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an ebook published byProject Gutenberg Australia

Title: Queer Judson
Author: Joseph C. Lincoln
eBook No.: 0200511h.html
Language: English
Date first posted: December 2021
Most recent update: December 2021

This eBook was produced by: Don Lainson

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Queer Judson

by

Joseph C. Lincoln

Contents

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII

CHAPTER I

Carey Judson swung about on the high stool behind the tall,ink-spattered cherry desk and hitched up one long leg until theheel of the shoe upon the foot attached to the leg was hooked overthe upper round of the stool. Then, resting the elbow of a longright arm upon the upraised knee, he lifted a hand—long andthin like the rest of him—drew down a lock of hair until itreached the bridge of his nose, twisted the end of the lock betweenhis thumb and finger, and gazed drearily out of the officewindow.

A snapshot of him taken in that attitude would have been a farmore characteristic likeness than any posed photograph couldpossibly have been. It would have emphasized the angularity of hisfigure, the every-which-wayness of his thick light brown hair, theodd manner in which his clothes managed not to fit him, althoughthey had been made by a fashionable city tailor. It might havecaught the lines between his brows and at the corners of his wide,pleasantly attractive mouth, perhaps a ghost of the expression inhis eyes, eyes which, in their dreamy wistfulness, were curiouslyreminiscent of those of Abraham Lincoln. In fact, such a snapshot,taken at this time, would, omitting such details as beard andcoloring, have been rather like a picture of the great President.Not, however, as to age, for Carey Judson was only thirty-four.

His full name was James Carey Judson, as had been his father'sbefore him, which was, of course, the reason why he, the son, hadalways been called Carey. Captain James Carey Judson—HE hadalways been called, locally, "Cap'n Jim-Carey"—was dead, hadbeen dead seven years. Carey had been very fond of his father, butnow he was thankful that the old gentleman was no longer living.And, on the whole, he envied him. To be comfortably dead must beinfinitely preferable to being uncomfortably alive. Captain Jim-Carey had not wanted to die. He enjoyed every minute of the lifeallowed him, and was accustomed to speak enviously of anothermariner, Noah, who, he said, "was spry enough to put to sea incommand of the Ark when he was six hundred and odd. A man,"affirmed the captain, "was given time enough to learn how tonavigate in those days. Now, just as a fellow is beginning to catchon to the ropes, he is called aloft." Captain Jim-Carey had no wishto be called aloft; he would have much preferred staying aboardthis world. His oldest son, on the contrary, would not have mindeddying, but considered himself obliged to live. An odd fact, as theson thought of it, but very typical of the kind of world itwas.

The room in which he sat, sprawled upon the high stool behindthe tall desk, was the office of J. C. Judson & Co. The deskand the stool and the old eight-sided clock on the wall were partof the office equipment purchased by Captain Jim-Carey when he gaveup going to the Banks, in 1851, and set up business there inWellmouth, his native town. J. C. Judson & Co. was the name onthe weather-beaten sign over the door of the good-sized building atthe foot of Wharf Lane. The printed letter and bill heads in thedesk drawer announced that J. C. Judson & Co. were "WholesaleDealers in Fresh and Salt Fish. Terms Thirty Days Net." When Careywas a little boy he used vaguely to suppose that the "Net" referredto the method by which the fish were caught. The "Co." upon theletterhead and upon the sign had puzzled him then. He used towonder if Mr. Ben Early, the manager, was the "Co." or was it JabezDrew, the wharf boss? When he asked his father, the latter onlylaughed. When he asked Jabez, Jabez solemnly admitted that he wasnot only the "Co.," but the entire establishment. "I'm the Companyand the fish, too," vowed Mr. Drew. "Don't you believe it?Why—why! I'm surprised! Don't I smell as if I was wholesalefish?"

He certainly did. For the matter of that, the whole building,and the wharf, and the neighborhood in which it stood reeked offish. And at the end of the wharf lay always one, and sometimes twoor three, schooners from which fish were being unloaded, or whichwere just starting after more fish. The skippers and crews of thoseschooners smelled fishy, so did Mr. Early's office coat; even Cap'nJim-Carey, when he came home to eat supper with his two sons andMrs. Hepsibah Ellis, the housekeeper, brought the odor with him.Carey had smelled fish ever since he could remember smellinganything. And he loathed the smell. He was loathing it now, as hesat upon the stool, looking out of the window.

The outlook had changed little. It was very like what heremembered seeing through that window twenty-five years earlier.The wharf, the piles of barrels, the inevitable schooner at the endof the wharf, the coating of fish scales over everything—theylooked about the same. Jabez Drew was out there, chatting with themate of the schooner. Jabez had changed, of course, since the dayswhen his employer's little son suspected him of being the "Co." onthe sign. As a matter of fact, the "Co." was, and always had been,a fiction. Cap'n Jim-Carey, sole owner of the buildings and thewharf and fleet, had added the "& Co." to his name merelybecause he liked the looks of it. Since his death, GeorgeJudson—Carey's brother, two years younger than he—whofell heir to the business, had left the lettering of the sign andthe firm's stationery as it was. "Father liked it that way," hesaid, "and it is a name that stands for something, so why changeit?" Even his wife's repeated declarations that it was ridiculousnot to put his own name there where it belonged had, so far, beenwithout effect. Which was unusual, for, as all Wellmouth knew andrepeatedly said, Mrs. George Judson was "boss" in that family, eventhough her husband was boss of so many things outside it.

The ancient, but reliable, eight-sided clock marked the time ashalf-past five. The calendar hanging beside the clock was torn offto a Saturday in July of a year early in the eighteen eighties. AndCarey Judson, bachelor, thirty-four years old, collegegraduate—a far greater distinction in those days thannow—so recently junior partner of Osborne and Judson, bankersand brokers, with offices in State Street in Boston—CareyJudson, now a bookkeeper in the employ of his younger brother, andoccupying that by no means exalted position merely because of therelationship, twisted the lock of hair between his finger andthumb, and, as he gazed pessimistically out of the window,reflected that his first week's labors in that employ were at anend.

Benjamin Early, store manager, and George Judson's trustedright- hand man, came briskly through the rear door leading fromthe warehouse and shipping rooms into the outer office. Careyremembered him as, in the old days, a little, straight up and down,precise young man, able, efficient, and recognizing a joke onlywhen he saw it labeled as such. In those days his dearestdissipation was the annual picnic of the Methodist Sunday School,in which school he taught a class. He was no longer young, ofcourse, and his once shiny black hair, the little left of it, wasiron gray. He was just as careful of it as ever, and the fewremaining locks sprouting at the sides of his narrow head wereencouraged to grow long and were plastered across the shiny desertbetween. He had been superintendent of his loved Sunday School foreight years, was a director in the Wellmouth National Bank, and hischaracter, both as a Christian brother and a business man, wasabove reproach. He was careful of his conduct, careful of hisdress, and very careful of the stray pennies. In every respect asharp contrast to the new bookkeeper.

He walked smartly and precisely over to the closet in which theoffice employees of J. C. Judson & Co. were, under orders,accustomed to hang their street apparel. He removed his seersuckershop jacket, washed his hands at the sink beside the closet, andtenderly relaid and replastered, with the brush suspended by achain from the hook by the mirror, the strands of hair bridging thewaste places above his forehead. A careful inspection of thereflection in that mirror seemed to convince him that theengineering feat was a success, for he turned again to the closet,took from the shelf a pair of celluloid cuffs, secured these to hiswristbands with nickel "cuff holders," donned arespectable—almost pious—black coat and lifted from thesame shelf an equally impeccable straw hat.

Then, turning toward the occupant of the desk stool, he smiledbetween two sets of absolutely regular and orthodox false teeth,and observed:

"Well, Carey, I think we can go home now."

Only two years before, when the junior partner of Osborne andJudson last visited, in that capacity, his native town, Earlyinvariably addressed him as "Mr. Judson." And there was nocondescension in the tone of the address then, quite the contrary.Carey, of course, had noticed the change, but he did not resent it.It was a part, a to-be-expected part, of the general change in theworld's attitude toward him, and the very least of his troubles. Hepaused in the twisting of his forelock, tossed the latter away fromhis eyes with a jerk of the head, and replied to Mr. Early'sobservations with philosophic calm.

"Yes, so it is," he agreed. "Good night, Ben."

Early took a step toward the outer door. Then he hesitated andturned back.

"Got along all right to-day, have you, Carey?" he inquired.

"What? Oh, yes! Yes. I have got along."

"No trouble with the books? Nothing has come upto—er—fuss you? Nothing you didn't understand?"

Judson shook his head. "Well, Ben," he said, "I wouldn't want tosay that, quite. There has been nothing that I haven't THOUGHT Iunderstood. That is the most I can swear to to-night."

The manager did not understand exactly, but he never admittednon- understanding of anything.

"That's good—that's very good," he declared.

"I don't know whether it is or not. Wait till next week. Mythoughts haven't had time to get to the bank. They haven't beencertified yet."

More non-comprehension on Early's part. He coughed and triedagain.

"Don't forget what I've told you before, Carey," he said,graciously. "At any time when anything happens—any littlematter comes up that you ain't—aren't sure of, just come tome about it. Never mind whether I'm busy or not. Don't let thatkeep you from speaking to me. I'll be glad to help you at anytime."

"Much obliged, Ben. I'll try not to come too often."

"Any time, any time. No trouble at all. How did you get alongwith the pay roll?"

"Well, I paid everybody that asked for their wages. And I don'tremember any one who was too shy to ask."

"Eh?...Oh! Oh, yes, I see! Ha, ha! No, I don't imagine theywould be. Well—er—how do you like the work here, so faras you've gone?"

For the first time Carey Judson smiled, and the smile lighted uphis thin face in a surprisingly agreeable way. Members of theopposite sex had, in the old days, been known to observe that whenhe smiled he was really quite good looking.

"Ben," he observed, "that isn't exactly the question. It doesn'tmake much difference how I like it. The real conundrum is 'Can I doit?' I guess that is the question in your mind, isn't it?"

Early, in spite of his self-importance, was a little taken abackand showed that he was.

"Why—no, no!" he protested; "there isn't any doubt you cando it. No, no! I—we haven't any doubt of that at all."

"Haven't you? I shall be glad to lend you a little.Ihave a surplus of doubts."

"Oh, no, no! You mustn't talk that way. Of course, it's naturalthat you find it hard—a little mite hard at first. Thewholesale fish business is different from the stockbrokingbusiness. Yes, it is different."

He delivered this nugget of wisdom with intense solemnity. Foran instant the bookkeeper regarded him with a look of suspicion, asif, in spite of long acquaintance, he was uncertain whether or nota sarcasm was intended. The unworthy suspicion must have beendismissed, however, for his reply was given with a gravityapproaching reverence.

"You're right, Ben," he vowed. "Yes, you're right. I havenoticed the difference myself."

Mr. Early coughed again. He was about to make a little speechand when he made little speeches to his Sunday School he alwaysprefaced them with coughs.

"Yes," he went on, "it's different. And the bookkeeping in awholesale fish business like ours is what you might callconsiderable—er—complicated. What makes it more mixedup and troublesome is the retailing we have to do. If it was leftto me altogether—" he spoke as if at least seven-eighths ofit WAS left to him—"I think I should do away with retailing.Yes, I think I should. But Mr. Judson—George, Imean—doesn't hardly like to give it up on account of thecap'n—your father—being so set on it, as you might say.Cap'n Jim-Carey always said that so long as his neighbors inWellmouth wanted to buy fish for them and their families to eat,they should have the privilege of buying it here. George and I havetalked matters over a good many times since the old man—sincethe cap'n passed on, and, although we realize the bother of keepingtwo sets of accounts, George feels—we feel that we ought togo on doing it because it would please him. Now there ain't a miteof use," he added, growing a little more heated and consequentlylosing a trifle of his platform manner and language, "in a firmlike ours here peddling out codfish to every Tom, Dick and Harrythat wants to lug one home for dinner. And no profit that amountsto anything, either. It's a pesky nuisance, and—"

His feelings were running away with him and he pulled them upwith a jerk, settling back upon the platform again with anotherlittle cough and a smile of resignation.

"But there, there!" he said. "We hadn't ought to complain, Isuppose. And we don't. Your brother George says oblige theneighbors for the cap'n's sake, so we keep on obliging 'em. He's avery fine man, Mr. George Judson is. Wellmouth is proud ofhim."

It may have been an over-tender conscience working upon asensitive imagination, but to Carey Judson it seemed as if theemphasis in Ben Early's concluding sentence was upon the last wordin that sentence. He suspected that it might be intended as a digin the ribs of a member of the Judson family of whom Wellmouth wasanything but proud. He winced a little inwardly, but he showed nooutward sign of the hurt.

"George is the best there is," he declared. "You ought to beproud of him."

"Yes—yes, indeed, we are. Oh, by the way, where is he? Hashe gone home?"

"George? No, he is in there—in the private office. Cap'nHiggins is with him."

"Which Higgins?"

"Tobias."

"Cap'n Tobe? Sho! What does he want, I wonder?...Oh! I see.Probably come to talk a little more about that seven hundreddollars of his. Humph! I wonder that George bothers with him. Itisn't any worse for him than it is for the rest....Oh, by the way,things are pretty well settled up for you by now, Carey, I presumelikely. Eh?"

Carey did not answer. He was looking out of the window oncemore. Mr. Early tried again.

"I say, George has got your affairs pretty well fixed up by thistime, hasn't he?" he repeated.

Judson's long body shifted uneasily on the stool.

"I guess so," he answered, curtly. "Good night, Ben."

The manager did not take the hint. He looked as if he were aboutto make another little speech. Just then, however, the knob of theouter door was jerked from his fingers and the door pushedviolently open. A plump, red-faced little woman, her outwardapparel seemingly all at loose ends and fluttering, bounced intothe office, panting in her haste.

"There!" she exclaimed, triumphantly, "you AIN'T all gone home,be you? I was afraid you would be. I was up to Sophy Cahoon's andwe got to talkin' about this, that and t'other thing until Ideclare if I didn't forget all about the time! And I don't know'sI'd wouldn't be forgettin' it yet if her settin'-room clock hadn'tbanged out six right 'longside of my head. I jumped much as a footright clear out of the chair I was settin' in. 'My soul and body!'says I. 'Don't tell me that's six o'clock already! I was on my waydown to George Judson's store to pay my fish bill, got the moneyright in my hand to pay it with,' I says, 'and here I've set andset and now 'twill be too late to catch 'em 'fore they close up.And I don't know WHEN I'll get down to the village again. It's toobad!' 'No, 'tain't too bad, neither,' Sophy says; 'it's all right.That clock's all of fifteen minutes fast and you can fetch thereyet, if you hurry.' And if I AIN'T hurried! Don't say a word!Whew!"

She paused to dab at her forehead with a crumpled handkerchief.Her hat was askew already and the dabs pushed it still farthertoward her left ear. Carey remembered and recognized her now. Shewas "one of those Blounts," from the settlement in the woods beyondWellmouth Neck and was married to Uriel Hope, a member of "thatHope tribe," long resident in the same locality. She and herhusband were town "characters"—weak ones.

Judson regarded her with mild interest and she regarded him withwhat appeared to be apprehension.

"Well, Mrs. Hope," he asked, "what can we do for you?"

She was still breathing shortly and her little eyes were openingand shutting like those of a nodding automaton in a Christmaswindow. She must have heard Judson's question, but she did notanswer. Early spoke.

"Come, Melie," he snapped, impatiently, "what is it? Want to payyour bill, you say? All right, pay it at the desk. Mr. Judson'lltake care of you."

Mrs. Hope moved toward the desk, but she moved slowly and withevident reluctance. She paused and opened a reticule which lookedas if it were made of oilcloth, extracting therefrom a dirty pieceof paper—evidently the bill—and a very small packet ofequally dirty bank notes, folded and refolded. She moved forwardagain until she stood before the opening in the grill. Carey Judsonextended a hand toward that opening.

"All right, Mrs. Hope," he said. "Give it to me. I'll takeit."

But the lady did not give it to him. Instead, clutching thenotes and the bill in her hand, she turned her troubled countenancetoward the manager.

"Is—is it all right to pay it to—to HIM, Mr. Early?"she asked, anxiously.

"Why, of course it is. Come on, Amelia, come on! You're in ahurry and so are we."

She did not "come on." She glanced fearfully toward the manbehind the grill and then at Early.

"I—I'm payin' it in money," she said. "'Tain't no check,it's money."

Early laughed, impatiently. "We'd just as soon have your moneyas your check any day, Melie," he declared. "Maybe a little sooner.It's all right, give it to Mr. Judson. He'll receipt your bill foryou."

Carey Judson smiled. "You don't quite understand, Ben," he said."Pay Mr. Early if you had rather, Mrs. Hope. You HAD rather, hadn'tyou?"

Melie hesitated. "I—I'd just as soon," she faltered.

Early looked puzzled. "What in the world—?" hedemanded.

Judson was still smiling. "Just sound business caution on herpart," he observed. "If you don't mind, Ben....Thanks."

He slid from the stool and started over to the window. Earlyimpatiently jerked the bank notes from the caller's clutchingfingers, made change from the cash drawer, and hastily receiptedthe bill. Melie talked all the way from the desk to the door and,still talking, was pushed through that door by the manager. Thelatter turned and looked at the bookkeeper, who was gazing out ofthe window.

"Pesky fool!" snorted Early.

Judson turned. "Yes?" he queried. "What is it, Ben?"

Early stared. "What's what?" he demanded..."Eh? Why, good Lord!You didn't think I was talking to you, did you, Carey?"

"Weren't you?"

"No. Well, yes, I was. But I wasn't calling you a fool, 'tain'tlikely. I was talking about that Melie Hope and her husband. Thereought to be a law against half-wits like those two running looseand getting married. One ninny is bad enough, but when that onemarries another as bad as she is, what have you got then?"

"More, in the natural course of events, I should say."

"Eh? What?...Oh, I see! Yes, yes. Well, THAT hasn't happenedyet, thank goodness."

He regarded his companion for a moment and then added:

"Say, Carey, you aren't letting things like that bother you, areyou? That woman is just a fool-head, and everybody knows it. Don'tpay any attention to her actions. She don't count."

"All right, Ben."

"But I mean it. And don't you let what folks say trouble you,either. They'll talk some for a while, but they'll forget it.You've done all you could. You're going to pay as much on thedollar as any sensible person could expect you to do—yes, andmore than the law would have made you. George has handled thingsmighty well for you, and don't you forget it."

"Thanks. I'll try and remember, Ben."

"That's right. Let 'em talk. You stick to your new job here andforget what's past and gone. They'll forget, too, by and by. Youaren't the only man that's failed in business, not by a gooddeal."

"All right, Ben."

"Yes. You just go right along, just as if nothing had happened.Don't hide yourself nights and evenings and Sundays. Go out andmeet folks and hold your head up. After all, you're George Judson'sbrother, you know, and that covers up a lot here in Wellmouth. Oh!and speaking of Sunday—that reminds me. Why don't you go tochurch to-morrow? Our minister, Mr. Bagness, is the smartestpreacher in Ostable County. You drop in to-morrow forenoon. 'Twilldo you good to hear him. And it won't do you any harm to be seen inchurch, either."

Judson's hand moved toward his forelock.

"He's going to preach about the prodigal son, I believe," hesaid. "I noticed the title of his sermon on the church noticeboard."

"Is that so? I hadn't heard. Well, that always makes a goodsermon."

"Yes. And my attendance would be apropos, I admit."

"What?"

"Nothing. Thanks for the invitation, Ben. I'll think it over.Good night."

"Better come, Carey. Well, good night."

The door closed. Carey Judson, left alone once more in the outeroffice, stood gazing from the window, his hands in his pockets. Oneof the hands encountered a service-worn briar pipe. Absently hedrew it forth and lifted it to his lips. Then, remembering the signabove the desk, "Positively No Smoking," he sighed and returned thepipe to the pocket again.

Seen through the not overclean windowpanes was the wharf end,with the little fore and aft schooner made fast to the rings in thestringpiece. Beyond was the harbor, shining, a golden blue, in thesunshine of the late afternoon. Scores of sea birds, gulls andterns and sandpipers, sailed and swooped, or fluttered and dipped,in their everlasting hunt for food. He regarded them with asympathetic, understanding interest. They, or their relatives andancestors, were old friends of his. He alone, of the two thousandand odd citizens of Wellmouth township—a township includingWellmouth Center, East, South and West Wellmouth and WellmouthNeck—could have tagged each species of sea fowl with itsornithological name, could have told where it nested in the nestingseason, how many and what sort of eggs were likely to be found inthe hit-or-miss nests in the sand, how the fledglings were fed bythe parents, everything concerning the birds, big or little. Heenvied them out there in the sunshine. He would have changed placeswith any one of them. As a man he was a complete failure, but as agull—well, he believed he might have been a pretty decent,perhaps even a successful, gull.

He was brought back from the air to the hard pine floor of theoffice by a voice behind him. It was a hoarse, masculine voice, andthere was a distinct note of sarcasm in it.

"Well," it drawled, "hard at work, I see!"

Judson turned. The man who had spoken was a thickset individual,with a long but rotund body, supported by a pair of short andsubstantial legs. The legs had a decided outward bow. The faceabove the body was broad and smooth-shaven and sunburned to aclear, fiery red. The nose was red and large and bulbous, and theeyes, small, blue and twinkling, were set under heavy reddish graybrows. The figure was dressed in a suit of blue cloth, the trousersand coat faded and wrinkled, but the waistcoat bright as new. Mr.Sherlock Holmes, noting the condition of the garments, would havedrawn the inference that, whereas the coat and trousers were wornalmost every day, the vest was donned only on important, dress-upoccasions. Above the red face was a forehead, the full extent ofwhich was not visible, as it was covered by a broad- brimmed,high-crowned, brown derby hat, canted well to port. In thestarboard corner of the mouth was the stump of an extinguishedcigar.

Judson knew the man, of course. He was Captain Tobias Higgins,retired skipper and part owner of the whaling ship Ambergris. Hehad been in conference with George Judson in the latter's privateoffice, a conference dealing, so Carey guessed, with the affairs ofthe late firm of Osborne and Judson. He stood there, his big feetwell apart, chewing the stump of the cigar and eying the newbookkeeper with a look of ironic solemnity. Carey met the look withone of bland interrogation.

"I beg your pardon?" he said.

Higgins grunted. "You needn't," he observed. "I forgive ye."

"Much obliged. But you said something, didn't you?"

"Now you mention it, seems to me I did. I said you 'peared to behard at work."

"Did I? I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"Humph! I can stand up under the disappointment. You waspitching in about as hard as I expected."

