The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 18, 1904, Page 3

THE SA e e ————————————— e e i R B s s ' FRANCISCO SU DAY CALL., him, from the new eyes . he had looked onm the boy ther's arms. She could not sion of it. best we can try There for? noved, to check or as afraid »eckoned her on 1. If beat off it onment, to that awful can under- 1k a s e s b g = plor ou t Fran} 1e ' H } . Mill ¥ joy holida wn 2 h y ¥ + 'l call it " : - wor ppose it does o Christine; I - 1 you u oblig € N 1 ris answer might be ered er g CHAPI R XXV. Picking Up the Pieces. Mrs. Bolton was very much upset by what had happened at the Courtlands'. An unwonted and irksome sense of re- eponsib oppressed She dis- cussed rh( matter with Miss Henderson and made Caylesham come to see her —Miss Pattie Henderson, who t how Sophy’s letter had reached mother’s hands, and Caylesham, whom Mrs. Bolton had made a party to the joke. did not seem s0 good Joke now e and Pattie were both frightened when they saw to what their pleasantry had led. Little Sophy’s su ing was not agreeable to think of, there was an uncomfortable cer- nty about the manner of Harrlet's h. A scheme may prove too suc- sometimes. Caylesham had warned Mrs. Bolton that she was play- ing with dangerous tools. He was not lined to let her down too easily, se kindest interpretation chings of her conscience. You alwhys time your fits of morali- he observed cynically. “I ppose poor old Tom’s amusing compar ust now, and he’s certainly locked a véry plausible ocence, but of scmething in what said; there generally might not be what you sed to find. Tom was inciined for gayety; and ade a composition with esham he his the other hand, Miss Henderson was in funds (having com- pleted her negotiations with the Par- family), and had suggested a r on the Riviera, with herself for There are, fortunately, mo- ments when the good and the pleasant coincide; the worst of it is that such mnnlrs are apt to come rather all mflv rent now that woman’s observed Mrs. Bolton. “It's the ren now, Fran Supposing it is, why am I to be dragged into it?” “We must get him to go back to them. Various feelings combined to make . Bolton very earnest. “He wants to stay here, does he?” No; he hates being here now. Yes, he does. He only comes because he’s got nobody eise to speak to. And he's in awful dumps 2ll the time, It's not wery cheerful for me.” M was something® yet she raised her not be 1 dare say not, Flora. But why deeésn’t he go back, then?” M Bolton had been moving about the room restlessly. X¥er back was to Cayleshgm as she answered: won't. He says he can't. He He ham threw a glance at her, his raised. »es he say, Flora?” nonsense—and he needn’t me, anyhow. It really isn’t arly pleasant for me. Oh, well, says he’s not fit to go mear he turned round to him; a flush on her face.. “Such 3¢ she ended rmpatiently. s pulled his mustache and take him like th an impartial only laughing at I don't like it, you're tell you > incidents are—well, inci- Innocent children, you shouldn't Be surprised if s Harriet s . for a 1t's the chil- like that, will you?” r Flora. My smile do to get him to » you think she Mrs ghoulders to her to let Cayle- ed o about, ot matte the about them, them. I call area’t our his a vexed laugh. ve had all the fun you t ms, perhaps you will be- You see, I want it set- to be off to Monte with 2 £o with Pattie 1 shook her head. v nd Pattie?" s going 1 it to me; I t And, T say, I ck_to those tc You ¢ him do it if you like, you kno W n odd sort of party He'll isten to you just spared 1 ven't your feelings, n ind mine knows you don't talk nt.” complimentary after 2 rate you're meaning to t d never See him again?” want She to see me.’ sham now. “I've been old Tom. me, you know that for me you have. I've reproved But he'll not want to see me—and y 2't want to see him either.” 