MARTHA BY-THE-DAY

 By JULIE M. LIPPMANN

 1912

CHAPTER I

If you are one of the favored few, privileged to ride in chaises, youmay find the combination of Broadway during the evening rush-hour, in alate November storm, stimulating--you may, that is, provided you have areliable driver. If, contrariwise, you happen to be of the class whosefate it is to travel in public conveyances (and lucky if you have theprice!) and the car, say, won't stop for you--why--

Claire Lang had been standing in the drenching wet at thestreet-crossing for fully ten minutes. The badgering crowd had beenshouldering her one way, pushing her the other, until, being a strangerand not very big, she had become so bewildered that she lost her headcompletely, and, with the blind impulse of a hen with paresis, dartedstraight out, in amidst the crush of traffic, with all the chancesstrong in favor of her being instantly trampled under foot, or groundunder wheel, and never a one to know how it had happened. 

An instant, and she was back again in her old place upon the curbstone. Something like the firm iron grip of a steam-derrick had fastened on herperson, hoisted her neatly up, and set her as precisely down, exactlywhere she had started from. 

It took her a full second to realize what had happened. Then, quick as aflash, anger flamed up in her pale cheeks, blazed in her tired eyes. For, of course, this was an instance of "insult" described by "thefamily at home" as common to the experience of unprotected girls in NewYork City. She groped about in her mind for the formula to be applied insuch cases, as recommended by Aunt Amelia. "Sir, you are no gentleman!If you were a gentleman, you would not offer an affront to a young, defenseless girl who--" The rest eluded her; she could not recall it, try as she would. In desperate resolve to do her duty anyway, she tiltedback her umbrella, whereat a fine stream of water poured from the tipdirectly over her upturned face, and trickled cheerily down the bridgeof her short nose. 

"Sir--" she shouted resolutely, and then she stopped, for, plainly, heroration was, in the premises, a misfit--the person beside her--the oneof the mortal effrontery and immortal grip, being a--woman. A woman ofmasculine proportions, towering, deep-chested, large-limbed, but with aface which belied all these, for in it her sex shone forth in amotherliness unmistakable, as if the world at large were her family, andit was her business to see that it was generously provided for, alongthe pleasantest possible lines for all concerned. 

"What car?" the woman trumpeted, gazing down serenely into Claire'slittle wet, anxious, upturned face at her elbow. 

"Columbus Avenue. "

The stranger nodded, peering down the glistening, wet way, as if shewere a skipper sighting a ship. 

"My car, too! First's Lexin'ton--next Broadway--then--here's ours!"Again that derrick-grip, and they stood in the heart of the maelstrom, but apparently perfectly safe, unassailable. 

"They won't stop, " Claire wailed plaintively. "I've been waiting forages. The car'll go by! You see if it won't!"

It did, indeed, seem on the point of sliding past, as all the rest haddone, but of a sudden the motorman vehemently shut off his power, andput on his brake. By some hidden, mysterious force that was in her, orthe mere commanding dimensions of her frame, Claire's companion hadbrought him to a halt. 

She lifted her charge gently up on to the step, pausing herself, beforeshe should mount the platform, to close the girl's umbrella. 

"Step lively! Step lively!" the conductor urged insistently, reachingfor his signal-strap. 

The retort came calmly, deliberately, but with perfect good nature. "Noton your life, young man. I been steppin' lively all day, an' for solong's it's goin' to take this car to get to One-hundred-an'-sixteenthStreet, my time ain't worth no more'n a settin' hen's. "

The conductor grinned in spite of himself. "Well, mine _is_, " hedeclared, while with an authoritative finger he indicated the box intowhich Claire was to drop her fare. 

"So all the other roosters think, " the woman let fall with a tolerantsmile, while she diligently searched in her shabby purse for five cents. 

Claire, in the doorway, lingered. 

"Step right along in, my dear! Don't wait for me, " her friend advised, closing her teeth on a dime, as she still pursued an elusive nickel. "Step right along in, and sit down anywheres, an' if there ain'tnowheres to sit, why, just take a waltz-step or two in the direction o'some of them elegant gen'lemen's feet, occupyin' the places meant forladies, an' if they don't get up for love of _you_, they'll get up forlove of their shins. "

Still the girl did not pass on. 

"Fare, please!" There was a decided touch of asperity in theconductor's tone. He glared at Claire almost menacingly. 

Her lip trembled, the quick tears sprang to her eyes. She hesitated, swallowed hard, and then brought it out with a piteous gulp. 

"I _had_ my fare--'twas in my glove. It must have slipped out. It'sgone--lost--and--"

A tug at the signal-strap was the conductor's only comment. He wasstopping the car to put her off, but before he could carry out hispurpose the woman had dropped her dime into the box with a soundingclick. 

"Fare for two!" she said, "an' if I had time, an' a place to sit, I'dturn you over acrost my knee, an' give you two, for fair, young man, forthe sake of your mother who didn't learn you better manners when you wasa boy!" With which she laid a kind hand upon Claire's heaving shoulder, and impelled her gently into the body of the car, already full tooverflowing. 

For a few moments the girl had a hard struggle to control her risingsobs, but happily no one saw her working face and twitching lips, forher companion had planted herself like a great bulwark between her andthe world, shutting her off, walling her 'round. Then, suddenly, shefound herself placed in a hurriedly vacated seat, from which she couldlook up into the benevolent face inclined toward her, and say, withouttoo much danger of breaking down in the effort:

"I really _did_ have it--the money, you know. Truly, I'm not a--"

"O, pooh! Don't you worry your head over a little thing like that. Suchaccidents is liable to occur in the best-reggerlated fam'lies. They doin mine, shoor!"

"But, you see, " quavered the uncertain voice, "I haven't any more. That's all I had, so I can't pay you back, and--"

It was curious, but just here another passenger hastily rose, vacatingthe seat next Claire's, and leaving it free, whereat her companioncompressed her bulky frame into it with a sigh, as of well-earned rest, and remarked comfortably, "_Now_ we can talk. You was sayin'--what wasit? About that change, you know. It was all you had. You mean _by_ you, of course. "

Claire's pale, pinched face flushed hotly. "No, I don't, " she confessed, without lifting her downcast eyes. 

Her companion appeared to ponder this for a moment, then quite abruptlyshe let it drop. 

"My name's Slawson, " she observed. "Martha Slawson. I go out by the day. Laundry-work, housecleaning, general chores. I got a husband an' fourchildren, to say nothing of a mother-in-law who lives with us, an' keepsan eye on things while me an' Sammy (that's Mr. Slawson) is outworkin', an' lucky if it's an eye itself, for it's not a hand, I cantell you that. What's your name, if I may make so bold?"

"Claire Lang. My people live in Grand Rapids--where the furniture andcarpet-sweepers come from, " with a wistful, faint little attempt at asmile. "My father was judge of the Supreme Court, but he had losses, andthen he died, and there wasn't much of anything left, and so--"

"You come to New York to make your everlastin' fortune, an' you--"

Claire Lang shook her head, completing the unfinished sentence. "No, Ihaven't made it, that is, not yet. But I'm not discouraged. I don't meanto give up. Things look pretty dark just now, but I'm not going to letthat discourage me--No, indeed! I'm going to be brave and courageous, and never say die, even if--even if--"

"Turn 'round, an' pertend you're lookin' out of the winder, " suggestedMrs. Slawson confidentially. "The way folks stare, you'd think the worldwas full of nothin' but laughin' hyeenyas. Dontcher care, my dear! Wellfor some of 'em, if they could shed an honest tear or two themselves, oncet in a while, instead of bein' that brazen; 'twouldn't be water atall, but Putzes Pomady it'd take to make an impression on 'em, an'don't you forget it. There! That's right! Now, no one can observe what'soccurrin' in your face, an' I can talk straight into your ear, see? WhatI was goin' to say _is_, that bein' a mother myself an' havin' childrenof my own to look out for, I couldn't recommend any lady, let alone oneso young an' pretty as you, to take up with strangers, here in New YorkCity, be they male or be they female. No, certaintly not! But in thiscase, you can take it from me, I'm O. K. I can give the highestreferences. I worked for the best fam'lies in this town, ever since Iwas a child. You needn't be a mite afraid. I'm just a plain mother of afam'ly an', believe _me_, you can trust me as you would trust one ofyour own relations, though I do say it as shouldn't, knowin' how queer_own relations_ can be and _is_, when put to it at times. So, if youhappen to be in a hole, my dear, without friends or such things in thecity, you feel free to turn to, or if you seem to stand in need of aword of advice, or--anything else, why, dontcher hesitate a minute. It'dbe a pretty deep hole Martha Slawson couldn't see over the edge of, besure of that, even if she did have to stand on her toes to do it. Holesis my specialty, havin' been in an' out, as you might say, all mylife--particularly _in_. "

Judicious or not, Claire told her story. It was not a long one. Justthe everyday experience of a young girl coming to a strange city, without influence, friends, or money, expecting to make her way, andfinding that way beset with difficulties, blocked by obstacles. 

"I've done everything I could think of, honestly I have, " she concludedapologetically. "I began by trying for big things; art-work in editorialoffices (everybody liked my art-work in Grand Rapids!). But 'twas nouse. Then I took up commercial drawing. I got what looked like a goodjob, but the man gave me one week's pay, and that's all I could evercollect, though I worked for him over a month. Then I tried real estate. One firm told me about a woman selling for them who cleared, oh, I don'tknow how-much-a-week, in commissions. Something queer must be the matterwith me, I guess, for I never got rid of a single lot, though I walkedmy feet off. I've tried writing ads. , and I've directed envelopes. I'veread the Wants columns, till it seems as if everybody in the world waslooking for a _job_. But I can't get anything to do. I guess God doesn'tmean me to die of starvation, for you wouldn't believe how little I'vehad to eat all summer and fall, and yet I'm almost as strong and heartyas ever. But lately I haven't been able to make any money at all, notfive cents, so I couldn't pay my board, and they--they told me at thehouse where I live, that I'd have to square up to-night, or I couldn'tkeep my room any longer. They took my trunk a week ago. I haven't hadanything to wear except these clothes I have on, since, and they'repretty wet now--and--and--I've nowhere to go, and it _is_ pouring sohard, and I should have been put off the car if you hadn't--"

Mrs. Slawson checked the labored flow with a hand upon the girl's knee. "Where did you say your boardin'-house is?" she inquired abruptly. 

"Ninety-fifth Street--West--Two-hundred-and-eighty-five-and-a-half. "

"Good gracious! An' we're only three blocks off there now!"

"But you said, " expostulated Claire helplessly, feeling herselfpropelled as by the hand of fate through the crowd toward the door. "Yousaid you live on One-hundred-and-sixteenth Street. "

"So I do, my dear, so I do! But I've got some businessto transack with a lady livin' in Ninety-fifthStreet--West--Two-hunderd-an'-eighty-five-an'-a-half. Come along. 'Step lively, ' as my friend, _this nice young man out here on therear platform_, says. "

CHAPTER II

They plodded along the flooded street in silence, Claire following afterMartha Slawson like a small child, almost clutching at her skirts. Itwas not easy to keep pace with the long, even strides that covered somuch ground, and Claire fell into a steady pony-trot that made herbreath come short and quick, her heart beat fast. She dimly wonderedwhat was going to happen, but she did not dare, or care, to ask. It wascomfort enough just to feel this great embodiment of human sympathy andstrength beside her, to know she was no longer alone. 

Before the house Martha paused a moment. 

"Now, my dear, there ain't goin' to be nothin' for you to do but justsit tight, " she vouchsafed reassuringly. "Don't you start to butt in (ifyou'll pardon the liberty), no matter what I say. I'm goin' to be aperfect lady, never fear. I know my place, an' I know my dooty, an' ifyour boardin'-house lady knows hers, there'll be no troublewhatsomedever, so dontcher worry. "

She descended the three steps leading from the street-level down intothe little paved courtyard below, and rang the basement bell. A momentand an inner door was unlocked, flung open, and a voice from justwithin the grating of the closed iron area-gate asked curtly, "Well, what's wanted?"

"Is this Mrs. ----? I should say, is this the lady of the house?" MarthaSlawson's voice was deep, bland, prepossessing. 

"I'm Mrs. Daggett, yes, if that's what you mean. "

"That's what I mean. My name's Slawson. Mrs. Sammy Slawson, an' I cometo see you on a little matter of business connected with a young ladywho's been lodgin' in your house--Miss Lang. "

Mrs. Daggett stepped forward, and unlatched the iron gate. "Come in, "she said, in a changed voice, endeavoring to infuse into her acridmanner the grace of a belated hospitality. 

Claire, completely hidden from view behind Martha Slawson's heroicproportions, followed in her wake like a wee, foreshortened shadow as, at Mrs. Daggett's invitation, Mrs. Slawson passed through the areagateway into the malodorous basement hall, and so to the dingydining-room beyond. Here a group of grimy-clothed tables seemed to havealighted in sudden confusion, reminding one of a flock of pigeonshuddled together in fear of the vultures soon to descend on them withgreedy, all-devouring appetites. 

"We can just as well talk here as anywhere, " announced Mrs. Daggett. "It's quarter of an hour before dinnertime, but if you'd rather go up tothe parlor we can. "

"O, dear, no!" said Martha Slawson suavely. "_Any_ place is good enoughfor me. Don't trouble yourself. I'm not particular _where_ I am. "Unbidden, she drew out a chair from its place beside one of theuninviting tables, and sat down on it deliberately. It creaked beneathher weight. 

"O--oh! Miss Lang!" said Mrs. Daggett, surprised, seeing her younglodger now, for the first time. 

Martha nodded. "Yes, it's Miss Lang, an' I brought her with me, throughthe turrbl storm, Mrs. --a--?"

"Daggett, " supplied the owner of the name promptly. 

"That's right, Daggett, " repeated Martha. "I brought Miss Lang with me, Mrs. Daggett, because I couldn't believe my ears when she told me shewas goin' to be--to be _turned out_, if she didn't pay up to-night, _weather_ or no. I wanted to hear the real truth of it from you, ma'am, straight, with her by. "

Mrs. Daggett coughed. "Well, business is business. I'm not a capitalist. I'm not keeping a boarding-house for my health, you know. I can'tafford to give credit when I have to pay cash. "

"But, of course, you don't mean you'd ackchelly refuse the young ladyshelter a night like this, if she come to you, open an' honest, an' saidshe hadn't the price by her just at present, but she would have itsooner or later, an' then you'd be squared every cent. You wouldn't turnher down if she said that, would you?"

"Say, Mrs. Slawson, or whatever your name is, " broke in Mrs. Daggettsharply, "I'm not here to be cross-questioned. When you told me you'dcome on business for Miss Lang, I thought 'twas to settle what she owes. If it ain't--I'm a busy woman. I'm needed in the kitchen this minute, tosee to the dishing-up. Have the goodness to come to the point. Is MissLang going to pay? If she is, well and good. She can keep her room. Ifshe isn't--" The accompanying gesture was eloquent. 

Mrs. Slawson's chair gave forth another whine of reproach as she settleddown on it with a sort of inflexible determination that defied argument. 

"So that's your ultomato?" she inquired calmly. "I understand you to saythat if this young lady (who any one with a blind eye can see she's_quality_), I understand you to say, that if she don't pay down everycent she owes you, here an' now, you'll put her out, bag an' baggage?"

"No, not bag and baggage, Mrs. Slawson, " interposed the boarding-housekeeper with a wry smile, bridling with the sense that she was about tosay something she considered rather neat, "I am, as you might say, holding her bag and baggage--as security. "

"Now what do you think o' that!" ejaculated Martha Slawson. 

"It's quite immaterial to me what anybody thinks of it, " Mrs. Daggettsnapped. "And now, if that's all you've got to suggest, why, I'm sureit's all I have, and so, the sooner we end this, the sooner I'll be atliberty to attend to my dinner. "

Still Mrs. Slawson did not stir. 

"I suppose you think you're a lady, " she observed without the faintestsuggestion of heat. "I suppose you think you're a lady, but youcertainly ain't workin' at it now. What takes my time, though, is theway you ackchelly seem to be meanin' what you say! Why, I wouldn't turna dog out a night like this, an' you'd let a delicate young girl go intothe drivin' storm, a stranger, without a place to lay her head--that is, for all _you_ know. I could bet my life, without knowin' a thing aboutit, that the good Lord never let you have a daughter of your own. Hewouldn't trust the keepin' of a child's body, not to speak of her soul, to such as you. That is, He wouldn't if He could help Himself. But, thanks be! Miss Lang ain't dependent. She's well an' able to pay all sheowes. Supposin' she _has_ been kinder strapped for a little while back, an' had to economize by comin' to such a place as this! I've knowedothers, compelled to economize with three trunks alongside ahall-bedroom wall, for a while, too, an' by an' by their circumstanceswas such that they had money to burn. It's not for the likes of MissLang to try to transack business with your sort. It would soil her lipsto bandy words, so I, an old fam'ly servant, an' proud of it! amsettlin' up her affairs for her. Be kind enough to say how much it isyou are ready to sell your claim to Christian charity for? How much isit you ain't willin' to lend to the Lord on Miss Lang's account?" Sheplucked up her skirts, thrust her hand, unembarrassed, into herstocking-leg, and brought forth from that safe depository a roll ofwell-worn _greenbacks_. 

Mrs. Daggett named the amount of Claire's indebtedness, and MarthaSlawson proceeded to count it out in slow, deliberate syllables. She didnot, however, surrender the bills at once. 

"I'll take a receipt, " she quietly observed, and then sat back with anair of perfect imperturbability, while the boarding-house keepernervously fussed about, searching for a scrap of paper, hunting for apen, trying to unearth, from the most impossible hiding-places, a bottleof ink, her indignation at Martha's _cheek_ escaping her in audiblemumblings. 

"Impudence! What right have you to come here, holding me to account?I've my own way of doing good--"

Mrs. Slawson shrugged. "Your own way? I warrant you have! Nobody else'drecognize it. I'd like to bet, you don't give a penny to charity oncetin five years. Come now, do you?"

"God doesn't take into account the amount one gives, " announced Mrs. Daggett authoritatively. 

"P'raps not, but you can take it from _me_, He keeps a pretty closewatch on what we have left--or I miss my guess. An' now, Miss Clairedarlin', if you'll go an' get what belongin's you have, that thisgenerous lady ain't stripped off'n you, to hold for _security_, as shecalls it, we'll be goin'. An expressman will be 'round here the firstthing in the mornin' for Miss Lang's trunk, an' it's up to you, Mrs. Daggett, to see it's ready for'm when he comes. Good-night to you, ma'am, an' I wish you luck. "

Never after could Claire recall in detail what followed. She had a dimvision of glistening pavements on which the rain dashed furiously, onlyto rebound with resentful force, saturating one to the skin. Of fierceblasts that seemed to lurk around every corner. Of street-lamps gleamingmeaninglessly out of the murk, curiously suggesting blinking eyes set ina vacant face, and at last--at last--in blessed contrast--an open door, the sound of cheery voices, the feel of warmth and welcome, the sight ofa plain, wholesome haven--rest. 

Martha Slawson checked her children's vociferous clamor with a word. Then her orders fell thick and fast, causing feet to run and hands tofly, causing curiosity to give instant way before the pressure ofbusy-ness, and a sense of cooperation to make genial the task of each. 

"Hush, everybody! Cora, you go make up the bed in the boarder's room. Turn the mattress, mind! An' stretch the sheets good an' smooth, like Ilearned you to do. Francie, you get the hot-water bottle, quick, so's Ican fill it! Sammy, you go down to the cellar, an' tell Mr. Snyder yourmother will be much obliged if he'll turn on a' extra spark o'steam-heat. Tell'm, Mrs. Slawson has a lady come to board with her for aspell, that's fixin' for chills or somethin', onless she can be kep'warm an' comfortable, an' the radianator in the boarder's room don'tsend out much heat to speak of. Talk up polite, Sammy; d'you hear me?An' be sure you don't let on Snyder might be keepin' a better fire inhis furnace if he didn't begrutch the coal so. It's gospel truth, o'course, but landlords is _supposed_ to have feelin's, same as the restof us, an' a gentle word turneth aside wrath. Sabina, now show what abig girl you are, an' fetch mother Cora's nicest nightie out o' thedrawer in my beaurer--the nightie Mrs. Granville sent Cora lastChristmas. Mother wants to hang it in front of the kitchen-range, so'sthe pretty lady can go by-bye all warm an' comfy, after she's took hersupper off'n the tray, like Sabina did when she had the measles. "

Huge Sam Slawson, senior, overtopping his wife by fully half a head, gazed down upon his little hive, from shaggy-browed, benevolent eyes. Heuttered no complaint because his dinner was delayed, and he, hungry as abear, was made to wait till a stranger was served and fed. Instead, hewandered over to where Martha was supplementing "Ma's" ministrations atthe range, and patted her approvingly on the shoulder. 

"Another stray lamb, mother?" he asked casually. 

Martha nodded. "Wait till the rush is over, an' the young uns abed an'asleep, an' I'll tell you all about it. Stray lamb! I should say asmuch! A little white corset-lamb, used to eat out o' your hand, with ablue ribbon round its neck. Goin' to be sent out to her death--orworse, by a sharp-fangled wolf of a boardin'-house keeper, who'd gnawthe skin off'n your bones, an' then crack the bones to get at themarrer, if you give her the chanct. I'll tell you all about it later, Sammy. "

CHAPTER III

For days Claire lay in a state of drowsy quiet. 

She hardly realized the fact of her changed condition, that she wasbeing cared for, ministered to, looked after. She had brief, wakingmoments when she seemed to be aware that Martha was bringing in herbreakfast, or sitting beside her while she ate her dinner, but theintervening spaces, when "Ma" or Cora served, were dim, indistinctadumbrations of no more substantial quality than the vagrant dreams thatranged mistily across her relaxed brain. 

The thin walls of the cheaply-built flat did not protect her from thenoise of the children's prattling tongues and boisterous laughter, butthe walls of her consciousness closed her about, as in a muffledsecurity, and she slept on and on, until the exhausted body wasreinforced, the overtaxed nerves infused with new strength. 

Then, one evening, when the room in which she lay was dusky withtwilight shadows, she realized that she was awake, that she was alive. She had gradually groped her way through the dim stretches lying betweenthe region of visions and that of the actual, but the step into a fullsense of reality was abrupt. She heard the sound of children's voices inthe next room. So clear they were, she could distinguish every syllable. 

"Say, now, listen, mother! What do you do when you go out working everyday?" It was Cora speaking. 

"I work. "

"Pooh, you know what I mean. What kinder work do you do?"

For a moment there was no answer, then Claire recognized Martha's voice, with what was, undeniably, a chuckle tucked away in its mellow depths, where no mere, literal child would be apt to discern it. 

"Stenography an' typewritin'!"

"Are you a stenographer an' typewriter, mother? Honest?"

"Well, you can take it from me, if I was _it_ at all, I'd be it honest. What makes you think there's any doubt o' my being one? Don't I have theappearance of a high-toned young lady stenographer an' typewriter?"

A pause, in which Martha's substantial steps were to be heard busilypassing to and fro, as she went about her work. Her mother's replyevidently did not carry conviction to Cora's questioning mind, for asecond later she was up and at it afresh. 

"Say, now, listen, mother--if you do stenography an' typewritin', whatmakes your apron so wet an' dirty, nights when you come home?"

"Don't you s'pose I clean my machine before I leave? What kindertypewriter d'you think I am? To leave my machine dirty, when a goodscrub-down, with a pail o' hot water, an' a stiff brush, an' Sapolio, would put it in fine shape for the next mornin'. "

"Mother--say, now, listen! I don't _believe_ that's the way they cleantypewriters. Miss Symonds, she's the Principal's seckerterry to ourschool, an' she sits in the office, she cleans her machine with oil anda little fine brush, like you clean your teeth with. "

"What you been doin' in the Principal's office, miss, I should like toknow? Been sent up to her for bad behavior, or not knowin' your lessons?Speak up now! Quick!"

"My teacher, she sends me on errands, an' I got a credit-card last weekan', say, mother, I don't _believe_ you're a young lady stenographer an'typewriter. You're just trying to fool me. "

"Well, Miss Smarty, supposin' I am. So long's I don't succeed you've nokick comin'. "

"Say, now listen, mother. "

"Hush! You'll wake the pretty lady. Besides, too many questions beforedinner is apt to spoil the appetite, to say nothin' of the temper. Turnto, an' lend a hand with them potatoes. Smash 'em good first, an' thenbeat 'em with a fork until they're light an' creamy, an' you won't haveso much gimp left for snoopin' into things that don't concern you!"

"Say, now listen, mother!"

"Well?"

"Say, mother, something awful funny happened to me last night?"

"Are you tellin' what it was?"

"Something woke me up in the middle of the night, 'n' I got up out ofbed, an' the clock struck four, 'n' then I knew it was mornin'. 'N' Iheard a noise, 'n' I thought it was robbers, 'n' I went to the door, 'n'it was open, 'n' I went out into the hall, 'n'--"

"Well?"

"An' there was _you_, mother, on the stairs--kneelin'!"

"Guess you had a dream, didn't you?"

"No, I didn't. "

"What'd I be kneelin' on the stairs for, at four o'clock in the mornin', I should like to know?"

"It looked like you was brushin' 'em down. "

"_Me_ brushin' down _Snyder's_ stairs! Well, now what do you think o'that?" Her tone of amazement, at the mere possibility, struck Cora, andthere was a pause, broken at length by Martha, in a preternaturallysolemn voice. "I s'pose you never tumbled to it I might be _prayin'_. "

Cora's eyes grew wide. "Prayin'!" she repeated in an awed whisper. "But, mother, what'd you want to go out in the hall for, to pray on the_stairs_, at four o'clock in the mornin'?"

"Prayin' is a godly ack. Wheresomedever, an' _when_somedever you do it. "

"But, mother, I don't _believe_ you were prayin'. I heard the knockin'o' your whis'-broom. You was brushin' down the stairs. "

"Well, what if I was? Cleanliness is next to godliness, ain't it?Prayin' an' cleanin', it amounts to the same thing in the end--it's justa question of what you clean, outside you or _in_. "

"But say, now, listen, mother, you never cleaned down Mr. Snyder'sstairs before. An' you been making shirtwaists for Mrs. Snyder, afteryou get home nights. I saw her with one of 'em on. "

"Cora, do you know what happened to a little girl oncet who asked toomany questions?"

"No. "

"Well, I won't tell you now. It might spoil your appetite for dinner. But you can take it from me, the end she met with would surprise you. "

Shortly after, Claire's door quietly opened, and Cora, with a lightedtaper in her hand, tiptoed cautiously in, like a young torch-bearing_avant-courrière, _ behind whom Mrs. Slawson, laden with a wonderfultray, advanced processionally. 