"Good! You give me courage to keep on."

Captain Tobias pushed the brown derby backward until it hung atthe last possible angle of safety. He rubbed his left eyebrow.

"Humph!" he grunted again. "Well, Carey, I don't know as I oughtto mention it, but after all this good sensible talk of ours sofur, do you cal'late you could come down to somethin' light andfrivolous like business? I had a notion of payin' my bill. Phoebe,my wife, seems to think I owe this consarn of your brother's alittle somethin'. It can wait a spell longer, though, if it'snecessary. I hate to take you away from what you was doin'. I spoketwice afore you heard me, so I judge 'twas interestin'."

"It was. I was looking at the gulls. Did you ever think youwould like to be a gull, Cap'n?"

Captain Higgins stared. "A gull?" he repeated. "What in thunderwould I want to be a gull for?"

"I don't know. So far as that goes, why should any one want tobe anything? And what difference would it make if he did?However...now about that bill of yours?" He walked behind the talldesk and opened one of the books upon it. "According to therecords," he said, "you owe this corporation seven dollars andeighteen cents. As they aren't my figures, but those of the fellowwho had this job before me, I shouldn't wonder if they werecorrect. What do you say, Cap'n Higgins?"

Apparently the captain did not think it worth while to sayanything at the moment. Puffing a little with the exertion, hepulled a fat black wallet from the inside pocket of the blue coat,loosed the strap which bound it together, and from the midst of amass of papers selected one. Then, from another compartment he tooka small roll of bills secured by a rubber band. He glanced at thepaper in his hand.

"Seven eighteen is the figger," he announced. "And seveneighteen she is."

He rolled to the desk beside Judson and, thrusting a bulky thumbinto his mouth for moistening purposes, counted off one five-dollarbill and three ones.

"There you be," he said, pushing them across the desk. Judsontook the money and, unlocking the cash drawer, counted out a sum insilver and copper.

"And there you are," he added. "Count it, please."

Higgins grunted again. "I was cal'latin' to count it," heretorted. "I most generally do count what's comin' to me. It paysto be careful in this world."

"So they say. You aren't as careful as some people, though.Amelia Hope was in here just now to pay her bill and she is morecareful than you are."

"Eh? Who? 'Melia Hope? Melie G., you mean? There ain't enough inher head to make a meal's vittles for a hen. What do you mean byher bein' careful?"

"She wouldn't pay her money to me. She insisted on paying it toBen. She doesn't take any chances, you see. Don't you think you arerather reckless?"

Captain Tobias glanced quickly at the speaker. "That depends onhow you look at it," he announced, with a grimly appreciative grin."I'll chance seven dollars' worth. Anyhow, you hadn't ought toexpect me to be as smart as Melie G."

He paused again, glanced shrewdly at the face of his companion,and added, in a tone a little less gruff: "How are you gettin' onin your new berth, Carey? Kind of a rough passage 'long at first,is it?"

Carey smiled. "I suppose I am doing as well as might beexpected," he announced. "That depends—"

"Depends on who is doin' the expectin', eh?"

"That's it exactly."

"Um-hum. Well, stick to the wheel. George seems to cal'lateyou'll make your ratin' all right."

"George is optimistic."

"He's what?...Well, never mind, never mind. I might not know anybetter when you got through tellin' me,I ain't ever been tocollege. But let me give you this one p'int. It ain't my businessto set your course for you, boy, but if I was you I'd quit lettin'the Melie G.'s and the rest of 'em make me sore. Forget 'em.See?...Well, why don't you answer me? What are you starin' at?Nothin' the matter with my face, is there?"

Judson shook his head.

"No," he answered. "No, your face is perfect."

"Humph! It is, eh? I want to know! Then what are you owlin' atit that way for? You make me nervous."

"I was looking at your cigar."

"My cigar!" The captain took the cigar stump from between hislips. "What ails that cigar?" he demanded. "It's a good one. I paidten cents for it."

"I know. But it makes me envious, that's all. They won't let mesmoke in here."

He pointed to the "No Smoking" placard. Higgins looked at thesign and snorted disgustedly.

"That's Ben Early's doin's," he sneered. "He's too good to live,that feller. Don't you pay too much attention to him, neither.I don't...And NOW what are you laughin' at?"

"I wasn't laughing. I was just thinking."

"Thinkin'! You've always been thinkin' ever since I knew you. Ifyou'd done less thinkin' and more doin' you'd have been better off.What are you thinkin' about this time?"

"I was thinking that you and Ben seem to agree."

"We do, eh? Then it is the first time. What are him and I agreedabout?"

"Why, his advice seems to be the same as yours. He says not totrouble myself about what people say—or think. He tells me toforget, just as you do."

Captain Tobias' red face grew redder. The statement seemed toirritate him.

"Is that so!" he sputtered. "Well, it's easy enough for him toforget. What's HE got to remember? Nothin'. He ain't seen the moneythat he'd saved up and cal'lated to put by safe for a rainy day goplumb to blazes. He ain't seen it stole and carted off by a damnedswab that— Humph! Well, I'm talkin' too much, I guess. Goodnight."

He turned to go, but paused at the threshold.

"I'm sorry I let off steam like that, Carey," he grumbled. "WhatI meant to do was just give you a little mite of a straight tip,that's all. This ain't liable to be a real happy v'yage you've gotahead of you for the next six months. No, and accordin' to mynotion it hadn't ought to be. When a feller ships as mate it's hisjob to see that the skipper don't run the ship on the rocks. Itain't enough to just stand by and—and look at the—atthe—"

"At the gulls?"

"Why, yes," his indignation rising again. "That's just it, ifyou want to put it so. My tip to you, now that you've come back toWellmouth here, is to forget what's gone and past and do your levelbest to make good. George has done all he can to help you. He'sstood by you better than a whole lot of brothers would do, I cantell you that. Seems to me it's up to you to buckle right down tohard work. I don't suppose you like keepin' books in a fish store.Seems like consider'ble of a comedown, I don't doubt,but—"

Judson stirred uneasily and lifted his hand.

"Never mind that, Cap'n," he interrupted.

"Eh? Well, it's so, ain't it? I was a good friend of yourfather's; and I'm one of the ones that lost money by that thievin'partner of yours. Yes," in a still louder tone, "and by yourcarelessness in lettin' him steal it. So I've got the right totalk, ain't I?"

"No doubt of it. Every right."

"Seems so to me. Well, then! Your job is to work hard, whetheryou like it or not. Keep your mind on the books and not out of thewindow and don't make any more mistakes or let anybody else make'em...There! I've got that off my chest. Good night."

"Just a minute, Cap'n Higgins. Speaking of mistakes. Did youcount that change I just gave you?"

"Course I did. I make it a p'int to count money—yes, andlook after it, too. Always did—whether 'twas mine or myowner's," significantly. "Why?"

"Ninety-two cents, wasn't there?"

"That's it. Ninety-two is right."

"No, ninety-two is wrong. Eighty-two is right. You owe Judsonand Company a dime."

Tobias Higgins hastily did a sum in mental arithmetic. Theresult seemed to embarrass him. He muttered something and reachedinto his trousers pocket for the superfluous ten-cent piece.

"There!" he exclaimed, returning to slap the coin upon the desk."Now we're square, ain't we?"

"Now we're square."

"Humph!" suspiciously. "That was a fool trick, I must say. Howdid you come to find out you'd given me ten cents too much?"

"Oh, I knew it when I gave it to you."

"You did! Then what did you give it to me for?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I expected you to find out themistake yourself. I judged you would expect me to make mistakes andI hated to disappoint you. I aim to please, you know."

Captain Tobias was, for the moment, speechless, an unusualcondition for him. He choked, scowled and then shook his head.

"By the everlastin'!" he growled. "I don't believe you'vechanged a mite, in spite of everything. You're just as biga—a crazy-head as you ever was...Well, I'll be darned!"

He departed, slamming the door behind him. Carey Judson smiled,then sighed, swung off the stool and, walking over to the window,relapsed into dreamy contemplation of his friends, the gulls.

A few minutes later George Judson came out of the privateoffice. He was, in every respect, a marked contrast to his olderbrother. The latter was tall and thin. George was of middle heightand thickset. Carey was light-haired, George was dark. George wascareful and neat as to dress, Carey was indifferent to what he woreor how he wore it. George was, and looked like, a successful,practical man of business. Only about the eyes and when they smiledcould one notice a resemblance. But between them was a deep andsincere affection.

When George spoke, his tone was brisk and authoritative, anotherpoint in which he differed from his brother.

"All right, Carey," he said, cheerfully. "We can call it a day,I guess. Lock up."

Carey turned from the window, took the books from the desk,placed them in the safe, swung the heavy door shut and whirled thedial of the combination lock.

"Come on," urged the head of the firm of J. C. Judson & Co."We'll be late for supper, I'm afraid, and Cora won't like that abit, especially as Aunt Susan is there, you know."

Carey looked at him.

"Oh, she came, did she?" he said.

"Yes. Came on the afternoon train. The train was late, nearlyhalf an hour, and she sputtered about that, just as she did whenshe was here last. That was years ago and she hasn't changed a bit.She asked about you, of course. She'll be glad to see you."

Carey Judson did not answer. He did not deny his brother'sassertion, but he doubted it, at least in the meaning in which itwas uttered. If Aunt Susan Dain would really be glad to see him itwould be only because she could then have the opportunity ofletting him know what she thought of him.

He took his smart straw hat—relic of last year's fanciedprosperity—from the hook in the closet and, in company withhis brother, went out to face again the ordeal which he dreaded,that of walking through Wellmouth streets under the eyes of theWellmouth citizens whom his incompetency and criminal carelessnesshad defrauded.

Chapter II

It was an evening in early June, that on which George and CareyJudson left the office of J. C. Judson & Co. and started on thewalk to the home of the former. Wellmouth was quiet and peaceful,its serenity undisturbed, its Saturday night suppers of baked beansand brown bread already on the tables of its householders orawaiting the arrival of fathers or sons on their way home fromstores and shops—or, in rarer instances, of belated summerboarders or city relatives "down on vacation," who, out "codding"or "mackereling," had allowed sport to render them forgetful oftime. The Boston morning newspapers, brought down by the noontrain, had been distributed and read long before and nothing intheir contents was of particular, intimate interest toWellmouthians. A sensation—even a sensation such as theOsborne and Judson failure—becomes an old story in six monthsand, although Wellmouth had not forgotten it, and, because of itsdisastrous consequences to so many citizens, was not likely toforget it for many a year, it had ceased to regard it as the onlyworthwhile subject of conversation. Even Carey Judson's progress,in his brother's company, from Wharf Lane to the Main Road andalong the Main Road to the remodeled towered and dormered residenceon Lookout Hill was no longer of such interest as to distract theattention of an impatient housewife from the consequences attendantupon an indefinite delay of supper.

Such a housewife, peering from the dining-room window, may havesniffed disdainfully at the sight of the brothers as they walkedhome together. She may have declared, as some of them did, that sheshould think Carey Judson would be ashamed to have the face to beseen among the folks he had swindled; but it was merely a casualremark expressive of a settled conviction. Carey Judson was adisgrace, and every one admitted it, but the reasons why he was adisgrace had been discussed and dissected and vivisected at homesand at sewing circles and after and before church on Sunday untileven those who had suffered most were tired of the subject. Whenthe disgrace himself first returned to the village his shame andits course were subjected to a second picking to pieces, but he hadbeen in Wellmouth for a fortnight now, and even his brazeneffrontery in coming back and his brother's soft-heartedness inallowing him to do so were getting to be old stories.

The mine had exploded late on an evening in the previousDecember. A telegram to George Judson first brought the news.George had said nothing concerning it, and the stationagent—who was also the telegraph operator—could nothave disclosed its contents, for he was supposed to keep alltelegrams a secret. But some one told, and that some one toldothers. Before Wellmouth went to bed that night rumor of thedisaster which might mean not only the shattering of an idol, butfinancial loss to so many, was buzzing in every dwelling fromWellmouth Neck to South Wellmouth.

The next morning the buzz had become a roar. Those who hastenedto see George Judson at his office found that he had taken theearly morning train for Boston. Then to Captain Benijah Griffincame a reply to his telegram of inquiry, the latter sent to anephew, a Boston business man. The message was brief, but assharply pointed as a lancet. "Osborne and Judson failure announcedfour o'clock yesterday. Looks bad. Morning papers give all knownabout it so far."

That was all, but, like the announcement of a fatal accident, itwas a sufficiently definite declaration that the worst hadhappened. Osborne and Judson—the firm to which at least fiftymen and women of Wellmouth had intrusted their surplus or theirsavings for investment—Osborne and Judson had failed and thefailure "looked bad." "For further particulars see morningpapers."

That noon Griggs' Store, at the junction of the Main Road andWharf Lane, was crowded with what the Item, later described as a"seething mob." There were at least thirty-five people in Griggs'store when the depot wagon drew up at its platform, and all of thethirty-five were eagerly and, in so many instances, anxiouslyexcited. Outside, by the platform and moored to the hitching postsnear it, were horses attached to buggies and surreys and carryallsand blue "truck wagons." The horses gnawed at the already well-gnawed tops of the posts and pawed at the clam-shells of the frozenroad. Inside, at the counter near the rack of letterboxes—Isaiah Griggs was postmaster as well asstorekeeper—their owners fought for copies of the Bostondailies.

The depot wagon had brought the bundles containing the latterand, behind the counter, Sam Griggs, the postmaster's son, wasopening and assorting the contents. Distribution of the morningpapers was always a lively session, particularly during a politicalcampaign or on the day following elections, but then there was loudlaughter, joking, and boisterous confusion. Now, as the men pushedand crowded about the counter, no one joked and no one laughed.

Young Griggs, his sorting finished and the papers arranged inpiles, found it difficult to keep them out of reach of clutchinghands.

"Hold on, there!" he ordered, indignantly. "Let alone of thoseJournals, can't you? You'll get yours, Eben, in a minute. Give metime! Take your turn!...Now then: Sam Davis, one Globe...JamesSnow, one Advertiser...Eben Bailey, one Journal. There! you've gotit; I hope you're satisfied...Tobias Higgins, one Globe. Eh? Whatdo you want two for? I don't know as I can spare you an extra Globeto-day, Cap'n Higgins...Well, well! take it then, take it! Can'tstop to argue with you now. Take it and clear out. Only, ifsomebody else has to go without, you and him'll have to settle itbetween you...Moses Gould, one Journal...Stop your shovin'! Takeyour TURNS!"

Captain Tobias, his two copies of the Boston Daily Globe tightlyclutched in a sunburned fist, elbowed and pushed his way throughthe struggling crowd. Having fought his way clear he folded one ofthe papers and jammed it into his hip pocket and, crossing the shopto a comparatively secluded spot by the side window, he spread openthe other, adjusted his spectacles, and gazed fearfully at thefront page. Almost instantly he found what he was looking for. Theheadlines jumped at him.

"Disastrous Failure of a State Street Banking House. Firm ofOsborne and Judson Bankrupt. Senior Partner Missing. Rumors ofCrookedness and Embezzlement. Sensation in Financial Circles."

This was the scarehead. Beneath it were two columns of fineprint, the second column ending with "Continued on page 2." TobiasHiggins began to read.

The Boston business and financial world received a shock lateyesterday afternoon when announcement was made of the failure ofOsborne and Judson, bankers and brokers, whose offices were locatedat No. — State Street. The firm, although not an oldone—the partnership having existed less than eightyears—was considered one of the soundest in the city, and itscollapse, under circumstances which are reported to be mostsuspicious, was a complete surprise to the public. Particulars areas yet unobtainable, no authoritative statement having been givenout, but the senior partner, Graham G. Osborne, is neither at theoffice nor at his Marlboro Street residence and it is said that hecannot be located. A rumor, as yet unconfirmed, declares that awarrant for his arrest has been issued and that the police are insearch of him. Other rumors are to the effect that practically allthe securities intrusted to the firm by investors have disappearedand it is feared that they have been sold and the proceedsdissipated in speculation by Osborne. The junior—and onlyother—partner, J. Carey Judson, is said to be in a state ofcollapse and, at his bachelor apartments at No. — MountVernon Street, it was declared that his physician permitted him tosee no one. Those in charge at the State Street office decline togive any information, but will, so it is said, issue a statementto-morrow.

The firm of Osborne and Judson was founded in 1876. GrahamOsborne, the senior partner, now missing, is forty-two years ofage. He was for twelve years in the employ of Jacoby, Coningsby andCole, the well-known banking house on Congress Street, where he washighly esteemed and, during the later years of his employmentthere, occupied positions of trust and responsibility.He—

Captain Tobias, having read thus far, skipped the two paragraphsfollowing and began again at the third.

James Carey Judson, the junior partner (he read) is thirty-threeyears old. He is the son of the late James Carey Judson, ofWellmouth, Cape Cod, where his younger brother, George Judson,carries on the wholesale fish business founded by the father. TheJudson firm is one of the best known in its line on the Cape andthe family is one of the oldest and most prominent in that section.James Carey Judson, the elder brother, graduated from Amherstin—

Higgins read no further at the time. A cursory glance at theremainder of the article showed him that, so far as news wasconcerned, it was entirely lacking. There were more historicaldetails concerning the late Captain Jim-Carey Judson and the Judsonfamily generally, but Tobias, like every Wellmouth citizen, wasacquainted with those. He folded the paper he had been reading andjammed it into the hip pocket containing the other and unopenedcopy. Then, without waiting for the distribution of themail—a most unusual omission on his part—he movedbetween the groups of townsfolk crowding the store and headed forthe door.

These groups made way for him only under physical compulsion.Each member of each group was clutching an open newspaper in hishand and tongues were busy. The general hum of excited conversationwas punctuated by exclamations and outbreaks either of wrathfulindignation or sorrowful surprise. Of these emotions the formerwere by far the more prevalent. Tobias caught snatches of the talkas he pushed by.

"In a state of collapse, eh? He ought to be. If he showed hishead down here 'twould be collapsed for him...Not a cent! No,sir-ee, I never let 'em have a cent of MY money! I knowbetter...This will be some knock in the eye for Cora T., won't it?She'll have to come down off her high horse. Brother- in-law athief and bound for jail, she won't be puttin' on so many airs,maybe...Well, his PARTNER'S a thief, anyhow; it says so in thepaper."

The group next near the door were discussing the sensation fromanother angle. The remarks caught by the captain, as he passed,were in a lower key.

"Cap'n Bill Doane will be hit hard. He put about all he madewhen he sold his half of the Flora in Carey's hands to invest forhim. Told me only last week he was getting five and a half per centon the average...Old Mrs. Bangs—Erastus' widow—willlose about all her insurance money if this turns out to be so. Sheswore by the Judsons. Erastus worked for the Judsons till hedied... How about the Sayleses? Lawyer Simeon Sayles and Cap'nJim-Carey were chums all their lives. I KNOW a lot of their moneywas bein' taken care of by Osborne and Judson, because DesireSayles told my wife so, herself, last time Desire and Emily weredown here—last summer 'twas...Enough to make Cap'n Jim-Careyturn over in his grave. Young Carey was his pet...Mighty tough onGeorge Judson, too. George swore by Carey, he did."

At the door Captain Tobias encountered the Reverend EzekielThomas. Mr. Thomas was—and had been for thirtyyears—pastor of the old First Church, the aristocratic"meeting-house" of Wellmouth. The minister's white hair was littlewhiter than his face as he acknowledged Higgins' good morning. Hepaused to ask a question.

"Is it true, Tobias?" he inquired, anxiously.

Tobias nodded.

"It's true," he replied. "The papers have got a lot about it.They've failed—busted to smash. Don't seem to be any doubt ofthat."

Mr. Thomas caught his breath.

"Oh, dear!" he gasped. "Oh, dear me! And—and is the restof it true? Is it as bad as—as they say it is?"

"Bad enough, I cal'late. Looks as if Osborne was a thief and hadrun away—cleared out. The police are after him."

"And—and Mr. Judson? Carey, I mean?"

"I don't know. All it says here is that Carey is sick abed andthe doctors won't let anybody run afoul of him. Don't know whetherhe helped with the stealin' or not."

"Oh, I hope not! I hope not! I have known him since he was aboy. He was one of my boys in Sunday School. I can't think HE isdishonest."

"Humph! Well, it's kind of hard for me to think so. I nevercal'lated he had—"

"Yes? Had what?"

The captain grunted. "Had ambition enough to take to stealin',"he answered. "He's always seemed to me too darned lazy forthat."

The minister shook his head.

"I know what you mean, of course," he admitted. "But I—Oh, dear! He is unlike his brother, that is true. Mr. George Judsonis—"

"He's a worker, that's what he is. And always was. He was asmart boy and now he's a smart man. Look what he's doin' with hisfather's business. HE never had everything he asked for and a wholelot he didn't. If Cap'n Jim-Carey had treated his oldest boy theway he done George, Carey might have amounted to somethin', too.But he didn't—he sp'iled him. And I never see a sp'iledyoung-un come to anything yet."

"But Carey was always such a GOOD boy."

"Good! He was always too lazy to be anything BUT good. WhenGeorge was pluggin' away in the old man's office and Carey comedown here on his vacations—what was he doin' then?Nothin'—nothin' at all! A dozen times when I've been over onthe beach, gunnin' or hand- linin' or somethin', I've run afoul ofCarey Judson and every time he was just settin' sprawled out in thesand with a pair of spyglasses, lookin' at all creation in generaland nothin' in particular, so far as I could find out. Watchin' thegulls and coots and shelldrakes and critters like that, that's whathe said he was doin' when I asked him. Healthy job for a grown-upyoung feller, that is—spyin' at a passel of birds! If he'dhad a gun or a line with him I'd have understood. I like to shootand fish as well as anybody. But he—why, my godfreys; he hadthe face to tell me once that he didn't like to kill things unless'twas needful. Said he always felt as if 'twas only goodluck—or bad, he said he wasn't sure which—that theypicked him out to be man instead of one of them ducks off yonder. Iflared up; a feller's patience will stand about so much and nomore. Says I, 'Well, Carey, I don't know about a duck, but Ical'late you'd make a pretty fair LOON. And you wouldn't have hadto change much neither.' That's what I said, and I walked off andleft him...Good! Bah! He was GOOD enough, fur's that goes. But itain't much of a trick to be good when there's nothin' worth whilebein' bad for."

Mr. Thomas sighed. "He was always so kind and—andgenerous," he observed.