1 distressed for a woulders laugh the of the world.” way 4 lesham murmured lly sorry for Mrs. Boi- nding a notable mix- . in which the condition 4 the opportunity of go- figured largely, she e way in which her Tom was ending— must 'n~ and hurt that ire have it ended. f"l~~] from this de d always st er position dia indulge. Indeed it kindly emotions vm(lun‘ed the po- make the matter ultimate incongruity irable. With 0 accepted codes, rather lament- did wapt, above all > Rivie with Pat- One must compromise s not clear that she rgain. l'u.tnn set e (and had no sonable to consideration), the case ed a simple one to Caylesham, his mission an_obvious ~utterance and ation was forgotten dren and for the il, he had once looked with shame on d done, attributing to it vhich Harriet’s fury had Broken in fortune and n pity for h after n, tco, in self-) t, been likely to drift on in a life which he had come to abhor. He feit iis presence an outrage on his chil- dren. If the death of his wife had seemed to save him from a due punish- ment, here a penalty different, but vere. While he was in y less 'mo0d Caylesham was the best man The only this to carry the message chance -with Tem w had done as natural, the sequence of events was ut expected and enti unconnected with it. To urge the gravity of his of- fense would have been to tion a ham line to him. ayles- He declined to discuss the Tom’s conscience, or the biackness of Tom’s mind, or even the whiteness minds of the children. Every- w ., or would vears, anyhow, and Tom be an ass. The line of argu- 1€ not exalted, but it was adapted to the needs of the case. “My dear chap, if you come to that, what man is fit to look his children in the face?” he asked impatiently. But then it occurred to him that he s_idealizing—a thing he hated. Not that children aren’t often wicked little beggars themselves,” he added cheerfully. ““They steal and lie like anything, and torment one another devilishly. I know I did things as a boy that I'd kick any grown man for doing, and so did my brothers and sis- ters. I tell you what it is, Tom, the devil's there all the time; he shows himself in different ways—that's all.” Tom could not swallow this gospel; he would give up neither his own iniquity nor the halo of purity to which his mind clung amid the sordid ruin of his life and home. “If T could pull straight—" he mur- mured despairingly. “Why shouldn’t you? You're getting on in life, you know, after all.”’ “They—they guess something about it, I expect, Frank. It's not pleasant for 2 man to be ashamed before his own children. And Miss Bligh—I thought she looked at me very queerly at the funeral.” “You'll find they'll be as nice as pos- sible to you. The children won't un- derstand anything, and Suzette’s sure to be on your side. Women always are, you know. They’re not naturally moral —we've imposed it on them, and they always like to get an excuse for ap- proving of the other thing.” “Tom grew savage. “I know what I've done, but anyhow I'm glad I don’t think as you do.” “Never mind my thoughts, old chap. You go home to your kids,” said Caylesham cheerfully. He was very good-humored over the matter; neither the unnecessary fuss nor Tom's aspersions on his own character and views disturbed him in the least: and he did not leave Tom un- 2 few not to nt was wa W enge. He couid not enter » Tom Courtland’s mind. Tom Y a lawie man; des-* made him break loose. til he had obtained the assurance that he desired. - This given, he went off to his club, thanking heaven that-he was quit of a very tiresome business. If he did his bad deeds without misgiving, he did his good without arrogance; per- haps they were not numerous . enough to give that feeling a plausible excuse for emergence. g “It’s all right,” he wrote to Mrs. Bol- ton in reporting his success. “I made him promise not to be an ass. So vou can go off with Pattie with a mind free of care. Good ‘luck to you, and lots of plunder! # The immoralkefriendliness of this wish for her success quite touched Mrs. Bol- ank’s a really good-hearted fel- ," she told Miss Henderson as she settled herself in the train and started on her journey, the fortunes of which it is not necessary to follow. For days-Luey and little Vera had crept fearfully through the silent house, knowing that a dreadful thing had han- pened, , not a2llowed to put questions, and hardly daring to speculate about it themselves. about again, pale and shfken, with the bandage still round her head. she took the lead as she.was wont to do. and her belder mind fastcned on the change in the situation. There was no need to be afraid any more: that was the great fact which came home to her. and which she proclaimed to her sisters. It might be proper to move quietly and talk low for a little while, but it was a tribute to what was becoming. not a sign of terror or a precaution against danger. It was Sophy too who