"Light the changelier, an' then turn it low, " Martha whispered. "An'then you, yourself, light out, so's the pretty lady can eat in comfort. "

The pretty lady, sitting up among her pillows, awake and alert, almostbrought disaster upon the taper, and the tray, by exclaiming brightly, "Good-evening! I'm wide awake for good! You needn't tiptoe or hush anymore. O, I feel like new! All rested and well and--_ready_ again. And Iowe it, every bit, to you! You've been so _good_ to me!"

It was hard on Cora to have to obey her mother's injunction to "clearout, " just when the pretty lady was beginning to demonstrate her rightto the title. But Martha's word in her little household was not to bedisputed with impunity, and Cora slipped away reluctantly, carrying withher a dazzling vision of soft, dark hair, starry blue-gray eyes, wonderful changing expressions, and, in and over all, a smile that waslike a key to unlock hearts. 

"My, but it's good to see you so!" said Mrs. Slawson heartily. "I wasglad to have you sleep, for goodness knows you needed it, but if you'd'a' kep' it up a day or so longer, I'd 'a' called in a doctor--shoor!Just as a kind of nacherl percaution, against your settlin' down to apermanent sleepin'-beauty ack, for, you can take it from me, I haven'tthe business address of any Beast, here in New York City, could becounted on to do the Prince-turn, when needed. There's plenty ofbeasts, worse luck! but they're on the job, for fair. No magic, lightenin'-change about _them_. They stay beasts straight through theperformance. "

Claire laughed. 

"But, as it happened, I didn't need a Prince, did I? I didn't need aPrince or any one else, for I had a good fairy godmother who--O, Mrs. Slawson, I--I--can't--"

"You don't have to. An' I'm not Mrs. Slawson to you. I'm just Martha, for I feel like you was my own young lady, an' if you call me Mrs. Slawson, I won't feel so, an' here--now--see if you can clear up thistray so clean it'll seem silly to wash the dishes. "

For a moment there was silence in the little room, while Claire tried tocompose herself, and Martha pretended to be busy with the tray. ThenClaire said, "I'll be very glad to call you Martha if you'll let me, andthere's something I'd like to say right off, because I've been lyinghere quite a while thinking about it, and it's very important, indeed. It's about my future, and--"

"You'll excuse my interruckting, but before you reely get your steamup, let me have a word on my own account, an' then, if you want to, youcan fire away--the gun's your own. What I mean _is_--I don't believe inlyin' awake, thinkin' about the future, when a body can put in goodlicks o' sleep, restin' from the past. It's against my principles. I'mby the day. I work by the day, an' I live by the day. I reasoned it outso-fashion: the past is over an' done with, whatever it may be, an' youcan't change it, for all you can do, so what's the use? You can bet onone thing, shoor, whatever ain't dead waste in your past is, somehow, goin' to get dished up to you in your present, or your future. You ain'tgoin' to get rid of it, till you've worked it into your system _forhealth_, as our dear old friend, Lydia Pinkham, says. As to the future, the future's like a flea--when you can put your finger on the future, it's time enough to think what you'll do with it. Folkes futures'd beall right, if they'd just pin down a little tighter to _to-day_, an'make that square up, the best they can, with what they'd oughter do. Now, as to _your_ future, there's nothin' to fret about for a minute init. Jus' now, you're here, safe an' sound, an' here you're goin' to stayuntil you're well an' strong an' fed up, an' the chill o' Mrs. Daggettis out o' your body an' soul. You can take it from me, that woman isworse than any line-storm _I_ ever struck for dampenin'-down purposes, an' freeze-out, an' generl cussedness. Your business to-day--now--is toget well an' strong. Then the future'll take care of itself. "

"But meanwhile, " Claire persisted, "I'm living on you. Eating food forwhich I haven't the money to pay, having loving care for which Icouldn't pay, if I had all the money in the world. I guess I know howyou settled my account with Mrs. Daggett. You gave her money you hadbeen saving for the rent, and now you are working, slaving overtime, atfour o'clock mornings, sweeping down the stairs, and late nights, makingshirtwaists for Mrs. Snyder, to help supply what's lacking. "

"Just you wait till I see that Cora, " observed Mrs. Slawsonirrelevantly. "That's the time _her_ past will have slopped over on herpresent, so's she can't tell which is which. Just you wait till I seethat Cora!"

"No, no--_please_! Martha _dear_! It wasn't Cora! She's not to blame. I'd have known sooner or later anyway. I always reason things out formyself. Please promise not to scold Cora. "

"Scold Cora? Not on your life, my dear; I won't scold Cora. I'mold-fashioned in my ways with childern. I don't believe in scoldin'. Itspoils their tempers, but a good _lickin'_ oncet in a while, helps 'emto remember, besides bein' good for the circulation. "

Claire was ready to cry. "It's all my fault, " she lamented. "I wasclumsy. I was tactless. And now Cora will be punished for it, and--Imake nothing but trouble for you all. "

"There, there! For mercy sake, don't take on like that. I promise I'lllet Cora go free, if you'll sit back quiet an' eat your dinner in peace. So now! That's better!"

"What I was going to say, Martha dear, is, I'm quite well and strongnow, and I want to set about immediately looking for something to do. Iought to be able to support myself, you know, for I'm able-bodied, andnot so stupid but that I managed to graduate from college. Once, twosummers ago, I tutored--I taught a young girl who was studying to takethe Wellesley entrance exams. And I coached her so well she went throughwithout a condition, and she wasn't very quick, either. I wonder if Icouldn't teach?"

"Shoor, you could!"

"If I could get a position to teach in some school or some family, Icould, maybe, live here with you--rent this room--unless you have someother use for it. "

"Lord, no! I _call_ it the boarder's room because this flat is reallytoo rich for my blood, but you see I don't want the childern brought upin a bad neighborhood with low companions. Well, Sammy argued the rentwas too high, till I told'm we'd let a room an' make it up that way, but what with this, an' what with that, we ain't had any boardersexceptin' now an' then some friend of himself out of a job, or one o'the girls, livin' out in the houses where I work, gettin' bouncedsuddent, an' in want of a bed, an' none of 'em ever paid us a cent orwas asked for it. "

"Well, if I could get a position as teacher or governess, I'd soon beable to pay back what you've laid out for me, and more besides, and--Inthe houses where you work, are there any children who need a governess?Any young girls who need a tutor? That's what I wanted to ask you, Martha. "

Mrs. Slawson deliberated in silence for a moment. 

"There's the Livingstons, " she mused, "but they ain't any childern. Onlya childish brother-in-law. He's not quite _all there, _ as you might say. It'd be no use tryin' to learn him nothin', seein' he's soodd--seventy-odd--an' his habits like to be fixed. Then, there's theFarrands. But the girls goes to Miss Spenny's school, an' the son's atColumbia. It might upset their plans, if I was to suggest their givin'up where they're at, an' havin' you. Then there's the Grays, an' theGranvilles, an' the Thornes. Addin' 'em all together for childern, they'd come to about half a child a pair. Talk about your race suicide!They say they 'can't afford to have childern. ' You can take it from me, it's the poor people are rich nowadays. _We_ can afford to havechildern, all right, all right. Then there's Mrs. Sherman--She's got oneboy, but he--Radcliffe Sherman--well, he's a limb! A reg'lar youngvillain. You couldn't manage _him_. Only Lord Ronald can manageRadcliffe Sherman, an' he--"

"Lord Ronald?" questioned Claire, when Mrs. Slawson's meditationthreatened to become static. 

"Why, he's Mrs. Sherman's brother, Mr. Frank Ronald, an' no real lordcould be handsomer-lookin', or grander-behavin', or richer than him. Mrs. Sherman is a widder, or a divorcy, or somethin' stylish like that. Anyhow, I worked for her this eight years an' more--almost ever sinceRadcliffe was born, an' I ain't seen hide nor hair o' any Mr. Shermanyet, an' they never speak o' him, so I guess he was either too good ortoo bad to mention. Mr. Frank an' his mother lives with Mrs. Sherman, an' what Mr. Frank says _goes_. His word is law. She thinks the worldof'm, an' well she may, for he's a thorerbred. The way he treats me, forinstants. You'd think I was the grandest lady in the land. He never seesme but it's, 'How d'do, Martha?' or, 'How's the childern an' Mr. Slawsonthese days?' He certainly has got grand ways with'm, Mr. Frank has. An'yet, he's never free. You wouldn't dare make bold with'm. His eyes hasa sort o' _keep-off-the-grass_ look gener'ly, but when he smiles down atyou, friendly-like, why, you wouldn't call the queen your cousin. Radcliffe knows he can't monkey with his uncle Frank, an' when he's by, butter wouldn't melt in that young un's mouth. But other times--my! Yousee, Mrs. Sherman is dead easy. She told me oncet, childern ought to bebrought up 'scientifically. ' Lord! She said they'd ought to be let_express their souls_, whatever she means by that. I told her I thoughtit was safer not to trust too much to the childern's souls, but to helpalong some occasional with your own--the sole of your slipper. It wasthen she said she 'abserlootly forbid' any one to touch Radcliffe. Shewanted him 'guided by love alone. ' Well, that's what he's been guidedwith, an', you can take it from me, love's made a hash of it, as itushally does when it ain't mixed with a little common sense. You'doughta see that fella's anticks when his mother, an' Lord Ronald, ain'tby. He'd raise the hair offn your head, if you hadn't a spear of itthere to begin with. He speaks to the help as if they was dirt under hisfeet, an' he'd as lief lie as look at you, an' always up to some newdevilment. It'd take your time to think fast enough to keep up with'm. But he ain't all bad--I don't believe no child _is_, not on your life, an' my idea is, he'd turn out O. K. If only he'd the right sort o'handlin'. Mr. Frank could do it--but when Lord Ronald is by, Radcliffeis a pet lamb--a little woolly wonder. You ast me why I call Mr. FrankLord Ronald. I never thought of it till one time when Cora said a pieceat a Sund'-School ent'tainment. I can't tell you what the piece was, for, to be perfectly honest, I was too took up, at the time, watchin'Cora's stockin', which was comin' down, right before the wholechurchful. It reely didn't, but I seen the garter hangin', an' I thoughtit would, any minute. I remember it was somethin' about a fella calledLord Ronald, who was a reel thorerbred, just like Mr. Frank is. Irecklect one of the verses went:

"'Lord Ronald had the lily-white dough--'

(to my way o' thinkin' it's no matter about the color, white or gold orjust plain, green paper-money, so long's you've _got_ it), anyhow, that's what it said in the piece--

"'Lord Ronald had the lily-white dough, Which he gave to his cousin, Lady Clare. '

Say, wasn't he generous?--'give to his cousin--Lady Clare'--an'--goodgracious! O, excuse me! I didn't mean to jolt your tray like that, but Ijust couldn't help flyin' up, for I got an idea! True as you live, I gotan idea!"

CHAPTER IV

It did not take long, once Claire was fairly on her feet again, toadjust herself to her new surroundings, to find her place and part inthe social economy of the little family-group where she was never for amoment made to feel an alien. She appropriated a share in the work ofthe household at once, insisting, to Martha's dismay, upon lending ahand mornings with the older children, who were to be got off to school, and with the three-year-old Sabina, who was to stay at home. Sheassisted with the breakfast preparations, and then, when the busy swarmhad flown for the day, she "turned to, " to Ma's delight, and got theplace "rid up" so it was "clean as a whistle an' neat as a pin. "

Ma was not what Martha approvingly called "a hustler. "

"Ma ain't thorer, " her daughter-in-law confided to Claire, withoutreproach. "She means well, but, as she says, her mind ain't fixed onthings below, an' when that's the case, the dirt is bound to settle. Mathinks you can run a fam'ly, readin' the Bible an' singin' hymns. Well, p'raps you can, only I ain't never dared try. When I married Sammy helooked dretful peaky, the fack bein' he hadn't never been properly fed, an' it's took me all of the goin'-on fifteen years now, we been livin'together, to get'm filled up accordin' to his appetite, which is heavy. You see, Ma never had any time to attend to such earthly matters ascookin' a square meal--but she's settin' out to have a lot of leisurewith the Lord. "

As for Ma, she found it pleasant to watch, from a comfortable distance, the work progressing satisfactorily, without any draft on her ownenergies. 

"Martha's a good woman, miss, " she observed judicially, in her detachedmanner, "but she is like the lady of her name we read about in theblessed Book. When _I_ set out in life, I chose the betther part, an'now I'm old, I have the faith to believe I'll have a front seat inheaven. I've knew throuble in me day. I raised ten childern, an' I hadthree felons, an' God knows I think I earned a front seat in heaven. "

Claire's pause, before she spoke, seemed to Ma to indicate she wasgiving the subject the weighty consideration it deserved. 

"According to that, it would certainly seem so. You have rheumatism, too, haven't you?" as if that might be regarded as an added guarantee ofspecial celestial reservation. 

Ma paled visibly. "No, miss. I don't never have the rheumatiz now--notso you'd notice it, " she said plaintively. "Oncet I'd it thurrbl, an' meson Sammy had it, too, loikewoise, fierce. I'd uster lay in bed moanin'an' cryin' till you'd be surprised, an' me son Sammy, he was a'most asbad. Well, for a week or two, Martha, she done for us the best she cud, I s'pose, but she didn't make for to stop the pain, an' at last onenight, when me son Sammy was gruntin', an' I was groanin' to beat theband, Martha, she up, all of a suddint, an' says she, she was goin' forto cure us of the rheumatiz, or know the reason why. An' she went, an'got the karrysene-can, an' she poured out two thurrbl big doses, an' shestood over me son Sammy an' I, till we swalleyed it down, an' since everwe tuk it, me an' Sammy ain't never had a retur-rn. Sometimes I have asharp twinge o' somethin' in me leg or me arrm, but it ain't rheumatiz, an' I wouldn't like for me son Sammy's wife to be knowin' it, for thevery sight of her startin' for the karrysene--if it's only to fill thelamp, is enough to make me gullup, an' I know it's the same wit' me sonSammy, though we never mention the subjeck between us. "

"But if your son didn't want to take the stuff, " Claire said, trying tohide her amusement, "why didn't he stand up and say so? He's a man. He'smuch bigger and stronger than his wife. How could she make him do whathe didn't want to?"

The question was evidently not a new one to Ma. 

"That's what annywan'd naturrly think, " she returned promptly. "Butthat's because they wouldn't be knowin' me son Sammy's wife. It ain'tsize, an' it ain't stren'th--it's just, well, _Martha_. There's thatabout her you wouldn't like to take any chances wit'. Perhaps it's thething manny does be talkin' of these days. Perhaps it's _that_ got aholt of her. Annyhow, she says she's _in_ for't. They does be callin' itWoman Sufferrich, I'm told. In my day a dacint body'd have thought shameto be discoursin' in public to the men. They held their tongues, an' lettheir betthers do the colloguein', but Martha says some of the ladiesshe works for says, if they talk about it enough the men will give themtheir rights, an' let 'em vote. I'm an old woman, an' I never had muchbook-learnin', but I'm thinkin' one like me son Sammy's wife has all therights she needs wit'out the votin'. She goes out worrkin', same's meson Sammy, day in, day out. She says Sammy could support _her_ goodenough, but she won't raise her childern in a teniment, along wit' th'low companions. Me son Sammy, he has it harrd these days. He'd not beable to pay for such a grrand flat as this, in a dacint, quietneighborhood, an' so Martha turrns to, an' lends a hand. An' wance, whenme son Sammy was sick, an' out av a job entirely, Martha, she run thewhole concern herself. She wouldn't let me son Sammy give up, or getdown-hearted, like he mighta done. She said it was her _right_ to carefor us all, an' him, too, bein' he was down an' out, like he was. Itseems to me that's fairrly all the rights anny woman'd want--to look outfor four childern, an' a man, an' a mother-in-law. But if Martha wantsto vote, too, why, I'm thinkin' she will. "

It was particularly encouraging to Claire, just at this time, to viewMartha in the light of one who did not know the meaning of the wordfail, for Mrs. Slawson had assured her that if she would give up allattempt to find employment on her own account, she, Mrs. Slawson, feltshe could safely promise to get her "a job that would be satisfacktryall round, only one must be a little pationate. "

But a week, ten days, had gone by, since Martha announced she had _anidea_, and still the idea had not materialized. Meanwhile, Claire hadample time to unpack her trunk and settle her belongings about her, so"the pretty lady's room" took on a look of real comfort, and thechildren never passed the door without pausing before the threshold, waiting with bated breath for some wonderful chance that would givethem a "peek" into the enchanted chamber. As a matter of fact, thetransformation was effected with singularly few "properties. " Some goodphotographs tastefully framed in plain, dark wood. A Baghdad rug leftover from her college days, some scraps of charming old textiles, andsuch few of the precious home trifles as could be safely packed in hertrunk. There was a daguerreotype of her mother, done when she was agirl. "As old-fashioned as your grandmother's hoopskirt, " Martha calledit. A sampler wrought by some ancient great-aunt, both aunt and samplerlong since yellowed and mellowed by the years. A della Robbia plaque, with its exquisite swaddled baby holding out eager arms, as if to betaken. A lacquer casket, a string of Egyptian mummy-beads--what seemedto the children an inexhaustible stock of wonderful, mysterioustreasures. 

But the object that appeared to interest their mother more than anythingelse in the whole collection, was a book of unmounted photographs, snap-shots taken by Claire at college, during her travels abroad, somefew, even, here in the city during those first days when she had dreamedit was easy to walk straight into an art-editorship, and no questionsasked. 

Mrs. Slawson scrutinized the prints with an earnestness so eager thatClaire was fairly touched, until she discovered that here was no achinghunger for knowledge, no ungratified yearning "for to admire and for tosee, for to be'old this world so wide, " but just what looked like aperfectly feminine curiosity, and nothing more. 

"Say, ain't it a pity you ain't any real good likeness of you?" Marthadeplored. "These is so aggeravatin'. They don't show you up at all. Justa taste-like, an' then nothin' to squench the appetite. "

"That sounds as if I were an entrée or something, " laughed Claire. "But, you see, I don't want to be _shown up_, Martha. I couldn't abear it, asmy friend, Sairy Gamp, would say. When I was little, my naughty bigbrother used to tease me dreadfully about my looks. He invented the mostembarrassing nicknames for me; he alluded to my features with every sortof disrespect. It made me horribly conscious of myself, a thing noproperly-constituted kiddie ought ever to be, of course. And I've neverreally got over the feeling that I am a 'sawed-off, ' that my nose is'curly, ' and my hair's a wig, and that the least said about the rest ofme, the better. But if you'd actually like to see something my people athome consider rather good, why, here's a little tinted photograph I haddone for my dear Daddy, the last Christmas he was with us. He liked it, and that's the reason I carry it about with me--because he wore it onhis old-fashioned watch-chain. "

She put into Martha's hand a thin, flat, dull-gold locket. 

Mrs. Slawson opened it, and gave a quick gasp of delight--the sound oftriumph escaping one who, having diligently sought, has satisfactorilyfound. "Like it!" Martha ejaculated. 

Claire deliberated a moment, watching the play of expression on Martha'smobile face. "If you like it as much as all that, " she said at last, "Iwish you'd take it and keep it. It seems conceited--priggish--to supposeyou'd care to own it, but if you really _would_ care to--"

Mrs. Slawson closed one great, finely-formed, work-hardened fist overthe delicate treasure, with a sort of ecstatic grab of appropriation. "Care to own it! You betcher life! There's nothin' you could give me I'dcare to own better, " she said with honest feeling, then and there tyingits slender ribbon about her neck, and slipping the locket inside herdress, as if it had been a precious amulet. 

The day following saw her started bright and early for work at theShermans'. When she arrived at the area-gate and rang, there was noresponse, and though she waited a reasonable time, and then rang andrang again, nobody answered the bell. 

"They must be up, " she said, settling down to business with a steadythumb on the electric button. "What ails the bunch o' them in thekitchen, I should like to know. It'd be a pity to disturb Eliza. Shemight be busy, gettin' herself an extry cup o' coffee, an' couple o'fried hams-an'-eggs, to break her fast before breakfast. But that gayyoung sprig of a kitchen-maid, _she_ might answer the bell an' open thedoor to an honest woman. "

The _gay young sprig_ still failing of her duty, and Martha's patiencegiving out at last, the _honest woman_ began to tamper with thespring-lock of the iron gate. For any one else, it would never haveyielded, but it opened to Martha's hand, as with the dull submission ofthe conquered. 

Mrs. Slawson closed the gate after her with care. "I'll just steplight, " she said to herself, "an' steal in on 'em unbeknownst, an' give'em as good a scare as ever they had in their lives--the whole lazy lotof 'em. "

But, like Mother Hubbard's cupboard, the kitchen was bare, and no soulwas to be found in the laundry, the pantry or, in fact, anywherethroughout the basement region. Softly, and with some real misgivingnow, Martha made her way upstairs. Here, for the first time, shedistinguished the sound of a human voice breaking the early morning hushof the silent house. It was Radcliffe's voice issuing, evidently, fromthe dining-room, in which imposing apartment he chose to have hisbreakfast served in solitary grandeur every morning, what time the restof his family still slept. 

Martha, pausing on her way up, peeped around the edge of the half-closeddoor, and then stopped short. 

Along the wall, ranged up in line, like soldiers facing their captain, or victims of a hold-up their captor, stood the householdservants--portly Shaw the butler, Beatrice the parlor-maid, Eliza the"chef-cook"--all, down to the gay young sprig, aforesaid, who, as Marthahad explained to her family in strong disapproval, "was engaged to doscullerywork, an' then didn't even know how to scull. " Before them, inan attitude of command, not to say menace, stood Radcliffe, brandishinga carving-knife which, in his cruelly mischievous little hand, became aweapon full of dangerous possibilities. 

"Don't dare to budge, any one of you, " he breathed masterfully to hiscowed regiment. "Get back there, you Shaw! An', Beetrice, if you don'tmind me, I'll carve your ear off. You better be afraid of me, all ofyou, an' mind what I say, or I'll take this dagger, an' dag the lifeout of you! You're all my servants--you're all my slaves! D'you hearme!"

Evidently they did, and not one of them cared or dared to stir. 

For a second Radcliffe faced them in silence, before beginning to marchNapoleonically back and forth, his savage young eye alert, his naughtyhand brandishing the knife threateningly. A second, and then, suddenly, without warning, the scene changed, and Radcliffe was a squirming, wriggling little boy, shorn of his power, grasped firmly in a grip fromwhich there was no chance of escape. 

"Shame on you!" exclaimed Martha indignantly, addressing the spellboundline, staring at her blankly. "Shame on you! To stand there gawkin', an'never raisin' a finger to this poor little fella, an' him just perishin'for the touch of a real mother's hand. Get out of this--the whole crowdo' you, " and before the force of her righteous wrath they fled as chaffbefore the wind. Then, quick as the automatic click of a monstrousspring, the hitherto unknown--the supposed-to-be-impossible--befellRadcliffe Sherman. He was treated as if he had been an iron girder onwhich the massive clutch of a steam-lift had fastened. He was raised, lowered, laid across what seemed to be two moveless iron trestles, andthen the weight as of a mighty, relentless paddle, beat down upon himonce, twice, thrice--and he knew what it was to suffer. 

The whole thing was so utterly novel, so absolutely unexpected, that forthe first instant he was positively stunned with surprise. Then theknowledge that he was being spanked, that an unspeakable indignity washappening him, made him clinch his teeth against the sobs that rose inhis throat, and he bore his punishment in white-faced, shiveringsilence. 

When it was over, Martha stood him down in front of her, holding himfirmly against her knees, and looked him squarely in the eyes. Hiscolorless, quivering lips gave out no sound. 

"You've got off easy, " observed Mrs. Slawson benevolently. "If you'dbeen my boy Sammy, you'd a got about twict as much an' three times asthora. As it is, I just kinder favored you--give you a lick an' apromise, as you might say, seein' it's you and you ain't used toit--_yet_. Besides, I reely like you, an' want you to be a good boy. But, if you should need any more at any other time, why, you can take itfrom me, I keep my hand in on Sammy, an' practice makes perfect. "

She released the two small, trembling hands, rose to her feet, and madeas if to leave the room. Then for the first time Radcliffe spoke. 

"S-say, " he breathed with difficulty, "s-say--are you--are you goin' to_t-tell?_"

Martha paused, regarding him and his question with due concern. "Tell?"

"Are y-you going to--t-tell on me, t-to ev-everybody? Are y-you going tot-tell--S-Sammy?"

"Shoor I'm not! I'm a perfect lady! I always keep such little affairswith my gen'lemen friends strickly confidential. Besides--Sammy hastroubles of his own. "

CHAPTER V

All that day, Martha held herself in readiness to answer at headquartersfor what she had done. 

"He'll shoor tell his mother, the young villyan, " said Eliza. "An' thenit'll be Mrs. Slawson for the grand bounce. "

But Mrs. Slawson did not worry. She went about her work as usual, andwhen, in the course of her travels, she met Radcliffe, she greeted himas if nothing had happened. 

"Say, did you know that Sammy has a dog?"

No answer. 

"It's a funny kind o' dog. If you begged your head off, I'd never tellyou where he come from. "

"Where did he come from?"

"Didn't you hear me say I'd never tell you? I do' know. He just pickedSammy's father up on the street, an' follered him home, for all theworld the same's he'd been a Christian. "

"What kind of dog is he?"

"Cur-dog. "

"What kind's that?"

"Well, a full-blooded cur-dog is somethin' rare in these parts. Youwouldn't find him at an ordinary dog-show, like your mother goes to. Now, Sammy's dog is full-blooded--leastways, he will be, when he's fedup. "

"My mother's dog is a _pedigree-dog_. Is Sammy's that kind?"

"I ain't ast him, but I shouldn't wonder. "

"My mother's got a paper tells all about where Fifi came from. It's in aframe. "

"Fifi is?"

"No, the paper is. The paper says Fifi is out of a deller, sired byStar. I heard her read it off to a lady that came to see her one day. Say, Martha, what's a _deller?_"

"I do' know. "

"Fifi has awful long ears. What kind of ears has Sammy's dog got?"

"I didn't notice partic'lar, I must say. But he's got two of 'em, an'they can stand up, an' lay down, real natural-like, accordin' totaste--the dog's taste, which wouldn't be noways remarkable, if it washis tongue, but is what _I_ call extraordinary, seein' it's his _ears_. An' his tail's the same, exceptin' it has even more education still. Itcan wag, besides standin' up an' layin' down. Ain't that pretty smartfor a pup, that prob'ly didn't have no raisin' to speak of, 'less youcount raisin' on the toe of somebody's boot?"