The statement seemed to ruffle the captain more than ever."Generous!" he snorted. "Anybody can be generous with money thatcomes as easy as his did. And good natured! Say, if he hadn't beenso everlastin' good natured I'd have had more patience with him. Ilike to see a feller get mad once in a while; shows there'ssomething TO him. Take it that time when I called him aloon—did he get mad then? Not much he never! I'D have knockedthe man that called me that halfway acrost the beach. But all hedone was grin, in that lazy way of his, and says he, 'Well, Cap'n,'he says, 'I don't know but bein' a loon has some advantages. A loongenerally gets the fish he goes after.' And he knew darned well I'dbeen heavin' and haulin' that line of mine the whole forenoon andhadn't had a strike. Bah!"

"But every one liked him."

"Well, what of it? You don't call that anything to brag of, doyou? When you find a man that all hands like it's my experience youwant to keep your weather eye on him. You never heard thateverybody liked me, did you? You bet you never!...Well, there!" hebroke off, disgustedly. "What's the use of all this kind of talk?They won't many of 'em say they like him now, I cal'late. There'stoo many hard earned dollars been—"...He paused and thenadded, with some hesitation, "Say, Mr. Thomas, it ain't any of mybusiness, but I do hope YOU wasn't soft-headed enough to trust anyof your money with that Osborne and Judson gang. YOU don't stand tolose anything by 'em, do you?"

The minister tried to smile, but the attempt was not asuccess.

"Oh, a little," he confessed. "A little, that's all."

Higgins looked troubled. "I see," he said. "A little, eh? But alittle too much, I presume likely. Well, accordin' to what I hear,some people in this town are liable to lose a lot. It's too bad!It's a shame! Why don't they stick to savin's banks and solidplaces like that?...Well, maybe 'tain't so bad as it looks to benow. You can't always tell by the newspapers. I've seen 'em have aRepublican all sot and elected one day and the next have to crawland come out with the truth about the decent candidate winnin'.Maybe it's all a mistake, the worst of it. I hope so."

"So do I. Indeed I do! And not entirely on my own account, Iassure you. Poor Carey! At all events, I am very glad you didn'thave any money invested with them, Tobias."

Captain Higgins had turned to go, but now he turned back.

"Don't be too glad," he said, dryly. "I've got seven hundreddollars planted there, waitin' for the tombstone."

"You have? You! Why, I thought you said—"

"I say a lot, but I don't always do what I say. I'm as big ajackass as anybody, when the average is struck. Yes, I handed overseven hundred when I sold my cranberry swamp last April... Well,to-morrow we'll know more and feel better, maybe. The 'statement'will be out by then."

The statement issued by the insolvent firm was printed in thepapers the next morning, but it was anything but reassuring to theanxious creditors of Osborne and Judson. And the developments whichfollowed confirmed their worst surmises and forebodings. Thesedevelopments came thick and fast for weeks. Graham Osborne, tracedby the police to a hotel in a southern city, shot himself when theofficers came to his room to arrest him. He had less than athousand dollars with him and the problem of what had become of thefirm's capital and that placed in its care by trustful investorswas solved only too quickly and completely for the peace of mind ofthe trustful ones. Osborne's life was not a long one, but the lastfive years of it must have been merry, if indulgence in every sortof expensive luxury, legitimate or otherwise, furnishes merriment.The list of his race horses and card clubs and establishments ofvarious kinds was lengthy and there were items in it which suppliedWellmouth circles—particularly its sewing circles—withscandalous material sufficient to keep them busy all winter. Thehorses were supposed to be fast, but they had failed to prove thatsupposition on the tracks. The bets at the card clubs were said tohave been high, but they merely lowered the resources of thebettor. As for the establishments—well, their fastness wassufficiently proven, goodness knows, but they merely put theirmaintainer further behind.

The rest of it, so far as Osborne was concerned, was the ancientstory of attempted recuperation by way of the stock market with theinevitable result. Such personal means as he possessed wereexhausted early in the game; those of the firm and its customerswere sent in vain pursuit. There remained of the wreck little morethan a heap of worthless notes and some equally worthlesssecurities. The banking and broking house of Osborne and Judson wasas dead as the senior partner who had killed it and himself.

But the junior partner still lived and upon his head fell thewrath of every sufferer. The creditors wanted to know—thenewspapers wanted to know—the great crowd of casuallyinterested readers of those papers wanted to know what on earth hehad been doing while the pilfering was going on. If he, himself,was not a thief—and it looked as if he was not—thenwhere had he been all the time? What sort of a partner was he toneglect the business, to let his associate walk off with everythingportable and, when the crash came, be, apparently, as dumbfoundedand overwhelmed as, for example, Uncle Gaius Beebe, who declaredhimself so took aback he just lay to with his canvas slattin',knowin' that he ought to pray for strength, but too weak even tocuss. More so, for Uncle Gaius said a great deal, whereas CareyJudson said absolutely nothing.

The papers said it for him, however. It being evident that thesurviving partner of Osborne and Judson was a promising subject forinteresting development, the editors set about developing him andhis history. Reporters came to Wellmouth and obtained the storiesthey were in search of. Readers of the Boston dailies learned ofCaptain Jim-Carey's rise from skipper of a Banks schooner to one ofCape Cod's wealthiest and most influential merchants. They learnedand wrote and printed the life story of J. Carey Judson, Junior:how he had been his father's pride and pet; how he had attended thelocal school until, quoting from Uncle Gaius and others, "thatwan't high-toned enough for him" and he had been sent to anexpensive private school and then to college. And how, when hiscollege years were ended, Captain Jim-Carey had set him up inbusiness with Osborne at considerable expense.

In order [wrote one capable reporter] to understand why so manyof Judson's fellow townsfolk were led to invest their savings withhim and his associate, the correspondent interviewed a number ofWellmouth citizens. It seems that Captain Judson, Senior, had, foryears before his death, been accustomed to help his friends andneighbors with their investments. In every case, apparently, hisjudgment was good and the investment profitable. He was a directorin the local bank, prominent in town and county affairs, andrespected and trusted by every one, not only in his own community,but in much wider circles. When he provided the capital to starthis older son in business it was taken for granted that he knewwhat he was doing, as he usually did. He carried on his ownsomewhat extensive buying of securities through Osborne and Judsonand he encouraged his friends to do the same. After his death thecustom continued on their part. Carey Judson was a Cape man, andthe son of one of the most honored and honorable men on the Cape.It was, therefore, natural that when Wellmouth citizens had moneyto invest they should continue to ask the son of their friend andmentor in money matters to take care of it for them. Mr. GeorgeJudson, now head of J. C. Judson & Co., is as respected andtrusted locally as was his father. It is reported that he and hisfirm have lost much by the Osborne and Judson failure but he,George Judson, refuses to believe a word concerning his brother'spossible knowledge of Osborne's crookedness or implication in it.He declares—and a considerable portion of Wellmouth,including some who have suffered heavy losses, seems to agree withhim—that Carey Judson was entirely innocent of any actualwrongdoing. He—George Judson—stated in a shortinterview, the only one he has given the press, that his brotherwas never a business man, that he never cared for or seemed tounderstand money matters and that, in his opinion, at the time andsince, Judson Senior made a great mistake in insisting upon makinga banker out of his elder son. "He seemed to be doing well," Mr.Judson went on to say. "When I asked him about the business healways appeared satisfied, and he always had plenty of money whenhe came down here on his vacations or to spend a holiday. But henever talked about financial matters of his own accord and hisinterest was, I believe, as it had always been, elsewhere. He wasvery fond of nature and natural history and I have heard fathertell him, more than once during his college years, that he knew alot more about the birds and animals up around Amherst than heseemed to know about his studies. He graduated with fair marks,however, and I think he worked hard there, but principally toplease father. The old gentleman was proud of him and doted on him,and Carey returned the feeling. That was why he consented to be abanker, to please father. I know that, because he told me so. Butit was a mistake, a bad mistake. A slick scamp such as Osborneseems to have been could wind Carey around his finger—andthat is just what he did, of course. Carey is as transparent andhonest as the daylight. Every one trusted him and he trusted everyone. There isn't a crooked bone in his body; I say so and I know.He is taking all this terribly hard, but his friends are going tostand back of him, don't forget it."

This from George Judson; but from others, less charitable, camestories of Carey's eccentricities, his "queerness" and hisimpracticability. They were interesting tales, funny, some of them,and they made good reading. Thousands of people chuckled over themduring that December and January. Carey, himself, slowly recoveringin the hospital, from the collapse and nervous breakdown whichfollowed the shock of the failure, read some of the stories, inspite of the care of the nurses to keep the papers out of hishands. He did not chuckle. Every sneer, every jibe at hiscarelessness and the ridiculously incompetent manner in which hehad neglected to keep the slightest watch upon the actions of hispartner or the money intrusted to him by people whom he had knownall his life, seared his sensitive conscience like the touch of ared hot iron. He did not resent the sneering criticism; he feltthat he deserved it all and more.

George had promised to stand by him through his trouble and hekept that promise. It was George who undertook the Herculean taskof helping the receivers straighten out the tangled affairs of thebankrupt house. Carey's first thought, when he grew strong enoughto think clearly of anything, was concerning the friends andneighbors who had lost their money through him. He had a fewpersonal possessions and these, he made his brother promise, mustbe disposed of and the proceeds used to help pay the little whichcould be paid. His father had left him some real estate on the Capeand that was sold. He owned half of the house and land, the formerresidence of Captain Jim-Carey on Lookout Hill, and George, whoowned the other half, bought Carey's share and moved into the oldhome himself, something his wife had been urging him to do foryears. Carey's carefully collected library, including the rarevolumes on the birds and animals of New England, went to theauction rooms. Even the furniture of his apartment in Mount VernonStreet went with the rest. Everything, even the few bits ofjewelry, family heirlooms, were sold, everything but Captain Jim-Carey's gold "repeater," presented to him by the people ofWellmouth as a thank offering for his labors in bringing therailroad to the town a full year ahead of the scheduled time. Thatwatch George flatly refused to sell. He kept it himself, but onlyin trust for his older brother.

During the months while the Osborne and Judson snarl was inprocess of straightening, Wellmouth's resentful animosity towardthe betrayer of its trust had slackened just a little. George'sattitude and his unswerving confidence in his brother's innocenceof intentional wrongdoing helped to soften the feeling. Then, too,there was the hope that some of the invested money might bereturned to the investors. But when preliminary announcements weremade and the hopeful ones realized how little of each dollar was tocome back to their pockets, much of the resentment came back also.Again Carey Judson's name was spoken at every breakfast, dinner andsupper table, and, although pity was expressed, very little of itwas wasted on him.

Then came the news that the black sheep was to be led back tothe home fold. He was to return to Wellmouth, to live with hisbrother in the big house on the hill, and to keep books in theoffice of J. C. Judson & Co. Ed Nye, the former bookkeeper, hadaccepted the offer of a job in Boston, and Carey was to have hisplace.

Then the tongues wagged. The cheek of the fellow! The bare-facedeffrontery of him—his "everlastin' gall," Captain TobiasHiggins called it. To come back to his native town, to live andwork among the neighbors he had cheated—it was unbelievable,it could not be true. Or, if it was, he would find Wellmouth thechilliest spot this side of the North Pole. They would let him seewhat they thought of him. Even if he was George's brother—andGeorge was a smart man and an honest man and a goodfellow—even so, George was carrying things a little mite toofar, and they would make that fact plain to him. They would doalmost anything for George, but they would not take that thievingbrother of his to their bosoms, not by a considerable sight theywouldn't.

The Reverend Mr. Bagness preached a sermon dealing with thewages of sin and during his discourse he raised the sinner'ssalary.

"And he's going to live in his own father's house," cried Mrs.Captain Horatio Loveland, one of the local aristocrats, whose ownjig-sawed and cupolaed residence was also on Lookout Hill andfronted a spacious yard with two green iron deer and a black ironfountain in it, not to mention an iron hitching post at the gate,the post representing a negro boy holding aloft a ring. The painton the negro boy's face was scaling off in spots, giving him aleprous appearance, but his attitude was indicative of pride andprosperity. "He is going to live THERE," repeated Mrs. Loveland."In the very house that belonged to the father he disgraced. Inever heard of such brazen—er—brassiness in my life. Imust say I should think George Judson would know better. But he islike Cap'n Jim-Carey, when it comes to being silly about thatbrother of his. Well, I wonder what Cora T. thinks of it. I ratherguess SHE doesn't like the idea—much."

Mrs. Loveland's guess was correct. "Cora T."—her maidenname had been Cora Tryphosa Peters—was George Judson's wife.She had lived in South Harniss before her marriage and her familywere everyday people, her masculine parent getting his living byproviding the community with clams and lobsters in the season. Butwhen this fact is called to mind it should also be mentioned thatMrs. Judson had carefully forgotten it. What she took pains toremember, and have others remember, was that she was now the wifeof the head of J. C. Judson & Co. She was a good-looking,dark-haired woman of ample proportions, and her chin, beneath itsfleshy upholstery, was squarely framed.

When her husband announced his intention of not only bringingCarey back to Wellmouth, but to a room and meals in their home,that chin became squarer than ever. Also it moved rapidly. Shedeclared she had never heard of such a crazy idea in her life. Andshe did not intend to hear any more of it.

She did, however, hear a good deal more. George went on toexplain. He was worried about Carey. The latter was in miserablephysical condition, and his mental state was worse.

"He is half sick," he continued, "and almost crazy with thedreadful experience he has been through."

"Well, he ought to be," snapped the lady. "And as for his comingback to Wellmouth, to say nothing of your bringing him here to livewith us—well, I should say you were as crazy as he is. Hecan't come here. He shan't. I won't have him. What do you think thefolks he's cheated will say? What do you think the Lovelands willsay? And the Halls? And Emily Sayles and her mother? What do youthink everybody will say? Living here, with us, in comfort andluxury, just as if nothing had happened, as if he was as honestas—as you are."

Her husband interrupted. "He is honest," he declared. "Therenever was a straighter fellow than Carey."

"Rubbish! You can't make me believe any such nonsense as that,George Judson. And you don't really believe it yourself. You onlypretend you do because he is your brother and you have always lethim make a perfect fool of you. Don't I know? Haven't I seen itever since I knew both of you? He was always your father's pet andcould have every blessed thing he wanted by just asking for it,while you had to work and work like—like a man digging sandin the road—to get the little you have got. While your fatherlived, and before we were married it used to make me SO mad to seehow that Carey always had his own way, did just what he wanted to,and you—"

George broke in again. "You're wrong there, Cora," he said. "IfCarey had had everything he wanted he never would have gone intobusiness. He hated business. He wanted to be a naturalist, or ascientist, one of those fellows that work for the museums and suchplaces. He would have done well at that, I'm sure."

"Then why didn't he do it? Don't talk so silly! If he had toldyour father he wanted to do that, he would have been let do it. Ofcourse he would, no matter how ridiculous it was."

"No, he wouldn't. Father was set in his mind about that. Theonly times I ever saw him lose his temper with Carey were when theygot on that subject. Carey told father he would never be any goodin the banking business. Yes, and I said so, too. The only real rowwe three ever had was when I took Carey's part and said it was amistake to try and make a stockbroker out of a man that didn't knowa dividend from an assessment. But, you see, father was awfullystubborn in some things. He always planned exactly what we boyswere going to do. And—"

"Oh, don't tell me any more about it! I tell you I won't hearit."

She turned angrily to the door, but her husband was standing onthe threshold and he made no move to let her pass.

"I want you to hear it, Cora," he persisted, mildly. "You oughtto hear it, you know. You don't understand Carey as I do."

"I understand him well enough and I understand what he is, too;just the way all the folks in town understand. And YOU might aswell understand, once and for all, that he shan't come to work inyour office, to say nothing of living here with us. That'sfinal."

George shook his head. "I wish you wouldn't feel so, Cora," heurged. "It is all planned for Carey to start in on the books a weekfrom Monday after next, and I am going up to Boston to get him andbring him down to the house the first of next week. He can have theroom over the back parlor. He will be by himself there, and hewon't be in the way or the least trouble to anybody."

Then the storm broke. The weather had been increasinglythreatening ever since the beginning of the interview, but nowthere was what the weather bureau would have called "high winds,increasing to gale force, accompanied by heavy rain squalls." CoraT. was accustomed to rule her husband and, usually, he accepted therule with meekness and docility. But on rare occasions he stood hisground. It was so now. Mrs. Judson stormed and threatened andpleaded and, at last, wept. But George remained firm and, like thehouse founded upon a rock, refused to be blown—orwashed—from his foundations.

"Carey is the only brother I've got, Cora," he told her. "He isin trouble, awful trouble, and, if he was left alone, as helplessas he is and feeling as he does, I don't know what he might do. Iwant him here where I can keep an eye on him. He needs me and I amgoing to stand by him. He has stood by me—yes, and taken morethan one licking for me, when we were kids."

His wife, seated in the rocking chair, a picture of despairingabandonment, raised her head and fixed a pair of streaming eyesupon the Rogers group on its stand by the window.

"And—and I'm the—the only wife you've got," shewailed.

"Now, Cora, dear—"

"Don't you 'dear' me...Well, I suppose I've got to have himhere. When you get this way you're as pig-headed as your fatherever thought of being—and worse. But I tell you this, GeorgeJudson, if you expect me to be palavering and soft-soaping to thatscamp of a brother of yours you'll find yourself mistaken. I'lltreat him just barely decent—you'll make me do that, Isuppose—but Iwon't have him associating with myfriends, and when I have parties, and—and—"

"There! there! You needn't worry. He'll be the last to want tocome to parties. I am awfully sorry you feel this way, Cora, butI've got to do it. It's—well, it's my duty, as I see it, andit is going to be done. Forgive me, Cora, dear, and—"

"I won't forgive you. And as for forgivingHIM—o-oh!...Well, I tell you this much more: you've got tohire another girl for me and get her right away. The Lovelands keeptwo now, and Emeline Hall told me she expected she'd have to keeptwo pretty soon. And you've got as much money as her husband has, IHOPE. If another great hulking man is going to be here to cook forand wait on I'm going to keep extra help, that's all."

"Why—why, of course, Cora. Get another girl, if you canfind one. I told you that before. Now kiss me, and—"

"I shan't kiss you. You can kiss that Carey, if you want to. Iwonder you don't. You think a lot more of him than you do of me.When I ask you anything—when I beg you on my bendedknees—do you pay any attention to me? Indeed you don't! I'vebeen telling you all winter that I need a new sealskin coat."

"Get your coat, get your coat. I said I wanted you to haveone."

"Yes, you did!" sarcastically. "But you didn't tell me where Icould find one at the price you said you could afford to pay. SarahLoveland has got one—oh, yes! she has got one! HER husbandcan afford ANYTHING. If that precious Carey of yours wantedsealskins or diamonds or anything else all he would have to do ishint, just as he hinted that he wanted to come down here and haveus take care of him—"

This was too much. George Judson's eyes and mouth opened. "Here!Hold on!" he ordered. "What is that you say? That Carey ASKED tocome down here to Wellmouth to work—and live! My heavens andearth! I've been trying for over a month to make him see that heought to come—that he must come. And for the first threeweeks of that month all he would say was no; and even yet he hasn'treally promised. And if he ever does agree to do it, it will beonly to please me. I want him here because I'm scared to let him goanywhere by himself. Being in this town, as sensitive as he is andfeeling as he does, is going to be hell for him—just plainhell."

Mrs. Judson bounced from the rocker.

"There!" she cried, wildly. "That's enough. That's the laststraw. Swearing at your wife is something new for you to do, but Imight have expected it. It goes along with the rest. I supposeyou'll be striking me next. Go away from me. Go down to your oldfish store. There is plenty of swearing down there, from what Ihear, and you'll be right at home...Go, this minute!"

George went. And, as he walked briskly down to what his wifecontemptuously called his "old fish store," his sense of amazedresentment at her idea that it could be Carey who had asked toreturn to that store and the town in which it was situated—tosay nothing of occupying a room in the house which had been hisboyhood home—grew and grew. If Cora only knew! If she mighthave been present at some of the interviews between thebrothers.

When the subject was first broached by George, Carey had flatlyrefused to listen. So, at the second broaching and the third. Careydid not know what he should do and, apparently, did not care. If hewere unfortunate enough to recover from his present illness hesupposed he should have to go somewhere and do something, but theywould be a somewhere and something which would take him as far aspossible from all who had ever known him.

"Why, good God, George!" he said, raising himself on his elbowin the hospital cot. "What are you talking about? Do you suppose Ishall let myself be a burden on you for the rest of my life?Haven't I made trouble enough for you already and for everybodyelse who was unlucky enough to have anything to do with me? I can'tget away from you now. You and the doctors and nurses have got medown and you're about five to one, so I can't fight my wayup—yet. But when I do—well, I'm going somewhere, and itwon't be Wellmouth."

George gently forced him back to the pillow.

"There, there, Carey!" he said. "Don't be foolish. There is onlyone place for you to go, only one I'll let you go—for a whileanyhow. And that is where I can watch you. And, as for being aburden, that's nonsense. I need you. Yes, I do. I need a newbookkeeper. I've got to find one right away. You needn't laugh; Imean it."

Carey was not laughing. He was smiling, and was almost too weakto do that. The perspiration stood out on his forehead.

"George," he observed, feebly, "if I were you I wouldn't wasteas good a joke as that in a hospital. I'd send it to one of thecomic papers. Me—a bookkeeper! I would be a wonderfulbookkeeper, wouldn't I? Just about as good as I was a broker. Andyour customers would enjoy having me handle their accounts...There, there, old man, don't say it again, I know what you're doingfor me, and what you have done, and—and the Lord knows Iappreciate it. I—oh, here comes that confounded nurse! Keepher away, will you? She's as good a woman as ever lived, and she'sbeen mighty nice to me, so I don't want to kill her. I haven't gotthe strength to make a clean job of it, anyway. Tell her to clearout and let us alone. Tell her!"

George did not tell the nurse to clear out, of course. Insteadhe went away himself. But he came back often and each time he camehe renewed his persuasions and arguments. He—Carey—wasnot fit to go away among strangers, and, even if he went, whereverhe went, he would have to earn a living. "And what could you do?"he asked.

Carey shook his head. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I knowwhat I can't do, and that is keep books."

"Yes, you can. You can keep my books. It isn't much of a job fora fellow with your education, but—"

His brother waved a thin hand in protest.

"Suppose we forget my education, George," he said. "I haveforgotten most of it, myself, and I would sell the rest cheap. Ionly wish I could pay my debts with it."

"But, hang it, Carey! Talk sense. You've got to do something therest of your life, haven't you? What do you want to do?"