ven- tured to question Suzette, and to elicit instructions as to their future conduct. They were to think very kindly of mamma and love her memory, sald Suzette, but they were not to talk about her to papa when he came back. be- cause that would distress him. And they were not to ask him why he had gone away, or where he had been. Of course he had.had business; and. any- how, little girls ought not to be inquisi- tive. A question remained in Sophy's mird, and was even canvassed in pri- vate schoolroom consultations. What about that portentous word which had been whispered through the household— what about the divorce? None of them found courage to ask that. or perhaps, they had pity on poor Suzette Bligh, who was so terribly uncomfortable un- der their questioning. At any rate nothing more was heard about the di- vorce. Since it had appeared to'mean that papa was to go away, and since he was coming back now, presumably it had been put on the shelf somehow. All the same, 'their sharp instincts told them that their father would not have come back unless their mother had died, and that he was coming back now —well, in a sort of disgrace: that was how they put it in their thoughts. A committee consisting of Kate Ray- more, Janet Selford and John Fanshaw (a trustee under the Courtland- mar- riage settlement, and so possessing a status), had sat to consider Suzette Bligh's position. Suzette Joved the chil- dren, and 1t would be sad if ‘she had to leave them; moreover she was home- less, and a fixed-salary would be wel- come to her. Lastly—and on this point Janet Selford laid stress—she was not exactly a girl; she was just on thirty. John nodded agreement, adding that nobody outside of an asylum could con- nect scandal with the name of Suzette Bligh. So it was decided - that she should stay, for the present at- all events, in the capacity of companion or governess. The children wondered to ‘When Sovhy began to be 2! find Suzette so gently radiant and af- fectionate one evening. .She had not told them of the doubt which had arisen, nor how great a thing it was to her to stay. They had never doubted that she would stay with them now. It was late one afternoon when Tom Courtland slunk home. He had sent no word of his coming, because he did not know till. the last minute whether he would“have courage to come: had made the plunge, given up his room at the club, packed his lugzage. and left it to be called for. But the plunge was very difficult to him— so_that his weak will would not have faced it unless that other door at Mrs. Bolton’s had been firmly shut in his face. He was uncomfortable “before the man who let him in; he was wretchedly apprehensive of Suzette Rligh and of the children. He needed —very badly needed—Caylesham at his c)bow again, to tell him “not to be an ass.” But Caylesharh had gone back to employments more congenial than he ever professed to find works of be- nevolence. Tom had to endure alone, nd he could find' no comfort.. Against Harriet he could have made a case—a very good case in the judgment of half the qworld. But he seemed to have no excuse tc offer to the litile girls, nor any plea to meet the wondering dis- approbation of Suzette Bligh. He was told that the children were in the schoolroom with Suzette, and thither he bent his steps, going slowly and indecisively. He stopped outside the door and listened. He could hear Suzette’s mild voice; apparently she was reading to them, for nothing ex- cept the continuous flow of her words was audible, and. in conversation she was not so loquacious as that. Well, he must go in; perhaps :t would be all right when once the ice was broken. He opened the door and stood on the threshold, blushing like a schoolboy. ‘““Well, my dears, here I am,” he said. “I’'ve come home.” He caught Suzette's eye. She was blushing, too, blushing a very vivid pink—rather a foolish pink somehow. He felt that both he and Suzette were looking very silly. For quite a long time, as it seemed, he looked at Su- zette before he looked at the little girls, After that there was, or seemed to be, another long silence while the liitle girls looked first at him, then at Suzette, then at one another. Tom stopd there through it all—in the door- way, blushing. The next moment all the three were upon him, clinging to his hands and his coat, kissing him, crying out their gladness in little excited