"D'you mean anybody kicked him?"

"Well, he ain't said so, in so many words, but I draw my ownconclusions. He's an honorable, gentlemanlike dog. He keeps his owncounsel. If it so happened that he'd needed to be punished at any time, he'd bear it like a little man, an' hold his tongue. You don't catch areel thorerbred whinin'. "

"I wish I could see Sammy's dog. "

"Well, p'raps you can. But I'll tell you confidential, I wouldn't likeFlicker to 'sociate with none but the best class o' boys. I'm goin' tosee he has a fine line of friends from this time on, an' if Sammy ain'twhat he'd oughter be, why, he just can't mix with Flicker, that's allthere is _to_ it!"

"Who gave him that name?"

"'His sponsers in baptism--' Ho! Hear me! Recitin' the Catechism! I'msuch a good 'Piscopalian I just can't help it! A little lady-friend ofmine gave him that name, 'cause he flickers round so--so like a littleyeller flame. Did I mention his color was yeller? That alone would showhe's a true-breed cur-dog. "

"Say, I forgot--my mother she--she sent me down to tell you she wants tosee you right away up in her sittin'-room. I guess you better go quick. "

Mrs. Slawson ceased plying her polishing-cloth upon the hardwood floor, sat back upon her heels, and calmly gathered her utensils together. 

"Say, my mother she said tell you she wanted to see you right off, forsomething particular. Ain't you goin' to hurry?"

"Shoor I am. Certaintly. "

"You don't look as if you was hurrying. "

"When you get to be a big boy, and have a teacher to learn youknowledge, you'll find that large bodies moves slowly. I didn't have asmuch schoolin' as I'd like, but what I learned I remember, an' I put itinto practice. That's where the use of books comes in--to be put inpractice. Now, I'm a large body, an' if I tried to move fast I'd begoin' against what's printed in the books, which would be wrong. Still, if a lady sends for me post-haste, why, of course, I makes an exceptionan' answers in the same spirit. So long! See you later!"

Radcliffe had no mind to remain behind. Something subtly fascinating inMartha seemed to draw him after her, and he followed on upstairs, swinging himself athletically along, hand over hand, upon thebaluster-rail, almost at her heels. 

"Say, don't you wonder what it is my mother's goin' to say to you?" hedemanded disingenuously. 

Mrs. Slawson shook her head. "Wonderin' is a habit I broke myself offof, when I wasn't knee-high to a grasshopper, " she replied. "I takethings as they come, not to mention as they go. Either way suits me, an' annyhow I don't wonder about 'em. If it's somethin' good, why, it'llkeep. An' if it's somethin' bad, wonderin' won't make it any better. Sowhat's the use?"

"Guess I'll go on up, an' see my grandmother in her room, " observedRadcliffe casually, as they reached Mrs. Sherman's door. "I won't go inhere with you. "

"Dear me, how sorry I am!" Martha returned with feeling. "I'd kindercounted on you for--for what they calls moral support, that bein' thekind the male gender is mainly good for, these days. But, of course, ifyou ain't been invited, it wouldn't be genteel for you to pressyourself. I can understand your feelin's. They does credit to your headan' to your heart. As I said before--so long! See you later. "

The door having closed her in, Radcliffe lingered aimlessly about, outside. Without, of course, being able to analyze it, he felt as ifsome rare source of entertainment had been withdrawn from him, leavinglife flat and tasteless. He felt like being, what his mother called, "fractious, " but--he remembered, as in a flash, "you never catch athorerbred whinin', " and he snapped his jaws together with manlydetermination. 

At Martha's entrance, Mrs. Sherman glanced up languidly from the bookshe was reading, and inquired with pointed irony, "You didn't find itconvenient to come to me directly I sent for you, did you, Martha?"

Mrs. Slawson closed the door behind her gently, then stood planted likesome massive caryatid supporting the frame. Something monumental in theeffect of her presence made the question just flung at her seem petty, impudent, and Mrs. Sherman hastened to add more considerately, "But Isent Radcliffe with my message. No doubt he delayed. "

"No'm, " admitted Martha, "he told me all right enough, but I was in themiddle o' polishin'. It took me a minute or two to get my thingscollected, an' then it took me a couple more to get _me_ collected, but--better late than never, as the sayin' goes, which, by the sametoken, I don't believe it's always true. "

There was not the faintest trace of apology or extenuation in her toneor manner. If she had any misgivings as to the possibility ofRadcliffe's having complained, she gave no evidence of it. 

"What I want to say is this, " announced Mrs. Sherman autocratically, making straight for the point. "I absolutely forbid any one in myhousehold to touch--"

Martha settled herself more firmly on her feet and crossed her arms withunconscious dignity upon her bosom, bracing herself against the comingblow. 

"I absolutely forbid any one in my household to touch the new marbleslabs and nickel fittings in my dressing-rooms with cleaning stuffscontaining acids, after this. I have gone to great expense to have thehouse remodeled this summer, and the bathrooms have all been tiled andfitted up afresh, from beginning to end. I know that, in the past, youhave used acid, gritty soaps on the basins and tubs, Martha, and myplumber tells me you mustn't do it. He says it's ruinous. He recommendskerosene oil for the bath-tubs and marble slabs. He says it will takeany stain out, and is much safer than the soaps. So please use keroseneto remove the stains--"

Mrs. Slawson relaxed. Without the slightest hint of incivility sheinterrupted cheerfully, "An' does your plumber mention what'll removethe stink--I _should_ say, _odor_, of the karrysene?"

Mrs. Sherman laughed. "Dear me, no. I'm afraid that's _up to_ you, asRadcliffe says. "

"O, I ain't no doubt it can be done, an' even if it can't, the smell o'karrysene is healthy, an' you wouldn't mind a faint whifft of it now an'then, clingin' to you, comin' outer your bath, would you? Or if you did, you might set over against the oil-smell one o' them strong bath-powdersthat's like the perfumery-counter in a department-store broke loose, an' let 'em fight it out between 'em. To my way o' thinkin', it'd be a_tie_, an' no thanks to your nose. "

"Well, I only follow the plumber's directions. He guarantees his workand materials, but he says acids will roughen the surface ofanything--enamel or marble or whatever it may be. I'm sure you'll becareful in the future, now I have spoken, and--er--how are you gettingon these days? How are you and your husband and the children?"

"Tolerable, thank you. Sammy, my husband, he ain't been earnin' as muchas usual lately, but I says to him, when he's downhearted-like becausehe can't hand out the price o' the rent, 'Say, you ain't fished up muchof anythin' certaintly, but count your blessin's. You ain't fell in theriver either. ' An' be this an' be that, we make out to get along. Wenever died a winter yet. "

"Dear me, I should think a great, strapping man ought to be able tosupport his family without having to depend on his wife to go out by theday. "

"My husband does his best, " said Martha with simple dignity. "He doeshis best, but things goes contrairy with some, no doubt o' that. "

"O, the thought of the day would not bear you out there, I assure you!"Mrs. Sherman took her up quickly. "Science teaches us that ourcondition in life reflects our character. We get the results of what weare in our environment. You understand? In other words, each receiveshis desert. I hope I am clear? I mean, what he deserves. "

Martha smiled, a slow, calm, tolerant smile. "You are perfeckly clear, "she said reassuringly. "Only I ain't been educated up to seein' thingsthat way. Seems to me, if everybody got their dessert, as you calls it, some o' them that's feedin' so expensive now at the grand hotelswouldn't have a square meal. It's the ones that ain't _earned_ 'em, _havin'_ the square meal _and_ the dessert, that puts a good man, likemy Sammy, out o' a job. But that's neither here nor there. It's allbound to come right some day--only meanwhiles, I wish livin' wasn't sohigh. What with good steak twenty-eight cents a pound, an' its bein' asmuch as your life is worth to even ast the price o' fresh vegetables, ittakes some contrivin' to get along. Not to speak o' potatas twenty-fivecents the half-peck, an' every last one o' my fam'ly as fond of 'em asif they was fresh from Ireland, instead o' skippin' a generation on bothsides. "

"But, my good woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Sherman, shocked, "what _do_ youmean by talking of porterhouse steak and fresh vegetables this time ofyear? Oughtn't you to economize? Isn't it extravagant for you to usesuch expensive cuts of meat? I'm sure there are others that arecheaper--more suited to your--your income. "

"Certaintly there is. Chuck steak is cheap. Chuck steak's so cheap thatabout all it costs you is a few cents to the butcher, an' the price ofthe store teeth you need, after you've broke your own tryin' to chew it. But, you see, my notion is, to try to give my fam'ly the sort o' stuffthat's nourishin'. Not just somethin' to _eat_, but _food_. I don'tbelieve their stummicks realize they belong to poor folks. I'm notenvyin' the rich, mind you. Dear no! I wouldn't be hired to clutter upmy insides with the messes I see goin' up to the tables of some I workfor. Cocktails, an' entrys, an' foody-de-gra-gra, an' suchlike. No! Ibelieve in reel, straight nourishment. The things that builds up yourbones, an' gives you red blood, an' good muscle, so's you can hold downyour job, an' hold up your head. I believe in payin' for that kind o'food, if I _do_ have to work for it. "

Mrs. Sherman took up the book she had dropped at Martha's entrance. 

"You certainly are a character, " she observed. 

"Thank you, 'm, " said Martha. 

"O, and by the way, before you go--I want you to see that Mr. Ronald'srooms are put in perfect order to-day. I don't care to trust it to thegirls, but you can have one of them to help you, if you like, providedyou are sure to oversee her. You know how particular I am about mybrother Frank's rooms. Be sure nothing is neglected. "

"Yes'm, " said Martha. 

CHAPTER VI

The next morning Eliza met her at the area-gate, showing a face ofominous sympathy, wagging a doleful head. 

"What'd I tell you?" she exclaimed before she had even unlatched thespring-lock. "That young villyan has a head on him old enough to be hisfather's, if so be he ever had one. He's deep as a well. He didn't tellhis mother on ye yesterday mornin', but he done worse--the little fox!He told his uncle Frank when he got home last night. Leastways, Mr. Shawgot a message late in the evenin' from upstairs, which was, to tell Mrs. Slawson, Mr. Ronald wanted to see her after his breakfast this mornin', an' be sure she didn't forget. "

Mrs. Slawson received the news with a smile as of such actual welcome, that Eliza, who flattered herself she knew a thing or two about humannature, was rather upset in her calculations. 

"You look like you _relish_ bein' bounced, " she observed tartly. 

"Well, if I'm goin' to get my walkin'-papers, I'd rather get 'em fromMr. Frank than from anybody else. There's never any great loss withoutsome small gain. At least, if Mr. Frank is dischargin' me, he's noticin'I'm alive, an' that's somethin' to be thankful for. "

"That's _as_ you look at it!" snapped Eliza. "Mr. Frank is all rightenough, but I must say I'd rather keep my place than have even him kickme out. An' you look as if his sendin' for you was to say you'd come infor a fortune. "

"P'raps it is, " said Martha. "You never can tell. "

"Well, if _I_ was makin' tracks for fortunes, I wouldn't start in on Mr. Frank Ronald, " Eliza observed cuttingly. 

"Which might be exackly where you'd slip up on it, " Martha returned witha bland smile. 

And yet, in reality, she was by no means so composed as she appeared. She felt as might one who, moved by a great purpose, had rashly usurpedthe prerogative of fate and set in motion mighty forces that, if theydid not make for success, might easily make for disaster. She had verydefinitely stuck her thumb into somebody else's pie, and if her laudableintention was to draw forth a plum, not for herself but for the other, why, that was no proof that, in the end, she might not get smartlyscorched for her pains. 

When the summons to the dining-room actually came, Martha felt such anunsubstantiality in the region of her knee-joints, that for a moment shealmost believed the bones had turned into breadcrumbs. Thenenergetically she shook herself into shape, spurning her momentaryweakness from her, with an almost visible gesture, and marched forwardto meet what awaited her. 

Shaw had removed the breakfast dishes from the table beside which "LordRonald" sat alone. It was all very imposing, the place, the particularpurpose for which she had been summoned, and which was, as yet, unrevealed to her, the _person_, most of all. 

Martha thought that perhaps she had been a little hard on Cora, "thetime she give her the tongue-lashin' for stumblin' over the first linesof her piece, that evenin' of the Sund'-School ent'tainment. It wasn'tso dead easy as a body might think, to stand up to a whole churchful o'people, or even one person, when he was the kind that's as good (or asbad) as a whole churchful. "

Martha could see her now, as she stood then, announcing to the assembledmultitude in a high, unmodulated treble:

_"It was the t-time when l-lilies bub-blow"_

"an' her stockin' fixin' to come down any min'ute!"

"Ah, Martha, good-morning!"

At the first sound of his voice Mrs. Slawson recovered her poise. That_wouldn't-call-the-queen-your-cousin_ feeling came over her again, andshe was ready to face the music, whatever tune it might play. Sosusceptible is the foolish spirit of mortal to those subtle, impalpableinfluences of atmosphere that we try to describe, in terms of inexactscience, as personality, vibration, aura, magnetism. 

"I asked to see you, Martha, because Radcliffe tells me--"

Martha's heart sank within her. So it was Radcliffe and the _grandbounce_ after all, and not--Well, it was a pity! After all her thinkin'it out, an' connivin', an' contrivin', to have nothin' come of it! To besent off before she had time to see the thing through!

"Radcliffe tells me, " continued the clear, mellow voice, penetrating themist of her meditations, "that you own a very rare, a very unusual breedof dog. I couldn't make out much from Radcliffe's description, butapparently the dog is a pedigree animal. "

Mrs. Slawson's shoulders, in her sudden revulsion of feeling, shook withsoundless mirth. 

"Pedigree animal!" she repeated. "Certaintly! Shoor, he's a pedigreeanimal. He's had auntsisters as far back as any other dog, an' that's afack. What's the way they put it? 'Out of' the gutter, 'sired by'Kicks. You never see a little yeller, mongol, cur-dog, sir, that'syellerer or cur-er than him. I'd bet my life his line ain't never beencrossed by anythin' different, since the first pup o' them all set outto run his legs off tryin' to get rid o' the tin-can tied to his tail. But Flicker's a winner, for all that, an' he's goin' to keep my boySammy in order, better'n I could ever do it. You see, I just has to hintto Sammy that if he ain't proper-behaved I won't let Flicker 'sociatewith'm, an' he's as good as pie. I wouldn't be without that dog, sir, now I got intimately acquainted with him, for--"

"That touches the question I was intending to raise, " interposed Mr. Ronald. "You managed to get Radcliffe's imagination considerably stirredabout Flicker, and the result is, he has asked me to see if I can't cometo an understanding with you. He wants me to buy Flicker. "

Martha's genial smile faded. "Why, goodness gracious, Lor--I _should_say, _Mr. _ Ronald, the poor little rascal, dog rather, ain't worth twocents. He's just a young flagrant pup, you wouldn't be bothered tonotice, 'less you had the particular likin' for such things we got. "

"Radcliffe wants Flicker. I'll give you ten dollars for him. "

"I--I couldn't take it, Mr. Ronald, sir. It wouldn't be fair to you!"

"Fifteen dollars. "

"It ain't the money--"

"Twenty!"

"I--I can't!"

"Twenty-five dollars, Martha. Radcliffe's heart is set on the dog. "

A quick observer, looking attentively at Mrs. Slawson's face, could haveseen something like a faint quiver disturb the firm lines of her lipsand chin for a moment. A flash, and it was gone. 

"I'd _give_ you the dog, an' welcome, Mr. Ronald, " she said presently, "but I just can't do it. The little feller, he never had a square dealbefore, an' because my husband an' the rest of us give it to him, heloves us to death, an' you'd think he'd bark his head off for joy whenthe raft o' them gets home after school. An' then, nights--(I benworkin' overtime lately, doin' outside jobs that bring me homelate)--nights, when I come back, an' all in the place is abed an'asleep, an' I let myself in, in the black an' the cold, the only livin'creature to welcome me is Flicker. An' there he stands, up an' ready forme, the minute he hears my key in the lock, an' when I open the door, an' light the changelier (he don't dare let a bark out of'm, he knowsbetter, the smart little fella!), there he stands, a-waggin' his stumpof a tail like a Christian, an'--Mr. Ronald, sir--that wag ain't forsale!"

For a moment something akin in both held them silent. Then Mr. Ronaldslowly inclined his head. "You are quite right, Martha. I understandyour feeling. "

Martha turned to go. She had, in fact, reached the door when she wasrecalled. 

"O--one moment, please. "

She came back. 

"My sister tells me you worked in my rooms yesterday. Was any one therewith you at the time?"

"No, sir. Mrs. Sherman said I might have one of the girls, but I perferto see to your things myself. "

"Then you were quite alone?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Do you know if any one else in the household had occasion to go into myrooms during the day?"

"Of course I can't be pos'tive. But I don't think so, sir. "

"Then I wonder if this belongs to you?" He extended his hand toward her. In his palm lay a small, flat, gold locket. 

Something like the faintest possible electric shock passed up Mrs. Slawson's spine, and contracted the muscles about her mouth. For asecond she positively grinned, then quickly her face regained itscustomary calm. With a clever, if slightly tardy, movement, her handwent up to her throat. 

"Yes, sir--shoor, it's mine! Now what do you think of that! Me losin'somethin' I think the world an' all of, an' have wore for, I do' knowhow long, an' never missin' it!"

Mr. Ronald's eyes shot out a quick, quizzical gleam. 

"O, you have been accustomed to wear it?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Mrs. Sherman tells me she never remembers to have seen you with anysort of ornament, even a gold pin. She thought the locket could notpossibly belong to you. "

"Well, it does. An' the reason she hasn't noticed me wearin' it is, Iwear it under my waist, see?"

Again Mr. Ronald fixed her with his keen eyes. "I see. You wear it underyour waist. Of course, that explains why she hasn't noticed it. Yet, _if_ you wear it under your waist, how came it to get out from under andbe on my desk?"

Martha's face did not change beneath his scrutiny. During a rather longmoment she was silent, then her answer came glibly enough. 

"When I'm workin' I'm ap' to get het-up, an' then I sometimes undoes theneck o' my waist, an' turns it back to give me breathin'-room. "

Mr. Ronald accepted it gravely. "Well, it is a very pretty locket, Martha--and a very pretty face inside it. Of course, as the trinket wasin my room, and as there was no name or sign on the outside to identifyit, I opened it. I hope you don't mind. "

"Certainly not, " Martha assured him. "Certainly not!"

"The inscription on the inside puzzles me. 'Dear Daddy, from Claire. 'Now, assuredly, you're not _dear Daddy, _ Martha. "

Mrs. Slawson laughed. "Not on your life, I ain't _Dear Daddy, _ sir. DearDaddy was Judge Lang of Grand Rapids--you know, where the furnitur' an'the carpet-sweepers comes from--He died about a year ago, an' MissClaire, knowin' how much store I set by her, an' how I'd prize herpicture, she give me the locket, as you see it. "

"You say Grand Rapids?--the young lady, Miss Claire, as you call her, lives in Grand Rapids?"

"Yes, sir. "

"I suppose you think I am very inquisitive, asking so many questions, but the fact is, I am extremely interested. You will see why, when Iexplain that several weeks ago, one day downtown, I saw a little girl--ayoung lady--who might have been the original of this very picture, theresemblance is so marked. But, of course, if your young lady lives inGrand Rapids, she can't be my little girl--I should say, the young womanI saw here in New York City. But if they were one and the same, theycouldn't look more alike. The only difference I can see, is that theoriginal of your picture is evidently a prosperous 'little sister of therich, ' and the original of mine--the one I've carried in my mind--is abreadwinner. She was employed in an office where I had occasion to goone day on business. The next time I happened to drop in there--a fewdays later--she was gone. I was sorry. That office was no place for her, but I would have been glad to find her there, that I might have placedher somewhere else, in a safer, better position. I hope she has come tono harm. "

Martha hung fire a moment. Then, suddenly, her chin went up, as with theimpulse of a new resolve. 

"I'll be open an' aboveboard with you, sir, " she said candidly. "Theworld is certaintly small, an' the way things happen is a caution. Now, who'd ever have thought that you'd 'a' seen my Miss Claire, but I trulybelieve you have. For after her father died she come to New York, thepoor lamb! for to seek her fortune, an' her as innercent an'unsuspectin' as my Sabina, who's only three this minit. She tried herhand at a lot o' things, an' thank God an' her garden-angel for keepin'her from harm, for as delicate an' pretty as she is, she can't _help_attractin' attention, an' you know what notions some as calls themselvesgen'lemen has, in this town. Well, Miss Claire is livin' under my roof, an' you can betcher life I'm on the job--relievin' her garden-angel o'the pertectin' end o' the business. But Miss Claire's that proud an'inderpendent-like she ain't contented to be idle. She's bound to makeher own livin', which, she says, it's everybody's dooty to do, some waysor other. So my eye's out, as you might say, for a place where she canteach, like she's qualified to do. Did I tell you, she's a college lady, an' has what she calls a 'degree, ' which I didn't know before anythin'but Masons like himself had 'em. 

"You oughter see how my boy Sammy gets his lessons, after she's learned'em to him. She's a wizard at managin' boys. My Sammy useter to be up toall sorts o' mischief. They was a time he took to playin' hookey. He'dmarch off mornin's with his sisters, bold as brass, an' when lunchtimecome, in he'd prance, same as them, an' nobody ever doubtin' he hadn'tbeen to his school. An' all the time, there he was playin' in the openlots with a gang o' poor little neglected dagos. I noticed him comin' inevenin's kinder dissipated-lookin', but I hadn't my wits about me enoughto be onto'm, till his teacher sent me a note one day, by his sisterCora, askin' what was ailin' Sammy. That night somethin' ailed Sammy forfair. He stood up to his dinner, an' he wouldn't 'a' had a cravin' toset down to his breakfast next mornin', only Francie put a pilla in hischair. But Miss Claire, she's got him so bewitched, he'd break his heartbefore he'd do what she wouldn't like. The thought of her goin' awaymakes him sick to his stummick, the poor fella! Yet, it ain't to besupposed anybody so smart, an' so good-lookin' as her, but would besnapped up quick by them as has the sense to see the worth of her. There's no question about her gettin' a job, the only worry _I_ have isher gettin' one that will take her away from this, out of New York City, where I can't see her oncet in a while. She's the kind you'd miss, likeyou would a front tooth. You feel you can't get on without her, an' truefor you, you can't. But, beggin' your pardon, sir, for keepin' you solong with my talkin'. If that's all, I'll get to my work. "

"That is all, " said Mr. Ronald, "except--" He rose and handed her thelocket. 

She took it from him with a smile of perfect good-fellowship, and passedfrom the room. Once outside the threshold, with the door closed uponher, she drew a long, deep breath of relief. 

"Well, I'm glad _that's_ over, an' I got out of it with a whole skin, "she ruminated. "Lord, but I thought he had me shoor, when he took me upabout how the thing got out o' me dress, with his gimlet eyes neverstirrin' from my face, an' me tremblin' like an ashpan. If I hadn't 'a'had my wits about me, I do' know where I'd 'a' come out. But all's wellthat ends swell, as Miss Claire says, an' bless her heart, it's heras'll end swell, if what I done this day takes root, an' I believe itwill. "

CHAPTER VII

When Martha let herself into her flat that night, she was welcomed byanother beside Flicker. 

"You _naughty_ Martha!" whispered Claire. "What do you mean by cominghome so late, all tired out and worked to death! It is shameful! Buthere's a good cup of hot chocolate, and some big plummy buns to cheeryou up. And I've got some good news for you besides. I didn't mean totell right off, but I just can't keep in for another minute. _I've got ajob!_ A fine, three-hundred-dollars-a-year-and-home-and-laundry job! Anda raise, as soon as I show I'm worth it! Now, what do you think of that?Isn't it splendid? Isn't it--_bully_?"

She had noiselessly guided Martha into her own room, got her things off, and seated her in a comfortable Morris chair before the lightedoil-stove, from whose pierced iron top a golden light gleamed cheerily, reflecting on the ceiling above in a curious pattern. 

"Be careful of the chocolate, it's burning hot. I kept it simmering tillI heard you shut the vestibule door. And--O, yes! No danger in sippingit that way! But you haven't asked a single thing about my job. How Icame to know of it in the first place, and how I was clever enough toget it after I'd applied! You don't look a bit pleased and excited overit, you bad Martha! And you ought to be so glad, because I won't need tospend anything _like_ all the money I'll get. I'm to have my home andlaundry free, and one can't make many outside expenses in aboarding-school 'way off in Schoharie--and so I can send you a lot and alot of dollars, till we're all squared up and smoothed out, and youwon't have to work so hard any more, and--"

"Say now, Miss Claire, you certaintly are the fastest thing on record. If you'd been born a train, you'd been an express, shoor-pop an' nomistake. Didn't I tell you to hold on, pationate an' uncomplainin', tillI giv' you the sign? Didn't I say I had my eye on a job for you that wasa job worth talkin' about? One that'd be satisfactry all around. Well, then! An' here you are, tellin' me about you goin' to the old Harry, orsome such, with home an' laundry thrown in. Not on your life you ain't, Miss Claire, an' that (beggin' your pardon!) is all there is _to_ it!"

"But, Martha--"

"Don't let's waste no more words. The thing ain't to be thought of. "

"But, Martha, it's over two weeks since you said that, about having anidea about a certain job for me that was going to be so splendid. Don'tyou know it is? And I thought it had fallen through. I didn't like tospeak about it, for fear you'd think I was hurrying you, but two weeksare two weeks, and I can't go on indefinitely staying here, and gettingso deep in debt I'll never be able to get out again. And I saw thisadvertisement in _The Outlook. _ 'Twas for a college graduate to teachHigh School English in a girls' boarding-school, and I went to theagency, and they were very nice, and told me to write to the Principal, and I did--told her all about myself, my experience tutoring, and allthat, and this morning came the letter saying she'd engage me. I cantell you all about Schoharie, Martha. It's 'up-state' and--"

"Miss Claire, child, no! It won't do. I can't consent. I can't have youthrowin' away golden opportoonities to work like a toojan for them as'llstint you in the wash, an' prob'ly give you oleo-margerine instead ofbutter, an' cold-storage eggs that had forgot there was such a thing asa hen, long before they ever was laid away. I wasn't born yesterday, myself, an' I know how they treat the teachers in some o' them schools. The young-lady scholars, so stylish an' rich, as full of airs as amusic-box, snubbin' the teacher because they're too ignorant to know howsmart _she_ has to be, to get any knowledge into their stupid heads, an' the Principal always eyein' you like a minx, 'less you might bewastin' her precious time an' not earnin' the elegant sal'ry she givesyou, includin' your home an' laundry. O my! I know a thing or two aboutthem schools, an' a few other places. No, Miss Claire, dear, it won'tdo. An' besides, I have you bespoke for Mrs. Sherman. The last thingbefore I come away from the house this night, she sent for me upstairs, an' ast me didn't I know some one could engage with her forRadcliffe--to learn him his lessons, an' how to be a little lady, an'suchlike. She wants, as you might say, a trained mother for'm, while hisown untrained one is out gallivantin' the streets, shoppin', an' playin'bridge, an' attendin' the horse-show. 