Another faint smile. "Give it up," was the dubious reply. "Ifyou hear of any one who raises chickens I might be of some use tohim. I could understand anything that wore feathers, perhaps. Andthe hens might like me; my brain and theirs ought to be about on alevel...No, George; stop talking about it. It isn't any use. Andtell me now about the other thing. Have you sold everything of mineI told you to? How much are the poor devils that trusted me likelyto get out of the wreck?"

It was that of which he wanted to talk always and insisted uponhearing. And it was along that line that his brother finally madethe approach which led to his consenting to return toWellmouth.

One day, during the latter part of his stay in the hospital, hefirst spoke of the idea as a possibility.

"George," he said, "I've been thinking this whole miserablebusiness over since you were here last."

The younger brother nodded. "I know you have," he agreed. "Thatis the trouble. You don't think of anything else. It is that kindof thinking that has kept you from getting on your feet beforenow."

Carey's mild eyes showed an unwonted flash. "Well?" he demanded."Are you surprised at that? I don't believe you are. I know youpretty well. Suppose you had muddled things as I have. Suppose yourbungling and incompetence and general damn-foolishness had lostyour father's money, and your brother's and your friends' and theLord knows how much more. Suppose you had seen yourself held up asa nincompoop in the papers and made a standing joke for everybodyto laugh at—those who weren't too sore to laugh. Andrealizing all the time that you deserved a lot more than you weregetting. You would think of it—say, once in a while, wouldn'tyou?"

George had no honest answer to make. "I wish I might have beenthere when that partner of yours shot himself," he growled,vindictively. "I think I would have been willing to pay high for afront seat at the show."

"No, you wouldn't. Neither would I. Osborne was made the way hewas and he paid high for his own show, such as it was. I am a wholelot more disgusted with myself than I am with him. But say, George;I want you to tell me this: How much money do I owe—oh, well,never mind, then! How much money does that precious firm of mineowe the folks in Wellmouth? Never mind the other creditors for theminute. A good many of them were trying to get rich in a hurry andthey gambled. It was a crooked deal they were up against, but nevermind them. How much do I owe in Wellmouth?"

George lied a little; that is, he stretched the truth backwardsas far as he dared.

"Oh, not very much," he said. "I guess thirty or forty thousandwould cover the whole of it down there."

"You're sure? All that I owe the widows and orphans and crippledsea captains and the rest?"

"Yes, I should say so."

"Humph! And if I were to try and keep books for you—Lord!what a crazy idea it is!—I shall be earning something, Isuppose? At least you will be paying me something?"

"Of course. I shall pay you what I paid Ed Nye. Perhaps I mightpay you a little more."

"No, you won't. And if it wasn't for my debts I should never letyou pay me that. But—well, I've got to do something aboutthose debts, those Wellmouth debts. See here, old man, if I didcome down there and worked and paid just a little tothose—those poor people I've swindled, do you think theymight come to see I was sorry and meant to be as honest as—asI could be, with my limited intellect?"

George Judson leaned forward. "Carey," he said, earnestly,"don't let us have any mistake about this. If you come back toWellmouth it is going to be hard—darned hard, for you atfirst. You'll have to expect to be slighted and—well,snubbed."

"Of course. Why not? I ought to be. Go on."

"That at first. But I honestly do believe if you come there andwork hard and—if you feel you want to, though there is noearthly, legal reason why you should, for your firm's settlementwill be as straight and a lot more liberal than other bankruptconcerns I've known of—if you want to try and pay a fewdollars now and then on your own hook, I honestly believe you willdo more to square yourself with Wellmouth and the Cape than youcould ever do any other way. That's the truth; I mean it."

Carey Judson twisted the lock of hair above his nose; he wassufficiently himself by this time to resume old habits. Then hesighed. "Yes, I guess you do, George," he said. "And I know youwant me to do it, heaven knows why. And I know, too, that it isgoing to be mighty hard for you...Well, I—I can't sayanything about how I feel towards you. It's no use."

"You needn't. You would do as much and more for me."

"Maybe. Just now I haven't enough confidence in myself tobelieve it. But, as for your plan, George, I—well, maybe I'llsay yes. Maybe I'll come with you and see how it works."

"Good! Good enough!"

"Bad enough, it is more likely to be. But I guess I'll tryit."

So, in the end, he came. And now, his first week's labor ended,he was walking, with his brother, to the latter's house—thehouse in which he had spent his childhood and boyhood and the happyvacations of his youth—to face again the frigid andcontemptuous countenances of his sister-in-law and the servants,and to meet his aunt, Mrs. Susan Dain, from Cleveland, Ohio, whohad not seen him for at least four long years.

Chapter III

There were no cast-iron animals in the yard of the "Cap'nJim-Carey place," although the path from the front gate was flankedby a pair of iron benches, of the scrolled and curlicued cemeteryvariety. The path led straight to the front steps, the top stephaving a scraper at either end. Above that step was the formalfront door, its upper panels of ground glass ornamented withdesigns of fruit and flowers. These, however—and the dooritself—were hidden by closed green blinds, for the Judsonfront door, like all front doors in Wellmouth at that period, wasstrictly for ornament and almost never for use. As a matter offact, that particular door had not been opened since the day ofCaptain Jim-Carey's funeral.

George and Carey Judson did not attempt entering the house byway of the front door. They would as soon have thought of enteringby the chimney. Midway of the yard, the walk forked and they tookthe branch to the left, that leading to the side door and sideentry. In this entry, on a walnut rack, they hung their straw hatsand, George leading the way, they went on into the sitting room.The sitting room was bright and cheery and livable and in it, inrocking chairs each with a crocheted "tidy" on the back, sat Mrs.Judson and Aunt Susan Dain, sewing. No, Mrs. Dain was sewing; CoraT. was making a splintwork photograph frame. The ladies put downtheir work and rose. The brothers came forward to meet them. Mrs.Judson spoke first.

"Well," she observed, tartly, "you're here, aren't you. I beganto think you wasn't coming at all. What sort of state supper's in,the land only knows. It's been waiting for you half an hour."

Her husband hastened to apologize.

"I'm sorry, Cora," he said. "I was all ready to shut up and comehome when Cap'n Higgins came in to see me, and you know how hard itis to get rid of HIM. Well, Aunt Susie, here's Carey. You and hehaven't seen each other for a long time. Looks about the same,doesn't he?"

Aunt Susan Dain—she was a younger sister of CaptainJim-Carey—did not answer for the moment. She was a brisklittle woman, with sharp blue eyes and a snappy manner of movingand speaking. She looked her older nephew over from head tofoot.

"No," she said, "he doesn't. He's a lot thinner than he used tobe and he's as white as a Sunday handkerchief. He always did looklike a picked Shanghai chicken, but now he looks as if he didn'tget enough to eat—or didn't want to eat it, one or theother... Well, Carey, why don't you say something? Aren't you goingto kiss me? Or have you forgotten how? For the matter of that, younever did know how very well. George was different. I guess likelyhe had had more lessons."

George laughed. Carey smiled and bent to peck at his relative'scheek. Cora T. watched the performance with impatientdisapproval.

"Humph!" she sniffed. "Lessons aren't necessary for some things,with some people. I guess likely that precious partner of his couldhave given 'em to him, if what the papers have been printing istrue. And you needn't worry about his not getting enough to eat.George looks out for that. My soul, George Judson," she added,turning to the latter, "what in the world did you send home allthat halibut for? There's enough for a regiment. What did you thinkI was ever going to do with it?"

Her husband's brow puckered. "Why, Cora," he protested, "youtold me you wanted a good piece of halibut for tomorrow's dinner.That was as fine a piece as we've had come in at the wharf thisyear. And 'twas caught only yesterday."

"What of it? If you'd caught a whale yesterday, I suppose you'dhave sent half of that home, wouldn't you?...Oh, never mind, nevermind! I suppose the hens will have what the rest of us leave, asusual. Well, if you're ready I am sure supper is—too ready,and spoiled, probably."

At the supper table Aunt Susan was placed at George's righthand, opposite and as far away from Carey as possible. Mrs. Judsonwas affectionately gracious to the old lady. The latter was, inspite of her loss of several thousand by the Osborne and Judsonfailure, still in possession of a good deal of money and her twonephews were her only relatives. The covered dish of baked beansand the heaped plate of brown bread were deposited in front ofGeorge by the new servant. The latter was an importation fromBoston, and about her, and everything she did, was a haughty air ofconscious superiority. She bore the dishes in from the kitchen withuptilted nose, as if the odor of such plebeian rations disgustedher, and her attitude, as she stood behind her master's chair,awaiting their apportionment, was that of self-contempt at findingherself in such a humiliating position. Mrs. Judson had secured herthrough the influence of the Loveland cook, also a Bostonian ofHibernian extraction, and Cora T. proudly told her husband that shehad worked for some awfully rich families. Why she no longer workedfor those families, but consented to take a situation in thecountry, was something of a mystery. Mrs. Judson's owncook—her name was Hepsibah Ellis; she had been Cap'nJim-Carey's housekeeper and there was nothing of the Bostonianabout HER—confided to personal friends that the newcomerthought herself "some punkins" and was always talking about the bigbugs she had been used to waiting on, butshe—Hepsibah—had already found out it was a good planto keep the cooking sherry locked up. The new servant's name wasMaggie.

George Judson bent his head and pattered through a hastyblessing. Then he proceeded to his business of serving the bakedbeans. Maggie slid each plate before its recipient with acontemptuous flourish, thrust the platter of brown bread under eachnose, and then distributed the teacups as Mrs. Judson filledthem.

"That will do, Maggie," said Cora T., grandly. "You can gonow."

Maggie departed, her skirts swishing disdain as they brushed thedoorway. There was a general relaxing of tension following herexit, particularly noticeable on George's part. He began to talk toMrs. Dain, as did his wife. Aunt Susan talked to both of them and,occasionally, to Carey, who said very little. George askedquestions concerning matters in Cleveland; Mr. Dain had been anOhio man, and his widow's home was in that city. Cora T. talked ofsociety happenings in Wellmouth, dwelling largely upon the newpiazza which the Halls were adding to their home.

"Piazzas are getting to be quite the thing," she observed."People sit outdoors in the summer time so much more than they usedto. I think it is real nice in warm weather. I have ordered ahammock myself. Tobias Higgins is going to make it for me. He makeslovely hammocks out of cod line. The Lovelands have got one. It ismade just like a fish net. They have it hung out in the front yardbetween the syringa bush and the lilacs."

Her husband laughed. "That was Nellie's idea, I shouldn'twonder," he observed. "Nellie is the Loveland daughter, Aunt Susie;maybe you remember her. She's been trying to land a fish for thelast three or four years, but up to now they have managed to getaway. The other evening, when I was going down to lodge meeting, Inoticed she had young Bennie Hall hung up in that hammock. Maybe HEwon't be able to wiggle out, you can't tell."

Mrs. Judson regarded him with disapproval.

"Don't talk nonsense, George," she ordered. "Bennie Hall is onlya boy. He isn't through Tech yet. And Nellie is—well, she isolder than he is."

George chuckled. "That statement isn't what you'd call anexaggeration," he declared. "But maybe she's old enough not to betoo particular. The younger you catch 'em the tenderer they are,you know. Ho, ho! That's so, isn't it. Carey?"

Carey looked up from his plate. "What, George?" he asked. "Ididn't hear you. I was thinking of something else, I guess."

"As usual," commented Mrs. Judson. "George—"

But her husband was still chuckling.

"There was a time here, half a dozen years ago, Aunt Susan," heexplained, "when we didn't know but Nellie would have Carey hooked.He is older than she is, of course, but he was pretty tender inthose days. He—"

"George!" snapped Cora T. "Be still and pay attention to yourbusiness. Pass Aunt Susan the brown bread, why don't you?"

Mrs. Dain accepted a second slice of the bread. She regarded herolder nephew through her spectacles.

"Humph!" she sniffed. "I didn't know that Carey was everinterested in any girl—except one perhaps. What has become ofthat Emily Sayles? I always liked her."

"Who? Emily? Oh, she and her mother are in Hartford, I guess.They live there winters. Lawyer Simeon Sayles—Emily's father;of course you knew him, Aunt Susan—owned that old white houseon the Trumet road. Desire and Emily used to come there summers,but for three years they've been away, down in Maine, I believe,and this summer—well, I don't know what they'll do thissummer. There is some talk of the Sayles place being put up andsold... Probably that is just talk, though," he added, hastily.

His wife looked wise. "I shouldn't wonder if it was a lot morethan talk," she announced. "Sarah Loveland told me that she had hada letter from a cousin of hers—a very nice person who visitsher once in a while, SO pleasant and refined, and worth a GREATdeal of money. I know her VERY well...This person said in theletter that she met Emily in New York and that Emily told her sheand her mother were considering selling the old place. Emily saidthey hated to think of doing it, but they might have to."

Aunt Susan seemed surprised. "Have to?" she repeated. "Whyshould they have to if they don't want to, for mercy sakes?"

Cora T.'s air of wisdom became more profound.

"I don't know," she said. "Of course I don't KNOW—but Imight guess. Maybe it's because they need the money."

"Need money! Why should they need money? They've got money,haven't they? In my day here Simeon Sayles used to be calledrich."

George put in a word. He appeared uneasy.

"Oh, I guess he never was anything like as well-off as peoplethought he was," he explained.

"Well, he had considerable, I know. And there was nobody toleave it to but his wife and daughter. They have always livedpretty well since his death, too. When I saw them the last time Iwas East here they certainly didn't look poverty stricken. Whathave they done with their money?"

George fingered the handle of the serving spoon. He tried tochange the subject.

"I—I don't know, I'm sure," he stammered. "Er—can'tI help you to a few more beans, Aunt Susan?"

"No, of course you can't. You gave me enough for a day laborerin the beginning. And I have eaten them, too. I ought to have moresense, at my age. But what makes you act so queer? What have theSayleses done with their money? I believe you do know. At any rate,Cora does. What is all this mysterious stuff, George Judson?"

George did not answer, nor did his wife, although she seemedabout to do so. It was Carey who spoke.

"Everybody knows, Aunt Susie," he said, quietly. "They investeda good deal of it through me and my late partner. It isn't much ofa mystery."

Aunt Susan said "Oh," and that was all. George said nothing, buthe frowned. Cora T. smiled slightly and begged her visitor to haveanother cup of tea.

There was a good deal of talk during the rest of the meal, butit was very general and a trifle forced. Aunt Susan chatted of thisand that, but she carefully refrained from addressing her oldernephew, although she glanced at him shrewdly from time to time.After supper was over they went back to the sitting room. A fewminutes later Carey announced that, if they did not mind, he wouldexcuse himself and go to his own room.

"I am going to bed early," he explained. "I am rather tired, forsome reason."

Mrs. Dain's bright little eyes looked him straight in theface.

"Working pretty hard, are you, Carey?" she asked.

"Oh, not too hard."

"A little harder than you've been used to, maybe."

"Perhaps...But—"

"But what? You mean you wouldn't have to kill yourself to dothat?"

Carey smiled. "You're a pretty good mind reader, Aunt Susie," hesaid.

"Humph! It never was much of a trick to read YOUR mind, youngman. It always was pretty large print. Well, I shall see you in themorning, I suppose."

"Eh? Oh, surely! Yes, indeed."

"All right, I want to. Good night."

After he had gone upstairs she turned to George.

"Takes it pretty hard, doesn't he, George?" she inquired.

George nodded, gloomily. "Mighty hard," he said.

"Humph! Yes, he would. Well, that won't hurt him any. May do himgood. And he deserves it."

Cora T. dropped the splintwork frame in her lap. "There!" sheexclaimed, with great satisfaction. "If it isn't a comfort to hearyou say that, Aunt Susan! It is exactly whatI say, and whatI tell George. He does deserve it. When I think of all the poorpeople in this town, and so many other places, who have lost theirmoney through him, I—oh, I lose all patience!"

Aunt Susan threaded her needle. "Then I wouldn't think of them,"she said. "It doesn't do them any good, and most of us need whatspare patience we've got."

"But SOMEBODY ought to think of them."

"Well, somebody does," with a jerk of her head toward thestairs. "I imagine HE does, for one...George, read me some of thetown news in the Item. It has been a long time since I was here andI want to know who is having his barn shingled. You can skip thedeath notices; I have reached the age where they are altogether toomuch like a time-table."

Upstairs, in the bedroom over the sitting room, Carey Judson,too, was reading, or trying to do so. He was sprawled in the Salemrocker, by the table with the lamp upon it, and the book in hishand was one he had taken from the shelf on the wall at the head ofthe bed. It was one of his own books, one he had bought with moneywhich Aunt Susan had sent him on his fifteenth birthday, a juvenileyarn of hunting and adventure. All the books on that shelf weresimilar—boy's stories which he had owned and loved when aboy. For that room had been his ever since he was old enough tohave a room of his own and, for a wonder, it had been allowed toremain pretty much as it was, untouched by his sister-in-law'simproving and modernizing hand. Cora T. had not yet, as she said,got around to "doing over" that room, although some of these days,she prophesied, she was going in there to "pitch out" most of thedreadful rubbish it contained. The wall paper was the same whichCaptain Jim-Carey and his wife had selected when the house wasbuilt. The furniture was old-fashioned painted pine and maple, notnew black walnut. The "rubbish" was Carey's own accumulating, amoth-eaten stuffed squirrel on a stick; a moulting stuffed gullhung from the ceiling by a wire; a pair of stuffed quail in ahomemade and lopsided glass case; the cabinet—alsohomemade—containing his collection of birds' eggs; the longmuzzle-loading shotgun Judson, Senior, had once owned and laterpresented to his oldest son in defiance of family and neighborlyprotest. To Carey that room was home and it was the one spotconnected with home for which he felt the old affection. In thatroom, at times since his return, he could still experience a senseof "belonging" and a measure of forgetfulness.

Not this evening, however. The story he tried to read was tooyouthful and impossible to hold his attention, and he laid it down.He walked to the window and stood, looking out over the town, itslighted windows agleam. Every house, every back yard in sight, wasfamiliar to him. He had been in each house, had played in eachyard. At the beginning of how many happy vacations had he eagerlyhurried from school or college to the train which would bring himback to Wellmouth! Acquaintances and friends had often urged him tospend a part of those vacations with them elsewhere, but he onlyinfrequently accepted the invitations. But once—when he wenton the three months' trip to Labrador with Professor Knight, thehead of the Ornithological Department of the Museum of NaturalHistory in a middle-western city—had he missed spending atleast a part of a summer in Wellmouth. The Professor used to visita sister in the town—she was dead now—and he had takena fancy to the young fellow who knew and loved and understood birdsso well. Carey had had a glorious time on that excursion. He hadnot seen the Professor since, although for a time theycorresponded. As he stood there at the window he found himselfwondering what the old chap was doing. Still puttering with hisspecimens and chasing here, there and everywhere after others,probably. It must be a glorious life and fortunate the man whocould live it, whose parents—even if they believed him to bean idiot—had permitted him to go his own idiotic way, be theconsequences what they might. At least they could never be asdisastrous as those which had followed upon Captain Jim-Carey'sstubbornness in driving him into business and his own careless,weak-spirited yielding. He might have—probably wouldhave—failed at anything he tried, but at least those peopledown there behind those lighted window shades would then have beenable to speak of him only as an honest and foolish failure, not asa crook. Why—oh, why—had Aunt Susan Dain dragged EmilySayles' name into the supper table conversation!

He swung away from the window, picked up the book once more, andread a few lines, then gave it up and did what he had told his aunthe intended doing—went to bed.

He rose early the next morning and came down to the sittingroom. The George Judson family followed the ancient New Englandcustom of lying late on Sunday morning and the Sabbath breakfastwas usually served about nine-thirty. Carey had arranged withHepsibah to eat alone in the kitchen and go out for a walk beforehis brother and Aunt Susan and Cora T. made their appearance.Hepsibah had been "hired help" in that house ever since he couldremember and he and she had been co-conspirators on many Sundaymornings in the past. Since the failure and his return in disgraceher attitude toward him had been a peculiar combination ofimpatience and indulgence. On the evening of his arrival she hadgreeted him with a sniff and a perfunctory handshake; but later on,when, following a boyhood custom, he went out to the kitchen for adrink from the pump, she had appeared at his elbow with a handfulof molasses cookies and the announcement that there was a piece ofapple pie in the pantry if he felt like eating it.

"I saved it for you," she said. "It's awful stuff to eat justafore you go to bed, pie is, but you've ate enough of it in yourtime and it ain't killed you yet, so maybe you'll take the risk.Only don't blame me if you suffer afterwards."

He accepted the pie, not because he wanted it but because heknew his doing so would please her, and while he was eating it shesat in the kitchen rocker knitting and regarding him steadily.Maggie, the new maid, was out and they were alone.

"Well," she observed, after an interval of silence, "you've comeback to Wellmouth to stay put this time, eh?"

He nodded. "It looks so," he said.

"Um-hum. Well, you might come to a worse place. I don't cal'lateyou feel that way just now, though. Goin' to keep George's booksfor him, so I hear."

"I'm going to try."

"Huh? I guess likely 'twill BE a trial—for you, I mean.What do you know about keepin' books?"

"Nothing."

"Well, that's some satisfaction, maybe. When a body knows theydon't know anything they're generally in better shape to learn.You're goin' to work for a good man. Did you know that?"

The nod this time was emphatic. "No one knows it better," hesaid.

"Yes, George Judson's a good man. He's got a lot of yourfather's generousness and common sense and there's enough of yourmother in him to keep the sense from runnin' to pig-headedness. Youdon't remember your mother very well, of course. She was a finewoman. I thought a sight of her."

Carey was busy with the pie and made no comment. Mrs. Ellis wenton.

"Maybe if she had lived," she said, "she might have made Cap'nJim see that settin' you up in that bankin' business was a foolnotion. Might as well turn a canary bird loose in a room full ofcats. Anybody that knew you would know that Boston gang would haveyou clawed to pieces and swallowed in less 'n no time.Iwasn't surprised when it happened. Only surprisin' thing was thatit took so long...Well? Have you had enough to satisfy you tillmornin'? There's plenty more cookies. I wouldn't let you eat anymore pie if I had it to give you."

Carey rose. "I have had quite enough, thanks, Hepsy," he said."It was as good as it always used to be."

"Huh! Why shouldn't it be? I guess I know how to cook wellenough to satisfy the average man, even if I never hired out toBoston big bugs. You always had a sweet tooth. Well, come out hereany time when you get the cravin'. What you get in there," with amovement of her thumb in the direction of the dining room, "mayhave consider'ble pepper along with the sugar...My soul!" withapparent irrelevance, "it is astonishin' how sensible a man can bein most things and what a dummy he's liable to be when it comes topickin' a woman to live with all his life...Well, good night."

"Good night, Hepsy. Thanks again for the cookies."