exclamations, the two elder taking care to give Vera a fair chance to get at him, Vera in- sisting that the chance was not a fair one, all the three dragging him to an armchair, and ‘sitting him down in it. Two of them got on his knees, and Luey stood by his side with her arm round his neck. . “My dears!” Tom muttered, and fcund he could say no more. His eyes met Suzette Bligh's. She was standing by the table, looking on, and her eyes were misty. “See how they love you, Mr. Court- land!" she sald. Yes! And he had forsaken them, and the bandage was about Sophy’s head. “You won't go away again, = will you?” implored Lucy. “No. 1 shan't g0 away again.’ And Suutte'll stay too, won‘t she?” urged Vi “I hope lkc will, lnde«l!" “You will, Suzette?” Then-he - “Yes, dear.” “We shall be happy,” said Sophy softly, with a note of wonder in her voice. It really seemed strange to haye the prospect of being happy—permanently, ecomfortably, without fear; the prospect of happiness not snatched at intervals, not broken by terror, but secure and without apprehension. Tom Courtland ~pressed his little children to him. Where were the re- proaches he had imagined, where the shame he had feared? They were an- nihilated by love and swallowed up in giadness. “We do love you Luey. Vera actually screamed in happiness. “Oh, Vera!"” said Suzette, rather shocked. That set -them all laughing, the little girls, Torh, presently even Suzette her- self. ‘They were all laughing, though none of them could have told exactly why. Their joy bubbled aver in mirth. and the sound of gladness was in the house. Tom Courtlaaa held his head up and was his own man again. Here was something to live for, and some- thing to show that even his broken life had not beep lived in vain. The ghosts so!” whispered Oy ALAYS SRR YOUR FIIS OF BIARALIS : SO WELZ, BB OBSERVED CYNICALLY of the past were there; he could not forget them. But the clasp of the warm little arms which encircled him would keep their chilling touch away from his heart. Freed from torments that he had not deserved, rescued from pleas- ures that he had not enjoyed, he turned eagerly to the delights of his home which could now be his. His glad chil- dren and kindly Suzette were a picture very precious in his eyes. Here were golden links by which the fragments of his life could be bound together, though the fractures must always show —even as the scar would show always on Sophy's brow, however much her lips might smile or her eyes sparkle be- neath it. They were roused by a voice from the door. “It's not hard to tell where you all are! Why, T heard you at the bottom of the stairs! What a hullabaloo!” John Fanshaw's bulky figure stood there, solid and bowed with weight and bis growing years. He looked on the scene—on the happy little folk in their gloomy black frocks—with a kindly #mile, and the mock reproof of his tone hid more tenderness than he cared to ghow. “Papa’s come back—back to stay they eried exultantly. “Isn’t that splen- did, Mr. Fanshaw?” “I hoped I should find you here, Tom; but I came to call on Miss Bligh.” “I hope you’'ll always find her here, too,” said Tom. Suzette was. flattered, and fell to blushing * agaln. She was acutely grateful to anybody who wanted her. She took such adesire as a free and lavish- gift of kindness, never making out any reason which could account for it. “I'm only too happy to stay if—if I ured. John sat down and made one of the party. They all chattered cheerfully till the hour grew late. Sophy, still treated %as an invalid, had to go to bed. She kissed John, who held her closely« for a moment; then threw herself in Tom’'s arms, and could hardly be per- suaded to let him go. +“I shall write to Mr. Imason and tell him you've come back,” she whispered " as a great secret. “He was so kind to Lucy and Vera when— You know, papa Tl'flm passed his -hand over her flaxen air. “‘Sleep quietly, darling,” he said. For quiet and peace were possible now. There had been no expectation that Tom' would be home to dinner; and though Suzette assured him that some- thing could easily be prepared (and that homely sort of attention was new and pleasant to Tom), he accepted John Fanshaw’s invitation to take pot- luck Wih him. They walked off to- gether, rather silent, each full of his own thoughts. They did not speak un- til they had almost reached John's door. ® “That's the