"I hemmed an' hawed an' scratched my head to see if, happen, I did knowanybody suitable, an' after a while (not to seem to make you too cheap, or not to look like I was jumpin' down her throat) I told her: 'Curiousenough, I do know just the one I think will please you--_if_ you can gether. '

"Then she ast me a lot about you, an' I told her what I know, an' forthe rest I trusted to Providence, an' in the end we made a sorterdeal--so's it's all fixed you're to go there day after to-morrer, totalk to her, an' let her look you over. An' if you're the kind o' stuffshe wants, she'll take a half-a-dozen yards o' you, which is the kind o'way those folks has with people they pay money to. I promised Mrs. Sherman you'd come, an' I couldn't break my word to her, now could I?I'd be like to lose my own job if I did, an' I'm sure you wouldn't astthat o' me!"

"But, " said Claire, troubled, "you told me Radcliffe is sounmanageable. "

Mrs. Slawson devoted herself to her chocolate and buns for a moment ortwo. "O, never you fear about Radcliffe, " she announced at length. "He'sa good little fella enough, as little fellas goes. When you know how tohandle'm--which is _right side up_ with care. Him an' me come to anunderstandin' yesterday mornin', an' he's as meek an' gentle as abaa-lamb ever since. I'll undertake you'll have no trouble withRadcliffe. "

"Is this the wonderful plan you spoke of? Is _this_ the job you said wasgoing to be so satisfactory all 'round?" inquired Claire, hermisgivings, in connection with her prospective pupil, by no meansallayed. 

"Well, not eggsackly. I can't say it is. _That_ job will come later. Butwe got to be pationate, an' not spoil it by upsettin' our kettles o'fish with boardin'-schools, an' such nonsense. Meanwhile we can put intime with Mrs. Sherman, who'll pay you well, an' won't be too skittishif you just keep a firm hand on her. This mornin' she got discoursin'about everythin' under the canopy, from nickel-plated bathroom fixin's, an' marble slobs, to that state o' life unto which it has pleased God tocall me. She told me just what I'd oughter give my fam'ly to eat, an'how much I'd oughter pay for it, an'--I say, but wasn't she grand tohave give me all that good advice free?"

Claire laughed. "She certainly was, and now you've just _got_ to go tobed. I don't dare look at the clock, it's so late. Good-night, you_good_ Martha! And thank you, from way deep down, for all you've donefor me. "

But long after Mrs. Slawson had disappeared, the girl sat in thesolitude of her shadowy room thinking--thinking--thinking. Unable to getaway from her thoughts. There was something about this plan, to whichMartha had committed her, that frightened, overawed her. She felt astrange impulse to resist it, to follow her own leading, and go to theschool instead. She knew her feeling was childish. Suppose Radcliffewere to be unruly, why, how could she tell that the girls in theSchoharie school might not prove even more so? The fact was, she argued, she had unconsciously allowed herself to be prejudiced against Mrs. Sherman and the boy, by Martha's whimsical accounts of them, good-natured as they were. And this strange, premonitory instinct wasno premonitory instinct at all, it was just the natural reluctance of ashy nature to face a new and uncongenial situation. And yet--andyet--and yet, try as she would, she could not shake off the impressionthat, beyond it all, there loomed something a hidden inner sense madeher hesitate to approach. 

Just that moment, a dim, untraceable association of ideas drew her backuntil she was face-to-face with a long-forgotten incident in hervery-little girlhood. Once upon a time, there had been a moment when shehad experienced much the same sort of feeling she had now--the feelingof wanting to cry out and run away. As a matter of fact, she _had_ criedout and run away. Why, and from what? As it came back to her, not fromanything altogether terrible. On the contrary, something ratheralluring, but so unfamiliar that she had shrunk back from it, protesting, resisting. What was it? Claire suddenly broke into asmothered little laugh and covered her face with her hands, before thevision of herself, squawking madly, like a startled chicken, and runningaway from "big" handsome, twelve-year-old Bobby Van Brandt, who had justannounced to the world at large, that "he liked Claire Lang a lot, 'n'she was his best girl, 'n' he was goin' to kiss her. " She had beenmortally frightened, had screamed, and run away, but (so unaccountableis the heart of woman) she had never liked Bobby quite so well afterthat, because he had shown the white feather and hadn't carried out hispurpose, in spite of her. 

But if she should scream and run away now, there would be none topursue. Her foolish outburst would disturb no one. She could cry andcry, and run and run, and there would be no big Bobby Van Brandt, or anyone else to hear and follow. 

An actual echo of the cries she had not uttered seemed to mock herfoolish musing. She paused and listened. Again and again came themuffled sounds, and, at last, so distinct they seemed, she went to herdoor, unlatched it, and stood, listening, on the threshold. 

From Martha's room rose a deep rumble, as of a distant murmurous sea. 

"Mr. Slawson. He's awake. He must have heard the crying, too. O, it'sbegun again! How awful! Martha, what is it, O, what is it?" for Mrs. Slawson had appeared in her own doorway, and was standing, night-robedand ghostly, listening attentively to the intermittent signs ofdistress. 

"It's that bloomin' Dutchman, Langbein, acrost the hall. Every time hegoes on a toot, he comes back an' wallops his wife for it. Go to bed, Miss Claire, child, an' don't let it worry you. It ain't _your_funeral. "

Came the voice of big Sam Slawson from within his chamber:

"Just what I say to _you_, my dear. It ain't your funeral. Come back, Martha, an' go to bed. "

"Well, that's another pair o' shoes, entirely, Sammy, " whispered Martha. "This business has been goin' on long enough, an' I ain't proposin' toput up with it no longer. Such a state o' things has nothin' torecommend it. If it'd help such a poor ninny as Mrs. Langbein any tobeat her, I'd say, 'Go ahead! Never mind _us!_' But you couldn't poundsense inter a softy like her, no matter what you done. In the firstplace, she lets that fella get away from her evenin's when, if she'd anounce o' sense, she could keep him stickin' so close at home, a capcineplaster wouldn't be in it. Then, when he comes home, a little the worsefor wear, she ups an' reproaches 'm, which, God knows, that ain't notime to argue with a man. You don't want to _argue_ with a fella whenhe's so. You just want to _tell_m'. Tell'm with the help of a broomstickif you want to, but _tell'_m, or leave'm alone. An' it's bad for thechildern--all this is--it's bad for Cora an' Francie. What idea'll theyget o' the holy estate o' matrimony, I should like to know? That the_man_ has the upper hand? That's a _nice_ notion for a girl to grow upwith, nowadays. Hark! My, but he's givin' it to her good an' plenty thistime! Sammy Slawson, shame on ye, man! to let a poor woman be beat likethat, an' never raise a hand to save your own childern from bein' oldmaids. Another scream outer her, an' I'll go in myself, in the face ofyou. "

"Now, Martha, be sensible!" pleaded Sam Slawson. "You can't break into aman's house without his consent. "

"Can't I? Well, just you watch me close, an' you'll see if I can't. "

"You'll make yourself liable to the law. He's her husband, you know. Shecan complain to the courts, if she's got any kick comin'. But it's not_my_ business to go interferin' between husband and wife. 'What God hathjoined together, let no man put asunder. '"

Martha wagged an energetic assent. 

"Shoor! That certaintly lets _you_ out. But there ain't no mention madeo' _woman_ not bein' on the job, is there?"

She covered the narrow width of the hall in a couple of strides, andbeat her knuckles smartly against the panel of the opposite door. 

By this time the baluster-railing, all the way up, was festooned withwhite-clad tenants, bending over, looking down. 

"Martha, " protested Sam Slawson, "you're in your nightgown! You can'tgo round like that! Everybody's lookin' at you!"

"Say, you--Mr. Langbein in there! Open the door. It's me! Mrs. Slawson!Let me in!" was Martha's only reply. Her keen ear, pressed against thepanel, heard nothing in response but an oath, following another evenmore ungodly sound, and then the choking misery of a woman's convulsivesobs. 

Mrs. Slawson set her shoulder against the door, braced herself for amighty effort, and--

"Did you ever see the like of her?" muttered Sam, as, still busyfastening the garments he had hurriedly pulled on, he followed his wifeinto the Langbeins' flat, into the Langbeins' bedroom. There he saw herresolutely march up to the irate German, swing him suddenly about, andsend him crashing, surprised, unresisting, to the opposite side of theroom. For a second she stood regarding him scornfully. 

"You poor, low-lived Dutchman, you!" she brought out with deliberation. "What d'you mean layin' your hand to a woman who hasn't the stren'th orthe spirit to turn to, an' lick you back? Why don't you fight a fellayour own size an' sect? That's fair play! A fine man _you_ are! A fineneighbor _you_ are! Just let me hear a peep out of you, an' I'll thrashyou this minit to within a inch of your life. _I_ don't need no law norno policeman to keep the peace in any house where I live. I can keep thepeace myself, if I have to lick every tenant in the place! I'm the lawan' the policeman on my own account, an' if you budge from that floortill I tell you get up, I'll come over there an' set down on ye so hard, your wife won't know you from a pancake in the mornin'. I'll show youthe power o' the _press!"_

Sam Slawson was no coward, but his face was pallid with consternation atMartha's hardihood. His mighty bulk, however, seeming to supplementhers, had its effect on the sobered German. He did not attempt to rise. 

"As to you, you poor weak sister, " said Mrs. Slawson, turning to thewife, "you've had your last lickin' so long as you live in this house. Believe _me!_ I'm a hard-workin' woman, but I'm never too tired or toobusy to come in an' take a round out of your old man, if he should everdare lay finger to you again. _I_ don't mind a friendly scrap oncet in awhile with a neighbor. My muscles is good for more than your fat, beer-drinkin' Dutchman's any day. Let him up an' try 'em oncet, an'he'll see. Why don't you have some style about you an' land him one, where it'll do the most good, or else--_leave_ him? But no, you wouldn'tdo that--I _know_ you wouldn't! Some women has to cling to somethin', no matter if they have to support it themselves. "

Mrs. Langbein's inarticulate sobbing had passed into a spasmodicstruggle for breathless utterance. 

"He--don't mean--no harm, Mis' Slawson. He's all right--ven he's soper. Only--it preaks my heart ven he vips me, und I don't deserve it. "

"Breaks your heart? It ain't your _heart I'm_ worryin' about. If hedon't break your bones you're in luck!"

"Und I try to pe a goot vife to him. I tend him hand und foot. "

"Ye-es, I know you do, " returned Martha dryly. "But suppose you just trythe _foot_ in the future. See how it works. "

"I to my pest mit dryin' to pe a goot cook. I geep his house so glean asa bin. Vat I _don't_ do, Gott weiss, I don't know it. I ain't esk himfor ein tcent already. I ain't drouble him mit pills off of de groceroder de putcher, oder anny-von. I makes launtry efery veek for someliddle peoples, und mit mine own money I bays my pills. Ven you dell mehow it iss I could make eferyting more smoother for him, I do it!"

"That's eggsackly the trouble, " proclaimed Mrs. Slawson conclusively. "You make 'em too smooth. You make 'em so smooth, they're ackchellyslippery. No wonder the poor fella falls down. No man wants to spendall his life skatin' round, doin' fancy-figger stunts, because hiswife's a dummy. Let'm get down to hard earth, an' if he kicks, heave arock at'm. He'll soon stand up, an' walk straight like a little man. Let_him_ lend a hand with the dooty-business, for a change. It'll take hisattention off'n himself, give'm a rest from thinkin' he's an angel, an'that you hired out, when you married'm, to shout 'Glory!' every time heflaps a wing! That sort o' thing ain't healthy for men. It don't agreewith their constitutions--An' now, good-night to you, an' may you havesweet dreams! Mr. Langbein, I ain't the slightest objeckshun to yourgettin' up, if you want to. You know me now. I'm by the day, as you mayhave heard. But I can turn my hand to an odd job like this now an' thenby the night, if it's necess'ry, so let me hear no more from you, sir, an' then we'll all be good friends, like we're partin' now. Good-night!"

CHAPTER VIII

Before setting out for his work the next morning, Sam Slawson tried toprepare Ma and Miss Lang for the more than probable appearance, duringthe day, of the officer of the law, he predicted Friedrich Langbeinwould have engaged to prosecute Martha. 

"He has a clear case against you, mother, no doubt o' that. You'd nobusiness in his place at all, let alone that you assaulted an' batteredhim. He can make it hot for us, an' I don't doubt he will. "

Mrs. Slawson attended with undivided care to the breakfast needs of suchof her flock as still remained to be fed. The youngsters had allvanished. 

"If he wants to persecute me, let him persecute me. I guess Igot a tongue in my head. I can tell the judge a thing or two which, bein' prob'ly a mother himself, he'll see the sense of. Do you thinkI want Sammy growin' up under my very eyes, a beer-drinkin'wife-beater?--because he seen the eggsample of it set before'm by aDutchman, when he was a boy? Such things makes an impression on theyoung--which they ain't sense enough to know the difference between aeggsample an' a warnin'. An' the girls, too! As I told you las' night, it's bad for the country when matrimony ain't made to look like aprize-package, no matter what it _reely_ is. What's goin' to become o'the population, I should like to know? Here's Cora now, wantin' to be atelefoam-girl when she grows up, an' there's no knowin' what Francie'llchoose. But you can take it from me, they'll both of 'em drop theirvotes for the single life. They'll perfer to thump a machine o' theirown, with twelve or fifteen _per_, comin' to 'em, rather than be themachine that's thumped, an' pay for the privilege out'n their ownpockets besides. "

As fate would have it, the day went placidly by, in spite of Mr. Slawson's somber prognostications. No one came to disturb the even tenorof its way. Then, at eveningfall, while Martha was still absent, therewas a gentle rap upon the door, and Claire, anxious to anticipate Ma, made haste to answer it, and saw a stranger standing on the threshold. It was difficult, at first, to distinguish details in the dusk of thedim hallway, but after a moment she made out the rotund figure of Mr. Langbein. She could not see his face, but his voice was more thanconciliatory. 

"Eggscoose me, lady!" he began apologetically. "I haf for Mis' Slawson aliddle bresent here. I tink she like it. She look so goot-netchered, undI know she iss kind to bum animals. My vife, her Maltee cat vas havingsome liddle kittens already, a mont' ago. I tink Mis' Slawson, she ligeto hef von off dem pussies, ja? Annyhow, I bring her von here, und I eskyou vill gif it to her mit my tanks, und my kint regarts, und pestvishes und annyting else you tink I could do for her. You tell Mis'Slawson I lige her to esk me to do someting whenefer she needs it--yes?"

"Now what do you think of that?" was Martha's only comment, when Clairerelated the incident, and great Sam Slawson shook with laughter till hissides ached, and a fit of coughing set in, and said it was "a caution, but Mother always did have a winning way about her with the men. "

"It's well I have, or I wouldn't 'a' drew you, Sammy--an' you shoor area trump--only I wisht you'd get rid o' that cough--You had it just aboutlong enough, " Martha responded, half in mockery, half in affectionateearnest. 

"An' now, me lad, leave us be, me an' Miss Claire. We has things ofimportance to talk over. It's to-morrow at ten she's to go see Mrs. Sherman. Miss Claire, you must be lookin' your best, for the first minitthe madam claps eyes to you, that'll be the decidin' minit for _you_. Have you everything you need, ready to your hand? Is all your littlelaces an' frills done up fresh an' tidy, so's you can choose thebecomingest? Where's that lace butterfly for your neck, I like so much?I washed it as careful as could be, a couple o' weeks ago, but have youwore it since?"

Claire hesitated. "I think I'll put on the simplest things I've got, Martha, " she replied evasively. "Just one of my linen shirtwaists, withthe stiff collar and cuffs. No fluffy ruffles at all. "

"But that scrap o' lace at your throat, ain't fluffy ruffles. An' stiff, starched things don't kinder become you, Miss Claire. They ain't yourstyle. You don't wanter look like you been dressed by your worst enemy, do you? You're so little an' dainty, you got to have delicate things togo _with_ you. Say, just try that butterfly on you now. I want to see ifit'll do, all right. "

By this time Claire knew Martha well enough to realize it was useless toattempt to temporize or evade. 

"I can't wear the butterfly, Martha dear, " she said. 

"Why can't you?"

"Well, now please, _please_ don't worry, but I can't wear it, because Ican't find it. I dare say it'll turn up some day when I least expect, but just now, it seems to be lost. "

Martha looked grave. "It come out o' the wash all right, didn't it?" sheinquired anxiously. "I remember distinkly leavin' it soak in the suds, so's there wouldn't be no strain-like, rubbin' it, an' the dust'd justdrop out natural. But now I come to think of it, I don't recklectironin' it. Now honest, did it come outer the wash, Miss Claire?"

"No, Martha--but--"

"There ain't no _but_ about it. I musta gone an' lost your pretty lacefor you, an' it was reel at that!"

"Never mind! It's of no consequence. Truly, please don't--"

"Worry? Shoor I won't worry. What's the use worryin'? But I'll make itright, you betcher life, which is much more to the purpose. Say, Ishouldn't wonder but it got into the tub someways, an' then, when I letthe water out, the suckage drew it down the pipe. Believe _me, _ that'sthe very thing that happened, and--'I'll never see sweet Annie anymore!'"

"It doesn't make a particle of difference, Martha. I never liked thatbutterfly as much as you did, you know. "

"Perhaps you did an' perhaps you didn't, but all the same you're _out_ aneck-fixin', an' it's _my_ fault, an' so you're bound to let me getsquare, to save my face, Miss Claire. You see how it is, don't you?Well, last Christmas, Mrs. Granville she give me a lace jabbow--reelIrish mull an' Carrickmacross (that's lace from the old country, as youknow as well as me). She told me all about it. Fine? It'd break yourheart to think o' one o' them poor innercent colleens over therepricklin' her eyes out, makin' such grandjer for the like o' me, when nodoubt she thought she was doin' it for some great dame, would besportin' it out loud, in her auta on Fifth Avenoo. What use have I, inmy business, for that kinder decoration, I should like to know! It'donly be distractin' me, gettin' in me pails when I'm scrubbin'. An' bythe time Cora an' Francie is grown up, jabbows will be _out_. I'd muchmore use for the five-dollar-bill was folded up in the box alongside. _That_, now, was becomin' to my peculiar style o' beauty. But thejabbow! There ain't no use talkin', Miss Claire, you'll have to take itoff'n my hands, I mean my chest, an' then we'll be quits on thebutterfly business, an' no thanks to your nose on either side. "

It was useless to protest. 

The next morning when Claire started forth to beard the lioness in herden, she was tricked out in all the bravery of Martha's really beautiful"jabbow, " and looked "as pretty as a picture, an' then some, " as Mrs. Slawson confidentially assured Sam. 

But the heart beneath the frilly lace and mull was anything but brave. It felt, in fact, quite as white and fluttery as the _jabbow_ looked, and when Claire found herself being actually ushered into the boudoir ofthe august _presence_, and told to "wait please, " she thought it wouldstop altogether for very abject fright. 

Martha had tried, in a sort of casual, matter-of-course way, to prepareher little lady for the trial, by dropping hints every now and then, asto the best methods of dealing with employers--the proper way to carryoneself, when one "went to live out in private fam'lies. "

"You see, you always been the private fam'ly yourself, Miss Claire, soit'll come kinder strange to you first-off, to look at things the otherway. But it won't be so bad after you oncet get used to it. There's onething it's good to remember. Them high-toned folks has somehow got itfixed in their minds that _the rich must not be annoyed, _ so it'll bemoney in your pocket, as the sayin' is, if you can do your little stuntwithout makin' any fuss about it, or drawin' their attention. Just sawwood an' say nothin', as my husband says. 

"Mrs. Sherman she told me, when I first went there, an' Radcliffe was alittle baby, she 'strickly forbid anybody to touch'm. ' It was on accounto' what she called _germs_ or somethin'. Well, I never had no particularyearnin' to inflect him with none o' my germs, but when she was offgallivantin', an' that poor little lonesome fella used to cry, an' putout his arms to be took, I'd take'm, an' give'm the only reelmother-huggin' he ever had in his life, an' no harm to any of us--to methat give it, or him that got it, or her that was no wiser. Then, later, when he was four or five, an' around that, she got a notion he was aangel-child, an' she'd useter go about tellin' the help, an' otherfolks, 'he must be guided by love alone. ' I remember she said oncet he'dbe 'as good as a kitten for hours at a time if you only give'm a ball oftwine to play with. ' Well, his nurse, she give'm the ball of twine oneday when she had somethin' doin' that took up all her time an' attentionon her own account, an' when she come back from her outin', you couldn'twalk a step in the house without breakin' your leg (the nurse she didsprain her ankle), on account o' the cat's-cradle effect the youngvillain had strung acrost the halls, an' from one doorknob to the other, so there wasn't an inch o' the place free. An' he'd got the tooth-pastetoobs, an' squoze out the insides, an' painted over every bit o'mahogany he could find--doors, an' furnitur', an' all. You can take itfrom me, that house was a sight after the angel-child got through withit. The girls an' me--the whole push--was workin' like mad clearin' upafter'm before the madam'd come home, an' the nurse cryin' her eyes outfor the pain, an' scared stiff 'less she'd be sent packin'. Also, 'ifRadcliffe asked questions, we was to answer them truthful, ' was anotherrule. An' the puzzles he'd put to you! One day, I remember, he got mecornered with a bunch that was such fierce propositions, Solomon in allhis glory couldn't 'a' give him their truthful answers. Sayshe--Radcliffe, not Solomon--says he: 'I want another leg. '

"'You can't have it, ' says I. 

"'Why?' says he. 

"'They ain't pervided, ' I says. 'Little boys that's well-reggerlated, don't have but two legs. '

"'Why don't they?'

"'Because God thought two was enough for'm. '

"'Why did God think tho?'

"'You ask too many questions. '

"'Well, but--juth lithen--I want to know--now lithen--doth puthy-cathslay eggth?'

"'No!'

"'Why don't puthy-caths lay eggth?'

"'Because hens has a corner on the egg business. '

"'Why have they?'

"'Because they're born lucky, like Mr. Carnegie an' Mr. Rockefella. '

"'Doth Mr. Carnegie an' Mr. Rockefella--'

_"'No!'_

"'Why don't they?'

"'Say, Radcliffe, I ain't had a hard day, ' says I. 'But _you_ make metired. '

"'Why do I? Now--juth wonth more--now--now lithen wonth more--ith God alady?'"

As Claire sat waiting for Mrs. Sherman, stray scraps of recollection, such as these, flitted through her mind and helped to while the timeaway. Then, as she still waited, she grew gradually more composed, lessunfamiliar with her surroundings, and the strange predicament in whichshe found herself. She could, at length, look at the door she supposedled into Mrs. Sherman's room, without such a quick contraction of theheart as caused her breath to come in labored gasps, could make somesort of sketchy outline of the part she was foreordained to take in thecoming interview, and not find herself barren of resource, even if Mrs. Sherman _should_ say so-and-so, instead of so-and-so. 

She had waited so long, had had such ample time to get herself well inhand, that when, at last, a door opened (not Mrs. Sherman's door at all, but another), and a tall, upright masculine figure appeared in thedoorway, she at once jumped to the conclusion it was Shaw, the butler, come to summon her into _the presence, _ and rose to follow, without toomuch inner perturbation. 

"Mrs. Sherman is prevented from keeping her appointment with you thismorning, " descended to her from an altitude far above her own. "Shehopes you will excuse her. She has asked me to talk with you in herstead. You are Miss Lang, I believe? I am Mrs. Sherman's brother. Myname is Ronald. "

CHAPTER IX

It is hard to readjust all one's prearranged plans in the twinkling ofan eye. Claire felt as if she had received a sudden dash of cold watersquare in the face. She quite gulped from the shock of it. How in theworld was she to adapt herself to this brand-new set of conditions onsuch short notice--on no notice at all? How was she to be anything butawkwardly monosyllabic?

"Sit down, please. "

Obediently she sat. 

"Martha--Mrs. Slawson--tells me, your father was Judge Lang ofMichigan?"

"Yes--Grand Rapids. "

"You are a college graduate?"

"Wellesley. "

"You have taught before?"

"I tutored a girl throughout a whole summer. Prepared her for hercollege entrance exams. "

"She passed creditably?"

"She wasn't conditioned in anything. "

"How are you on discipline?"

"I don't know. "

"You have had no experience? Never tried your hand at training a boy, for example?"

Claire's blue-gray eyes grew suddenly audacious, and the bridge of hershort nose wrinkled up delightfully in a roguish smile. 

"I trained my father. He was a dear old boy--the dearest in the world. He used to say he had never been brought up, until I came along. He usedto say I ruled him with a rod of iron. But he was very well-behavedbefore I got through with him. He was quite a model boy, really. "

Glancing quickly up into the steadfast eyes that had, at first, seemedto her so stern as to be almost forbidding, she met an expression somild, so full of winning kindness, that she suddenly remembered andunderstood what Martha had meant when she said once: "A body wouldn'tcall the queen her cousin when he looks at you like that!"

"Your father was a credit to your bringing-up, certainly. I never hadthe honor of meeting Judge Lang, but I knew him by reputation. Iremember to have heard some one say of him once--'He was a judge afterSocrates' own heart. He heard courteously, he answered wisely, heconsidered soberly, he decided impartially. Added to this, he was onewhom kings could not corrupt. ' That is an enviable record. "

Claire's eyes filled with grateful moisture, but she did not allow themto overflow. She nodded rapidly once or twice in a quaint, characteristic little fashion, and then sat silent, examining the linksin her silver-meshed purse, with elaborate attention. 

"Perhaps Mrs. Slawson has told you that my young nephew is something ofa pickle. "

The question restored Claire at once. "I'm fond of pickles. "

"Good! I believe there are said to be fifty-eight varieties. Are youprepared to smack your lips over him, whichever he may be?"