"That's all right. They'll always be here when you want 'em.Don't pay any attention to that Maggie one; you come right tome."

She was awaiting him in the kitchen when he entered it thisSunday morning, and his breakfast was ready. He sat down at thetable there and she stood by and watched him.

"Goin' off by yourself, same as you used to, I supposeprobable?" she asked.

"Yes. I thought I might take a walk along the beach."

"Um-hum. I'd have guessed that if you hadn't told me. Comin'back in time to go to meetin' with the rest of 'em?"

"I doubt it."

"So do I. Well, I suppose you know what she'll say. She's agreat go-to-meetin' hand."

"She," of course, meant Mrs. George Judson. Hepsibah usuallyreferred to her as "she." Carey smiled dubiously.

"I know," he admitted. "But—well, honestly, Hepsy, Ihaven't got the—call it courage, if you want to—to goto church here yet. Everybody knows me and—and—"

"And you cal'late they'll be payin' more attention to you thanto Mr. Thomas' sermon. I shouldn't wonder if you was right. Butyou'll have to go sometime, won't you?"

"I suppose so. But I can't make up my mind to do it to-day."

"Well, then, don't. Go when you get good and ready and notbefore. Only WHEN you get ready—go, even if you have to goalone. Say, Carey, I don't know as my advice amounts to much, but,such as it is, I'll hand it you free gratis for nothin'. You dowhat you feel is right to do and don't let anybody else talk youinto doin' the other thing. You've done that other thing too often;that's part of what's the matter with you...Eh? Good land, who'sthis comin'! I didn't suppose there was anybody up but you in thatend of the house yet awhile. Who's sick, I wonder?"

No one was sick, but Aunt Susan Dain was up and dressed, andapparently very wide awake. She opened the door from the diningroom and looked in.

"Good morning," she said, briskly. "Carey, when you've finishedbreakfast I wish you would come into the sitting room a minute. Iwant to see you before the others come down."

The door closed again. Carey twisted his forelock.

"How on earth did she know I was out here?" he asked.

Hepsibah sniffed. "She's known you and your tricks about as longas I have," she declared. "She's a smart woman, always was, wayback afore she was married. And she comes of smart able people. HERfather never peddled clams for a livin'—or, if he did, hiscustomers never found 'twas safer to smell of 'em afore they paidthe bill."

When Carey entered the sitting room Mrs. Dain, who was sittingby the window, looked up from the Item she was reading and motionedto him to take the chair next hers.

"Sit down, Carey," she ordered. "I've been wanting to talk withyou alone and I guess this is as good a chance as any we're likelyto have."

Carey obediently took the chair. It was Cora T.'s pet rocker andhis occupying it was close to sacrilege.

"All right, Aunt Susan," he said. "Here I am. Talk."

"I'm going to. I'm going to talk about you. That's what I got upso early for. It probably won't be much of a novelty foryou—being talked about. I should imagine you must be used toit by this time."

Her nephew nodded gravely. "I am," he admitted; and then added,"measurably."

"Humph! Well, you didn't expect not to be talked about, it isn'tlikely?"

"No."

"And you deserve to be. You know that, too, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Um-hum. Perhaps it's been mentioned to you before. And will beagain. Well, that is what you must expect. People who dance have topay the fiddler...Now what are you twisting your front hair for?What were you going to say?"

Carey's slim fingers paused in the twisting. He smiled.

"I wasn't going to say anything," he answered.

"Probably not. But you were thinking."

"Why, yes, I was. I was thinking that some people don't seem tobe able to do either."

"Humph! And what does that mean? Either what?"

"Either dance or pay."

"I see. You never did dance much, that's a fact. It might havebeen better for you if you had. Then you would have been where youcould watch the others. That partner of yours danced considerable,didn't he?"

There was no answer. Carey's hand moved upward again toward hisforehead. Mrs. Dain's sharp command halted its progress.

"Let your hair alone," she snapped. "It will go fast enoughwithout your pulling it out by the roots. Carey, I am all out ofpatience with you. What in the world did you ever get into thismess for?"

He shook his head. "Why does a hen cross the road?" heasked.

"Oh, my soul and body! CAN'T you talk like a sensible person?No, I suppose you can't; anyway you never have since you were oldenough to talk. Well, I always heard a hen crossed the road becauseshe couldn't go around it. But she looks where she's going, atleast. Why didn't you look and see where that business of yours wasgoing? It must have been plain enough."

He stirred and started to rise from the chair. She caught hisarm.

"You sit right down," she ordered. "I haven't said a word ofwhat I wanted to say yet. We'll leave what has happened to takecare of itself. Talking won't help it, now that it is done, and itwas your father's fault more than yours. I SHOULD like to talk toHIM; but he has gone where I can't get at him...Carey, what did youever let George tease you into coming back here for? To keep books,of all things! You—keep books! You couldn't keep a—afish line and keep it straight...NOW what were you going tosay?"

"I was going to agree with you, that is all."

"Oh, dear me! If you would only stop agreeing with folks and sayno once in a while, for a change! If you had said no to yourfather— But there! we were going to forget that. You camehere because George wanted you to, of course. That is part of whatI wanted to talk to you about. You've picked out about the hardestthing you could possibly do. You're going to have a dreadful hardtime of it. Working in that office, walking the streets of thistown where everybody knows you, facing the very folks whose moneyhas gone to pot on your account, living in this housewith—well, with those you've got to live with. It is toomuch. Whether you deserve it or not it is altogether too much. Seehere, Carey, suppose I could find something for you to do out inCleveland, some sort of work—the land knows what it wouldbe—anything you could do, I mean—would you do it? Wouldyou give up this foolishness—and come out and try it?"

He shook his head. "No, Aunt Susan," he said.

"Humph!...Well, you said no prompt enough that time, I'll haveto admit. Why won't you, for mercy's sake? Do you LIKE to behere?"

"No."

"Of course you don't. That was a silly question, and I shouldn'thave asked it. Then why not come?"

"Because—well, because I have made up my mind to stayhere. Thank you just as much, though."

"Never mind the thanks. And don't make the mistake of thinkingthat I have forgiven you for making such a spectacle of yourself,because I haven't. You deserve to be punished and you're bound tobe—only—well, I believe there is a law against crueland unusual punishments and I suppose I've got some of the familysoft- heartedness—or soft-headedness, whichever you want tocall it. If you've made up your mind to be a martyr—and yousay you have—I can't stop you. But I want to tell you this,young man: martyrdom is a beautiful thing for other folks to readabout, but I sometimes doubt if the martyr himself appreciated thebeauty of it while it was going on. And it generally takes the restof the world at least a hundred years to realize it was a martyrdomand not just burning rubbish. If you act as brave andlong-suffering as—as any Saint What's-his-name that ever wasboiled in oil, you won't be praised for it down here in Wellmouth.I hope you realize that."

"I do."

"But you're going to stay just the same?"

"I am going to try to stay."

"All right. I guess there's some of your father's stubbornnessin you, after all. And, it is like his, too—showing up in thewrong place. I shall be interested to see how it works out. You'regoing to hoe your row, and you'll have to hoe it alone. I'veoffered you a chance—mercy knows why, for you don't deserveone, that's sure—and you won't take it. But that's all I cando for you. You mustn't expect any help from me—money help,or any other kind. You have had money of mine—you and yourpartner—and it has gone where the woodbine twineth."

Carey's hand, which had again strayed toward his forehead, movedimpulsively in her direction.

"I'm awfully sorry, Aunt Susan," he said, sadly. "That is one ofthe things I am most sorry about."

"You needn't be. I can afford to see it go better than a wholelot of others can. Only," with a sarcastic reference to some of thenewspaper stories concerning the late Osborne's extravagance, "ifI'd known it was buying orchids for other women I SHOULD have likedthe privilege of picking the women. What I want to say, Carey, isjust this. You mustn't expect any more money from me—whileI'm alive or after I'm dead. That is plain enough, isn't it?"

Carey untangled his long legs and stood up.

"Perfectly plain, Aunt Susan," he said, quietly; "and commonsense besides. If I had any fault to find with it, it would be thatit was a little superfluous. I haven't expected any money from you.I have never thought of such a thing."

She regarded him shrewdly. "Haven't you?" she observed. "Well,perhaps, being you, you haven't. But I shouldn't be paralyzed withsurprise if there were some folks who had—and do. However, Iguess probably you haven't. You never were enough interested inmoney to think about it much. AND—which does make adifference—you've always had all of it you wanted. Well, youwon't have it from now on, which may be a good thing foryou...What? Don't mutter; say it out loud."

He was looking at her with a peculiar expression. Now hesmiled.

"I am thinking about it," he said. "In fact, I expect to thinkabout it for—well, for the rest of my life, perhaps."

She straightened in her chair. "Now what do you mean by that, Iwonder?" she demanded. "You mean something. When you get that queerlook in your eye it means there is something up your sleeve. I'veseen you look that way too many times not to know. Humph! And youwon't tell me what it is, of course? No, you never would. Oh, CareyJudson, you ARE a provoking good for nothing! Did you know it?"

His smile broadened. "It seems to me I have heard something ofthe sort," he said. Then the smile faded, and he added seriouslyand more briskly than was his usual habit of speech, "But I don'tmean to provoke you, Aunt Susan. You have always been mighty goodto me."

"Stuff and nonsense! And never mind whether I have or not. I'mnot going to be good to you any more. I'm through with you and youmust understand it...Now where are you going? Down to the shore tomoon up and down the sandhills, I'll bet! Why don't you stay athome and go to church like a respectable person?"

"Now, Aunt Susan!"

"STOP looking at me that way! I suppose you mean you aren't arespectable person. Well, you aren't. Clear out! Go away! You'llspoil my appetite for breakfast. But don't you forget what I'vesaid. You mustn't expect me to help you any more, alive or dead.I've taken you out of my will, Carey. I'm sorry, but my consciencewouldn't let me do anything else. If I left money to you I shouldcrawl out of my grave every night and sit on the tombstonewondering who had got it away from you. You're better off poor, andthat's what you will always be, as far as I am concerned. Poorfolks have to work, and hard work is a change that may do you good.I did think that I might take you somewhere where the hardnesswouldn't be quite as hard in one way, but if you had rather stayhere—why, that is your own lookout...There! I've said my say.Now you can go beachcombing, if you want to."

Chapter IV

The day was clear and sunshiny. There was a light breeze blowingfrom the southwest, a breeze which, although bringing with it morethan a hint of the coming summer, had still in it a tang ofcoolness invigorating and salty. Carey's thin nose sniffed it withzest and his stride quickened as he moved down the road leadingfrom Lookout Hill toward the shore. The road was deserted. Smokearose from kitchen chimneys of the houses he passed, indicatingthat breakfasts were in process of preparation, but the shades inthe front portions of those houses were still drawn tightly to thesills. Over the dozing village hung the stillness of Sundaymorning, a stillness which belonged to it and was a part of everySunday he could remember.

He walked along the main road for a short distance, then,turning to the right, swung over the cedar rail fence bordering thefield beyond the Methodist church and took the path "across lots"which led directly to the beach. The path climbed a little hilland, winding through a thicket of cedar and white birch, continuedalong the top of the dyke separating Eben Crosby's cranberry swampfrom Cahoon's pond, the little sheet of water where, as a boy, hehad navigated the first rowboat he ever owned. The water of thepond was blue and upon its slightly rumpled surface floated a partyof his friends, the gulls, enjoying the luxury of a fresh waterbath. Beyond the dyke the path entered a grove of pines and,emerging from these, came out at the top of the first of the row ofsand dunes bordering the bay.

From this dune the view was, except for its foreground,exclusively wet. Right and left the beach stretched in low whitelines, backed by yellow sand hills. To the right it ended at WestEnd, with its lighthouse: to the left at East End, marked by abarrel on a pole. Within those arms was Wellmouth Bay, and, beyondand between, a glimpse of open sea. The bay, ruffled by the wind,was an expanse of blue, or light and dark green, broken only by thefish weirs, their spidery poles and nets rising here and there asif traced with a pen dipped in brown ink. The air came cool andfresh from the water, the light surf creamed and frothed along thestrand, and above its tumbled lines more gulls, large and small,swooped and soared and dived. Flocks of sandpipers scurried alongthe beach, just above the ripples' edge.

At Carey's left, a half mile away, the village began abruptlywith a row of fish and clam shanties and, beyond these, the wharfof J. C. Judson & Co., the schooner moored at its outer end,and other bay craft anchored here and there. There were, at thisperiod, but few dwellings in sight. Most Wellmouth householderseither were spending or had spent the larger part of their livesupon salt water and, when at home, preferred to look out upon theroads and streets of their native town rather than upon the elementwhich was, or had been, their workshop. There was one notableexception. Halfway between the wharf and the spot where the pathfollowed by Carey Judson emerged from the pines stood a squarehouse of medium size, with the railed platform called a "whalewalk" in the center of its roof. Before it, at the water's edge,was a long boathouse and behind it a barn and cluster of sheds andoutbuildings. House and boathouse and sheds were painted agleaming, spotless white. The window blinds were a vivid green. Thelittle front yard was surrounded by a picket fence, whitewasheduntil it glistened, and in the yard was a flagpole flying the starsand stripes and, below the latter, a banner exhibiting a spoutingwhale in red and the letter "H" in bright blue.

Every one in Wellmouth—yes, and practically every adultcitizen of Trumet and Bayport—knew that house and thatbanner. They knew the story connected with them and enjoyed tellingit to casual strangers or summer visitors. Captain Tobias Higginshad been a Wellmouth boy. Like many Wellmouth lads of hisgeneration he left school and went to sea as cabin boy when justentering his 'teens, but, unlike the majority, his first voyage wasmade aboard a New Bedford whaler. And, from that time until hislate forties Tobias spent the greater part of his life in theArctic or Antarctic oceans hunting the sperm whale or the rightwhale or the finback. He had risen to command of a whale ship bythe time he was twenty- one and when thirty owned a share in thatvessel. He married Phoebe Baker—she was a Wellmouthgirl—and she accompanied him on the long voyages of two, andsometimes three years. His ship, the Ambergris, soon acquired thereputation of being a "lucky" craft and he of being a luckyskipper. People said he was making money and saving money, but, inspite of this, they were greatly surprised when, at the age offorty-seven, he and his wife returned to their native town toannounce that they were through with seafaring forever.

"Yes, sir-ee!" declared Captain Tobias, "we're through, me andPhoebe are. We've spent years enough keepin' company with polarbears and walruses and Huskies and critters like that. We're goin'to drop anchor and lay up amongst Christians for the rest of ourdays...Eh? What's that? No, I won't say I've made all the money Iwant. I don't believe anybody ever did that, John Jacob Astor noranybody else, but I've made enough to pay for my three meals andlodgin' ashore and ashore's where I'm goin' to stay from now on.I've harpooned whales and cut up whales and tried out blubber,till, by thunder, now that I've got to where they have hot weatheronce in a while, I don't expect to sweat nothin' but pure ile.Where I'VE been there wan't no chance to sweat. Cold! Why, the onlybaby we ever had come to port was born one winter when the oldAmbergris was froze in up in Hudson's Bay, and when the child diedall hands had to turn to and chisel a hole in an iceberg so's itcould be buried decent. Yes, sir, my wife and I have had enough ofthat. We're through. You can rate me from now on as A. B. L.L.—able-bodied land lubber. I never cal'late to be where Ican see salt water again—no, nor even smell it."

By way of proving the truth of this declaration, he bought land,not on the main road, but on the hill fronting the bay and erectedthereon the square white house with the whale walk on the roof.Within a year he had built the boathouse at the shore, and now,moored in front of it, was his catboat, the Ambergris Junior. Inthat boat, or gunning or fishing up and down the beach, he spentmost of his spare time in the summer months. During thewinter—when "iced up," as he called it—he putteredabout the house, driving his wife nearly frantic, or loafed aboutthe store and post office, squabbling over local, state, andnational politics and invariably espousing the unpopular causebecause it happened to be unpopular. Town meetings had livened uptremendously since Captain Tobias Higgins "retired." Every morning,stormy weather excepted, he hoisted the flag of his country to thetop of the pole in his yard and, beneath it, the banner with thered whale and the blue "H." This banner had been his private signalin his years of active service. "I run her up now to show that theold man's aboard and able to stand watch," he explained to thosewho questioned.

Carey Judson, from the top of the dune at the edge of the pines,noticed the flags flapping lazily in the breeze and inferred thatCaptain Higgins, like himself, was an early riser that Sundaymorning. The thought of Tobias called to mind their interview inthe office the previous evening and he smiled as he recalled it. Ithad amused him to catch as positive a person as the captain in amistake. He wondered if Higgins had told his wife the experience.Probably not, for Mrs. Higgins—in spite of her husband'sout-of- door boasting—was distinctly in command of thedomestic ship and Tobias, so the stories affirmed, played a minorfiddle in his home orchestra.

Carey stood but a moment on the dune. Then, his long legs movingin their characteristic swinging stride, he walked to the beach,and, turning to the right, followed the shore for a mile or so.Then another dune pushed itself out from the main, forming aminiature cape, the further side of which was out of sight from thevillage, even from the Higgins' whale walk. He turned at this pointand there seated himself, his back against the bank and his feethalf buried in the loose sand. This was his destination and, havingreached it, his first act was to search one pocket after the otheruntil he located his ancient briar pipe and a stained and worntobacco pouch and matches. When the tobacco in the pipe was alighthe again dove into the numerous and capacious pockets of the oldcanvas shooting coat he was wearing and from them extricated, oneafter the other, a series of articles which, if they could haveseen them, would have puzzled the Wellmouthians. They had neverseen them; as a matter of fact, no one save himself knew of theirexistence.

The first of those articles was a shore bird of the varietyknown locally as a "beetle-head." It was not a living bird, ofcourse, but, except for the absence of legs—a foot long ironspike occupying the place where legs should have been—itlooked astonishingly like one. It was the exact size and shape of aliving "beetle-head," its body poised exactly as in life, its wingsloosely closed as if the creature had just alighted. The coloring,to the smallest feather, was natural, neither under noroveremphasized. Yet it was merely a painted wooden effigy and Careyhimself had carved and painted it. He turned it over in his hands,his eyes regarding it dreamily, and then, leaning forward, drovethe spike into the sand. So placed it became, from a short distanceaway, a genuine shore bird, resting, after flight, upon thebeach.

Then, from a second pocket, he tugged form another block ofwood, roughly shaped and partially carved to resemble the finishedproduct before him. Next he spread his handkerchief upon the sandand took from a third pocket various little tools and knives. Thesehe arranged upon the handkerchief. By that time he remembered topull at his pipe, but found the result unprofitable because, havingreceived no encouragement for some few minutes, the pipe had goneout. He was not surprised, but calmly relighted it and, picking upthe wooden block and selecting one of the little tools, he set towork. Before long the pipe had again gone out but he did not seemto mind and sucked serenely at the stem, unconscious of everythingexcept his carving.

For a long time he sat there, his feet settling deeper anddeeper in the sand, the smokeless pipe clenched tightly between histeeth, his long fingers busy with one tool or another as he cut orgrooved or gouged, leaning forward occasionally to gaze at hismodel. He worked swiftly and deftly and if his brother or Cora T.or Mr. Ben Early could have seen him just then they would have beensurprised. Since his return to Wellmouth he had labored hard at thebooks of J. C. Judson & Co., but it was always apparent that hedid so because of a fixed resolution, not because the task itselfinterested him. Mr. Ben Early, a shrewd observer within limits,summed it up when he told his wife: "Yes, he's doing well enough.Hasn't made as many mistakes as I thought he would. But he'll neveramount to anything at the job. He's doing it because he knows he'sgot to, not because he wants to. No, there's nothing about himthat'll ever set me to worrying so far as my getting thatpartnership by and by is concerned. He'll peter out, you see, andget as careless and slack and don't care about the bookkeeping ashe always has about everything else he's ever tackled. I kept thosebooks myself once, but I was crazy about keeping 'em just so.That's why I'm where I am now in the business. If there was anykind of work that Carey Judson LIKED there might be a chance forhim, but there ain't...Just name it 'Work' and that settles it, sofar as he is concerned."

And yet, even to Mr. Early, the careful, engrossing industrywith which that same Carey Judson carved and shaped that woodenblock might have seemed like work. The practical Benjamin, however,would not have called it that. "Tomfoolery" would have been hisname for it.

Carey whittled and dug at his tomfoolery for more than an hourwithout shifting from the position he had taken when he sat down.Then, attempting to shift, he awoke to the realization that therewas something the matter with his right foot. Awaking still more,he became aware that that foot was not keeping the rest of his bodycompany in the awakening but remained fast asleep. Dragging it fromits grave in the sand it came slowly to life, but a life which wasfull of prickles. He muttered impatiently, turned over and roseclumsily, stamping as he did so to restore circulation. Then he sawa man walking along the beach about a hundred yards away comingfrom the direction of the village. The man he recognized as TobiasHiggins, and Tobias, at the same time, caught sight of him.

Carey's muttered exclamation was profane this time. He did notwish to meet any one, had journeyed to that secluded spot onpurpose to avoid such meetings. However, he had been seen and hecould not run away or hide. Hastily he picked up his tools, thehandkerchief and the block of wood and jammed them into the pocketsof his shooting coat. Then he strolled slowly forth from behind thedune. Captain Higgins advanced toward him. On the Captain's partthere had been no recognition as yet.

It came a moment later. Tobias, pulling his cap brim furtherforward to shade his eyes, squinted uncertainly—he scornedspectacles—and then hailed.

"Eh?" he called. "Who—? Oh, yes, yes! I see! It's you,ain't it? Humph!"

He turned from the hard wet sand of the beach and rolled andplowed up the slope. Carey advanced to meet him.

"Good morning, Cap'n," he said. Tobias growled acknowledgment ofthe greeting.

"Humph!" he grunted, puffing with the exertion of the climb andpausing to mop his forehead with a blue and white bandanahandkerchief. "So it's you, eh?"

Carey nodded. "Exactly, Cap'n," he said. "As the story bookssay, 'The solitary horseman was none other than our hero.'"

Higgins stared. "What kind of talk's that?" he demanded. "Youain't on horseback, fur's I can see."

"No, and I'm not solitary, now that you've come. It's a finemorning, isn't it?"

Captain Higgins ignored the weather.

"I might have known who 'twas," he declared. "Nobody else wouldbe stuck away out here in a sandheap at the fag end of nowhere atthe time when respectable folks were gettin' rigged up formeetin'."

"True enough. You are already rigged, I suppose?"