sort of sight that makes a man wish he had children,” said John slowly. “I've often wished I had none. Poor Harriet!” “But you're glad of them now?" “Why, I've nqgthing else! It just mgkes the difference to life.” He paused a moment, and then broke out: *“And they’ve nothing but love for me. Not a word, not a thought of reproach! Just because I've never been cruel to them, whatever eise I've been! Poor little beggars. We can't keep like that when we grow up. We're too fond of our grievices, eh John looked ‘at him for a moment, but said nothing. They went into the house in renewed silence. It seamed very large, empty and dreary. “Your wife not back yet” I hea 'd she was staying with the Imason “‘She’s there still. I don't know when she's coming back.” “Rather dull for you, isn't it? You know you always depended onm her a lot.” John made no answer, but led the way into his siudy. - He gave Tom an evening paper, and began to open his letters. But his thoughts were not on the letters. They were occupied with what he had se at afternoon with the words which had faller Tom Courtland’s lips. The forgave with that which will not even recos h he need for itself or the exister of any fauit toward which it shou!d be exercised It is there that forgiveness r to and is merged in love. But paople grow up, Tom had saic y are too fond of their grievance: John had been very fond of his g nce. It was a fine large one—about the largest any man could have; every- body must admit that; and John had to declined to belittle it or an inch of its imposin it demanded he had give he? What about Fran! money? Had it not demanded something which he had refused? he had given all it , far as tf sinner who & it was co cerned. her he had nursed and cosseted it; for its sake he had made hifs home desolate and starved his heart. Aye, he had always de- pended on Christine! Tom was right. But because of his grievance he had put her from him. He fond of his grievance indeed! If Tom's children had been old enough to recognize the true value and pre- ciousness of a big grievance, they would never have received Tom as they had that afternoon; they would have made him feel what he had been guilty of. He would have been made to feel it handsomely before he was forgiven. Children were different, as Tom Courtland said. John got up and poked the fire fiercely. “The house is beastly cold!” he grumbled. + “Ah, it wouldn't be if Mr at home!" laughed 1T looks after the fire, doesn't him John Fanshaw bitterly envied his peace and hapy He forgot how hardly they had heen achieved. The vision of the afternoon was be- fore his eyes, and he declared that fate was too kind to Tom. A heavy dullness was over his face, and a forlorn puzzled look in his eyes. He must have done right, he must be doing right! How could a self-re- specting man do otherwise? And yet so starved of hu- in the end so full of long- he was so desolate, man love, ing for Christine—for her gracious presence and her dainty little wa With an effort he recollected his' thoughts from these wanderings, and began to read his letters. Tom was still occupied with his ‘paper and his cigar; but hé looked up at the sound of an “Ah!” which escaped from John's lip: John had come on a let- ter which set his thoughts going again—a letter from Sibylla. She up- braided him playfully for not having come down to see them and Christine. “I'm sure Christine must be hurt with you, though she’s much too proud to say so. We want to keep her over Christmas. Will you geme as soon as you can and stay over Christmas and as_long as possible? I've not told her I'm asking you, so that she mayn't be disappointed if you can’t come.” There was bylla's letter, since she knew the state of the case far better than her references to Chris- tine implied. But John was not aware of thi: His attention was fixed only on the invita- tion and the circumstances in which it cafme. He could not go to Milldean and take his grievance with him: it was too big and obstrusive for other people’s houses—it could flour- ish properly only in a domestic tete-a- tete. So he must stay at home. He sighed as he laid down the letter. Then his fingers wandered irresolutelw to it again as he looked across at Tom Courtland, who had now ceased read- ing and was smoking with a quiet smile on his face. “Anything up, old fellow?” asked Tom, noting the gravity of