"Well, if I can't smack my lips, there's always the alternative ofsmacking _him_. "

Mr. Ronald laughed. "Not allowed, " he announced regretfully. "My sisterwon't have it. Radcliffe is to be guided 'by love alone. '"

"Whose love, please? His or mine?"

Again Mr. Ronald laughed. "Now you've got me!" he admitted. "Perhaps alittle of both. Do you think you could supply your share? I have nodoubt of your being able to secure his. "

"I like children. We've always managed to hit it off pretty well, thekiddies and I, but, of course, I can't guarantee anything definite inconnection with your little boy, because, you see, I've never been agoverness before. I've only had to do with youngsters who've comea-visiting, or else the small, lower East-siders at the Settlement. ButI'll promise to do my best. "

"'Who does the best his circumstance allows, does well, acts nobly. _Angles_ could no more, ' as I wrote in my sister's autograph-album whenI was a boy, " announced Mr. Ronald gravely. 

Claire smiled over at him with appreciation. "I'd love to come and try, "she said heartily. 

She did not realize she had lost all sensation of alarm, had forgottenher altered position, that she was no longer one whom these people wouldregard as their social equal. She was talking as one talks to a friend. 

"And if Radcliffe doesn't get on--if he doesn't improve, I shouldsay--if you don't _like_ me, you can always send me away, you know. "

For a very long moment Mr. Ronald sat silent. So long a moment, indeed, that Claire, waiting in growing suspense for his answer, suddenlyremembered all those things she had forgotten, and her earlierembarrassment returned with a wave of bitter self-reproach. She accusedherself of having been too free. She had overstepped her privilege. Itwas not apparent to her that he was trying to visualize the picture shehad drawn, the possibility of his _not liking her and sending her away, you know, _ and that, to his utter consternation, he found it wassomething he could not in the least conceive of himself as doing. That, on the contrary, the vision of her going away for any reason, of herpassing out of his life, now she had once stepped into it, left him witha chill sensation in the cardiac region that was as unexpected as it wasdisturbing. When he spoke at last, it was with a quick, authoritativebrevity that seemed to Claire to bear out her apprehension, and prove hethought she had forgotten her place, her new place as "hired help, " andmust be checked lest she presume on good nature and take a tone to heremployers that was not to be tolerated. 

"You will come without fail on Monday morning. "

"Very well. "

Her manner was so studiously cold and ceremonious, so sharply incontrast with her former piquant friendliness, that Mr. Ronald looked upin surprise. 

"It is convenient for you to come on Monday, I hope?"

"Perfectly. "

"I presume my sister, Mrs. Sherman, will take up with you the questionof--er--compensation. "

"O--" quickly, with a little shudder, "that's all right!"

"If it isn't all right, it shall be made so, " said Mr. Ronald cordially. 

Claire winced. "It is quite, it is perfectly all right!" she repeatedhurriedly, anxious to escape the distasteful subject, still smartingunder the lash of her own self-condemnation--her own wounded pride. 

How could she have forgotten, even for a moment, that she was no longerin a position to deal with these people on equal terms? That now, kindness on their part meant patronage, on hers presumption. Of course, she deserved the snub she had received. But, all the same, it hurt! O, but it hurt! She knew her George Eliot well. It was a pity she did notrecall and apply a certain passage in Maggie Tulliver's experience. 

"It did not occur to her that her irritation was due to the pleasanteremotion which preceded it, just as when we are satisfied with a sense ofglowing warmth, an innocent drop of cold water may fall upon us with asudden smart. "

Mr. Ronald, searching her face for some clue to the abrupt change in hervoice and manner, saw her cheeks grow white, her lips and chin quiverpainfully. 

"You are not well?" he asked, after a second of troubled groping in thedark. 

"O, perfectly. " She recollected Martha's injunction, "Never you let onto 'em, any of your worries. The rich must not be annoyed, " and pulledherself together with a determined mental grip. 

"It is good that, being so far away from home, you can be under thecare of your old nurse, " observed Mr. Ronald thoughtfully. 

"My old nurse, " Claire mechanically repeated, preoccupied with her ownpainful meditations. 

"Martha. It is good, it certainly must be comforting to those who carefor you, to know you are being looked after by so old and trusted afamily servant. "

Claire did not reply. She was hardly conscious he was speaking. 

"When Martha first mentioned you to me--to Mrs. Sherman, rather--shedescribed you as her young lady. She has a very warm feeling for you. Ithink she considers you in the light of personal property, like a childof her own. That's excusable--it's commendable, even, in such a case asthis. I believe she said she nursed you till you were able to walk. "

With a shock of sudden realization, Claire waked to the fact thatsomething was wrong somewhere--something that it was _up to_ her to makeright at once. And yet, it was all so cloudy, so confused in her mindwith her duty to Martha, her duty to herself, and to these people--herfear of being again kindly but firmly put back in her _place_ if sheventured the merest fraction of an inch beyond the boundary prescribedby this grandee of the autocratic bearing and "keep-off-the-grassexpression, " that she hesitated, and her opportunity was lost. 

"I think I must go now, " she announced abruptly, and rose, got past himsomehow, and made blindly for the door. Then there was the dim vista ofthe long hall stretching before her, like a path of escape, and she fledits length, and down that of the staircase. Then out at the street-door, and into the chill of the cold December noonday. 

When she had vanished, Francis Ronald stood a moment with eyes fixed inthe direction she had taken. Then, abruptly, he seized the telephonethat stood upon the table beside him, switched it to connect with thebasement region, and called for Mrs. Slawson. 

"This is Mr. Ronald speaking. Is Martha there?"

"Yes, sir. Please hold the wire, and I'll call her. "

"Be quick!"

"Yes, sir!"

A second, and Martha's voice repeated his name. "Mr. Ronald, this isMartha!"

"Good! I want you to put on your things at once, and follow Miss Lang, "he directed briefly. "I do not think she's sick, but as she was talkingto me, I noticed she grew suddenly quite pale, and seemed troubled andanxious. Waste no time! Go at once!"

The only answer was a sharp click over the wire, as Mrs. Slawson snappedthe receiver into its crotch. 

But though Claire was not five minutes in advance of her, Martha wasunable to make up the distance between them, and by the time she hadmounted the stairs leading to the Elevated, and stood panting for breathon the platform, the train she had hoped to catch was to be seendisappearing around the curve at Fifty-third Street. 

All the way uptown she speculated as to the why and wherefore of Mr. Ronald's immediate concern about Claire. 

"It's kinder previous, his gettin' so stirred up over her at this stageo' the game, " she pondered. "It ain't natural, or it ain't lucky. I'dmuch liefer have it go slower, an' be more thora. A thing like thisaffair I'm tryin' to menoover, is like some o' the things you cook. Youwant to leave 'em get good an' het-up before the stirrin' begins. Ifthey're stirred up too soon, they're ap' to cruddle on you, an' neverget that nice, smooth, thick, _gooey_ look you like to see in richcustuds, same as love-affairs. I hope she didn't go an' have a scare on, an' give 'em to think she ain't healthy. She's as sound as a nut, but ifMis' Sherman once is fixed with the notion she's subjeck tofaint-spells, nothin' on earth will change her mind, an' then it'll benit, not, nohow for Martha's little scheme. I must caution Miss Claireabout showin' the white feather. No matter how weak-kneed she feels, she's just _got_ to buck up an' ack like she's a soldier. That's how--"

Martha had reached her own street, and was turning the corner, when shestopped with a sensation as of a quick, fierce clutching at her heart. Evidently there had been some sort of accident, for a great crowd wasgathered on the sidewalk, and beside the gutter-curbstone, just ahead ofher, stood waiting an ambulance. Her healthy, normal mind did not easilyjump at tragic conclusions. She did not, as a general thing, fear theworst, did not even accept it when it came, but now, somehow, a closeassociation of ideas suggested Claire in an instant, and before ever shehad stirred a step, she saw in her mind's eye the delicate little formshe loved, lying injured, maybe mangled, stretched out upon the asphalt, in the midst of the curious throng. 

She hurried, hurried faster than any of the others who were alsohurrying, and pushed her way on through the press to the very edge ofthe crowd. A crying woman caught wildly at her arm, as she stood for asecond struggling to advance. 

"It's a child!--A little girl--run over by an automobile! O God helpthe poor mother!" the stranger sobbed hysterically. 

Martha freed herself from the clinging fingers and pressed forward. "Achild--Miss Claire's such a little thing, no wonder they think she's achild, " she murmured. "True for you, my good woman, God help the poormother!"

"You know her?"

"I know Miss Claire. "

For some reason the crowd made way, and let her through to the veryheart of it, and there--sure enough, there was Claire, but Claire cryingand kneeling over an outstretched little form, lying unconscious on thepavement. 

"Why, it's--my Francie!" said Martha quietly. 

CHAPTER X

Through all the days of suspense and doubt, Claire swung like a faithfullittle pendulum between home, the Shermans, and the hospital. 

Then, as hope strengthened, she was the bearer of gifts, flowers, fruit, toys from Mr. Ronald and his sister, which Martha acknowledged in herown characteristic fashion. 

"Tell'm the Slawson fam'ly is bound to be _in it. _ It seems it's thewhole style for ladies to go under a operation, an' as I ain't eggsacklygot the time, Francie, she's keepin' up the tone for us. If you wanterfolla the fashions these days, you got to gather your skirts about you, tight as they are, an' run. But what's a little inconvenience, comparedwith knowin' you're cuttin' a dash!

"Tell'm I thank'm, an' tell Lor'--Mister Ronald, it's good of'm to betryin' to get damages for Francie out o' the auta that run her down, an'if there was somethin' comin' to us to pay the doctors an' suchlike, it'd be welcome. But, somehow, I always was shy o' monkeyin' with thelaw. It's like to catch a body in such queer places, where you'd leastexpect. Before a fella knows it, he's _up_ for liable, or breaches o'promise, an' his private letters to the bosom of his fam'ly (whichnowadays they're mostly ruffles), his letters to the bosom of his fam'lyis read out loud in court, an' then printed in the papers next mornin', an' everybody's laughin' at'm, because he called his wife 'My darlin'Tootsie, ' which she never been accustomed to answer to anythin' but thename o' Sarah. An' it's up to him to pay the costs, when ten to one it'sthe other party's to blame. I guess p'raps we better leave good enoughalone. If we begin to get the l'yers after us, no tellin' where we'llend. Who knows but they might find the accident injured the auto, 'steado' Francie. If we work hard, an' they give us time, me an' Sammy can, maybe, make out to pay the doctors. But add to that, to have to buy abrand-new machine for the fella that run over Francie--that'd be sorterdiscouragin'. "

She paused, and Claire began to pull on her gloves. 

"By the way, " said Martha, "how's things down to the Shermans'? Seemslike a hunderd years since I was there. The las' time I laid eyes onEliza, she was in excellent spirits--I seen the bottle. I wonder ifshe's still--very still, takin' a sly nip on the side, as she calls it, which means a sly nip off the sideboard. You can take it from me, if shedon't let up, before she knows it she'll be a teetotal wrack. "

"I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Eliza, " observed Claire, smiling. 

"Why, of course, you haven't, which it wouldn't be a pleasure, anyhow. But what I reely want to know is, how you makin' out with Radcliffe? Ibeen so took up with Francie all this while, I clean forgot to askbefore. Is he behavin' all right? Does he mind what you say? Does he dohis lessons good?"

Claire's brows drew together in a troubled little frown, as she laboredover the clasp of her glove. 

"O, Radcliffe, " she let fall carelessly. "Radcliffe's an unruly littleHessian, of course, but I suppose all boys are mischievous at times. "

Martha pondered. "Well, not all boys are mischievous in just the sameway, thank God! This trouble o' Francie's has threw me all out in moreways than one. If everything had 'a' went as I'd expected, I'd beenworkin' at the Shermans' straight along these days, an' you wouldn't 'a'had a mite o' trouble with the little fella. Him an' I understands eachother perfeckly, an' with me a loomin' up on the landscape, he kindersees the sense o' walkin' a chalk-line, not kickin' up his heels toofrisky. I'd calculated on being there, to sorter back you up, till you'dgot uster the place, an' made 'em understand you mean business. "

Claire laughed, a quick, sharp little laugh. 

"O, I think I'm gradually making them understand I mean business, " shesaid. "And I'm sure it is better, since I have to be there at all, thatI should be there without you, independent of any help. I couldn't makeRadcliffe respect my authority, if I depended on some one else toenforce it. It's just one of those cases where one has to fight one'sown battle alone. "

"Then it _is_ a battle?" Martha inquired quietly. 

"O, it's a battle, 'all right, '" laughed Claire mirthlessly, and beforeMrs. Slawson could probe her further, she managed to make her escape. 

She did not wish to burden Martha with her vexations. Martha hadtroubles of her own. Moreover, those that were most worrisome to Claire, Martha, in the very nature of things, would not understand. 

Claire's first few weeks at the Shermans' had been uneventful enough. Radcliffe had found amusement in the novelty of the situation, haddeigned to play school with her, and permitted her to "make believe" shewas "the teacher. " He was willing to "pretend" to be her "scholar, " justas he would have been willing to pretend to be the horse, if he andanother boy had been playing, and the other boy had chosen to be driverfor a while. But turn about is fair play, and when the days passed, andClaire showed no sign of relinquishing her claim, he grew restless, mutinous, and she had all she could do to keep him in order. 

Gradually it began to dawn upon him that this very little person, kindand companionable as she seemed, suffered under the delusion that he wasgoing to obey her--that, somehow, she was going to constrain him to obeyher. Of course, this was the sheerest nonsense. How could she make himdo anything he didn't want to do, since his mother had told her, in hispresence, that he was to be governed by love alone, and, fortunately, her lack of superior size and strength forbade her _love_ fromexpressing itself as, he shudderingly remembered, Martha's had done onone occasion. No, plainly he had the advantage of Miss Lang, but untilshe clearly understood it, there were apt to be annoyances. So, withouttaking the trouble to make the punishment fit the crime, he casuallylocked her in the sitting-room closet one morning. She had steppedinside to hang up her hat and coat as usual, and it was quite easy, swiftly, noiselessly, to close the door upon her, and turn the key. 

He paused a moment, choking back his nervous laughter, waiting to hearher bang on the panel, and clamor to be let out. But when she made nooutcry, when, beyond one or two futile turnings of the knob, there wasno further attempt on her part to free herself, he stole upstairs tothe schoolroom, and made merry over his clever exploit. 

For a full minute after she found herself in darkness, Claire did notrealize she was a prisoner. The door had swung to after her, shethought, that was all. But, when she turned the knob, and still it didnot open, she began to suspect the truth. Her first impulse was to callout, but her better judgment told her it would be better to wait withwhat dignity she might until Radcliffe tired of his trick, or some oneelse came and released her. Radcliffe would tire the more quickly, shereasoned, if she did not raise a disturbance. When he saw she was not tobe teased, he would come and let her out. She stood with her hot cheekpressed against the cool wood of the closet-door, waiting for him tocome. And listening for his steps, she heard other steps--other stepswhich approached, and entered the sitting-room. She heard the voices ofMrs. Sherman and Mr. Ronald in earnest conversation. 

"If I thought such a thing were possible I'd send her away to-morrow, "Mrs. Sherman was saying in a high-pitched, excited voice. 

"Why such delay? Why not to-day?" inquired Mr. Ronald ironically. 

"But, of course, " continued his sister, ignoring his interruption, "Iknow there's nothing to be really afraid of. "

"Well, then, if you know there's nothing to be afraid of, what _are_ youafraid of?"

"I'm not really afraid. I'm just talking things over. You see, she's souncommonly pretty, and--men are men, and you're no exception. "

"I hope not. I don't want to be an exception. "

"Don't you think she's uncommonly pretty?"

"No, I don't think I should call her--_pretty_, " said Mr. Ronald with anemphasis his sister might well have challenged, if she had not been sopreoccupied with her own thoughts that she missed its point. 

"Well, _I_ do. I think she's quite pretty enough to excuse, I mean, _explain_ your having a passing fancy for her. "

"I haven't a passing fancy for her. "

"Well, I'm much relieved to hear you say so, for even if it were only apassing fancy, I'd feel I ought to send her away. You never can tell howsuch things will develop. "

"You certainly can't. "

"And you may rest assured mother and I don't want you to ruin your lifeby throwing yourself away on a penniless, unknown little governess, whenyou might have your choice from among the best-born, wealthiest girlsin town. "

"Miss Lang is as well-born as any one we know. "

"We have only her word for it. "

"No, her nurse, an old family servant, Martha Slawson, corroboratesher--if you require corroboration. "

"Don't you? Would you be satisfied to pick some one off the street, asit were, and take her into your house and give her your innocent childto train?"

"My innocent children being so extremely vague, I am not concerningmyself as to their education. But I certainly accept Miss Lang's word, and I accept Martha's. "

"You're easily satisfied. Positively, Frank, I believe you _have_ afancy for the girl, in spite of what you say. And for all our sakes, formother's and mine and yours and--yes--even hers, it will be best for meto tell her to go. "

"I rather like the way you rank us. Mother and you first--then I come, and last--_even_ the poor little girl!"

"Well, you may laugh if you want to, but when a child like Radcliffenotices that you're not indifferent to her, there must be some truth init. He confided to me last night, 'Uncle Frank likes Miss Lang a lot. Iguess she's his best girl! Isn't she his best girl?' I told him_certainly not_. But I lay awake most of the night, worrying about it. "

Mr. Ronald had evidently had enough of the interview. Claire could hearhis firm steps, as he strode across the floor to the door. 

"I advise you to quit worrying, Catherine, " he said. "It doesn't pay. Moreover, I assure you I've no _passing fancy_ (I quote your words) forMiss Lang. I hope you won't be so foolish as to dismiss her on myaccount. She's an excellent teacher, a good disciplinarian. It would bedifficult to find another as capable as she, one who, at the same time, would put up with Radcliffe's waywardness, and your--_our_--(I'll put itpicturesquely, after the manner of Martha) our indiosincrazies. Take myadvice. Don't part with Miss Lang. She's the right person in the rightplace. Good-morning!"

"Frank, Frank! Don't leave me like that. I know I've terribly annoyedyou. I can't bear to feel you're provoked with me, and yet I'm onlyacting for your good. Please kiss me good-by. I'm going away. I won'tsee you for two whole days. I'm going to Tuxedo this morning to stayover night with Amy Pelham. There's a man she's terribly interested in, and she wants me to meet him, and tell her what I think of him. He'sbeen attentive to her for ever so long, and yet he doesn't--his name isMr. Robert--" Her words frayed off in the distance, as she hurriedlyfollowed her brother out into the hall and downstairs. 

How long Claire stood huddled against the closet-door she never knew. The first thing of which she was clearly conscious was the feel of a keystealthily moved in the lock beneath her hand. Then the sounds offootsteps lightly tiptoeing away. Mechanically she turned the knob, thedoor yielded, and she staggered blindly out from the darkness into thesunlit room. It was deserted. 

If Mrs. Sherman had been there, Claire would have given way at once, letting her sense of outraged pride escape her in a torrent of tears, astorm of indignant protest. Happily, there being no one to cry to, shehad time to gather herself together before going up to face Radcliffe. When she entered the schoolroom, he pretended to be studiously busiedwith his books, and so did not notice that she was rather a long timeclosing the door after her, and that she also had business with the lockof the door opposite. He really only looked up when she stationedherself behind her desk, and summoned him to recite. 

"I do' want to!" announced Radcliffe resolutely. 

"Very well, " said Claire, "then we'll sit here until you do. "

Radcliffe grinned. It seemed to him things were all going his way, thisclear, sunny morning. He began to whistle, in a breathy undertone. 

Claire made no protest. She simply sat and waited. 

Radcliffe took up his pencil, and began scrawling pictures over bothsides of his slate, exulting in the squeaking sounds he produced. Still_the teacher_ did not interfere. But when, tired of his scratching, heconcluded the time had arrived for his grand demonstration, his crowningdeclaration of independence, he rose, carelessly shoved his books aside, strode to the door, intending masterfully to leave the room, and--discovered he was securely locked and bolted in. In a flash he wasacross the room, tearing at the lock of the second door with franticfingers. That, too, had been made fast. He turned upon Claire like alittle fiend, his eyes flashing, his hands clenched. 

"You--you--you two-cent Willie!" he screamed. 

Claire pretended not to see or hear. In reality she was acutelyconscious of every move he made, for, small as he was, his pent-in ragegave him a strength she might well fear to put to the test. It was thetug of war. The question was, who would be conqueror?

Through the short hours of the winter forenoon, hours that seemed asinterminable to Claire as they did to Radcliffe, the battle raged. Therewas no sign of capitulation on either side. 

In the course of the morning, and during one of Radcliffe's fiercestoutbreaks, Claire took up the telephone instrument and quietlyinstructed Shaw to bring no luncheon-trays to the schoolroom atmid-day. 

"Two glasses of hot milk will be all we need, " she said, whereuponRadcliffe leaped upon her, trying to wrest the transmitter from herhand, beating her with his hard little fists. 

"I won't drink milk! I won't! I won't!" he shouted madly. "An' I'll_kill_ you, if you won't let me have my lunch, you--you--you_mizzer'ble_ two-cent Willie!"

As the day drew on, his white face grew flushed, her fevered one white, and both were haggard and lined from the struggle. Then, at about threeo'clock, Mr. Ronald telephoned up to say he wished Radcliffe to go for adrive with him. 

Claire replied it was impossible. 

"Why?" came back to her over the wire. 

"Because he needs punishment, and I am going to see that he gets it. "

"And if I interfere?"

"I resign at once. Even as it is--"

"Do you think you are strong enough--strong enough _physically_, tofight to the finish?"

"I am strong enough for anything. "

"I believe you. But if you should find him one too many for you, I shallbe close at hand, and at a word from you I will come to the rescue. "

"No fear of my needing help. Good-by!"

She hung up the receiver with a click of finality. 

Outside, the sky grew gray and threatening. Inside, the evening shadowsbegan to gather. First they thickened in the corners of the room; thenspread and spread until the whole place turned vague and dusky. 

The first violence of his rage was spent, but Radcliffe, sullen andunconquered still, kept up the conflict in silent rebellion. He had notdrunk his milk, so neither had Claire hers. The two glasses stooduntouched upon her desk, where she had placed them at noon. It was sostill in the room Claire would have thought the boy had fallen asleep, worn out with his struggles, but for the quick, catching breaths that, like soundless sobs, escaped him every now and then. It had been dark along, long time when, suddenly, a shaft of light from a just lit windowopposite, struck over across to them, reflecting into the shadow, andmaking visible Radcliffe's little figure cowering back in the shelterof a huge leather armchair. He looked so pitifully small and appealing, that Claire longed to gather him up in her arms, but she forebore andsat still and waited. 

Then, at last, just as the clock of a nearby church most solemnly boomedforth eight reverberating strokes, a chastened little figure slid out ofthe great chair, and groped its way slowly, painfully along until itreached Claire's side. 

"I will--be--good!" Radcliffe whispered chokingly, so low she had tobend her head to hear. 

Claire laid her arms about him and he clung to her neck, trembling. 

CHAPTER XI

It was almost ten o'clock when Claire left the house. She waited to seeRadcliffe properly fed, and put to bed, before she went. She covered himup, and tucked him in as, in all his life, he had never been covered up, and tucked in, before. Then, dinnerless and faint, she slipped out intothe bleak night. 

She was too exhausted to feel triumphant over her conquest. The onlysensations she realized were a dead weariness that hung on her spiritand body like a palpable weight, and, far down in her heart, somethingthat smouldered and burned like a live ember, ready to burst forth andblaze at a touch. 

She had walked but a block or two when, through her numbness, crept adim little shadow of dread. At first it was nothing more than an innersuggestion to hasten her steps, but gradually it became a consciousimpulse to outstrip something or some one behind her--some one orsomething whose footfalls, resounding faintly through the desertedstreet, kept such accurate pace with her own, that they sounded liketheir echo. 

It was not until she had quickened her steps, and found that theother's steps had quickened, too, not until she had slowed down toalmost a saunter, only to discover that the one behind was lagging also, that she acknowledged to herself she was being followed. 

Then, from out the far reaches of her memory, came the words of AuntAmelia's formula: "Sir, you are no gentleman. If you were a gentleman--"But straightway followed Martha's trenchant criticism. 

"Believe _me_, that's rot! It might go all right on the stage, for agirl to stop, an' let off some elercution while the villain stillpursued her, but here in New York City it wouldn't work. Not on yourlife it wouldn't. Villains ain't pausin' these busy days, in their madcareers, for no recitation-stunts, I don't care how genteel you get 'emoff. If they're on the job, you got to step lively, an' not linger'round for no sweet farewells. Now, you got your little temper with you, all right, all right! If you also got a umbrella, why, just you make a_com_bine o' the two an'--aim for the bull's eye, though his nose willdo just as good, specially if it's the bleedin' v'riety. No! P'licemenain't what I'd reckmend, for bein' called to the resquer. In the firstplace, they ain't ap' to be there. An', besides, they wouldn't know whatto do if they was. P'licemen is funny that way. 

"They mean well, but they get upset if anythin' 's doin' on their beat. They like things quiet. An' they don't like to _run in_ their friends, an' so, by the time you think you made 'em understand what you'redrivin' at, _the villain_ has got away, an' you're like to be hauled upbefore the magistrate for disturbin' the peace, which, bein' so shy an'bashful before high officials, p'licemen don't like to blow in at courtwithout somethin' to show for the way they been workin'. "

It all flashed across Claire's mind in an instant, like a picture thrownacross a screen. Then, without pausing to consider what she meant to do, she halted, turned, and--was face to face with Francis Ronald. 

Before he could speak, she flashed upon him two angry eyes. 

"What do you mean by following me?"

"It is late--too late for you to be out in the streets alone, " heanswered quietly. 

Claire laughed. "You forget I'm not a society girl. I'm a girl who worksfor her living. I can't carry a chaperon about with me wherever I go. Imust take care of myself, and--I know how to do it. I'm not afraid. "

"I believe you. "

"Then--good-night!"

"I intend to see you home. "

"I don't need you. "

"Nevertheless, I intend to see you home. "

"I don't--_want_ you. "

"Notwithstanding which--"

He hailed a passing motor-taxi, gave the chauffeur Martha's street andnumber, after he had succeeded in extracting them from Claire, and then, in spite of protests, helped her in. 

For a long time she sat beside him in silence, trying to quell inherself a weak inclination to shed tears, because--because he hadcompelled her to do something against her will. 

He did not attempt any conversation, and when, at last, she spoke, itwas of her own accord. 

"I've decided to resign my position. "

"Is it permitted me to know why?"