"Eh? Rigged? What— Oh! Well, I wasn't cal'latin' to go tomeetin' this mornin'. Phoebe wanted me to, but I told her Ifiggered a tramp alongshore would do me about as much good. A mancan't be expected to turn out EVERY time the bos'n pipes forprayers. I didn't sleep's well's I might last night. Don't knowwhat 'twas ailed me, but 'twas somethin'."

"You weren't worried over that ten cents, were you, Cap'n?"

"Hey?...See here, young feller, don't you get sassy. I presumelikely you think I wouldn't have found out you'd given me the wrongchange. Well, I would. How do you know I didn't find it out thenand kept quiet just to try you out? Eh? How do you know I wasn'tdoin' just that?"

"I don't, of course. But, if that was it, I'm surprised at yourtaking such a chance."

"'Twould have been pretty reckless, wouldn't it?"

"Very, everything considered."

"Yes. Well, as a matter of fact, Carey, I didn't know anythingabout it. You had one on me that time, I'll have to own up. Whatare you doin' out here all alone by yourself? Makin' believe you'rea gull or somethin' like that?"

"Not exactly. Making believe isn't much satisfaction."

"Sometimes 'tis. Ben Early now—he seems to get a lot ofsatisfaction makin' believe he's the Lord A'mighty. I'm surprisedhe didn't ask you to go to church along with him."

"He did say it wouldn't do me any harm to be seen there."

"I bet you!...Well, I must be gettin' under way again. I thoughtI'd cruise out as fur as West End maybe, and have a smoke alongwith Ezra Pollock at the lighthouse. Keepin' light ain't a job I'dhanker for, but there's one good thing about it—you ain'texpected to tag your wife to church every time the bell rings.Won't keep me company, will you, Carey?"

"No, thanks, Cap'n, not this trip."

"Humph! Ezra 'd be glad to see you. A feller that keeps light isalways glad to see ANYBODY."

Carey nodded gravely. "That's another advantage, isn't it," hesaid. "He doesn't have to be particular."

"Eh? Particular? Oh, good Lord! don't take it that way... Say,look here; if I had a—a conscience like yours I'd bile itso's to see if I couldn't toughen it up. I asked you to go alongwith me, didn't I? Don't you suppose I'm as particular as alighthouse keeper? Now you haul those big feet of yours out of thatsand and walk out to West End with me."

"Not this time, Cap'n Higgins."

"Huh! Not this time nor any other time, you mean. You'd ratherroost here listenin' to the gulls squawk. Well, there! I can'twaste any more breath on you. So long."

"Pleasant walk, Cap'n."

"Ugh!"

With this farewell grunt the irritated ex-whaler turned on hisheel and headed for the hard sand of the beach. He headeddiagonally this time and his third stride—orwallow—took him to the end of the projecting dune. There hestopped short and stood still, staring intently at some object onthe other side. An instant later he came tiptoeing back again, hisred face blazing with excitement.

"What is it, Cap'n?" queried Carey, lowering his voiceinvoluntarily.

Tobias flapped a cautioning hand. "Sshh! Sshh!" he whispered."Give me a rock! Give me a ROCK! Thunder mighty! Ain't there a rock'round here nowheres?"

Rocks are scarce on the south side of Cape Cod. On the northside, from Ostable to Bayport, water-worn boulders, relics of theglacial drift of the ice age, are plentiful as raisins in anold-fashioned mince pie, but about Orham or Trumet or Wellmouth arock bigger than an egg is a rarity. And, even if they wereplentiful, why on earth Tobias Higgins should be so franticallydemanding one Carey could not imagine.

"A rock?" he repeated. "A rock, did you say?"

The captain flapped both hands this time. "Sshh! Sshh, can'tye?" he whispered. "He'll hear you and fly away. He's settin' therenot twenty foot off and I can nail him easy as not. Give me arock!...A-ah!"

The exclamation was one of triumph. He stopped and picked up apebble half the size of his fist and, clutching this in his righthand, crept cautiously around the point of the dune. Careyfollowed. Tobias peered over the bank. A sigh, apparently ofrelief, came from his lips, and he took another forward step anddrew back the hand containing the stone. His companion, who hadnoticed the direction in which he was looking, and had also looked,seized that hand just as it swung forward to throw. The stone flewstraight up in the air and descended not a dozen feet from wherethey were standing.

Captain Higgins gasped. Then he turned.

"What in the blue blazes did you do that for?" he demanded.

Carey grinned. "What were YOU doing?" he asked, on his ownaccount.

"Doin'? DOIN'! I was cal'latin' to kill that beetle-head yonder.Didn't you see him? Settin' right in plain sight he was, not twentyfoot off. I could have knocked him— Oh, you DIVILISH fool!What did you grab me like that for? I've a good mind to—"

Carey laughed aloud. "There, there, Cap'n," he put in. "Keepyour hair on. He's there yet, isn't he?"

"There yet! Yet! What do you think he is; as big a numbskull asyou be, yourself? Course he ain't there. You've scared him toJericho by now. Oh, good Lord, I—"

"Sshh! He IS there. See."

Captain Tobias looked. "Well, I swan to man!" he gurgled. "Heis, ain't he. Don't that beat all! Got a broken wing, or somethin',I bet you! Or maybe he didn't hear us after all. Give me anotherrock. Let go of my arm! LET GO!"

But Carey would not let go. He clung the tighter. Higginsstruggled violently and then, noticing the expression on theyounger man's face, stopped his struggles.

"Eh?" he demanded. "What— Say, what is this, anyhow?"

Carey, still laughing, released his hold.

"You leave that beetle-head to me, Cap'n," he said. "I'll gethim."

"You'll get him! YOU will! Why...Well, I'll...be...darned!"

For his companion had calmly walked over to where the bird wasresting, had pulled the iron spike from the sand, and was returningwith the beetle-head in his hands.

"There you are, Cap'n," he said. "It is easy enough to catch 'emwhen you know how."

Tobias snatched at the wooden bird. He turned it over and over,his eyes and open mouth expressing much emotion.

"Whew!" he whistled, slowly. "Well, if that ain't...Humph! gotanother one on me, ain't you. Well, I swan! Where did the thingcome from, anyhow?"

"It came from me. I put it there."

"You did? When?"

"An hour or so ago, when I first came."

"Sho! What did you put it there for; so's to have another chanceto make a fool out of me?"

"No, indeed. I didn't know you were coming. I didn't think anyone but me would come along here on a Sunday morning. When I caughtsight of you I—well, you surprised me and I forgot italtogether."

"Pshaw! Sho! I want to know! Well, you did make a fool out ofme, whether you meant to or not. Gettin' to be what you might calla habit of yours, seems so...You'll have to give in that I wasn'tmuch to blame. A—a thing like that would make a fool out ofanybody. That's the best decoy I ever see in my life. 'Tain't adecoy—it's a beetle-head, that's what 'tis. Just abeetle-head, settin' there waitin' for some jackass to come andheave rocks at him. Where did you buy a thing like that, CareyJudson?"

Carey hesitated. Then he said:

"I didn't buy it; I made it."

"Eh? Made it? YOU did!...Say, now, lay to; come up into thewind, Carey. You've had your fun, now tell me the truth. Where didthis thing come from?"

"I made it. That is the truth. I made it last winter. Birds area—well, a hobby of mine."

"Humph! Yes, I know you can stuff birds. I've seen them you'vegot up in your room; George showed 'em to me one time. But this oneain't stuffed, it's—it's wood, ain't it? Andit—it—why, no stuffed bird ever looked like this, neverlooked half so natural. No, nor no live one neither. I've shot acouple of thousand beetle-heads in my time and they wasn't nary oneof 'em as natural as this...Where did you get it, Carey?"

"I made it. It isn't such a job. I was making another one whenyou came along."

"Go on!...Where's the one you was makin'?"

"Here." Carey took the partially carved wooden block from hispocket. "It is only about half done, of course, but you can seewhat I'm after."

Captain Higgins examined the work, examined it at length andwith care. Then he drew a long breath.

"Was you cal'latin' to go on makin' it if I hadn't come?" heasked.

"Why—er—yes."

"All right. GO on. I want to watch you. That is, if I won't makeyou nervous."

Carey twisted his forelock.

"You won't make me nervous," he said; "but I don't see why youwant to. It can't be very interesting—to watch. Besides, youwere going down to smoke with Ezra Pollock."

Tobias consigned Mr. Pollock to a place where smoke is supposedto be thick.

"I can see Ezra any time," he declared, "but I don't often get achance to set around and see somebody do miracles. Turnin' waterinto wine ain't so much—I've drunk plenty of wine that hadhad that done to it—but when it comes to turnin' wood intobeetle- heads I want a seat up front. Set down and turn to, Carey.Don't mind me. I'll try to keep quiet. If I swear once in a while'twill only be my way of sayin' 'Hooray.'"

So, although he was not very keen at the prospect of pursuinghis hobby before a witness, Carey did return to his former seat inthe lee of the sand bank and resumed his carving and shaping.Tobias Higgins curled his bowed legs under his round body and, tothe accompaniment of grunts and short-breathed exclamations, sankdown beside him. In a few minutes the carver had forgotten allexcept his beloved task. Another hour passed and, after that, stillanother. Then the captain ventured to speak.

"Say, Carey," he observed, breathing heavily, "I hate to nose inon you, and I wouldn't if 'twasn't kind of serious, but if I squathere much longer my legs'll grow crookeder than they arenow—and that would be gildin' refined lilies, as it tellsabout in Scriptur'. Besides, it's edgin' up to twelve o'clock, didyou know it?"

Carey came out of his trance. "What?" he asked. "Did you speak,Cap'n Higgins?"

"Yes," gravely, "I did. Now I'm gettin' ready to speak again,so, if it ain't too much trouble, I'll ask you to pay attention.It's most noon, and my legs have commenced to grow backwards.Otherwise than them everything seems to be shipshape. When was youcal'latin' to head for home?"

"Why—why, I don't know. I guess I hadn't calculated muchabout it."

"No, I don't suppose you would. Well, don't you think it mightbe a good idea to get out a pencil and piece of paper and commencefigurin' along that direction? What time do they expect you up toyour house?"

"Oh, around dinner time, perhaps."

"Humph! What would happen if you didn't report for dinner? Wouldthey ring the meetin'-house bell and send up rockets, or anythinglike that?"

"I doubt it."

"Just go ahead and have dinner without you, wouldn't they?"

"Probably."

"Um-hum. I guess likely they wouldn't be worried to death. Theymust know you pretty well. Your brother and Hepsy Ellis do, anyhow.All right, you come right along and have dinner with Phoebe andme...Now we won't argue about it. That's what you're goin' to do.Heave ahead and get under way."

"But, Cap'n Higgins—"

"Didn't I say we wouldn't have any arguin'? Who's cap'n of thisship? Say, Carey, what are you cal'latin' to do with those beetle-heads when you get 'em done? Wouldn't sell 'em, would you?"

"Why—"

"Because if you would I'd like to put in a bid. I'll giveyou—I don't know's I wouldn't give five dollars for the pairof 'em."

Carey, who had risen and was storing his tools and the woodenbirds in the pockets of his canvas jacket, smiled, but did notanswer. Tobias repeated his offer.

"Why don't you say somethin'?" he asked. "That's a fair offer,ain't it?"

"Fair enough."

They were under way by this time. Judson moving in hislong-legged stride and his companion taking two steps to hisone.

"If it's fair why don't you take it up?" demanded the captain."Are wages so high up there at the fish house that money ain't anyobject to you?"

Carey shook his head. "Not exactly," he replied. "What do youwant of the things, Cap'n Tobias?"

"I don't know. What did the whale want Jonah for? Probablybecause he'd never run afoul of anything like him afore and thoughthe'd like to have him for a curiosity. I never saw anything likethose beetle-heads afore. I want 'em. Sell 'em to me; will you,Carey?"

"I can't, Cap'n. They aren't mine."

"Aren't yours? What kind of talk's that? Course they're yours.You made 'em, didn't you? I've seen you makin' one."

"Yes, I made them. But I'm making them for some one else.I've—well, I suppose you might say I have an order for adozen of them."

"Sho! You have? I don't wonder, but—who ordered 'em?"

The reply was given after some hesitancy.

"I don't know that I ought to tell you—or any one else,"Carey said. "There isn't any secret about it, but I had just assoon not have it talked about down here. You see—well, no oneknows I do this sort of thing, and if they did—"

"If they did, bein' none of their business, they wouldn't talkabout anything else for a spell. That's true enough. All right, youneedn't tell me, if you don't want to. If you do want to you canrest easy that I shan't let it go any further."

"I'm sure of that. And there isn't any real reason why—Well, you see, for a year or two I have amused myself with thissort of foolishness in my spare time. I did it for fun, of course.I like birds and—and I think I can say I know birds prettywell—our birds around here."

Tobias nodded. "Know 'em!" he repeated. "If you had feathersyou'd BE a bird. You've got the build of—of one of thoselong- shanked squawks that's always flappin' 'round over the cedarswamp at East End. Well, never mind my compliments. Heave aheadwith your yarn."

"So," Carey went on, "as stuffing and mounting birds—realbirds—was almost impossible up there at my rooms in Boston, Ithought I would try my hand at making them out of wood. I had asort of idea that I would make a specimen of each kind—notlife-size, all of them, you know—but the bigger ones inminiature. I tried two or three and they came out pretty well, so Iwent on. Then—then came the smash and—and Istopped—everything stopped."

His story stopped also. After a moment Higgins ventured anencouraging "Um-hum. Sartin; 'twould naturally."

"Yes. Well, I had some friends up there, some of them with agood deal of money. Most of them dropped me, as they should have,but one or two hung on, came to see me at the hospital and were alot more decent than I deserved. One was a chap named—but youdon't know him, so his name doesn't matter. He was a wealthyfellow, fond of shooting and fishing, and gave a lot of time tothat sort of thing. Just before I came back here he asked me what Iwas intending to do with my collection. I said I hadn't thoughtabout it, except to, perhaps, sell as much of it as I could. Hebought the whole affair."

"Sho! Did, eh?"

"Yes. Then he asked me if I had ever thought of making any moreof the wooden birds, like these I have here. He said they were somuch better than any decoys he ever saw that he would likeimmensely to have a set of—well, the different kinds of shorebirds and the ducks, and so on, to use on his own shooting trips.Probably he didn't mean that, really."

Tobias interrupted. "No, course he didn't," he put insarcastically. "Probably he'd seen so many beetle-heads like thatone I tried to heave a rock at that he'd ruther spend his money onthe average decoy, them that look as if they'd been hacked out witha broad-ax. He was crazy in the head and just ravin'. Let it go atthat. What next?"

"Well, of course I had never thought of making the things formoney. I never thought any one would wish to buy them, or cared forthem the way I did. And, really, even he didn't care for them thatway. He wanted them for—"

"There, there! You've told me what he wanted them for. Did heget 'em? that's what I want to know?"

"He hasn't yet. I didn't believe I could make them well enoughto be paid for doing it. I would—I might have tried makinghim a few for nothing, just as a present, you know—he'd beenawfully kind—but he wouldn't let me."

"Wouldn't, eh? He WAS crazy, wasn't he? Go on."

"So, at last, I agreed to try making a dozen of thesebeetle-heads at his price. It was a ridiculous price,but—"

"How much was it?"

"Well," Carey hesitated again. "Well," he said, "I am almostashamed to tell you. It was such a ridiculous pricethat—"

"Go on! Go on! Tell me all the ridiculousness, so I can laugh,too."

"You will laugh. He insists on paying me ten dollars apiece forthem. That is ridiculous enough, isn't it?"

If it was, the announcement did not have the effect of makingthe captain laugh. Instead of laughing he stopped short, gazedearnestly up into his companion's face and whistled slowly.

"Ten dollars apiece!" he repeated. "You ain't foolin',Carey?"

"No. That is the price he insists on paying. He would have paidmore if I had let him. Why—you'll hardly believe it, but heactually offered to pay twice as much. He did, for a fact. Ofcourse he was a good friend of mine and he has all the money hewants, so—"

Tobias broke in. They were walking on again and he seized thetail of Judson's shooting jacket.

"Here, here, here!" he panted. "Lay to! What do you think thisis, a race? Let me get it straight. He's goin' to pay you a hundredand twenty—a hundred and twenty DOLLARS for a dozen of thosebeetle-head images?"

"Yes."

"And he would have paid two hundred and forty if you had lethim?"

"Yes. I know it sounds foolish. Of course he was doing it justto help me out, that's all."

"Um," thoughtfully. "I wonder. And he wanted more than thebeetle-heads, didn't he?"

"Yes. Oh, he would have ordered a dozen ofeverything—brant and plover and shelldrakes and black duck,and—all sorts. And he pretended to believe he could get melots of orders just like his. He couldn't, of course, but he saidhe could. He is a wonderfully fine chap...So, in the little sparetime I have had down here, some evenings, and last Sunday andto-day, I have been working as I was when you caught me at it. Itis slow work but it takes up my mind and I like to do it. And Ineed all the money I can earn because—well, that doesn'tmatter."

His lips closed and he strode on in silence, his brow puckeredand the loose lock of hair blowing, beneath the floppy brim of hiscanvas hat, across his eyes. Captain Tobias, rolling and puffingbeside him, was silent also. It was he who spoke first.

"You say you do some of this evenin's, Carey," he observed,after the interval. "Kind of hard work to do it up there to theJim- Carey place, ain't it?"

Judson blinked and came to life. "Eh?" he queried. "Oh! Yes, itis. In fact I've given it up—doing it there, I mean. It is amessy job, shavings and chips all over the floor, you know; and Ican do it only in my bedroom. I'm not alone anywhere elseand—and I don't care—well, you see, I had rather thefolks—George and—and—"

"And Cora T. Um-hum. You'd rather they didn't know what you wasup to, I expect."

"Yes. Ye-es. They are awfully kind to me, but—but perhapsthey wouldn't understand. It does look like child's play, Iadmit."

"Oh, it does, eh? I wouldn't go so fur as to say that. However,I know Cora T. and that's education enough of its kind. So you'vegiven up the evenin' work, and just work out here on the beachSundays. Humph! How long do you cal'late it's goin' to take tofinish up that feller's order for the first dozen beetle-heads atthat rate of sailin'?"

Carey's smile showed that he appreciated the sarcasm.

"Oh, possibly fifty years," he replied.

"Humph! Yes, yes. We-ll, it looks as if I might have to put onthose specs Phoebe's always at me to wear if I cal'late to see thelast one done. My timbers are average sound, but they may becreakin' a little by the end of another fifty year...Humph! Say,Carey, suppose you had a place all to yourself, a place where youcould work nights when you wanted to, and Sundays andholidays—any time when you felt like it—"

It was Carey who interrupted now. "Oh, I feel like it all thetime," he observed. "But it wouldn't be work. Work, for me, meansdoing something worth while, something profitable andpractical."

"Yes. Sartin. But there's a sort of floatin' smell ofpracticalness hangin' around a hundred and twenty dollars, ain'tthere? Seems to me there is, butI ain't never been in thebankin' business...Sshh! Never mind, never mind. I'll forgivemyself for sayin' that if you will...A hundred and twenty dollars adozen...Humph! Sho!"

His muttering faded away and he said no more just then. Careywas not anxious to talk so he, too, said nothing. It was not untilthey came opposite the Higgins' front gate that the captain cameout of his reverie. Then he again clutched the rear of the canvasjacket and stopped its owner in his stride.

"Here we are in port," he declared, "and Phoebe's been waitin'dinner. I know she has because I can see her keepin' lookoutthrough the kitchen deadlight...Now DON'T talk any more. Of courseyou're comin' in. I'll need you, man, to keep her from bendin' thebest sasspan all out of shape on my head... Phoebe! Oh, Phoebe!Here's Carey Judson, he's goin' to have dinner with us. I know I'mlate, but don't blame me. I'd been here an hour ago if it hadn'tbeen for him. He didn't want to come. Seemed to be kind of shy oftacklin' your cookin'... You go in first, Carey. She's swingin'that sasspan now."

Chapter V

If there was one thing certain it was that Carey had notintended to accept the Higgins' invitation to dinner. When Tobiasfirst tendered it, up there behind the sand dune, he had not flatlyrefused because the refusal would mean a long argument and healways avoided argument if he could. So he neither accepted norrefused, postponing the decision until he and the captain shouldhave reached the latter's home. And now that they had reached it hefound that refusal next door to an impossibility. When he announcedthat he could not accept but felt that he must go on to the Cap'nJim-Carey place, Tobias, still clinging to his coat tail, vowedthat if he went he would have to "take a tow," because he did notintend to let go his hold until he was dragged across GeorgeJudson's threshold.

"And it's liable to be hard haulin' for you up that hill," heprophesied. "You'll have wind and tide against you, Carey, and mykeel will be scrapin' sand all the way. You may fetch me in in timefor to-morrow mornin's breakfast, but nothin' sooner. And we'relikely to attract consider'ble attention, besides."

When Mrs. Higgins came out and added her protestations to herhusband's Carey's resolution broke. Phoebe Higgins was a littlewoman, but, as her husband phrased it, she had "the power of anocean liner, even if she did look like a tug boat."

"Of course you'll stay," she announced, "I shan't let you doanything else. Come right straight in. Don't stop to talk about it.Heavens to Betsy! you don't want my dinner sp'iled any more than'tis, already, do you?"

The Higgins' dining room was as nautical an apartment as a roomon shore could be. The clock over the mantel was a ship's clock.The barometer hanging by the door was a ship's barometer. On thewest wall, between the windows, was a glaring oil painting of theLucy Winslow, the whaler aboard which Captain Tobias had made hisfirst voyage as mate. A pair of whale's teeth, polished, andornamented with fanciful feminine portraits, stood at either end ofthe mantel and above them and the clock was suspended a cane madefrom a shark's backbone. The sole ornament lacking the salt seasmack was an engraving of the Honorable Franklin Pierce, thecandidate for whom Tobias had cast his first vote in a presidentialelection. The painted floor—a gray, thickly spattered withwhite dots—the white woodwork, the ceiling, the windowpanes,the window shades, the table cloth, were spotless. Through thedoorway leading to the kitchen Judson could see the cookstove, itsnickel work glittering.

He and the captain "washed up" at the kitchen sink and thenjoined Mrs. Higgins at the table. Tobias said grace, a nauticalgrace beseeching the Almighty not to forget those "afloat on thewide waste of Thy waters," and then proceeded to carve the chicken.His wife served the vegetables and issued orders concerning thecarving. He bore the criticisms for a minute or two and thenventured a protest.

"All right, all right," he said. "I wasn't cal'latin' to givehim the neck, nor the piece that went over the fence last. Who'sgettin' this critter to pieces, you or me?"