his expres- sion. “No. It's only from Mrs. Imason, asking me to go down there at Christ- mas.” “You go!" counseled Tom. ‘“Better than bringing your wife back here. There was a third course—<the course favored by the grievance. John d1d not speak of it. but it was present in his thoughts. He shook his head impatiently and began to talk of gen- eral toples; but all the evening Sibylla’s letter was in mind, ranging itself side by side with the scene which he had witnessed at Tom Courtland's. The gloomy idol he had set up in his heart was not yet cast down. But the little hands of the children had given its pedestal a shake. CHAPTER XXVI. diplomacy in Si- The Great Wrong.' The Raymores were lodging over the postoffice at Milldean, In the rooms once occunied by the curate. The new curate did not need them; he was stay- ing at the rectory, and meant, after hig marriage with Dora Hutting, to build himself a little house, go on being curate and ultimately be rector. He had a well-to-do father, who had bought the advowson for him as a wedding present. His path in life was clear, visible to the very end, and entirely peaceful—unless Dora decided other- wise. So the rooms came in handy for the Raymores, and it suited Jeremy’s inclination and leisure to stay the while with his sister on the hill. He had a bit of work to finish down at Milldean, while the Raymores were there. However assiduous you may be, love-making in London is Hable to interruption; it must be to a certain degree spasmodic there—busi- ness, society and sych like trifles keep breaking in. A clear week in the country will do wonders. ' Thus thought Jeremy, and it was his bril- liant n-uuon which brought the % ley. Raymores to Milldean for a month. What more obvious, since Charley was to land at Fairhaven and to stay a month in England? Spend that month ir London, where things interrupted and people started and old-time talk was remembered? No! Kate Ray- more jumped at the -idea that this wonderful month should be spent in the country, in quiet and seclusion, among old friends whose lips would be guarded, whose looks friendly, whose hearts in sympathy. When Jeremy made this arrange- ment: excellent -« one that may be pardoned for al- ‘most forgetting the selfish side of it— he had not failed to remember Dera Hutting. There had always been alter- native endings to that story. Jeremy's present scheme was a variation from both of them. None the less, he had come decidedly to prefer it to either. But he had not allowed for the pres- ence-of the cusate: and this circum- stance, casually brought to his knowl- edge by Grantley Imason on the even- ing of his arrival, had rather disturbed him. There was another feature in the case for which he was quite unpre- pared. The name of the curate was a famous one—actually famous through the length and breadth of the land! This was rather a staggerer for Jere- my, who might deride but could not deny the curate’s greatness. Certain forms of glory may appeal more to one man than to another, but all are glori- ous. The curate was Mallam of Som- erset. “The Mallam?"” “Yes, the gravely. “By Jove!" Jeremy murmured. “I think you ought to forgive he Grantley suggested. “He's played tw for England, yoy know, and made a century the first time.” “I remember,” Jeremy acknowledged, looking very thoughtful asked Jeremy. Mallam,” said Grantley, This was quite a different matter from the ordinary curate. Ritualistic proclivities, however obnoxious to Jere- my in their essence, became a pardon- able eccentricity in a man whose solid eputation had been won in other fields. It was not surprising that Dora car- ried her head very high, or that the cool politeness of her bow relegated Jeremy to a fathomless oblivion. Know- ing the ways of girls and reluctantly ccoscious of Mr. Mallam's greatness— con pus, too, perhaps, that his own riches and fame were not as yet much in evidence—he was prepared for that. But, alas, Charley was a cricketer, too, and had infected Eva with his enthus asm for the game. She was quite ex ted about Mallam. Jeremy did not appreciate this feeling as generously as he might have; yet Eva made no at- tempt to_conceal it. She rather em- phasized it: for she had come to the stage when she sought defenses. Af- ter the first eager spring to meet the offered and congenial love there comes often this recoll. The girl would