"I can't stay. "

"That is no explanation. "

"I don't feel I can manage Radcliffe. "

"Pardon me, you know you can. You have proved it. He is your bond-slave, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer. "

Claire laughed, a sharp, cutting little laugh that was like a keen knifeturned on herself. 

"O, it would have to be for poorer--'all right, all right, ' as Marthasays, " she cried scornfully. "But it has been too hard--to-day. I can'tendure any more. "

"You won't have to. Radcliffe is conquered, so far as you are concerned. 'Twill be plain sailing, after this. "

"I'd rather do something else. I'd like something different. "

"I did not think you were a quitter. "

"I'm not. "

"O, yes, you are, if you give up before the game is done. No good sportdoes that. "

"I've no ambition to be a good sport. "

"Perhaps not. But you _are_ a good sport. A thorough good sport. _Andyou won't give up till you've seen this thing through_. "

"Is that a prediction, or a--command? It sounds like a command. "

"It is whatever will hold you to the business you've undertaken. I wantyou to conquer the rest, as you've conquered Radcliffe. "

"The rest?"

"Yes. "

"What do you mean by the rest?"

"I mean circumstances. I mean obstacles. I mean, my mother--my sister. "

"I don't--understand. "

"Perhaps not. "

"And suppose (forgive me if I seem rude), suppose I don't consider _therest_ worth conquering? Why should I? What one has to strive so for--"

"Is worth the most. One has to strive for everything in this world, everything that is really worth while. One has to strive to get it, onehas to strive to keep it. "

"Well, I don't think I care very much to-night, if I never get anythingever again in all my life to come. "

"Poor little tired girl!"

Claire's chin went up with a jerk. "I don't need your pity, I won't haveit. I am a stranger to you and to your friends. I am--" The defiant chinbegan to quiver. 

"If you were not so tired, " Francis Ronald said gravely, "I'd have thisthing out with you, here and now. I'd _make_ you tell me why you sowilfully misunderstand. Why you seem to take pleasure in saying thingsthat are meant to hurt me, and must hurt you. As it is--"

Claire turned on him impetuously. "I don't ask you to make allowancesfor me. If I do what displeases you, I give you perfect liberty to findfault. I'm not too tired to listen. But as to your _making_ me do or sayanything I don't choose, why--"

He shook his head. "I'm afraid you are a hopeless proposition, at leastfor the present. Perhaps, some time I may be able to make youunderstand--Forgive me! I should say, perhaps, some time you may bewilling to understand. "

Their chauffeur drew up beside the curbstone in front of Martha's door, then sprang down from his seat to prove to his lordly-looking "fare"that he knew his business, and was deserving of as large a tip as acorrect estimate of his merit might suggest. 

Francis Ronald took Claire's key from her, fitted it into the lock ofthe outer door, and opened it for her. 

"And you will stand by Radcliffe? You won't desert him?" he asked, asshe was about to pass into the house. 

"I'll show you that, at least, I'm not a quitter, even if I _am_ ahopeless proposition, as you say. "

A faint shadow of a smile flitted across his face as, with head heldproudly erect, she turned and left him. 

"No, you're not a quitter, " he muttered to himself, "but--neither am I!"

The determined set of his jaw would have rekindled that inner rebelliousfire in Claire, if she had seen it. But she was seeing nothing just atthat moment, save Martha, who, to her amazement, stood ready to receiveher in the inner hall. 

"Ain't it just grand?" inquired Mrs. Slawson. "They told me yesterday, 'all things bein' equal, ' they'd maybe leave us back soon, but I didn'tput no stock in it, knowin' they never _is_ equal. So I just held metongue an' waited, an' this mornin', like a bolster outer a blue sky, come the word that at noon we could go. Believe _me_, I didn't wait forno old shoes or rice to be threw after me. I got into their oldamberlance-carriage, as happy as a blushin' bride bein' led to thehalter, an' Francie an' me come away reji'cin'. Say, but what ails_you?_ You look sorter--sorter like a--strained relation or somethin'. What you been doin' to yourself to get so white an' holler-eyed? Whatkep' you so late?"

"I had a tussle with Radcliffe. "

"Who won out?"

"I did, but it took me all day. "

"Never mind. It'd been cheap at the price, if it had 'a' took you allweek. How come the madam to give you a free hand?"

"She was away. "

"Anybody else know what was goin' on? Any of the fam'ly?"

"Yes, Mr. Ronald. He brought me home. I didn't want him to, but he did. He just _made_ me let him, and--O, Martha--I can't bear--I can't bear--"

"You mean you can't bear _him?"_

Claire nodded, choking back her tears. 

"Now, what do you think o' that!" ejaculated Mrs. Slawson pensively. "An' he so _pop'lar_ with the ladies! Why, you'd oughter hear themstylish lady-friends o' Mrs. Sherman praisin' 'm to her face. It'd makeyou blush for their modesty, which they don't seem to have none, an'that's a fac'. You can take it from me, you're the only one he ever comein contract with, has such a hate on'm. I wouldn't 'a' believed it, unless I'd 'a' had it from off of your own lips. But there's no usetryin' to argue such things. Taste is different. What pleases one, pizens another. In the mean time--an' it _is_ a mean time for you, youpoor, wore-out child--I've some things here, hot an' tasty, that'llencourage your stummick, no matter how it's turned on some other things. As I says to Sammy, it's a poor stummick won't warm its own bit, but allthe same, there's times when somethin' steamin' does your heart as muchgood as it does your stummick, which, the two o' them bein' such nearneighbors, no wonder we get 'em mixed up sometimes, an' think the one isstarved when it's only the other. "

CHAPTER XII

It proved altogether easier for Martha, now Francie was at home again. 

"You see, I can tend her an' sandwich in some work besides, " Mrs. Slawson explained cheerfully. "An' Ma's a whizz at settin' by bedsideshelpin' patients get up their appetites. Says she, 'Now drink this niceglass o' egg-nog, Francie, me child, ' she says. 'An' if you'll drink it, I'll take one just like it meself. ' An' true for you, she does. Thegoodness o' Ma is astonishin'. "

Then one day Sam Slawson came home with a tragic face. 

"I've lost my job, Martha!" he stated baldly. 

For a moment his wife stood silent under the blow, and all it entailed. Then, with an almost imperceptible squaring of her broad shoulders, shebraced herself to meet it, as she herself would say, like a soldier. "Well, it's kinder hard on _you_, lad, " she answered. "But there's nouse grievin'. If it had to happen, it couldn't 'a' happened at a bettertime, for you bein' home, an' able to look after Francie, will give me achance to go out reg'lar to my work again. An' before you know it, Francie, she'll be running about as good as new, an' you'll haveanother job, an' we'll be on the top o' the wave. Here's Miss Claire, bless her, payin' me seven dollars a week board, which she doesn't eatno more than a bird, an' Sammy singin' in the surplus choir, an' gettin'fifty cents a week for it, an' extra for funer'ls (it'd take your timeto hear'm lamentin' because business ain't brisker in the funer'lline!). Why, _we_ ain't no call to be discouraged. You can take it fromme, Sammy Slawson, when things seem to be kinder shuttin' down on ye, an' gettin' black-like, same's they lately been doin' on us, that ain'tno time to be chicken-hearted. Anybody could fall down when they'reknocked. That's too dead-easy! No, what we want, is buck up an' havesome style about us. When things shuts down an' gets dark at themovin'-picture show, then it's time to sit up an' take notice. Thatmeans somethin's doin'--you're goin' to be showed somethin' interestin'. Well, it's the same with us. But if you lose your sand at the firstgo-off, an' sag down an' hide your face in your hands, well, you'll missthe show. You won't see a bloomin' thing. "

And Martha, sleeves rolled up, enveloped in an enormous blue-checkedapron, returned to her assault on the dough she was kneading, withredoubled zeal. 

"Bread, mother?" asked Sam dully, letting himself down wearily into achair by the drop-table, staring indifferently before him out of blankeyes. 

"Shoor! An' I put some currants in, to please the little fella. I givein, my bread is what you might call a holy terror. Ain't it the cautionhow I can't ever make bread fit to be eat, the best I can do? An' yet, Ican't quit tryin'. You see, home-made bread, _if it's good_, is cheaperthan store. Perhaps some day I'll be hittin' it right, so's when you askme for bread I won't be givin' you a stone. "

She broke off abruptly, gazed a moment at her husband, then stepped tohis side, and put a floury hand on his shoulder. "Say, Sam, what youlookin' so for? You ain't lost your sand just because they fired you?What's come to you, lad? Tell Martha. "

For a second there was no sound in the room, then the man looked up, gulped, choked down a mighty sob, and laid his head against her breast. 

"Martha--there's somethin' wrong with my lung. That's why they thrown medown. They had their doctor from the main office examine me--they'dnoticed me coughin'--and he said I'd a spot on my lung or--something. Ishouldn't stay here in the city, he said. I must go up in the mountains, away from this, where there's the good air and a chance for my lung toheal, otherwise--"

Martha stroked the damp hair away from his temples with her powderyhand. 

"Well, well!" she said reflectively. "Now, what do you think o' that!"

"O, Martha--I can't stand it! You an' the children! It's more than I canbear!"

Mrs. Slawson gave the head against her breast a final pat that, toanother than her husband, might have felt like a blow. 

"More'n you can bear? Don't flatter yourself, Sammy my lad! Not by nomeans it ain't. I wouldn't like to have to stand up to all I couldackchelly bear. It's God, not us, knows how much we can stand, an' whenHe gets in the good licks on us, He always leaves us with a littlestren'th to spare--to last over for the next time. Now, I'm not a bitbroke down by what you've told me. I s'pose you thought you'd have mesobbin' on your shoulder--to give you a chanct to play up, an' do thestrong-husband act, comfortin' his little tremblin' wife. Well, my lad, if you ain't got on to it by now, that I'm no little, tremblin' wife, you never will. Those kind has nerves. I only got nerve. That's whereI'm _singular_, see? A joke, Sammy! I made it up myself. Out of my ownhead, just now. But to go back to what I was sayin'--why should I sob onyour shoulder? There ain't no reason for't. In the first place, even ifyou _have_ got a spot on your lung, what's a spot! It ain't the wholelung! An' _one_ lung ain't _both_ lungs, an' there you are! As I make itout, even grantin' the worst, you're a lung-an'-then-some to the good, so where's the use gettin' blue? There's always a way out, somehow. Ifwe can't do one way, we'll do another. Now you just cheer up, an' don'tlet Ma an' the childern see you kinder got a knock-outer in the solarplexus, like Jeffries, an' before you know it, there'll be a suddentturn, an' we'll be atop o' our worries, 'stead o' their bein' atop o'us. See! Say, just you cast your eye on them loaves! Ain't they grand?Appearances may be deceitful, but if I do say it as shouldn't, my breadcertainly looks elegant this time. Now, Sammy, get busy like a goodfella! Go in an' amuse Francie. The poor child is perishin' forsomethin' to distrack her. What with Cora an' Sammy at school, an' MissClaire havin' the Shermans so bewitched, they keep her there all day, an' lucky for us if they leave her come home nights at all, the house istoo still for a sick person. Give Francie a drink o' Hygee water to coolher lips, an' tell her a yarn-like. An', Sammy, I wisht you'd be good toyourself, an' have a shave. Them prickles o' beard reminds me o' theinsides o' Mrs. Sherman's big music-box. I wonder what tune you'd playif I run your chin in. Go on, now, an' attend to Francie, like I toldyou to. She needs to have her mind took off'n herself. "

When he was gone, Martha set her loaves aside under cover to rise, neverpausing a moment to take breath, before giving the kitchen a"scrub-down" that left no corner or cranny harboring a particle of dust. It was twilight when she finished, and "time to turn to an' get thedinner. "

Cora and Sammy had long since returned from school. Sammy had gone outagain to play, and had just come back to find his mother taking herbread-pans from the oven. She regarded them with doleful gaze. 

"I fairly broke my own record this time for a bum bread-maker!" shemuttered beneath her breath. "This batch is the worst yet. "

"Say--mother!" said Sammy. 

"Well?"

"Say, mother, may I have a slice of bread? I'm awfully hungry. "

"Shoor you may! This here's just fresh from the oven, an' it hascurrants in it. "

"Say, mother, a feller I play with, Joe Eagan, _his_ mother's handsain't clean. Would you think he'd like to eat the bread she makes?"

"Can she make _good_ bread?"

"I dunno. She give me a piece oncet, but I couldn't eat it, 'count o'seein' her fingers. I'm glad your hands are so clean, mother. Say, thisbread tastes awful good!"

Martha chuckled. "Well, I'm glad you like it. It might be worse, if I dosay it! Only, " she added to herself, "it'd have a tough time managin'it. "

"Say, mother, may I have another slice with butter on, an' sugarsprinkled on top, like this is, to give it to Joe Eagan? He'sdownstairs. I want to show him how _my_ mother can make the boss bread!"

"Certainly, " said Martha heartily. "By all means, give Joe Eagan aslice. I like to see you thoughtful an' generous, my son. Willin' toshare your good things with your friends, " and as Sammy bounded out, clutching his treasures, she winked solemnly across at her husband, whohad just re-entered. 

"Now do you know what'll happen?" she inquired. "Sammy'll always havethe notion I make the best bread ever. An' when he grows up an' marries, if his wife is a chef-cook straight out of the toniest kitchen in town, at fifty dollars a month, he'll tell her she ain't a patch on me. An'he'll say to her: 'Susan, or whatever-her-name-is, them biscuits is allright in their way, but I wisht I had a mouthful o' bread like motherused to make. ' An' the poor creature'll wear the life out o' her, tryin'to please'm, an' reach my top-notch, an' never succeed, an' all thetime--Say, Sammy, gather up the rest o' the stuff, like a good fella, an' shove it onto the dumb-waiter, so's it can go down with thesw--There's the whistle now! That's him callin' for the garbage. "

CHAPTER XIII

"Hullo, Martha!" said Radcliffe. 

Mrs. Slawson bowed profoundly. "Hullo yourself! I ain't had the pleasureof meetin' you for quite some time past, an' yet I notice my absentsain't made no serious alteration for the worst in your appearance. Youain't fell away none, on account of my not bein' here. "

"Fell away from what?" asked Radcliffe. 

"Fell away from nothin'. That's what they call a figger o' speech. Meansyou ain't got thin. "

"Well, _you've_ got thin, haven't you, Martha? I don't 'member yourcheeks had those two long lines in 'em before. "

"Lines?" repeated Martha, regarding herself in the mirror of an étagèreshe was polishing. "Them ain't _lines_. Them's dimples. "

Radcliffe scrutinized her critically for a moment. "They're not likeMiss Lang's dimples, " he observed at last. "Miss Lang's dimples looklike when you blow in your milk to cool it--they're there, an' then theyain't there. She vanishes 'em in, an' she vanishes 'em out, but thoselines in your face, they just stay. Only they weren't there before, when you were here. "

"The secret is, my dimples is the kind that takes longer to vanish 'emout when you once vanished 'em in. Mine's way-train dimples. Miss Lang'sis express. But you can take it from me, dimples is faskinatin', whatever specie they are. "

"What's _faskinatin'?"_

"It's the thing in some things that, when it ain't in other things, youdon't care a thing about 'em. "

"Are _you_ faskinatin'?"

"That's not for me to say, " said Martha, feigning coyness. "But thismuch I will confess, that some folks which shall be nameless, considersme so. An' they'd oughter know. "

"Is Miss Lang faskinatin'?"

"Ask your Uncle Frank. "

"Why must I ask him?"

"If you wanter know. "

"Does he know?"

"Prob'ly. He's a very well-informed gen'l-man on most subjecks. "

"I do' want to ask my Uncle Frank anything about Miss Lang. Once I askedhim somethin' about her, an' he didn't like it. "

"What'd you ask him?"

"I asked him if she wasn't his best girl. "

"What'd he say?"

"He said 'No!' quick, just like that--'No!' I guess he was cross withme, an' I know he didn't like it. When I asked my mother why he didn'tlike it, she said because Miss Lang's only my governess. An' when I toldMiss Lang what my mother, she told me, Miss Lang, she didn't like iteither. "

"Now, what do you think o' that?" ejaculated Martha. "Nobody didn't seemto like nothin' in that combination, did they? You was the only one inthe whole outfit that showed any tack. "

"What means that--_tack?"_

"It's a little thing that you use when you want to keep things inplace--keep 'em from fallin' down. There's two kinds. One you musthammer in, an' the other you mustn't. "

"I wisht Miss Lang _was_ my Uncle Frank's best girl. But I guess she'ssomebody else's. "

"Eh?" said Martha sharply, sitting back on her heels and twisting herpolishing-cloth into a rope, as if she were wringing it out. "Now, whosebest girl do you think she is, if I may make so bold?"

Radcliffe settled down to business. 

"Yesterday Miss Lang an' me was comin' home from the Tippydrome, an' mymother she had comp'ny in the drawin'-room. An' I didn't know there wascomp'ny first-off, coz Shaw he didn't tell us, an' I guess I talkedkinder loud in the hall, an' my mother she heard me, an' she wasn'tcross or anythin', she just called to me to come along in, an' see thecomp'ny. An' I said, 'No, I won't! Not less Miss Lang comes too. ' An' mymother, she said, 'Miss Lang, come too. ' An' Miss Lang, she didn'twanter, but she hadter. An' the comp'ny was a gen'l'man an' a lady, an'the minit the gen'l'man, he saw Miss Lang, he jumped up outer his chairlike a jumpin'-jack, an' his eyes got all kinder sparkly, an' he heldout both of his hands to her, an' sorter shook her hands, till you'dthink he'd shake 'em off. An' my mother, she said, 'I see you an' MissLang are already 'quainted, Mr. Van Brandt. ' An' he laughed a lot, theway you do when you're just tickled to death, an' he said, ''Quainted?Well, I should say so! Miss Lang an' I are old, old friends!' An' hekep' lookin' at her, an' lookin' at her, the way you feel when there'ssomethin' on the table you like, an' you're fearful 'fraid it will begone before it's passed to you. An' my mother she said to the othercomp'ny, 'Miss Pelham, this is Radcliffe. ' An' Miss Pelham, she waslookin' sideways at Miss Lang an' Mr. What's-his-name, but she pertendedshe was lookin' at me, an' she said (she's a Smarty-Smarty-gave-a-party, Miss Pelham is), she said, 'Radcliffe, Radcliffe? I wonder if you'reany relation to Radcliffe College?' An' I said, 'No. I wonder if you areany relation to Pelham Manor?' An' while they was laughin', an' mymother she was tellin' how percoshus I am, my Uncle Frank he came in. Hecame in kinder quiet, like he always does, an' he stood in the door, an'Mr. What's-his-name was talkin' to Miss Lang so fast, an' lookin' at herso hard, they didn't neither of 'em notice. An' when my Uncle Frank, henoticed they didn't notice, coz they was havin' such fun by themselves, he put his mouth together like this--like when your tooth hurts, an' youbite on it to make it hurt some more, an' then he talked a lot to MissPelham, an' didn't smile pleasant an' happy at Mr. What's-his-name an'Miss Lang, when my mother, she interdooced 'em. An' soon Miss Lang, shetook me upstairs an' she didn't look near so tickled to death as Mr. VanBrandt, he looked. An' when I asked her if she wasn't, she said: 'O'course I am. Mr. Van Brandt was a friend o' mine when I was a littlegirl. An' when you're a stranger in a strange land, anybody you knewwhen you was at home seems dear to you. ' But she didn't look near sopleased as he did. She looked more like my Uncle Frank, he did before hegot talkin' so much to Miss Pelham. An' now I guess the way of it is, Miss Pelham's my Uncle Frank's best girl an' Miss Lang's Mr. What's-his-name's. "

"Well, now! Who'd believed you could 'a' seen so much? Why, you're areg'ler Old Sleuth the Detective, or Sherlock Holmes, or somebody likethat, for discoverin' things, ain't you?"

"I don't want Miss Pelham to be my Uncle Frank's best girl, an' I don'tsee why that other man he don't have her for his, like she wasfirst-off, an' leave my Miss Lang alone. "

"It all is certainly very dark an' mysterious, " said Mrs. Slawson, shaking her head. "You don't know where you're at, at all. Like when youwake up in the black night, an' hear the clock give one strike. Youcouldn't tell, if your life hung in the ballast, if it's half-pasttwelve, or one, or half-past. "

Radcliffe pondered this for a space, but was evidently unable to fathomits depth, for presently he let it go with a sigh, and swung off toanother topic. 

"Say, do you know our cook, 'Liza--the one we uster have--has goneaway?"

"So I gathered from not havin' saw her fairy-figger hoverin' round thekitchen as I come in, an' meetin' another lady in her place--name ofAugusta, Beetrice said. "

"Yes, sir! Augusta's the new one. I guess Augusta don't drink. "

"Which, you are suggesting 'Liza does?"

"Well, my mother, she don't know I know, but I do. I heard Shaw tellin''bout it. It was 'Liza's day out, an' she went an' got 'toxicated, an' ap'liceman he took her up, an' nex' mornin' my Uncle Frank, they sent tohim out of the station-house to have him _bail her out_. "

"My, my! She was as full as that?"

"What's bail her out?" inquired Radcliffe. 

Mrs. Slawson considered. "When a boat gets full of water, because o'leakin' sides or heavy rains or shippin' seas, or whatever they callsit, you bail her out with a tin can or a sponge or anythin' you have byyou. "

"Was Liza full of water?"

"I was describin' _boats_, " said Martha. "An' talkin' o' boats, did Itell you we got a new kitten to our house? He's a gray Maltee. His nameis Nixcomeraus. "

"Why is his name Nix--why is his name _that_?"

"Nixcomeraus? His name's Nixcomeraus because he's from the Dutchman'shouse. If you listen good, you'll see that's poetry--

"'Nixcomeraus from the Dutchman's house!'

"I didn't make it up, but it's poetry all the same. A Dutchman gen'l'manwho lives nex' door to me, made him a present to our fam'ly. "

"Do you like him?"

"The Dutchman gen'l'man?"

"No, the--the Nix--the _cat_?"

"Certaintly we like him. He's a decent, self-respectin' little fellathat 'tends to his own business, an' keeps good hours. An' you'd oughtersee how grand him an' Flicker gets along! Talk o' a cat-and-dogexistence! Why, if all the married parties I know, not to speak o' someothers that ain't, hit it off as good as Flicker an' Nixcomeraus, therewouldn't be no occasion for so many ladies takin' the rest-cure atReno. "

"What's Reno?"

"Reno? Why, Reno's short for merino. Like I'd say, Nix for Nixcomeraus, which is a kinder woolen goods you make dresses out of. There! Did youhear the schoolroom bell? I thought I heard it ringin' a while ago, butI wasn't sure. Hurry now, an' don't keep Miss Lang waitin'. She wantsyou to come straight along up, so's she can learn you to be a big an'handsome gen'l'man like your Uncle Frank. "

When Radcliffe had left her, Martha went over in her mind the items hehad guilelessly contributed to her general fund of information. Take itall in all, she was not displeased with what they seemed to indicate. 

"Confidence is a good thing to have, but a little wholesome doubt don'thurt the masculine gender none. I guess, if I was put to it, I couldcount on one hand with no fingers, the number o' gen'l'men, no matterhow plain, have died because 'way down in their hearts they believedthey wasn't reel _A-1 Winners. _ That's one thing it takes a lot o' hardusage to convince the sect of. They may feel they ain't gettin' theirdoos, that they're misunderstood, an' bein' sold below cost. But thatthey're ackchelly shopworn, or what's called 'seconds, ' or put on the_As Is_ counter because they're cracked, or broke, or otherwise slightlydisfigured, but still in the ring--why, _that_ never seems to percolatethrough their brains, like those coffee-pots they use nowadays, thatdon't make no better coffee than the old kind, if you know how to do itgood, in the first place. 

"On the other hand, ladies is dretful tryin'! They act like they're thediscoverers of perpetchal emotion, an' is _on the job_ demonstratin'. You can't count on 'em for one minit to the next, which they certaintlywas never born to be aromatic cash-registers. An' p'raps that's thereason, bein' natchelly so poor at figgers, they got to rely to such aextent on corsets. I'm all for women myself. I believe they're thecomin' man, but I must confess, if I'm to speak the truth, it ain't forthe simple, uninfected, childlike mind o' the male persuasion to follertheir figaries, unless he's some of a trained acrobat. 

"Now, the harsh way Miss Claire has toward Mr. Ronald! You'd think hehad give himself dead away to her, an' was down on his knee-pans humbleas a 'Piscerpalian sayin' the Literny in Lent, grubbin' about among thedust she treads on, to touch the hem o' her garment. Whereas, in someway unbeknownst to me, an' prob'ly unbeknownst to him, he's touched herpride, which is why she's so up in arms, not meanin' his--worse luck!An' it would have all worked out right in the end, an' will yet, _if_this new party that Radcliffe mentioned ain't Mr. Buttinsky, an' shedon't foller the dictates of her _art_ an' flirt with him toooutrageous, or else marry him to spite herself, which is what I mean topervent if I can, but which, of course, it may be I can't. "

CHAPTER XIV

"Frank, " said Mrs. Sherman one Sunday morning, some weeks later, stopping her brother on his way to the door, "can you spare me a fewmoments? I've something very important I want to discuss with you. Iwant you to help me with suggestions and advice in a matter that veryclosely concerns some one in whom I'm greatly interested. "

Mr. Ronald paused. "Meaning?" he suggested. 

"I don't know that I ought to tell you. You see, it's--it'sconfidential. "

"Suggestions and advice are foolish things to give, Catherine. They areseldom taken, never thanked for. "

"Well, in this case mine have been actually solicited. And I feel Iought to do something, because, in a way, I'm more or less responsiblefor the--the imbroglio. "

Slipping her hand through his arm, she led him back into the library. 

"You see, it's this way. Perhaps, after all, it will be better, simpler, if I don't try to beat about the bush. Amy Pelham has been terriblydevoted to Mr. Van Brandt for ever so long--oh, quite six months. Andhe has been rather attentive, though I can't say he struck me as verymuch in love. You know she asked me out to Tuxedo not long ago. Shewanted me to watch him and tell her if I thought he was _serious. _ Well, I watched him, but I couldn't say I thought he was _serious. _ However, you never can tell. Men are so extraordinary! They sometimes masqueradeso, their own mothers wouldn't know them. "

"Or their sisters. "

"What did you say?"