"You are," was the prompt reply. "And it looks as if you wasdoin' it with a hammer. He's been so used to cuttin' up whales,"she added, addressing the guest, "that anything smaller bothershim."

During dinner they talked of many things, but the subject of thewooden "beetle-heads" in which Tobias had seemed so interested, wasnot mentioned. Nor, to Carey's relief, did Mrs. Higgins refer tohis return to Wellmouth or his bookkeeping for J. C. Judson &Co. They discussed local news items, such as the prospect of theReverend Bagness having had a "call" from a parish in a NewHampshire town and whether or not he might be likely to accept.Only once was mention made of a member of the Judson household.

"Your Aunt Susie's here visitin' up to your house, they tellme," said Phoebe. "I ain't seen her since before she was married.The cap'n and I—" she invariably spoke of her husband as "thecap'n"—"were at sea the other times she's been here. A realsmart woman, your Aunt Susie is. You like her, don't you?"

Carey nodded. "Very much," he said.

"Yes, well, you'd ought to. I wonder how she and Cora T. cruisein company. Get along all right, do they?"

"Why—why, yes; I suppose they do."

"Um-hum. I was just wonderin', that's all. Two skippers aboardthe same vessel—even if one of 'em is a passenger—oughtto make things lively for the crew. How's George?"

"Well, thank you."

"Is, eh? I— Mercy on us, Tobias, why don't you look outfor folks? Can't you see his plate hasn't got anything on it butbones?"

Captain Higgins hastened to replace the bones with somethingmore edible. He winked at his guest as he did so.

"Only one skipper aboard HERE," he muttered, under hisbreath.

After dinner the captain suggested that he and Carey go outdoorsfor a smoke.

"Unless you need me to help with the dishes, old lady," headded.

"I don't. I've got too much respect for the dishes."

"Just as you say, Chippy. I took to callin' her 'Chippy,'Carey," he explained, gravely, "'way back afore we was married. Shewas always hoppin' around so pert and lively, you know, like one ofthem little two-for-a-cent chippy sparrows that build nests out ofhorsehair in the hedge bushes. Pretty good name for her, don't youthink so?"

Carey, repressing a smile, agreed that it was. He had heard ofthe Higgins' "pet name" before; it was one of Wellmouth's standingjokes.

"And what does she call you?" he asked.

Tobias opened the outer door before he replied.

"We-ll," he drawled, "there was a spell when she used to call me'Tootsy.' That was a long time ago, though. Now she calls me mostanything she happens to lay her tongue to."

Mrs. Higgins made an ominous motion with the gravy ladle justthen and he dodged into the yard.

The back yard was as neat and trim as the inside of the house.The captain produced a pair of mammoth cigars and Judson acceptedone with outward gratitude and an internal shudder.

"You ain't ever been out aft here afore, have you, Carey,"observed Tobias. "Got quite a nice little layout, I have. Nothin'fancy—no Cunard trimmin's, of course—but good enoughfor an old hulk alongshore. Here's the barn."

They inspected the barn, with the fat, middle-aged horseplacidly chewing or dozing in the stall and the Higgins' buggy andcarryall—the latter draped with a white cotton cover—inthe carriage room. They went out and on to the henhouse and thepigpen. Beside the henhouse was a long low building with a broaddouble door and windows in each side.

"Come in here, Carey," invited the captain. "Here's my whiteelephant. You ought to see him."

There was nothing to see. The building was empty, save forworkbenches along each side, equipped with vises and spread withcarpenter's tools, and an ancient stove and stovepipe at thefarther end.

"How do you like the elephant?" inquired Tobias. "Nice bulkycritter, ain't he?"

Carey twisted his forelock. "Wonderful," he said.

His host had evidently not expected this sort of reply. Hestared. "Wonderful?" he repeated. "What's wonderful?"

"The elephant."

"What in time—? Say, what are you talkin' about?"

"Why—the same thing you are talking about, I suppose."

"Same—! What amI talkin' about; do you know?"

"No...Do you?"

Captain Higgins took three long, odorous pulls at the big cigar.Judson, whose own cigar had been considerate enough to go out,laughed.

"Sa-a-y," drawled Tobias, after a moment, and speaking throughthe haze, "I...well—but there! you ain't accountable, Isuppose. Do you mind tellin' me if you rave like this part of everyday?"

"No. Only when I'm out seeing the elephant."

"Humph!...I see. Well, THIS is the elephant, this buildin' here.I built the darn thing to make boats in. Cal'lated I'd been in andaround boats long enough so's I ought to know how to make 'em. Itried makin' one. When I got part of it done I asked Phoebe out togive me her opinion of it."

He paused. "Did she give it?" asked Carey.

"Um-hum, she did. The hog is havin' his dinner out of it now. SoI quit, and this place has been standin' empty ever since. That'swhy I call it my white elephant...But 'twould make a prettyable-bodied workshop for a feller that could work, wouldn'tit?"

"I should say it would."

"Um-hum. Well...that's all of that. Finished your cigar, haveyou?"

Judson, carefully concealing the unconsumed cigar by thrustingthe hand holding it into his trousers' pocket, said that he had.Also he firmly declined the offer of another. They strolled back tothe house, where the visitor, after a short chat with his host andhostess, announced that he must go. Mrs. Higgins urged him to staylonger but, somewhat to his surprise, the captain's insistence wasrather perfunctory.

"It's all right, Chip," he said. "We mustn't keep him if hefeels he hadn't ought to stay. Probably he's afraid Cora T. or hisAunt Susie or somebody will think he's got one of his absent-mindedstreaks and forgot the way home. He doesn't want the constable tobe out with a bell and a lantern huntin' for him. We'll let you gothis time, Carey, but you must come again. Come often. We'llprobably have dinner 'most every Sunday—'long as the butchercart'll trust us."

At the gate, whither he walked with his departing guest, heseemed more reluctant to say good-by. There appeared to besomething on his mind.

"Carey," he said, hesitatingly, "I cal'late you wonderwhat—I presume likely you don't see why I...Humph!...Well,maybe I'll drop in at the office to-morrow."

Judson and he shook hands and the former strode away in thedirection of the village. Only in its direction, however. As soonas he was out of sight from the Higgins' house he turned backacross the fields and between the dunes to his seat in the lee ofthe sand bank at the point. There he carved blissfully at thewooden "beetle-head" until it was time to return to the Jim-Careyplace and a supper for which he felt neither appetite norinclination.

He was questioned, of course. George wanted to know where he hadbeen, so did Mrs. Dain and Hepsibah. Cora T. evinced no interestwhatever, treating him with lofty disdain, until he mentioneddining with the Higginses. Then her sniff expressed much.

"Oh!" she observed. "So they took you in, did they! Well, I'm alittle bit surprised, I must say, considering the kind of remarksTobias Higgins has been making around town for the last six months.I hope they made it pleasant for you."

"They did, thank you."

"Umph!"

After Carey had gone to his room Aunt Susan asked a question ofher niece.

"What did you mean by Cap'n Higgins making remarks?" sheinquired. "What kind of remarks?"

Mrs. Judson's answer was tart enough.

"The same kind that the whole town has been making," shesnapped. "Why don't you ask George? He has heard as many of them asI have. He can tell you—if he will."

George stirred uneasily in his chair.

"Oh, just the usual thing," he said. "Cap'n Tobe had seven oreight hundred dollars with Carey's firm and—well, he was assore as the rest, naturally. He talked about it considerably. Healways says a lot more than he really means. He is a mighty goodfellow, underneath."

His wife sniffed again. "Oh, how can you!" she exclaimed. "Itell you this, Aunt Susan, if I had said half the things TobiasHiggins has said about a person I wouldn't ask that person to myhouse to dinner. I wouldn't be so two-faced."

Mrs. Dain looked up from the Item.

"I remember the Higginses real well, of course," she said."Tobias was a great friend of Jim's. They always seemed to me verygood people."

Cora T.'s eyes flashed. "They're good enough, I suppose," sheadmitted. "Although that depends on whether a man who swears theway Cap'n Tobias does is what you call good. GOOD enough,maybe—but common—oh, my soul!"

Carey Judson had paid little attention to the captain'sintimation that he might drop in at the office the next day, infact had forgotten it altogether. Therefore he was a triflesurprised when, just before closing time that Monday afternoon, thedoor opened and Tobias rolled forward to the desk.

"Carey," he said, hastily, "got anything 'special to do tonight,have you?"

Carey, whose attention had been centered on a knotty problem inbookkeeping, unwound his legs from the rounds of the stool andtugged thoughtfully at his hair.

"We-ll," he mused, dreamily. "I didn't know but I might go tothe opera this evening. Either that or call on Mr. Bagness. Hemissed me at church yesterday, I understand. A prodigal son sermonwithout any prodigal is—"

"Oh, shut up! I'm talkin' sense. YOU better try it, for achange. Can you run down to my house after supper? I've gotsomethin' to say to you, somethin' that—well, that may cometo somethin', if you think as well of it as I do...Hurry up, hurryup! Let your crimps alone. Say yes or no. Will you come?"

"Yes."

"All right. I'll be expectin' you...Say, don't tell anybodyyou're comin'."

Even then Carey's curiosity was only mildly excited. What it wasthat Higgins wished to see him about he could not imagine, nor didhe speculate greatly. After supper, however, he walked down to thecaptain's house. It was a lonely place after nightfall; even thegulls had gone to bed.

Tobias was wide awake, however, and awaiting him in the diningroom.

"Set down, Carey, set down," he ordered. "Phoebe's gone to somekind of a hen party—church committee meetin' orsomethin'—up to Elkanah Saunders', so we've got the ship toourselves. Now listen; this is what I wanted to talk to youabout."

He went on to make a proposal. Briefly put—which was by nomeans the way in which he put it—it amounted to this: Thebuilding—his "white elephant"—in the yard by thehenhouse was not used by him or any one else. He had built it for aworkshop and some one ought to be at work in it. He and hiswife—for he never did anything without calling her intoconsultation—had decided that Carey Judson was that some one.They offered it to Carey, free of charge, as a place in which hemight, evenings, holidays, and Sundays, whenever he had spare timeon his hands, make his decoys unmolested.

"There 'tis," declared the captain. "Lots of room, two bigkerosene lamps and a ship's lantern, carpenter bench, couple ofvises—everything except your own special kind of tools, andthem, of course, you'd want to fetch, yourself. Tain't any use tome, and I should think it might be consider'ble use to you. What doyou say?"

Judson said a good deal. The proposition did appeal to himgreatly. Seclusion, light, warmth in winter,conveniences—they were alluring indeed.

"But I don't think—it doesn't seem to me that I ought touse your premises for nothing, Cap'n," he protested. "It is awfullykind of you, but it is too much. You might have a chance to rentthe building to some one else and then—"

"Sshh! I could have rented it two or three times over if I'dwanted to. But I didn't want to. Phoebe and I don't want tenants;they're a pesky nuisance, always findin' fault and wantin' this andthat done. I've been a tenant myself and the names I called mylandlord was the only satisfaction I ever got out of it, excepthavin' him call 'em back and give me a chance to call more. No,sir-ee! I wouldn't rent that boathouse to nobody—Saint Peteror Ben Early or nobody. And don't make a mistake and think I'mdoin' this because I am generous. I ain't generous. I'm selfish asthe Old Harry himself. I want you in there so's I can have a placeto set in a comfortable chair and watch you whittle out thosebeetle- heads and the ducks and coots you'll make by and by. I'druther do that than go to a show. Now you be decent enough to giveme the chance, will you? You owe me that much. You and your darnedpartner owed me seven hundred dollars, fur's as that goes."

"Well, if you put it that way, Cap'n—"

"I'll put it a thunderin' sight worse if you don't say yes andhead me off."

Carey twisted and untwisted his legs, pulled at his forelock,and went through the various gymnastics which indicated that he wasconsidering deeply.

"Well, I tell you, Cap'n Tobias," he said, after a little. "Idon't think I shall say yes unreservedly."

"Unre—which? What does that mean? You can say it withfinger- signs so long's you say it."

"I mean that I don't want to use your building without payingyou for it in some way. How would this do? Suppose I gave you acommission—a sort of percentage on what I get for makingthose things—provided I ever really get anything."

Tobias grunted. "I cal'lated you might be heavin' overboard somesuch offer as that," he admitted. "Anybody but you—anybodythat was any kind of a business man—would see that here was achance to get a good thing for nothin' and take it; but you're nobusiness man, and never was. Suppose we settle it this way: Youwork along in there for a spell for nothin'. Then, by and by,unless I miss my reckoning you'll want more contraptions to workwith—a foot lathe, maybe, or a jig saw or somethin'. WHEN youwant 'em I'll buy 'em and we'll say I'm so much of a partner in theshop. Then we can arrange about that percentage; but you try it asyou are fust and see how you make out."

"But, Cap'n—"

"Be still. You're a fool banker, Carey, but you can whittle outbeetle-heads to beat the cars. Besides, after all, you're Cap'nJim-Carey's son and it would take a lot more than seven hundreddollars to square my debt with HIM...And there's one morereason."

"Yes? What is it?"

"This town is loaded to the guards with pig-headed Republicans.Every last one of 'em think because I'm a Democrat I ain't got anysense. They all swear you're no good. I tell 'em that I give inyou're no good in a bank, and maybe won't be much more good atbookkeepin', but at the right KIND of job you'd be A No. 1. If thatain't so, I say to 'em, then you're the fust Judson that everturned out that way."

"But, see here, Cap'n Tobe, they mustn't know I'm doing this. Imay fail at it as I have at everything else. And it never willamount to a great deal, anyway. You mustn't tell them a word."

Tobias laughed scornfully. "I'll never tell 'em," hedeclared. "I'll know it myself. I'll see you makin' good andshowin' them up for idiots and that'll be enough for me. They'reRepublicans, I tell you. They wouldn't know anything if they didknow it. They ain't capable of knowin' anything, or they'd beDemocrats."

In the end it was settled that way. Carey accepted the offer andthe boathouse on probation and the very next evening he brought hismodels, his skins and stuffed birds, and his tools, down there andset to work, with Mr. and Mrs. Higgins as interested spectators. Atfirst he found their presence a little embarrassing, but, as theyasked few questions and were careful neither to suggest norinterfere, he soon forgot them altogether. And, by the end of thefirst week the novelty had worn off and Phoebe visited the boat-house only occasionally. Tobias was more regular in attendance, buthis chatter and comments on village happenings were amusing andCarey began to miss them when he was absent.

There was some curiosity at the Cap'n Jim-Carey place, ofcourse. Cora T. asked questions concerning his repeated eveningsout and made caustic comments when those questions were notanswered satisfactorily. Mrs. Dain's remarks werecharacteristically blunt and to the point.

"You don't intend to tell, that's plain enough," she observed;"and, so far as I know, there isn't any law to make you. But,whatever you are up to, I do hope it is something that won't getyou into more trouble. Look here, you haven't got a girl, haveyou?"

Her nephew shook his head.

"No," he replied, gravely.

"You are sure?"

"Why, moderately so. Do I look as if I had?"

"You look the way you always look and that's like nobody else onearth. You're sure some woman hasn't got you in tow? You're justthe kind of a moon-struck innocent that a woman could tie to herapron strings if she set out to."

"Much obliged. But you are a little rough on the sex, aren'tyou?"

"The what? Women, you mean? Not a bit. There are plenty of womenthat can't get along without a man hanging around 'em and theyaren't too particular what kind of a man it is. Whatever else youdo, Carey Judson, don't you get in the habit of having some womantell you she's the only one that understands you. That sort of gameis more risky than banking, even with a partner like the one youhad."

Carey told his brother about the Higgins' boathouse and the workhe was doing there, but he told no one else. There was a distinctlet-up in the family questioning thereafter and so he judged that,either from George or another source, they, too, had the answer tothe riddle. And, from certain remarks dropped by Mr. Early andothers he soon came to realize that his "secret" was not much of asecret, after all. To keep a secret in Wellmouth was much harderthan making wooden "beetle-heads," marvelous as Captain Higginsstill seemed to consider that accomplishment. The captain keptguard over the boathouse and permitted no trespassers on hisproperty, so Judson did not mind. So long as he was left alone andhis hobby not interfered with he was happy, as happy, that is, as acommunity disgrace might ever expect to be.

His aunt Susan's visit was to terminate on July first. She wasgoing back to Cleveland then. Mrs. George Judson was sweetnessitself to her husband's relative and did everything she could thinkof to show her affection for the latter. As Hepsibah Ellis toldCarey, when he was eating an early Sunday morning breakfast in thekitchen: "The way she pours butter and sweet ile over that oldwoman is enough to make an eel too slippery to swim straight."

"I should think your Aunt Susie would see through it," she wenton to declare. "I used to think she was sharp-sighted enough to seethe whys and wherefores of anything, but she don't act as if shesuspicioned a mite now. She just takes all the 'You're SURE thereisn't anything you'd 'specially like for dinner, Aunt Susie' andthe 'Oh, Aunt Susan, CAN'T you plan to stay a little longer? WeSHALL miss you so after you're gone!'—she takes all that theway our cat takes the fishheads, as if 'twas what was comin' to herand no more. I'm surprised at her, I snum I am!"

Carey sipped his coffee. "Well, it IS coming to her, isn't it?"he inquired, placidly. "She is George's aunt and she is very fondof him. And he is fond of her. So am I. So is everybody who knowsher."

Hepsibah looked steadily at him for a moment. Then she breathedheavily. "Sometimes I wonder," she observed, irrelevantly, "howmuch of some folks' dumbness is real dumb and how much is make-believe. If you can't see...Well, maybe you can't." Changing thesubject, she added, "She's plannin' to have a big time here at thehouse one night just before your aunt goes away. A reception iswhat she calls it, though I told her, says I, 'I always cal'lated areception was to say "Howdy do" to folks, not "Good-by."' But she'splannin' to have everybody come to the thing from Dan toBeersheby—all the big bugs, that is—and so she's beenwaitin' for Desire Sayles and Emily. George has heard that they'regoin' to open their house first of next week. You'll be glad to seeEmily, won't you? It's been a long spell since you two run afoul ofeach other, I guess."

Carey did not answer, nor did he finish his coffee. His forenoonat the Higgins' workshop was pretty well spoiled. He was notanxious to meet any one, least of all the girl whom he had known sowell in the days when he was a care-free young fellow home fromcollege on vacations.

He and Mrs. Dain had had few confidential talks since that inwhich she told him his name had been erased from her will and thathe must hoe his own row. The disinheriting had not troubled him inthe least. He had expected it, and felt that he deserved it. He wasparticularly glad that the old lady had been considerate enough notto mention it again. For her part, having freed her mind on thatsubject, she treated him just as she always had, and was as crisplycordial with him as with the other members of the family.

The Cap'n Jim-Carey house possessed an heirloom. It possessedmany antiques, but antiques in the eighties were regarded asincumbrances, not as valuable assets, and many an Adam or Sheratonhighboy or dresser was by Wellmouth householders relegated to thewoodshed for use as a repository for seed potatoes, its place beingtaken by a marble-topped black walnut atrocity. The Judsons'woodshed and garret had its share of these castaways, but they werenot spoken of as heirlooms. There was only one "heirloom" and thatwas a crude, and huge, painting in water color of the brig, Gloryof the Wave, the vessel in which Ebenezer Judson, Jim-Carey'sgrandfather, had made his first voyage to the East Indies ascaptain. This masterpiece had been executed—and executed isthe word—by a native artist who concealed his talent by aresidence on the island of Mauritius. Captain Ebenezer hadsuperintended the execution there and had brought the remainsproudly back to Boston with him, where he preserved them in adreadful gilt frame. When he died the heirloom was inherited byCaptain Sylvanus Judson, Jim-Carey's father, who, when his timecame, handed it on to Captain Jim. Each succeeding heir hadinherited with it the pride of ownership. When, after theOsborne-Judson failure Carey had sold the old house to his brother,the heirloom went with the rest, but Cora T., breaking the familytradition, did not welcome it with pride. She promptly pronouncedit a "horror" and sentenced it to the attic.

One evening, during the latter part of her visit, Mrs. Dainreferred to it. Carey was out, as usual, but George was there andhis wife also.

"There!" exclaimed Aunt Susan, suddenly, and dropping herknitting in her lap. "I knew I'd missed something since I've beenhere and it has only just this minute come over me what it was.Where's that picture of Grandfather Ebenezer's ship; the 'Hosannaof the Wave,' or whatever it is? Father used always to have it hungover the sofa there. What has become of it?"

George Judson looked at his wife and she returned the look. Itwas Cora T. who answered.

"Oh, that old thing," she said, lightly. "It's around the housesomewhere, I guess. It was SUCH a sight, Aunt Susan; so dingy anddirty and the frame all chipping off and showing the white plasterunder the gilt, that I couldn't bear to look at it. I put it up inthe attic, I believe."

Her husband seemed surprised at the statement. He opened hismouth to speak, but Cora T.'s look became very expressive indeed,and he closed it again. Mrs. Dain may or may not have noticed thelook and its effect. At any rate she seemed to have no idea ofdropping the subject.

"You put it up in the attic!" she repeated. "Why, what on earthdid you do that for? Father thought more of that picture than hedid of about anything in the house—and so did Jim."

George would have spoken had his wife given him the opportunity,but again she cut in ahead of him.

"I know he did," she admitted, with a laugh. "He did, andgoodness knows why. I'm sure you must have forgotten what thatpicture looked like, Auntie. You haven't seen it for years and ithad gotten to be a terrible thing. All wrinkles andfly-specks—and oh, my goodness! When we first took the houseI had left it hanging where it always did—over that sofa, asyou say—and Nellie Loveland and her mother came here to call.I don't know as you know it, Aunt Susan—perhaps I didn't tellyou—but Nellie paints, herself, awfully well—"

Aunt Susan interrupted. "Paints herself!" she repeated. "Whatdoes that mean, pray?"

George broke out in a vigorous "Ha, ha," but Cora T. squelchedthe merriment.

"George!" she exclaimed, indignantly. "George, don't act sofoolish. I mean Nellie paints pictures. She's got an awful lot oftalent, everybody says so, and she's been taking lessons of a VERYwell-known man up in Boston. She came here that time with hermother and when she saw that picture of great-grandfatherEbenezer's old ship I thought she would DIE, she laughed so atit."

Mrs. Dain made another comment.

"I don't know why she should," she observed, rather sharply. "Itcouldn't have been the first time she had seen it. She used to comehere when she was a little girl. I've seen her here, myself."