have lings stay as they are, since they are very bpleasant, and the next step is into the unknown She loves delay, then, and, sinee the man will noet have it for its own sake (not knowing its sweetness nor the fear that aids its charm) she enforces it on him by ery and makes him afraid of los- ing the draught altogether by insist- ing on his sipping it at first. She will use any weapon in this campaign, and an ardent dmiration for Mr. Mallam eful weapon to Eva Ray- aid more than once that d Dora Hutting a very he thought Dora must be ning, since Mallam was in love with her. She held Mallam to be very handsome and refused to believe—well, s _talent was so highly special- ized as Jeremy tried to persuade her in words somewhat less gentle than these. Jeremy’s knowledge of girls gave out before this unexpected call upon it. He recoliected how Dora had served him, and how Anna Selford had trifled with Alec Turner. He grew apprehensive and troubled—also more and more in love. He forecast complicated trage- dies, and saw Mallam darkening his life wherever he turned. .But the wo- men understood—Kate Raymore, Chris- tine, even Sibylla. They glanced at one another and laughed among them- selves. They were rather proud of Eva, who plaved their sex's game so well. “Thank goodness she's learned to flirt!” said Christine. “A woman is no- where without that, my dear, and I don't care whether she’s married or not.” “She just adores Jeremy,” Kate as- sured Sibylla you know.” Sibylla Jaughed. She understood now —Dbetter than in the days when she her- self was wooed. But she blushed a lit- tle, too, which was strange, unless, per- chance, she found some parallel to Eva's conduct which she was not In- clined to discuss with her friends. Jer- emy was not the only man who went courting just now in Milldean. Nor was Kate Raymore the only woman whose heart expected a wanderer home, and trembled at the joy of a long-desired meeting. The period of Mrs. Mumple’s expectation was almost done. In two or three weeks she was to go on & jour- ney; she would come back to Olda Min House not alone: The house was swept and garnished, and Mrs. Mumple had a new silk gown. The latter she showed to Kate—and a new bonnet, too, which was a trifle gayer than her ordinary wear; it bad a touch of youth about it. Mrs. Mumple knew very well who was the best person to show these treasures to, who the best listener to her specu- lations as to the manner of that meet- And she, in turn, was eager to Only men can't see, !hat Charley’'s ship was to be In quite soon. Kate could not say much about that to anybody except to Mrs. Mum- ple; but she was sure that Mrs. Mum- ple would understand. When on the top of all this came the announcement that Dora Hutting's wedding was fixed for that day three weeks, Christine Fanshaw was moved to protest. “Really, Grantley,” she exclaimed, “this village is a center of lgve-mak- ing, of one sort or another!" All villages are,” said Grantley, suavely tolerant, “or they couldn't go on being villages. It's life or death to them, Christine.” “That’s a contemptible evasion. The atmosphere is horribly sentimental. I don’t think I'm in sympathy with it at all.” “Don’t talk to me, then,” said Grant- “I Uke it, you know. Oh, you needn’t fret, my dear friend! There's been lots of trouble—and there’ll be lots more.” “Yes, trouble—and hatred, too?” “Oh, well, suppcse We suppose there won't be that?”’ he suggested. “But the trouble, anyhow.” “Then everybody oughtn't to pretend that there won't! The way people ta.|k about marriages is simply hypocrisy.” “When the bather is on the b.nk it's no moment for remarking that the water is cold. And the truth is in our hearts all the time. Am I likely to for- get it, for instance? Or are you likely to forget poor old Tom and that un- happy woman?” “Or am I likely to forget myself™" Christine murmured, looking out of the window. As she looked, Dora passed by, and broad-shouldered young Mallam with her. “Oh, bless the children!” she said, laughing. “It doesn’t do, though, to be too kncwing—too much up to all nature's little tricks,” Grantley went on, as he came and stood beside her. “We oughtn’t to give the old lady away. She seems a bit primitive in her methods sometimes, but, if we don’t Interfere, she usually gets there in the end. But we mustn’t find out all her secrety.” (Concluded Next Sunday.)