en them and desolation. She warned them what t¢ aper their mother was In, whether it were safe to ap- proach her, and with what demeanor. h love gave the t and she stood een them and wrath. Lamentable as the state of affairs was, Suzette had found a new joy in life. She took these children into her life and her heart, and became as a mother to them. Grad- ually they grew to love her. But none the less—perhaps all the more—they tormented her, bringing to her all the doubts and q tions which were rife in their minc The porten- tous word® ‘divorce” had come to their ears—Harriet was not careful in her use of it. They connected it quickly with their father’s now continuous ab- sence. Whatever else it might mean— and they thought.it meant something bad for their father, to be suffered at the hands of their mother—they under- stood it at least to mean that he would be with them no more. Suzette knew nothing at all about “access,” and could only fence feebly with their questions; they ventured to put none to Harriet. rhey grew clear that their father had gonme, and that they were to be left to their mother. One and all they declined such a con- clusion. They loved Tom; ‘they did not love Harriet. Tom had always been a refuge, sometimes a buffer. They had no doubt of what they wanted. They wanted to go to their father, and to take Suzette Bligh with them. That scheme conjured up the vision of a happy home, free from fear, where ki s would be volunteered, not ex- acted, and the constant dread would be ne more, “But we daren’t tell mamma that,"” said Sophy, in a tremble at the bare impulse found once ok her head; Vera” y Es wide. They certain dared not go to Harr with any such communication as that. They had been shrewd enough to see that they were expected to hate their fathe Vera had ned out he room ntioning his name After much consultation, carried on which not n Suzette was la would and 1 him that, whether he were sentenced to divorce or not, they wanted to come and live with him—and to b if th b t. We . won't say anything about nma. He'll understand,” Sophy ob- will ish we could dead against that. Suzet ar, but she was teo much afrz umma; the great secret would with her and if it were »vered before they were out of rea ignificant nods expressed uation with abselute lueidity. So Sophy—who wrote the best hand— her elbows and sat down to Kk in the scheolroom. A scout 2§ posted at the foot of the stai another at the top. On the least alarm letter was to be destroyed and the 1 be discovered busy on a wrote, “we all send our love se, we do not want to stay that you have gone ray. us come and live with you. : promise not to be troublesome and Suzette might come, te and look after us? D not make us stay he se we love you and we wang@go come and live with you. Please tell us where to meet you and we w > with you We do so want make us sta send you a kis your loving daughters.” The signatures letter closed and club; the knew where that was, cause he had t *n them to see it one Sunday morning and they had admired attached sed to T . ereat a and all the won- ful big bool ame afternoon oroke away zette, ran to a pillar p opped the important missive in. back with an air of devil-ma nodding at her ters, frankly refusing to tell Suzette anything about it \ “Youw'll see Very soon,” she promised in mysterious triumph, and that ing the three had a wonderful talk ¢ lette: speaking in Jow cautious agreeing that their manner must guarded, that meekness ction toward their mother must be the order of the day and that one of them must always be on the watch for the postman's coming, lest by chance ame Tom’s answer should fall into the hands of the enemy. “Would e open it?” shuddered ra. “I expect she would,” said Sophy. They saw the danger and the hours were anxious. But they tasted some of the delights of conspiracy, too. And hope was on the horizon. One more “row”’ could be endured if after that the doors were open to freedom. Fom’s heart was touched by the little scrawl, written on a sheet torn from a copy book. In his broken- down 'state he was inclined to be maudlin over it He carried it to Mrs. Bolton and showed it to her, saying that he could not be such a bad chap after all if the little ones loved him like that, pitying them because they were exposed to Harriet's tempers, bewailing his own inability to help them or to comply with their artless request. “I shouldn’'t be allowed to Kkeep them,” he said ruefully, trying to smooth his bristly hair. Mrs. Bolton made a show of sympa- thy, and was in fact sorry for him, but she did not encourage any idea of trying to take or keep them. He sug- gested smuggling them out of the ju- risdiction. She was firm, if kindly, in asking how he meant to support them. Anyhow Lady Harriet could feed them! Tom was very much under her influ- ence and had no longer the strength of will needed for any venturous plan. The conclusion that he could do nein- ing was not long in coming home to him. “But I must write to the poor littls things,” he said, “and tell them I shall come and see them sometimes. That'll comfort them. I'm glad they're so fond of me. By Jove, I havegit been a bad father, you know!” H¢ read Sophy's letter over again and laid it down on Mrs. Bolton’s manteipiece. When he went back to the ciub he forgot it and left it there. There Mrs. Bolton’s friend, Miss Pat- tie Henderson (she was not married to Georgie Parmenter yet—negotiations were pending with his family) found it, and it was from her that a suggestion came which appealed strongly to Mrs. Bolton. As she drank her glass of port Miss Henderson opined that it would be