"Nothing worth repeating. Go on with your story. "

"Well, then, one evening she brought him here, you remember. I'd askedhim to come, when I was in Tuxedo, and he evidently wanted to do so, forhe proposed to Amy that she bring him. Of course, I'd no idea he andMiss Lang had ever met before, and when I innocently ordered her in, Idid it simply because Radcliffe was refractory and refused to comewithout her, and I couldn't have a scene before guests. "

"Well?"

"I didn't know Mr. Van Brandt came from Grand Rapids. How should I? Onenever thinks of those little, provincial towns as having any _society_. "

"You dear insular, insolent New Yorker. "

"Well, you may jeer as much as you like, but that's the way one feels. Ididn't know that, as Martha says, he was 'formerly born' in Michigan. Ijust took him for granted, as one does people one meets in our besthouses. He's evidently of good stock, he has money (not a fortune, perhaps, but enough), he's handsome, and he's seen everywhere with thesmartest people in town. "

"Well?"

"Well, naturally Amy doesn't want to lose him, especially as she'sreally awfully fond of him and he _is_ uncommonly attractive, you know. "

"Well?"

"It looks as if that one glimpse of Miss Lang had been enough to upseteverything for Amy. He's hardly been there since. "

"And what does she propose to do about it?"

"She doesn't know what to do about it. That's where my suggestions andadvice are to come in. "

"I see. "

"Of course, we can't be certain, but from what Bob Van Brandt hasdropped and from what Amy has been able to gather from other sources, from people who knew Miss Lang and him in their native burg, he wasattached to her when she was no more than a kiddie. Then, when they grewup, he came East and she went abroad, and they lost sight of eachother. But, as I say, that one glimpse of her was enough to ignite theold flame. You must have seen yourself how frankly, openly he showed hisfeeling that night. "

"Well?"

"What is one to do about it?"

"Do about what?"

"Why--the whole thing! Don't you see, I'm responsible in a way. If Ihadn't called Miss Lang in, Bob Van Brandt wouldn't have known she washere, and then he would have kept on with Amy. Now he's dropped her it'sup to me to make it up to her somehow. "

"It's up to you to make _what_ up to Amy?"

"How dense you are! Why, the loss of Bob Van Brandt. "

"But if she didn't have him, how could she lose him?"

"She didn't exactly have him, but she had a fighting chance. "

"And she wants to fight?"

"I think she'd be willing to fight, if she saw her way to winning out. "

"Winning out against Miss Lang?"

"Yes, if you want to put it so brutally. "

"I see you are assuming that Miss Lang is keen about Van Brandt. "

"Would you wonder if she were? It would be her salvation. Of course, Idon't feel about her any longer as I did once. I know _now_ she's alady, but the fact of her poverty remains. If she married Bob VanBrandt, she'd be comfortably settled. She'd have ease and position and, oh, of course she'll marry him if he asks her. "

"So the whole thing resolves itself down to--"

"To this--if one could only devise a way to prevent his asking her. "

"Am I mistaken, or did I hear you say something about putting itbrutally, a few moments ago. "

"Well, I know it sounds rather horrid, but a desperate case needsdesperate medicine. "

"Catherine, you have asked for suggestions and advice. My suggestion toMiss Pelham is that she gracefully step down and out. My advice to youis that you resist the temptation to meddle. If Mr. Van Brandt wishes toask Miss Lang to marry him, he has a man's right to do so. If Miss Langwishes to marry Mr. Van Brandt after he has asked her, she has a woman'sright to do so. Any interference whatsoever would be intolerable. Youcan take my advice or leave it. But _if_ you leave it, if you attempt tomix in, you will regret it, for you will not be honorably playing thegame. "

Mrs. Sherman's lips tightened. "That's all very well, " she broke outimpatiently. "That's the sort of advice men always give to women, andnever act on themselves. It's not the masculine way to sit calmly by andlet another carry off what one wants. If a man _cares, _ he fights forhis rights. It's only when he isn't interested that he's passive andspeaks of _honorably playing the game_. All's fair in love and war! Ifyou were in Amy's place--if the cases were reversed--and you sawsomething you'd set your heart on being deliberately taken away fromyou, I fancy _you_ wouldn't gracefully step down and out. At least Idon't see you doing it, in my mind's eye, Horatio!"

"Ah, but you miss the point! There's a great difference between claimingone's own and struggling to get possession of something that is lawfullyanother's. If I were in Miss Pelham's place, and were _sure_ the one Iloved belonged to me by divine right, I'd have her--I'd have her inspite of the devil and all his works. But the thing would be to be_sure_. And one couldn't be sure so long as another claimant hadn't hadhis chance to be thrown down. When he'd had his chance, and the deckswere cleared--_then_--!"

"Goodness, Frank! I'd no idea you could be so intense. And I'll confessI've never given you credit for so much imagination. You've been talkingof what you'd do in Amy's place quite as if you actually felt it. Yourperformance of the determined lover is really most convincing. "

Francis Ronald smiled. "A man who's succeeded in _convincing_ a womanhas not lived in vain, " he said. "Well, I must be off, Catherine. Goodluck to you and to Miss Pelham--but bad luck if either of you daresstick her mischievous finger in other people's pies. "

He strode out of the room and the house. 

Meanwhile, Martha, industriously engaged in brushing Miss Lang's hair, was gradually, delicately feeling her way toward what was, in reality, the same subject. 

"Well, of course, you can have Cora if you want her. She'll be only tooglad o' the ride, but _do_ you think--now do you _reelly_ think it'sadvisable to lug a third party along when it's clear as dish-water hewants you alone by himself an' _yourself_? It's this way with men. Ifthey set out to do a thing, they gener'ly do it. But believe _me_, ifyou put impederments in their way, they'll shoor do it, an' then some. Now all them flowers an' candy that's been comin' here lately soreg'ler, they means business on Mr. Van Brandt's part _if_ pleasure onyours. He's strewin' your path with roses an' pavin' it with Huyler'schocolates, so's some day in the near future he can come marchin' alongit, an' walk straight up to the captain's office an' hand in hisapplercation for the vacancy. Now, the question is as plain as the noseon your face. Do you want him to do it first or do you want him to do itlast? It's up to you to decide the time, but you can betcher life it'sgoin' to be some time, Cora or no Cora, _ohne oder mit_ as our Dutchfriend acrost the hall says. "

Claire's reflection in the mirror she sat facing, showed a pair of sadlytroubled eyes. 

"O, it's very puzzling, Martha, " she said. "Somehow, life seems alltopsy-turvy to me lately. So many things going wrong, so few right. "

"Now what, if I may make so bold, is wrong with your gettin' afirst-class offer from a well-off, good-lookin' gen'l'man-friend, that'sbeen keepin' comp'ny with you, off an' on, as you might say, ever sinceyou was a child, which shows that his heart's in the right place an' hisintentions is honorable. You know, you mustn't let the percession get byyou. Life's like standin' on the curbstone watching the parade--atleast, that's how it seems to young folks. They hear the music an' theysee the banners an' the floats an' they think it's goin' to be acontinuous performance. After a while they've got so used to the banda-playin' an' the flags a-wavin' that it gets to be an old story, an'they think that's what it'll be right along, so they don't trouble tokeep their eye peeled for the fella with the water-can, which he asked'em to watch out for him. No, they argue he's good enough in his way, but--'_Think_ o' the fella with the drum!' Or even, it might be, whoknows?--the grand one with his mother's big black muff on his head, doin' stunts with his grandfather's gold-topped club, his grandpa havin'been a p'liceman with a pull in the ward. An' while they stand a-waitin'for all the grandjer they're expectin', suddenly it all goes past, an'they don't see nothin' but p'raps a milk-wagon bringin' up the rear, an'the ashfalt all strewed with rag-tag-an'-bobtail, an' there's nothin'doin' in their direction, except turn around an' go home. Now, what'sthe matter with Mr. Van Brandt? If you marry him you'll be all to thegood. No worry about the rent, no pinchin' here an' plottin' there tokeep the bills down. No goin' out by the day, rain or shine, traipsin'the street on your two feet when you're so dead tired you could lay downan' let the rest walk over you. Why, lookin' at it from anystandpoint-of-view I can't see but it's a grand oppertoonity. An' you'refond of him, ain't you?"

"O, yes, I'm very fond of Mr. Van Brandt. But I'm fond of him as afriend. I couldn't--couldn't--couldn't ever marry him. "

"What for you couldn't? It ain't as if you liked some other fellabetter! If you liked some other fella better, no matter how little youmight think you'd ever get the refusal of'm, I'd say, _stick to the reelarticle: don't be put of with substitoots_. It ain't no use tryin' tofool your heart. You can monkey with your brain, an' make it believe allsorts of tommyrot, but your heart is dead on to you, an' when it oncesets in hankerin' it means business. "

Claire nodded unseeingly to her own reflection in the glass. 

"Now _my_ idea is, " Martha continued, "my idea is, if you got somethin'loomin', why, don't hide your face an' play it isn't there. There ain'tno use standin' on the ragged edge till every tooth in your headchatters with cold an' fright. You don't make nothin' _by_ it. If youlove a man like a friend or if you love a friend like a man, my adviceis, take your seat in the chair, grip a-holt o' the arms, brace yourfeet, an'--let'er go, Gallagher! It'll be over in a minit, as thedentists say. "

"But suppose you had something else on your heart. Something that hadnothing to do with--with that sort of thing?" Claire asked. 

"What sorter thing?"

"Why--love. Suppose you'd done something unworthy of you. Suppose thesense of having done it made you wretched, made you want to make otherswretched? What would you do--then?"

"Now, my dear, don't you make no mistake. I ain't goin' to be drew intono blindman's grab-bag little game, not on your sweet life. I ain'tergoin' to risk havin' you hate me all the rest o' your nacherl lifebecoz, to be obligin' an' also to show what a smart boy am I, I give averdick without all the everdence in. If you wanter tell me plain outwhat's frettin' you, I'll do my best accordin' to my lights, butotherwise--"

"Well--" began Claire, and then followed, haltingly, stumblingly, thestory of her adventure in the closet. 

"At first I felt nothing but the wound to my pride, the sting of whathe--of what _they_ said, " she concluded. "But, after a little, I beganto realize there was something else. I began to see what _I_ had done. For, you know, I had deliberately listened. I needn't have listened. IfI had put my hands over my ears, if I had crouched back, away from thedoor, and covered my head, I need not have overheard. But I pressed asclose as I could to the panel, and hardly breathed, because I wanted notto miss a word. And I didn't miss a word. I heard what it was nevermeant I should hear, and--I'm nothing but a common--_eavesdropper_!"

"Now, what do you think of that?" observed Mrs. Slawson. "Now, what doyou think of that?"

"I've tried once or twice to tell him--" continued Claire. 

"Tell who? Tell Mr. Van Brandt?"

"No, Mr. Ronald. "

"O! You see, when you speak o' _he_ an' _him_ it might mean almost anygen'l'man. But I'll try to remember you're always referrin' to Mr. Ronald. "

"I've tried once or twice to tell him, for I can't bear to beuntruthful. But, then, I remember I'm 'only the governess'--'the rightperson in the right place'--of so little account that--that he doesn'teven know whether I'm pretty or not! And the words choke in my throat. Irealize it wouldn't mean anything to him. He'd only probably gaze downat me, or he'd be kind in that lofty way he has--and put me in my place, as he did the first time I ever saw him. And so, I've never told him. Icouldn't. But sometimes I think if I did--if I just _made_ myself do it, I could hold up my head again and not feel myself growing bitter andsharp, because something is hurting me in my conscience. "

"That's it!" said Martha confidently. "It's your conscience. Believe_me_, consciences is the dickens an' all for makin' a mess o' things, when they get right down to business. Now, if I was you, I wouldn'tbother Mr. Ronald with my squalms o' conscience. Very prob'ly when itcomes to consciences he has troubles of his own--at least, if he ain't, he's an exception an' a rare curiosity, an' Mr. Pierpont Morgan oughterbuy him for the Museum. When your conscience tells you you'd oughtertell, ten to one you'd oughtn't. Give other folks a chance. What theydon't know can't worry 'em. Besides, your just _tellin_' a thing don'tlet you out. You can't get clear so easy as that. It's up to you to workit out, so what's wrong is made _right_, an' do it _yourself_--not trustto nobody else. You can't square up by heavin' your load offn your ownshoulders onto another fella's. You think you feel light coz you doneyour dooty, when ten to one you _done_ your friend. No! I wouldn'tadvise turnin' state's everdence on yourself unless it was to saveanother from the gallus. As it is, you can take it from me, the bestthing you can do for that--conscience o' yours, is get busy in anotherdirection. Dress yourself up as fetchin' as you can, go out motorin'with your gen'l'man friend like he ast you to, let him get his perposaloffn his chest, an' then tell'm--you'll be a sister to'm. "

CHAPTER XV

Sam Slawson had gone to the Adirondacks in January, personally conductedby Mr. Blennerhasset, Mr. Ronald's secretary, Mr. Ronald, in the mostunemotional and business-like manner, having assumed all theresponsibilities connected with the trip and Sam's stay at theSanatorium. 

It was Claire who told Mr. Ronald of the Slawsons' difficulty. HowMartha saw no way out, and still was struggling gallantly on, tryingsingle-handed to meet all obligations at home and, in addition, send herhusband away. 

"That's too much--even for Martha, " he observed. 

"If I only knew how to get Sam to the mountains, " Claire said in a sortof desperation. 

"You have just paved the way. "

"How?"

"You have told me. "

"You are going to help?"

"Yes. "

"O, how beautiful!"

"I am glad that, for once, I have the good fortune to please you. "

Claire's happy smile faded. She turned her face away, pretending tobusy herself with Radcliffe's books. 

"I see I have offended once more. "

She hesitated a moment, then faced him squarely. 

"There can be no question of your either pleasing or offending me, Mr. Ronald. What you are doing for Martha makes me glad, of course, but thatis only because I rejoice in any good that may come to her. I would nottake it upon myself to praise you for doing a generous act, or to blameyou if you didn't do it. "

"'Cr-r-rushed again!'" observed Francis Ronald gravely, but with alurking, quizzical light of laughter in his eyes. 

For an instant Claire was inclined to be resentful. Then, her sense ofhumor coming to the rescue, she dropped her heroics and laughed outblithely. 

"How jolly it must be to have a lot of money and be able to do all sortsof helpful, generous things!" she said lightly. 

"You think money the universal solvent?"

"I think the lack of it the universal _in_solvent. "

"I hope you don't lay too much emphasis on it. "

"Why?"

"Because it might lead you to do violence to your better impulses, yourhigher instincts. "

"Why should a man think he has the right to say that sort of thing to awoman? Would you consider it a compliment if I suggested that yourprinciples were hollow--negotiable? That they were For Sale or To Let, like an empty house?"

"I suppose most men would tell you they have no use for principle intheir business--only principal. "

"And you think women--"

"Generally women have both principle and interest in the business oflife. That's why we look to them to keep up the moral standard. That'swhy we feel it to be unworthy of her when a girl makes a mercenarymarriage. "

The indignant blood sprang to Claire's cheeks. What business had he tointerfere in her affairs, to warn her against marrying Bob Van Brandt, assuming that, if she did marry him, it would be only for money. She wasglad that Radcliffe bounded in just then, throwing himself upon her inhis eagerness to tell her all that had befallen him during their longseparation of two hours, when he had been playing on the Mall underBeetrice's unwatchful eye. 

In spite of Martha, Claire had just been on the point of confessing toMr. Ronald. He had seemed so friendly, so much less formidable than atany time since that first morning. But she must have been mistaken, forhere were all the old barriers up in an instant, and with them theresentful fire in her heart. 

Perhaps it was the memory of this conversation that made her feel so illat ease with Robert Van Brandt. She could not understand herself. Whyshould she feel so uncomfortable with her old friend? She could not helpbeing aware that he cared for her, but why did the thought of histelling her so make her feel like a culprit? Why should he not tell her?Why should she not listen? One thing she felt she knew--if he did tellher, and she refused to listen, he would give it up. He would notpersist. 

She remembered how, as a little girl, she had looked up to himreverentially as "big Robby Van Brandt. " He was a hero to her in thosedays, until--he had let himself be balked of what he had started out toget. If he had only persisted, _in_sisted, who knows--maybe--. 

She was sure that if he offered her his love and she refused to acceptit, he would not, like the nursery-rhyme model, try, try again. He wouldgive up and go away--and in her loneliness she did not want him to goaway. Was she selfish? she wondered. Selfish or no, she could not bringherself to follow Martha's advice and "let'm get his perposal offn hischest. "

It was early in April before he managed to do it. 

She and Radcliffe had gone to the Park. Radcliffe was frisking about inthe warm sunshine, while Claire watched him from a nearby bench, when, suddenly, Mr. Van Brandt dropped into the seat beside her. 

He did not approach his subject gradually. He plunged in desperately, headlong, heartlong, seeming oblivious to everything and every one saveher. 

When, at last, he left her, she, knowing it was for always, was sorelytempted to call him back. She did care for him, in a way, and the lifehis love opened up to her would be very different from this. And yet--

She closed her cold fingers about Radcliffe's little warm ones, and roseto lead him across the Plaza. She did not wonder at his being soconveniently close at hand, nor at his unwonted silence all the wayhome. She had not realized, until now that it was snapped, how much thelink between this and her old home-life had meant to her. It meant somuch that tears were very near the surface all that day, and even atnight, when Martha was holding forth to her brood, they were notaltogether to be suppressed. 

"Easter comes early this year, " Mrs. Slawson observed. 

"'M I going to have a new hat?" inquired Cora. 

"What for do you need a new hat, I should like to know? I s'pose youthink you'll walk up Fifth Avenoo in the church parade, an' folks'llstare at you, an' nudge each other an' whisper--'Looka there! That'sMiss Cora Slawson that you read so much about in the papers. That one onthe right-hand side, wearin' the French _shappo_, with the white ribbon, an' the grand vinaigrette onto it. Ain't she han'some?'"

"I think you're real mean to make fun of me!" pouted Cora. 

"I got a dollar an' a half for the Easter singin', " announced Sammy. "Coz I'm permoted an' I'm goin' to sing a solo!"

"Careful you don't get your head so turned you sing outer the other sideo' your mouth, " cautioned Martha. "'Stead o' crowin' so much, you bettermake sure you know your colic. "

"What you goin' to do with your money?" inquired Francie, unable toconceive of possessing such vast riches. 

"I do' know. "

"Come here an' I'll tell you, " said his mother. "Whisper!"

At first Sammy's face did not reveal any great amount of satisfaction atthe words breathed into his ear, but after a moment it fairly glowed. 

"Ain't that grand?" asked Martha. 

Sammy beamed, then went off whistling. 

"He's goin' to invest it in a hat for Cora as a s'prise, me addin' mymite to the fun' an' not lettin' him be any the wiser. An' Cora, she'sgoin' to get _him_ a pair o' shoes with her bank pennies, an' be thisan' be that, the one thinks he's clothin' the other, an' is proud asPunch of it, which they're learnin' manners the same time they're bein'dressed, " Martha explained to Claire later. 

"I wish you'd tell that to Radcliffe, " Claire said. "He loves to hearabout the children, and he can learn so much from listening to what istold of other kiddies' generosities and self-denials. "

Martha shook her head. "There's nothin' worth tellin', " she said. "An'besides, if I told'm, he might go an' tell his mother or his UncleFrank, an' they might think I was puttin' in a bid for a Easter-egg onmy own account. Radcliffe is a smart little fella! He knows a thing ortwo--an' sometimes three, an' don't you forget it. "

That Radcliffe "knew a thing or two--an' sometimes three, " he provedbeyond a doubt to Martha next day when, as she was busy cleaning hisUncle Frank's closet, he meandered up to her and casually observed:

"Say, you know what I told you once 'bout Miss Lang bein' Mr. VanBrandt's best girl?"

"Yes. "

"Well, she ain't!"

"Why ain't she?"

"I was lookin' out o' the window in my mother's sittin'-room yesterdaymornin', an' when my mother an' my Uncle Frank they came up frombreakfast, they didn't see me coz I was back o' the curtains. My mothershe had a letter Shaw, he just gave her, and when she read it sheclapped her hands together an' laughed, an' my Uncle Frank he said, 'Whysuch joy?' an' she said, 'The greatest news! Amy Pelham is engaged toMr. Van Brandt!' An' my Uncle Frank, his face got dark red all at once, an' he said to my mother, 'Catherine, are you 'sponsible for that?' an'she said, 'I never lifted a finger. I give you my word of honor, Frank!'An' then my Uncle Frank he looked better. An' my mother she said, 'Yousee, he couldn't have cared for Miss Lang, after all--I mean, the way wethought. ' An' he said, 'Why not?' An' she said, 'Coz if he had askedher, she would have taken him, for no poor little governess is going tothrow away a chance like that. No sensible girl would say _no_ to BobVan Brandt with all his 'vantages. She'd jump at him, an' you couldn'tblame her. '

"An' then my mother an' my Uncle Frank _they_ jumped, for I came outfrom behind the curtains where I'd been lookin' out, an' I said, 'Shewould too say _no_! My Miss Lang, she's sensible, an' one time in thePark, when Mr. Van Brandt he asked her to take him an' everything he had(that's what he said! "Take me an' everything I have, an' do what youwant with me!"), Miss Lang she said, "No, Bob, I can't! I wish I could, for your sake, if you want me so--but--I can't. " An' Mr. Van Brandt hefelt so bad, I was sorry. When I thought Miss Lang was his best girl, Ididn't like him, but I didn't want him to feel as bad as that. An' hewent off all alone by himself, an' Miss Lang--'Only I couldn't tell anymore, for my Uncle Frank, he said reel sharp, 'That's enough, Radcliffe!' But last night he brought me home a dandy boat I can sail onthe Lake, with riggin' an' a center-board, an', O, lots o' things! An'so I guess he wasn't so very mad, after all. "

CHAPTER XVI

"Most like it's the Spring, " said Martha. It was Memorial Day. She andMiss Lang were at home, sitting together in Claire's pretty room, through the closed blinds of which the hot May sun sent tempered shaftsof light. 

Claire regarded Mrs. Slawson steadily for a moment, seeming to make somesort of mental calculation meanwhile. 

"Well, if it _is_ the Spring, " she observed at length with a whimsicallittle frown knitting her brows, "it's mighty forehanded, for it beganto get in its fine work as far back as January. Ever since the time Samwent to the Sanatorium you've been losing flesh and color, Martha, and--I don't know what to do about it!"

"Do about it!" repeated Mrs. Slawson. "Why, there ain't nothin' _to_ doabout it, but let the good work go on. I'm in luck, if it's true whatyou say. Believe _me_, there's lots o' ladies in this town, is starvin'their stummicks an' everythin' else about 'em, an' payin' the doctorshigh besides, just to get delicate-complected, an' airy-fairy figgers, same's I'm doin' without turnin' a hand. Did you never hear o' bantin'?It's what the high-toned doctors recommend to thin down ladies who haveit so comfortable they're uncomfortable. The doctors prescribes exercisefor'm, an' they take it, willin' as doves, whereas if their husbandssaid, 'Say, old woman, while you're restin', just scrub down thecellar-stairs good--that'll take the flesh off'n you quicker'n anythin'else _I_ know!' they'd get a divorce from him so quick you couldn't see'em for dust. No, they'd not do anythin' so low as cellar-stairs, tosave their lives. You couldn't please 'em better'n to see another womandown on her marra-bones workin' for 'em, but get down themselves? Not onyour sweet life, they wouldn't. They'd rather _bant_. Bantin' sounds somuch more stylisher than scrubbin'. "

Claire smiled, but her eyes were very serious as she said, "All thesame, Martha, I believe you are grieving your heart out for Sam. I'vebeen watching you when you didn't know it, and I've seen the signs andthe tokens. Your heart has the hunger-ache in it!"

"Now, what do you think o' that!" exclaimed Mrs. Slawson. "What do _you_know about hearts an' hunger-aches, I should like to know. You, anunmarried maiden-girl, without so much as the shadder or the skelegan ofa beau, as far as _I_ can see. What do _you_ know about a womanhungerin' an' cravin' for her own man? You have to have reelly felt themthings yourself, to know the signs of 'em in other folks. "

Claire's lip trembled, but she did not reply. 

When Martha spoke again it was as if she had replied. 

"O, go 'way! _You_ ain't never had a leanin' in any gen'l'man'sdirection, I'd be willin' to wager. An' yet, I may as well tell you, youbeen gettin' kinder white an' scrawny yourself lately, beggin' yourpardon for bein' so bold as notice it. Mind, I ain't the faintest notionof holdin' it against you! I know better than think you been settin'your affections on anybody. There's other things _besides_ love givesyou that tired feelin'. What you need is somethin' to brace you up, an'clear your blood, like Hoodses Sassperilla. Everybody feels the way youdo, this time o' year. I heard a young saleslady (she wasn't a woman, mind you, she was a sales_lady_), I heard a young saleslady in the carthe other mornin' complain--she was the reel dressy kind, you know, withmore'n a month's pay of hair, boilin' over on the back of her head inpuffs an' things--the gallus sort that, if you want to buy a yard o'good flannen off her, will sass you up an' down to your face, as freshas if she was your own daughter--she was complainin' 'the Spring alwaysmade her feel so sorter, kinder, so awful la-anguid. '"

"Martha, dear, " broke in Claire irrelevantly, "I wonder if you'd mindvery much if I told Mr. Ronald the truth. He thinks you were an oldfamily servant. He thinks you nursed me till I was able to walk. "

Martha considered. "Well, ain't that the truth?" she asked blandly. "Ilived out from the time I was twelve years old. That was in Mrs. Granville's mother's house. When I was sixteen I went to Mrs. Granville's. I was kitchen-maid there first-off, an' gradjelly shepromoted me till I was first housemaid. I never left her till I gotmarried. If that don't make me an old family servant, I'd like to know. "

"But he thinks you were an old family servant in _our_ house. "

"Well, bless your heart, that's _his_ business, not mine. How can I helpwhat he thinks?"

"Didn't you tell him, Martha dear, that you nursed me till I was able towalk?"

"Shoor I did! An' it's the livin' truth. What's the matter with that?Believe _me_, you wasn't good for more than a minit or two more on yourlegs, when I got you into your bed that blessed night. You was cleanbowled over, an' you couldn't 'a' walked another step if you'd beenkilled for it. Didn't I nurse you them days you was in bed, helplesslikeas a baby? Didn't I nurse you till you could walk?"

"Indeed you did. And that's precisely the point!" said Claire. "If Mr. Ronald--if Mrs. Sherman knew the truth, that I was poor, homeless, without a friend in New York the night you picked me up on the street, and carried me home and cared for me without knowing a thing about me, they mightn't--they _wouldn't_ have taken me into their house and givenme their little boy to train. And because they wouldn't, I want to tellthem. I want to square myself. I ought to have told them long ago. Iwant--"

"You want 'em to bounce you, " observed Mrs. Slawson calmly. "Well, there's always more'n one way of lookin' at things. For instanceany good chambermaid, _with experience_, will tell you there's threeways of dustin'. The first is, do it thora, wipin' the rungs o' thechairs, an' the backs o' the pictures, an' under the books on thetable like. The second is, just sorter flashin' your rag over the placesthat shows, an' the third is--pull down the shades. They're all goodenough ways in their own time an' place, an' you foller them accordin'to your disposition or, if you're nacherelly particular, accordin' tothe other things you got to do, in the time you got to do 'em _in_. Now, _I'm_ particular. I'm the nacherelly thora kind, but if I'mpressed, an' there's more important things up to me than the dustin', I give it a lick an' a promise, same as the next one, an' let it go atthat, till the time comes I can do better. Life's too short to fuss an'fidget your soul out over trifles. It ain't always what you _want_, butwhat you _must_. You sometimes got to cut short at one end so's you canpiece out at another, an' you can take it from me, you only pester folksby gettin' 'm down where they can't resist you, an' forcin' a lot ofhard facks down their throats, which ain't the _truth_ anyhow, an' whichthey don't want to swaller on no account. What do they care about themachinery, so long as it turns out the thing they want? Believe _me_, it's foolishness to try to get 'em back into the works, pokin' aboutamong the inside wheels an' springs, an' so forth. You likely getknocked senseless by some big thing-um-bob you didn't know was there. Now I know just eggsackly what's in your mind, but you're wrong. Youthink I told Mr. Ronald fibs. I didn't tell'm fibs. I just give'm thetruth the way he'd take it, like you give people castor-oil that's toodainty to gullup it down straight. Some likes it in lemon, an' somein grobyules, but it's castor-oil all the same. He wanted to know thetruth about you, an' I let him have it, the truth bein' you're as finea lady as any in the land. If I'd happened to live in Grand Rapids atthe time, I'd most likely of lived out with your grandmother, an' beenan old family servant in your house like I was at Mrs. Granville's, an' I certainly would of nursed you if I'd had the chanct. It was justa case o' happenso, my _not_ havin' it. The right kind o' folks herein New York is mighty squeamish about strangers. They wantrecommendations--they want 'em because they want to be sure the onesthey engage is O. K. That's all recommendations is for, ain't it? Now Iknew the minit I clapped eye to you, that, as I say, you was as grand alady as any in the land, an' that bein' the case, what was the use o'frettin' because I hadn't more than your sayso to prove it. But if I'dpulled a long face to Mrs. Sherman, an' told her, hesitatin'-like an'nervous, about--well, about what took place that night, she, not havin'much experience of human nature (only the other kind that's more commonhere in New York City), she'd have hemmed, an' hawed, an' thought she'dbetter not try it, seein' Radcliffe is such an angel-child an' not to betrained except by a A-I Lady. "

"But the truth, " persisted Claire. 

"I tell the truth, " Mrs. Slawson returned with quiet dignity. "I onlydon't waste time on trifles. "

"It is not wasting time on trifles to be exact and accurate. Anarchitect planning a house must make every little detail _true_, elsewhen the house goes up, it won't stand. "

"Don't he have to reckon nothin' on the _give_ or _not-give_ of thethings he's dealin' with?" demanded Martha. "I'm only a ignorant woman, an' I ask for information. When you're dress-makin' you have to allowfor the seams, an' when you're makin'--well, other things, you have todo the same thing, only spelled a little different--you have to allowfor the _seems_. Most folks don't do it, an' that's where a lot o'trouble comes in, or so it appears to me. "

Claire twisted her ring in silence, gazing down at it the while as ifthe operation was, of all others, the most important and absorbing. 

"We may not agree, Martha dear, " she said at last, "but anyway I knowyou're good, good, _good_, and I wouldn't hurt your feelings for theworld. "

"Shoor! I know you wouldn't! An' they ain't hurt. Not in the least. Yougot one kinder conscience an' I got another, that's all. Consciences islike hats. One that suits one party would make another look like a guy. You got to have your own style. You got to know what's best for you, an'then _stick to it_!"

"And you won't object if I tell Mr. Ronald?"

"Objeck? Certainly not! Tell'm anything you like. _I_ always was fond o'Mr. Ronald myself. I never thought he was as hard an' stern with a bodyas some thinks. Some thinks he's as hard as nails, but--"

"O, I'm _sure_ he's not, " cried Claire with unexpected loyalty. "Hismanner may seem a little cold and proud sometimes, but I know he's verykind and generous. "

"Certaintly. So do I know it, " said Mrs. Slawson. "I don't say I mayn'tbe mistaken, but I have the highest opinion o' Lor--Mr. Ronald. I thinkyou could trust'm do the square thing, no matter what, an' if he waskinder harsh doin' it, it's only because he expects a body to be perfectlike he is himself. "

In the next room Sabina was shouting at the top of her lungs--"Come backto ear-ring, my voornean, my voornean!"

"Ain't it a caution what lungs that child has--considerin'?" Marthareflected. "Just hear her holler! She'd wake the dead. I wonder if she'stryin' to beat that auta whoopin' it up outside. Have you ever noticedthem autas nowadays? Some of them has such croupy coughs, before I knowit I'm huntin' for a flannen an' a embrercation. 'Xcuse me a minit whileI go answer the bell. "

A second later she returned. A step in advance of her was Mr. Ronald. 

"I am lucky to find you at home, Martha, " were the first words Claireheard him say. 

Martha, by dint of a little unobservable maneuvering, managed tosuperimpose her substantial shadow upon Claire's frail one. 

"Yes, sir. When I get a day to lay off in, you couldn't move me outerthe house with a derrick, " she announced. "Miss Lang's here, too. Bein'so dim, an' comin' in outer the sunlight, perhaps you don't make out tosee her. "

"She ain't had time yet to pull herself together, " Mrs. Slawson inwardlynoted. "But, Lord! I couldn't stand in front of her forever, an' even ifa girl _is_ dead in love with a man (more power to her!), that's noreason she should go to the other extreme to hide it, an' pertend she'sa cold storage, warranted to freeze'm stiff, like the artificial icethey're makin' these days, in the good old summertime. "

The first cold greetings over, Claire started to retreat in thedirection of the door. 

"Excuse me, please--I promised Francie--She's expecting me--she'swaiting--"

"Pshaw now, let her wait!" said Martha. 

"Don't let me detain Miss Lang if she wishes to go, " interposed Mr. Ronald. "My business is really with you, Martha. "

"Thank you, sir. But I'd like Miss Lang to stay by, all the same--thatis, if you don't objeck. "

"As a witness? You think I need watching, eh?"

"I think it does a body good to watch you, sir!"

"I didn't know before, you were a flatterer, Martha. But I see you're alineal descendant of the Blarney Stone. "

Claire felt herself utterly ignored. She tried again to slip away, butMartha's strong hand detained her, bore her down into the place she hadjust vacated. 

"How is Francie?" inquired Mr. Ronald, taking the chair Mrs. Slawsonplaced for him. 

"_Fine_--thank you, sir. The doctors says they never see a child getwell so fast. She's grown so fat an' big, there ain't a thing belongs toher will fit her any longer, they're all shorter, an' she has to gowhacks with Cora on her clo'es. "

"Perhaps she'd enjoy a little run out into the country this afternoon inmy car. The other children, too? And--possibly--Miss Lang. "

"I'm sure they'd all thank you kindly, sir, " began Martha, when--"I'msorry, " said Claire coldly, "I can't go. "

Mr. Ronald did not urge her. "It is early. We have plenty of time todiscuss the ride later, " he observed quietly. "Meanwhile, what I have inmind, Martha, is this: Mr. Slawson has been at the Sanatorium nowfor--?"

"Goin' on five months, " said Martha. 

"And the doctors think him improved?"

"Well, on the whole, yes, sir. His one lung (sounds kinder Chineesy, don't it?), his one lung ain't no worse--it's better some--only he keepslosin' flesh an' that puzzles'm. "

"Do you think he is contented there?"

"He says he is. He says it's the grand place, an' they're all as goodto'm as if he was the king o' Harlem. _You_ seen to that, sir--he says. An' Sam, he's always pationate, no matter what comes, but--"

"Well--_but_?"

"But--only just, it ain't _home_, you know, sir!"

"I see. And the doctors think he ought to stay up there? Not returnhome--_here_, I mean?"

"That's what they say. "

"Have you--the means to keep him at the Sanatorium over the five monthswe settled for in January?"

"No, sir. That is, not--not _yet_. "

"Would you like to borrow enough money to see him through the rest ofthe year?"

Martha deliberated. "I may _have_ to, sir, " she said at last with avisible effort. "But I don't like to borrer. I notice when folks getsthe borrerin'-habit they're slow payin' back, an' then you don't getthanks for a gift or you don't get credit for a loan. "

This time it was Mr. Ronald who seemed to be considering. "Right!" heannounced presently. "I notice you go into things rather deep, Martha. "

Mrs. Slawson smiled. "Well, when things _is_ deep, that's the way yougot to go into them. What's on your plate you got to chew, an' if youdon't like it, you can lump it, an' if you don't like to lump it, youcan cut it up finer. But there it _is_, an' there it stays, till youswaller it, somehow. "

"Do you enjoy or resent the good things that are, or seem to be, heapedon other people's plates?"

"Why, yes. Certaintly I enjoy 'em. But, after all, the things taste bestthat we're eatin' ourselves, don't they? An' if I had money enough likesome, so's I didn't have to borrer to see my man through, why, I don'tgo behind the door to say I'd be glad an' grateful. "

"Would you take the money as a gift, Martha?"

"You done far more than your share already, sir. "

"Then, if you won't _take_, and you'd rather not borrow, we must findanother way. A rather good idea occurred to me last night. I've anuncommonly nice old place up in New Hampshire--in the mountains. It wasmy father's--and my grandfather's. It's been closed for many years, andI haven't given it a thought, except when the tax-bills came due, or thecaretaker sent in his account. It's so far away my sister won't livethere, and--it's too big and formidable for one lone man to summer in byhimself. Now, why wouldn't it be a capital idea for you to pack up yourgoods and chattels here, and take your family right up there--make thatyour home? The lodge is comfortable and roomy, and I don't see why Mr. Slawson couldn't recover there as well, if not better, than where he is. I'd like to put the place in order--make some improvements, do a littleremodeling. I need a trusty man to oversee the laborers, and keep an eyeand close tab on the workmen I send up from town. If Mr. Slawson wouldact as superintendent for me, I'd pay him what such a position is worth, and you would have your house, fuel, and vegetables free. Don't try toanswer now. You'd be foolish to make a decision in a hurry that youmight regret later. Write to your husband. Talk it over with him. Hemight prefer to choose a job for himself. And remember--it's 'way out inthe country. The children would have to walk some distance to school. "

"Give 'em exercise, along of their exercises, " said Martha. 

"The church in the village is certainly three miles off. "

"My husband don't go to church as reg'lar as I might wish, " Mrs. Slawsonobserved. "I tell'm, the reason men don't be going to church so muchthese days, is for fear they might hear something they believe. "

"You would find country life tame, perhaps, after the city. "

"Well, the city life ain't been that _wild_ for me that I'd miss thedizzy whirl. An' anyhow--we'd be _together_!" Martha said. "We'd betogether, maybe, come our weddin'-day. The fourth o' July. We never beenparted oncet, on that day, all the fifteen years we been married, " shemused, "but--"

"Well?"

"But, come winter, an' Mis' Sherman opens the house again, an' wantsMiss Claire back, who's goin' to look out for _her_?"

"Why--a--as to _that_--" said Mr. Ronald, so vaguely it sounded almostsupercilious to Claire. 

In an instant her pride rose in revolt, rebelling against the notion hemight have, that she could possibly put forth any claim upon hisconsideration. 

"O, please, _please_ don't think of me, Martha, " she cried vehemently. "I have entirely other plans. You mustn't give me, or my affairs, athought, in settling your own. You must do what's best for _you_. Youmustn't count for, or _on_, me in the least. I have not told you before, but I've made up my mind I must resign my position at Mrs. Sherman's, anyway. I'll write her at once. I'll tell her myself, of course, but Itell you now to show that you mustn't have me in mind, at all, in makingyour plans. "

Martha's low-pitched voice fell upon Claire's tense, nervous one withsoothing calmness. 

"Certaintly not, Miss Claire, " she said. 

"And you'll write to your husband and report to him what I propose, "suggested Mr. Ronald, as if over Claire's head. 

"Shoor I will, sir!"

"And if he likes the idea, my secretary will discuss the details withhim later. Wages, duties--all the details. "

"Yes, sir. "

"And you may tell the children I'll leave orders that the car be sentfor them some other day. I find it's not convenient, after all, for meto take them myself this afternoon. I spoke too fast in proposing it. But they'll not be disappointed. Mr. Blennerhasset will see to that. Ileave town to-night to be gone--well, indefinitely. In any case, untilwell on into the autumn or winter. Any letter you may direct to me, careof Mr. Blennerhasset at the office, will be attended to at once. Good-by, Martha!--Miss Lang--" He was gone. 

When the car had shot out of sound and sight, Martha withdrew from thewindow, from behind the blinds of which she had been peering eagerly. 

"He certainly _is_ a little woolly wonder, meaning no offense, " sheobserved with a deep-drawn sigh. "Yes, Mr. Ronald is as good as theymake 'em, an' dontcher forget it!"

She seated herself opposite Claire, drawing her chair quite close. 

"Pity you an' him is so on the outs. I'm not speakin' o' _him_, s'much, but anybody with half an eye can see _you_ got a reg'lar hate on'm. _Anyone_ can see that!"

A moment of silence, and then Claire flung herself, sobbing andquivering, across Martha's lap, ready to receive her. 

"O, _Martha_!" she choked. 

CHAPTER XVII

"Well now, what do you think o' that! Ain't it the end o' the law? Thehigh-handed way he has o' doin' things! Think o' the likes o' _me_closin' up my '_town-house' _an' takin' my fam'ly (includin' Flicker an'Nixcomeraus) 'to the country-place'--for all the world like I was alady, born an' bred. --Sammy, you sit still in your seat, an' eat thecandy Mr. Blennerhasset brought you, an' quit your rubberin', or thetrain'll start suddently, an' give you a twist in your neck you won'tget over in a hurry. .. . Ma, you comfortable?. .. . Cora an' Francie, seeyou behave like little ladies, or I'll attend to you later. See howquiet Sabina is--Say, Sabina, what you doin'? Now, what do you think o'that! If that child ain't droppin' off to sleep, suckin' the red plusho' the seat! For all the world like she didn't have a wink o' rest lastnight, or a bite or a sup this mornin'--an' she slep' the clock 'round, an' et a breakfast fit for a trooper. Say, Sabina--here, wake up! An'take your tongue off'n that beautiful cotton-backed plush, d'you hear?In the first place, the gen'l'men that owns this railroad don't wanttheir upholsterry et by little girls, an', besides, it's makin' yourmouth all red--an', second-place, the cars isn't the time tosleep--leastwise, not so early in the mornin'. Miss Claire, child, don'tlook so scared! You ain't committin' no crime goin' along with us, an'_he_'ll never suspicion anyhow. He's prob'ly on the boundin' biller bythis time, an' Mr. Blennerhasset he don't know you from a hole in theground. Besides, whose business is it, anyway? You ain't goin' as _his_guest, as I told you before. You're _my_ boarder, same's you've alwaysbeen, an' it's nobody's concern if you board down here or up there. .. 

"Say, ain't these flowers just grand? The box looks kinder like a youngcoffin, but never mind that. .. 

"A body would think all that fruit an' stuff was enough of a send-off, but Lor--_Mr_. Ronald, he don't do things by halves, does he? Itwouldn't seem so surprisin' now, if he'd 'a' knew you was comin' alongan' all this (Mr. Blennerhasset himself helpin' look after us, an' seeus off--as if I was a little tender flower that didn't know a railroadticket from a trunk-check), I say, it wouldn't seem so surprisin' ifhe'd 'a' knew _you_ was comin' along. I'd think it was on your account. What they calls _delicate attentions_. The sorter thing a gen'l'man doeswhen he's got his eye on a young lady for his wife, an' is sorterbreakin' it to her gently--kinder beckonin' with a barn-door, as thesayin' is. 

"But Mr. Ronald ain't the faintest notion but you've gone back to yourfolks in Grand Rapids, an' so all these favors is for _me_, of course. Well, I certainly take to luckshurry like a duck takes to water. I neverknew it was so easy to feel comfortable. I guess I been a little hard onthe wealthy in the past. Now, if _you_ should marry a rich man, I don'tbelieve--"

Claire sighed wearily. "I'll never marry anybody, Martha. And besides, arich man wouldn't be likely to go to a cheap boarding-house for a wife, and next winter I--O, isn't it warm? Don't you _wish_ the train wouldstart?"

At last the train did start, and they were whirled out of the steamingcity, over the hills and far away, through endless stretches of sunlitcountry, and the long, long hours of the hot summer day, until, atnight, they reached their destination, and found Sam Slawson waitingthere in the cool twilight to welcome them. 

Followed days of rarest bliss for Martha, when she could marshal out hersmall forces, setting each his particular task, and seeing it was donewith thoroughness and despatch, so that in an inconceivably short timeher new home shone with all the spotless cleanliness of the old, andadded comeliness beside. 

"Ain't it the little palace?" she inquired, when all was finished. "Iwouldn't change my lodge for the great house, grand as it is, not foranything you could offer me! Nor I wouldn't call the queen my cousin nowwe're all in it together. I'm feelin' that joyful I'd like to have whatthey calls a house-swarmin', only there ain't, by the looks of it, anyneighbors much, to swarm. "

"No, " said Ma regretfully, "I noticed there ain't no neighbors--to speakof. "

"Well, then, we can't speak o' them, " returned Martha. "Which will saveus from fallin' under God's wrath as gossips. There's never any greatloss without some small gain. "

"But we must have some sort of jollification, " Claire insisted. "Doesn'tyour wedding-day--the anniversary of it, I mean--come 'round about thistime? You said the Fourth, didn't you?"

Martha nodded. "Sam Slawson an' me'll be fifteen years married comeFourth of July, " she announced. "We chose that day, because we was sopoor we knew we couldn't do nothin' great in the line o' celebrationourselves, so we just kinder managed it, so's without inconveniencin'the nation any or addin' undooly to its expenses, it would do ourcelebratin' for us. You ain't no notion how grand it makes a body feelto be woke up at the crack o' dawn on one's weddin' mornin' with thenoise o' the bombardin' in honor o' the day! I'm like to miss it thisyear, with only my own four young Yankees spoilin' my sleep settin' offtorpeders under my nose. "

"You won't miss anything, " said Claire reassuringly, "but you mustn'tsay a word to Sam. And you mustn't ask any questions yourself, for whatis going to happen is to be a _wonderful_ surprise!"

"You betcher life it is!" murmured Martha complacently to herself, afterClaire had hastened off to confer with the children and plan a programfor the great day. 

Ma to make the wedding-cake! Cora to recite her "piece. " Francie andSammy to be dressed as pages and bear, each, a tray spread with thegifts it was to be her own task and privilege to contrive. Sabina tohover over all as a sort of Cupid, who, if somewhat "hefty" as toavoirdupois, was in all other respects a perfect little Love. 

It seemed as if the intervening days were winged, so fast they flew. Claire never could have believed there was so much to be done for such asimple festival, and, of course, the entire weight fell on hershoulders, for Ma was as much of a child in such matters as any, andMartha could not be appealed to, being the _bride_, and, moreover, beingaway at the great house, where tremendous changes were in progress. 

But at last came the wonderful day, and everything was in readiness. 

First, a forenoon of small explosive delights for the children--then, asthe day waned, a dinner eaten outdoors, picnic-fashion on the grass, under the spreading trees, beneath the shadows of the mightymountain-tops. 

What difference if Ma's cake, crowning a perfect feast, had suffered alittle in the frosting and its touching sentiment, traced in snowylettering upon a bridal-white ground, _did_ read

FIFTEEN YEARS OF MARRED LIFE. 

It is sometimes one's ill-luck to misspell a word, and though awedding-cake is usually large and this was no exception, the space waslimited, and, besides, no one but Sam senior and Miss Lang noticed itanyhow. 

A quizzical light in his eye, Mr. Slawson scrawled on a scrap of paperwhich he passed to Claire (with apologies for the liberty) the words:

"She'd been nearer the truth if she'd left out the two _rr_s while shewas about it, and had it:

FIFTEEN YEARS OF MA'D LIFE. "

Then came Cora's _piece_. 

Her courtesy, right foot back, knees suddenly bent, right hand on leftside (presumably over heart, actually over stomach), chin diving intothe bony hollow of her neck--Cora's courtesy was a thing to beremembered. 

LADY CLARE

She announced it with ceremony, and this time, Martha noticed, therecalcitrant garter held fast to its moorings. 

"''Twas the time when lilies blowAnd clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe--'"

_"His!"_ prompted Martha in a loud stage-whisper. _"His_--not 'a'--"

Cora accepted the correction obediently, but her self-confidence wasshaken. She managed to stammer, "'Give t-to--his c-cousin, L-Lady C-Clare, '"

and then a storm of tears set in, drowning her utterance. 

"Well, what do you think o' _that_?" exclaimed Martha, amazed at theundue sensitiveness of her offspring. "Never mind, Cora! You done itgrand!--as far as you went. "

To cover this slight mishap, Claire gave a hurried signal to the pages, who appeared forthwith in splendid form, if a little overweighted by theburdens they bore. In some strange way Claire's simple gifts had beensecretly augmented until they piled up upon the trays, twin-mountains oftreasure. 

When the first surprise was past, and the wonders examined and exclaimedover, Martha bent toward Claire, from her seat of honor on the grass. 

"Didn't I think to tell you Mr. Blennerhasset come up on the earlytrain? Sammy, he drove down to the station himself to meet'm. Mr. Blennerhasset brought up all them grand things--for Mr. Ronald. Ain'the--I mean Mr. Ronald--a caution to 've remembered the day? I been sotook up with things over there to the great house, I musta forgot totell you about Mr. Blennerhasset. Ain't everything just elegant?--

"It's pretty, the way the night comes down up here. With the sharppin-heads o' stars prickin' through, one by one. They don't seem likethat in the city, do they? An' the moon's comin' up _great_!"

Claire's eyes were fixed on the grassy slope ahead. 

"Who are those three men over there?" she asked. "What are they doing? Ican't make out in the dusk anything but shadow-forms. "

"Sam, an' Mr. Blennerhasset, an'--an'--another fella from theneighborhood. Mr. Blennerhasset he brought up some fire-works tosurprise the young uns, an' they're goin' to set 'em off. It's earlyyet, but the sooner it's over the sooner to sleep. An' the kids has hada excitin' day. "

Up shot a rocket, drawing the children's breaths skyward with it inlong-drawn "A-ahs!" of perfect ecstasy. 

Then pin-wheels, some of which, not to belie their nature, balkedobstinately, refusing to be coerced or wheedled into doing their duty. 

"Say, now, mother, " cried Francie excitedly--"that pin-wheel--in themiddle of it was a cork. When it got over spinning fast, I saw thecork. "

"Don't you never do that no more, " cautioned Martha. "Never you see thecork. It's the _light_ you want to keep your eye on!" which, as Clairethought it over, seemed to her advice of a particularly shrewd andtimely nature. 

She was still pondering this, and some other things, when she felt Mrs. Slawson's hand on her shoulder. 

"It's over now, an' I'm goin' to take the young 'uns in, an' put 'em tobed. But don't you stir. Just you sit here a while in the moonlight, an'enjoy the quiet in peace by yourself. You done a hard day's work, an'you give me an' Sammy what we won't forget in a hurry. So you just stayout here a few minits--or as long as you wanter--away from thechildern's clatter, an'--God bless you!"

Claire's gaze, following the great form affectionately, saw it pass intothe darker shadows, then forth--out into the light that shone from theopen door of the lodge. 

"She's _home_--and they're _together_!" Unconsciously, she spoke hergrateful thought aloud. 

"Yes, she's _home_--and they're _together_!"

The words were repeated very quietly, but there was that in thewell-known voice, so close at hand, that seemed to Claire to shake theworld. In an instant she was upon her feet, gazing up speechless, intoFrancis Ronald's baffling eyes. 

"You are kind to every one, " he said, "but for me you have only a sting, and yet--I love you. "

 * * * * *

Martha was still busy wrestling with the pyramid of dishes left overfrom the feast, when at last Claire came in alone. 

"Did you get a chance to compose yourself, an' quiet down some under thestars?" inquired Mrs. Slawson. "It's been a noisy day, with lots doin'. I don't wonder you're so tired--your cheeks is fairly blazin' with it, an' your eyes are shinin' like lit lamps. "

"You knew--you knew he was here!" said Claire accusingly. 

"_He?_ Who? O, you mean Mr. Ronald? Didn't I think to tell you, he comeup along with Mr. Blennerhasset? I been so flustrated with all theunexpected surprises of the day, it musta slipped my mind. "

"I've seen Mr. Ronald!" Claire said. " I've spoken with him!"

"Now, what do you think o' that! Wonders never cease!"

"Do you know what I did?"

"Search me!"

"I told him--the _truth_. "

"We-ell?"

"And--_I'm going to marry him!"_

Mrs. Slawson sat down hard upon the nearest chair, as if the happy shockhad deprived her of strength to support her own weight. 

"No!" she fairly shouted. 

"_Yes!" _cried Claire. "And, O, Martha! I'm _so_ happy! And--did you ever_dream_ such a thing could possibly happen?"

"Well, you certaintly have give me a start. I often thought how I'd_like_ to see Mr. Ronald your _financiay_ or your _trosso_, or whateverthey call it. But, that it would really come to pass--" She paused. 

"O, you don't know how I dreaded next winter, " Claire said, as if shewere thinking aloud. "I went over it--and I went over it, in mymind--what I'd do--where I'd go--and now--_Now!_. .. I couldn't take thatfine job you had your eye on for me, not even if it had come tosomething. Don't you remember? I mean, the splendid job you had the ideaabout, that first night I was sick. I shan't need it now, shall I, Martha?"

"You got it!" said Martha. 

Claire's wide eyes opened wider in wonderment. She stared silently atMrs. Slawson for a moment. Then the light began to break in upon herslowly, but with unmistakable illumination. 

"You--don't--mean?" she stammered. 

"Certaintly!" said Martha. 

THE END