"Yes. Oh, yes, I know. But a child—well, you know a childdoesn't notice things. And Nellie's—er—genius hadn'tbegun to come out, as you might say, in those days. Butnow—now, you see, she knows about art and—and all likethat. She was right fresh from studying real pictures and that oldship one almost killed her. She made SUCH fun of it, and had somany real bright, cute things to say about it, that her mother andI almost died, too. But, in spite of my laughing so, it did make mekind of ashamed, and after they had gone I took it right down andmarched it straight up attic. 'There!' says I. 'That's where youbelong and that's where you'll stay.' When I told George about ithe agreed that I'd done just right. Didn't you, George?"

George did not answer as promptly as he, perhaps, should.

"Didn't you?" insisted his wife.

"Oh—oh yes—yes! Seems to me I did. It WAS prettyfunny, that old picture—when you come to think of it."

Aunt Susan picked up her knitting.

"Things—and humans—are apt to be funny when they getold," she remarked. "I'm getting funny, myself...Well," after amoment, "is it up attic now?"

Again her niece and nephew exchanged looks. And again it was theformer who answered.

"Why—why, yes. I—I shouldn't wonder if it was," shesaid. "Why, Aunt Susie?"

"Oh, nothing much. Only, if you and George don't care about itand have thrown it away I thought perhaps you wouldn't mind myhaving it. Would you?"

Another moment of hesitation, particularly noticeable onGeorge's part. His wife, too, seemed a little disturbed.

"Aunt Susan!" she cried. "You're making fun. You don't reallywant that old picture? You wouldn't carry that away out toCleveland with you. You wouldn't want it in your great lovely homeout there."

"I don't know as my home is so lovely. And it certainly isn'tgreat. And, as for the old ship, I rather think I might want it. Itwould remind me of the folks who used to own it and take pride init and anything that reminds me of them is worth while."

"But how could you get it there? It is so big and clumsy." Mrs.Dain held her knitting closer to the lamp and carefully picked up adropped stitch.

"Don't talk any more about it," she said, calmly. "If you don'twant me to have it—if you don't want to part with it, Imean—that is quite satisfactory and I don't blame you. Ishouldn't have asked for it if you hadn't told me you had thrown itaway—or put it in the attic, which is the same thing. That'senough about it, anyway. Read me the Item, George. The new one hasjust come."

Later on that evening there was a heart to heart conversation inthe big bedroom, that occupied by Mr. and Mrs. George Judson.

"DON'T say you can't get it," snapped the latter, irritably. "Ofcourse you can get it. It's hanging there in Carey's room and allyou've got to do is take it down and give it to her. What on earthshe wants it for, I don't see, but she does and so, I suppose,she'll have to have it. What makes old people get such crankynotions I don't see. She's had one after the other ever since shecame here and there are times when I'd like to shake her. If shewas my relation instead of yours I guess I should have done it.She's going pretty soon, which is a mercy. Well, now you get thatpicture and give it to her."

George was troubled. "How can I get it, Cora?" he pleaded. "Itisn't mine, it's Carey's. The very day after you took it up attiche asked what had become of it and when I told him you had thrownit away he asked if we would mind giving it to him. Said he wasrather fond of it—said it in that queer, bashful kind of wayhe has, you know, and—"

"Know! Who should know it better than I do? Don't I have to putup with it and with him every day? Well, you did give it to him,like a ninny—as if you hadn't given him enoughalready—and now he's got it, worse luck."

"But, Cora, I asked you before I gave it to him and yousaid—"

"Never mind what I said. Tell him you've changed your mind. Askhim to give it back to you. He'd give you his head if you asked;you know it."

"Now, Cora, I don't like to ask him for it. He'll wonder why,and—See here, why not tell the old lady the truth? You cansay you forgot that you had given it to him, and it will be allright... Eh? Great Scott! you don't suppose she has seen it hangingup in his room?"

"Indeed she hasn't! I've taken good care that she hasn't been inhis room since she came. There are too many things there that itwouldn't do us any good to have her see. She pretends to bedreadfully down on your precious Carey, but he always was her petbaby, and I'm not sure that she hasn't got a soft feeling for himin spite of his being a—all but a jailbird."

"Come, come, Cora! That's enough of that."

"Oh, don't get mad. I didn't mean it exactly. I lose my patiencesometimes, and I wouldn't be human if I didn't. But I don't meanfor your aunt to see all those story books and boy things thatCarey keeps up there and that he has hung on to all these years.She gave some of them to him herself and she's got a sentimentalstreak in her just as he has—yes, and you have, too. No;unless she has sneaked up to that room all alone byherself—which isn't likely—she hasn't been in it. Nowwhat are you going to do about that ship picture?"

George seemed to feel that he had a bright idea. "Why, do what Isaid," he urged. "Tell her we gave it to Carey, and then she canask him for it. He'll give it to her, I'm sure."

Cora T.'s face was a picture. "You're sure, are you?" shemocked. "Is that so! Yes, well, I'm sure too. That IS a wonderfulnotion, now isn't it? He'll give it to her and she will know thathe loved the thing so much that he saved it after we threw it away.And that WILL make us solid with her, for certain! Oh, have somesense, George Judson! I tell you we can't take chances like that.She's down on Carey now—and she's got to stay down. She likesyou—oh yes! You're one of her own. But whether she likes meor not is—well, sometimes I wonder. But, anyhow, we can'tafford to risk the least little thing that may make us stand higherwith her. George, you ask your brother for that picture to-morrowmorning. And when he gives it to you—which he will—thenyou give it to her. And don't you tell her where it came from,either."

George walked up and down the room. Then he turned. He wasresolute enough with all except his wife, and on some occasionswith her. This was one of the occasions.

"No, Cora," he said, firmly. "I can't ask Carey for thatpicture. It's all he has now of father's and mother's things and Igave it to him because I could see he really wanted it. I won't askhim to give it back again and then give it to somebody else."

She glared at him.

"You won't?" she repeated.

"No, I won't."

"Then do you know what I shall do? I'll go straight into hisroom, after he has gone to the office to-morrow morning, take thatpicture from the wall and carry it downstairs and give it to her,myself. And I shan't let her know that he ever had it."

"Cora!" sharply. "You won't do anything of the kind."

"Won't I? You'll see! Oh, if some of the people around here whothink you are so wonderful—always telling me what a lovelyhusband I've got—if some of them only knew! If they could seeand hear you now! Oh, I should think you would be ashamed!I—"

And so on, long after the lamp was extinguished and they were inbed. But Mrs. Judson did not take the picture of the Glory of theWave from the wall of her brother-in-law's room the followingmorning. It still hung there when the owner of that room came homeat noon for dinner. And that evening when he was alone in theHiggins' boathouse and hard at work on the fourth "beetle-head" theshop door opened, and Mrs. Dain walked in.

He gazed at her in a sort of paralysis. She greeted him as ifher visit was as casual a happening as finding a patch ofMayflowers in the April woods.

"Hello, Carey," she observed. And then added: "Got anything herethat a person with a moderately clean dress can sit down on? I'mtired. This is a longer walk than I generally take at this time ofnight."

"Why, Aunt Susan!" he gasped. "Is—is—"

"Don't say, 'Is it you?'" she broke in, tartly. "It sounds likesomebody in a play, and it is silly besides. It IS me and, as faras I know, there is nobody around here that looks like me. Is thatchair sound and whole? It appears to be."

He was sufficiently awake by this time to seize the chair towhich she was pointing, give it a brush with his handkerchief andplace it before her.

"I think it is moderately strong," he said. "Cap'n Tobias usesit a good deal."

"Who? Tobe Higgins? Humph! Well, then I'll guess it'll hold MEup...So, young man, this is the place where you make yourplaythings, or whatever they are, is it?"

She gave the boathouse a thorough looking over. "It is keptclean, anyhow," she observed. "Who keeps it that way—Cap'nHiggins or his wife? It looks like a woman's job to me."

He was twisting his forelock and wondering many things. So,instead of answering her question, he asked another.

"How in the world did you know I was here, Aunt Susan?" heasked. "I thought—I haven't told any one, except George."

"And so you supposed, on that account, it was a dead secret.That's just like you, Carey. Well, it isn't a secret and hasn'tbeen for ten days or more. Cora knows it and Hepsibah knows it. Sodoes the whole town, I imagine. Did you think you could gowandering off practically every night in the week, not to mentionSundays, and have nobody interested enough to find out where youwent—yes, and why you went? Well, you couldn't—not inthis town, or any other of its size. And if you thought you couldtell George anything that his wife wouldn't find out it showsthat—well, it shows you have never been married, for onething. I have been intending for more than a week to come down hereand see what you were up to. George and Cora have gone out to callon her wonderful Lovelands, and I stayed at home with a headache.That's why I am here now."

Carey was disturbed. "A headache!" he repeated. "And you walkedaway down here with a headache. And alone—and at night. Youshouldn't have done it, Aunt Susan."

She sighed. "Mercy me!" she exclaimed, resignedly. "It's nowonder that Osborne thief could pull the wool over your eyes. Therewas wool enough there to make a blanket out of before he started.Don't worry about my headache. There was only enough of it in thebeginning to make an excuse, and now there isn't any. As forwalking—well, if I can't walk a mile on a fine night likethis then I wish you'd tell me why."

"But all alone—"

"Well, why not alone? Do I look as if I needed somebody to leadme by the hand?...There, there! That's enough silliness. Show methat bird thing you are making."

He handed her the partially finished "beetle-head" and sheexamined it carefully. Then she asked to see a completed specimen.Over the latter she shook an admiring head.

"Well, I declare!" she said. "I do declare! And you made thatcreature all yourself, Carey Judson?"

"Yes. It was easy to make. It isn't work, really. I have alwaysliked birds, you know, and I suppose that is why I enjoy makingthese wooden ones."

"Humph! So you don't call making a thing like that work? What doyou call it—play?"

"Yes. It is play for me...And it keeps me busy, so—"

"So you don't think too much about other things. I see." Sheturned the decoy over and said again, "Well, I declare!" Then sheadded:

"George said something about your having an order for a dozenlike this. Some friend of yours wanted to buy them. Is thatso?"

He said it was and told her the same story he had told CaptainHiggins that Sunday morning on the beach. She listened until hefinished. Then she asked more questions.

"So you will get a hundred and twenty dollars for the dozen,"she said. "What do you want of the money down here in Wellmouth?George pays you wages enough to live on, doesn't he?"

"Oh, yes! He is very generous. He pays me more than I am worththere in the office. I have told him so more than once."

"Have you? I shouldn't wonder. Then what do you want to makemore money for?"

He hesitated. "I want it—" he began. "You see—well,I have had a sort of idea—a hope— Oh, it is crazy, Iknow—but...Do you mind if I don't answer your question, AuntSusan? I haven't told any one and I'd rather not tell evenyou—just yet. It will probably end as most of my hopesdo—in nothing."

To his surprise his refusal appeared to please her.

"Of course I don't mind," she declared. "Don't tell me oranybody if you don't want to. I'm glad you've got backbone enoughnot to tell. It is a good sign. Now go on and work. I want to watchyou and probably I shall do talking enough for both of us."

She did not talk much. Later on, however, she spoke of a matterhaving nothing to do with his occupation.

"I see you've got that picture of your great-grandfather's ship,the Glory of the Wave, hanging up in your bedroom," she said. "Iwent up there by myself, day before yesterday, when Cora wasdowntown shopping, and I saw it. By the way, you needn't tell her Iwas up there. She has never offered to take me there, so perhapsshe wouldn't like it if she knew. How did you happen to get thatpicture, Carey? I supposed, of course, that went with the rest ofthe things when you sold out to George."

Carey squinted along the back of his beetle-head and thenremoved a minute shaving from that back.

"Yes—yes, it did," he replied. "But after I came back hereto live I missed it—it wasn't hanging where it used to, overthe sofa in the sitting room, and when I asked George he said hiswife thought it was too disreputable for public exhibition and hadthrown it away, put it with the rest of the rubbish in the garret.So I asked him if I might have it and he gave it to me."

Mrs. Dain nodded. "I see," she murmured. "Yes, yes. Well, Iguessed that was about it. What did you want of it, Carey?"

Her nephew was hard at work and his answer was absentlygiven.

"I don't know," he said. "I—I fancied it, for some reasonor other. It had always been a part of the old place as Iremembered it and—and I knew father was tremendously fond ofit, so—well, as George and Cora didn't seem to want it, Idid. That's all. Why?"

"Nothing in particular." She was regarding him intently."Carey," she said, quietly, "it was a good deal of a wrench foryou, selling the place and everything in it, wasn't it? Your share,I mean?"

He bowed assent. "Yes," he said, shortly. Then he added, "ButGeorge was mighty fair about it. He paid me all and more than myhalf was worth."

There were a few moments of silence. Then said Mrs. Dain, with ahalf smile:

"It's a troublesome thing, this having sentiment in yourmake-up. You've got it, Carey, and so have I."

He turned. "You!" he said. Then, with a short laugh, he added,"You're joking, of course. I should scarcely call you sentimental,Aunt Susan."

"No, with your wonderful judgment of human nature I guess youwouldn't. But I am—in spots. For instance, I like that oldship picture and I'd like to own it and take it back to Clevelandwith me to hang up where I can see it every day. It makes me thinkof Jim and your mother and the old house more than anything I know.You wouldn't want to give me that picture, would you, Carey?"

He was surprised, but his answer was prompt and hearty.

"Why, certainly I would," he said. "You may have it and welcome,Aunt Susan. I shall be glad to give it to you."

"Thank you...And you won't feel that I am taking away the onething you care most for?"

He smiled now. "If I did it wouldn't make any difference," hedeclared. "But I don't, of course. The Glory of the Wave is yours,Aunt Susan."

Her eyes brightened and she leaned forward as if about to speakimpulsively. But, if this was her intention, she changed her mind.What she did say was commonplace enough.

"All right, and thank you again," she said. "You bring it downfrom your room and give it to me to-morrow at breakfast time. Youneedn't say anything about our talk to-night. Perhaps you mightjust as well not tell any one I came down here by myself to seeyou. George and Cora will only think I am a stark lunatic to dosuch a thing—which is what you are thinking thisminute—and I shall have to do a lot of explaining about that'headache' besides. Just give me the picture as if it was your ownidea. You thought perhaps I might like it. Do you see?"

He did not see at all, but he did not feel like furtherquestioning, so he said he understood. He carved and whittled andmeasured for another half hour and then his visitor announced thatshe must go.

"And you haven't got to go with me," she asserted. "I can getalong by myself perfectly well. Stay and make your playthings justas if I hadn't come at all."

He would not stay, of course, so when the lamps wereextinguished and the boathouse door locked they walked hometogether. The Higginses were out that evening, having driven overto Trumet to what Tobias called a "Free Mason time" at the townhall there, so their exit from the yard, like Mrs. Dain's entranceto it, was unobserved.

It was a beautiful clear summer night and Aunt Susan, althoughshe said little, appeared to enjoy the walk, trotting briskly onbeside her tall, loose-jointed nephew. In the middle part of theascent of Lookout Hill, however, she suddenly stopped and Careythought he heard her utter a gasping exclamation.

"What is it, auntie?" he asked, bending over. "Anything thematter?"

She was panting, but her reply was serene and businesslike.

"Nothing unusual," she said, breathing quickly. "When a bodygets to be as old as I am they must expect to have pains, Isuppose."

"Pains? What sort of a pain? Do you want to rest—to sitdown?"

"Of course I don't. Would I sit down in the middle of the road,is it likely? But when that doctor tells me that I can't have apain because he can't find anything wrong where I say the painis—well, then I say he'd better look where it isn't. Becausesmoke comes out of a chimney that doesn't signify that the fire'son the roof...There! I'm all right again. Go ahead."

Just as they entered the yard of the Cap'n Jim-Carey place shespoke again.

"Carey," she said, still panting, "I am ever so much obliged forthat picture and when I die you shall have it back again. I'll seeto that. But you mustn't expect anything else. I have told youabout my will and I meant what I said."

He pressed her arm a little impatiently—for him. "Pleasedon't tell me that again, Aunt Susan," he begged. "I don't expectanything. I don't want anything. I don't deserve it and you don'tneed to remind me of that because no one knows it better than I do.You've done exactly right and so we won't talk about it anymore...That is, if you don't mind."

"All right, we won't. As I see it now, money would only meanmore trouble for you, Carey, and you've got enough of that. You goon and make your wooden birds. Anybody that can make such thingsthe way you do ought not to be plagued with money for other folksto get away from him."

Chapter VI

The presentation of the heirloom took place the next morning.Carey, following his aunt's instructions, brought the picturedownstairs at breakfast time and gave it to her. His explanationsof the reason prompting the gift were brief and, although he triedto make them plausible, his manner was not as convincing as hiswords. There was an element of deception about the affair which hedid not like. So far as he knew, there had never been any secretsbetween George and himself—certainly none on his part. ButMrs. Dain had insisted that her request to him for the shippainting be not mentioned, and he had promised her that it shouldnot be.

"I just—er—thought you might like to have it, AuntSusan," he faltered. "You—er—I remember you alwaysliked it and—and—er—"

Mrs. Dain hastened to help him out.

"Indeed I did," she agreed. "And I am awfully glad to have it,of course. Thank you very much, Carey."

"Yes. That's all right; you are welcome. I knew George and Corawouldn't mind your having it. They had decided not to keep it inthe sitting room and gave it to me. But I have so many other thingsof the kind that when you said—I mean when you spoke ofit—er—"

Cora T. broke in.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Then you had spoken to Carey about it, hadyou, Aunt Susan? I didn't know that."

Aunt Susan was not in the least perturbed. Unlike her oldernephew she seemed to be enjoying the situation, and was entirelyequal to it.

"Yes, I believe I did say something to him about missing it fromthe wall there," she said. "But that wasn't until after you andGeorge and I had had our talk. And what a coincidence it is, isn'tit—his giving it to me now? Enough to make a person believein this mind reading the papers tell so much about. Just think,Cora! Only night before last we were talking about this verypicture—you and I and George here—and I said I'd missedit from the place where it always hung, and when you said youdidn't care about it, I asked you to give it to me. And now Carey,who wasn't there at all, comes trotting downstairs with it as bigas life. Isn't it astonishing?"

Mrs. Judson admitted that it was. In fact her astonishmentappeared to be quite as great as Mrs. Dain's. The looks which shegave her husband expressed that astonishment, and suspicion aswell.

"I should think it was astonishing," she observed, withemphasis. "Very astonishing indeed—to me. Perhaps it isn'tquite so miraculous to George and Carey, though. I shouldn't wonderif they knew more than they have told...Humph! Yes, considerablemore."

George, however, expressed absolute innocence and looked it. "Ifyou mean that I told Carey to give it to her," he protested,"you're dead wrong, Cora. I didn't know he had such an idea in hishead."

Before Cora T. could speak again, Aunt Susan put in a word.

"But I understood you to say it was up attic where you hadstowed it, Cora," she said. "You never said a word about Carey'shaving anything to do with it. Not a single word."

This was something of a poser and to answer satisfactorily andpromptly strained even Mrs. Judson's capabilities. But she didanswer and as convincingly as she could.

"Why—well there, Aunt Susan!" she exclaimed, contritely."I don't wonder you ask that. And I guess George doesn't wonder,either. It is his fault. You see, he—he had given thatpicture to Carey—after I put it in the garret, youknow—and—and when you spoke of it he forgot all aboutCarey's having it. It wasn't until—it wasn't—Oh, youtell her, George!"

George looked at her, then at his aunt, and then at Carey. Hisexpression was that of one who, having been unexpectedly throwninto deep water, was undecided which way to swim.

"Why—why, I guess there isn't anything more to tell," hestammered. "I—I forgot—that's all there was to it. I'msorry, Aunt Susie."

"You needn't be. There's nothing to be sorry about. Anybody'sapt to forget things. I know I am. And I've got the picture, whichought to satisfy me, I should say. Thank you very much for it,Carey. And for being so thoughtful. I shall take it to Clevelandwith me, of course, and every time I look at it I shall think ofthis old house and you people in it. All of you."

That night there was another animated dialogue in the GeorgeJudson bedroom. Mrs. Judson was, as usual, the prosecutor and herhusband the defendant.

"I didn't, I tell you," he vowed. "I give you my word of honorthat I never mentioned that ship picture to a soul butyou—Carey or anybody else. That's the truth, whether youbelieve it or not. I don't know why he took it into his head togive it to her. All I know is that I didn't put him up to it."

"Humph! Then perhaps you'll tell me who did?"

"I don't know who did. Maybe nobody did. Probably he justhappened to think she might like it, that is what he said."

"Oh, DO try to have SOME sense! Somehow or other she found outit was in his room and SOMEBODY—she or you orsomebody—got him to give it to her. That is sure."

"Well, what of it? You don't want the thing. I would have keptit where it always was, in the sitting room, but you declared youwouldn't have it in the house."

"Yes. And then you gave it to Carey. YOU did."

"You said it was all right for me to. What harm is there in it?You don't want it, and apparently Carey doesn't want it. She doeswant it and she's got it. So it is all right, I should say."

"All right! All RIGHT, is it? HE gave it to her and we—youand I—were made to look not only as if we didn't have anyfamily sentiment at all, but like a pair of liars...What's that yousay?"

George had muttered something. Now, driven to desperation, herepeated it aloud.

"Well, so far as that goes," he said, "we did lie. And we gotwhat liars usually get...Now go to bed and forget it."

Cora T. did not forget it, of course, nor did she permit him todo so, but she was so very busy during the days and eveningsimmediately following that she did not dwell upon her humiliationor the mystery accompanying Carey's presentation of the heirloom tohis aunt. The reception to that lady was to be given at the Cap'nJim-Carey place on Thursday evening of the next week and thehousehold was busy with preparations. The date had been fixed,after much discussion and at least a half dozen changes, and theinvitations, printed at the Item office in Trumet, mailed. The listof guests was a long one and, when completed, contained the namesof almost every adult in Wellmouth and vicinity. There were manynames on that list which Mrs. Judson did not wish there, but which,after much consideration and heated argument with her husband, shewas forced, for diplomatic or business reasons, to add.

"The idea of asking those Baileys," she sneered, during one ofthose differences. "They wouldn't know a reception from astrawberry festival. But they'll come. Oh, heavens,yes—they'll come! You couldn't keep them out with a barbedwire fence. And what do you suppose the Halls, or Nellie Lovelandand her mother—yes, or the Sayleses—will say when theysee them here?"

George did not know what might be said, but he was certain thatthe objectionable ones must be invited.

"Joshua Bailey has sold our firm his fish ever since he was oldenough to command a schooner," he declared. "Father dealt with himlong before I had anything to do with the business. And he and hiswife knew Aunt Susie before she was married. Talk about sayingthings! What do you suppose they would say if they weren't asked toher party?"

"It isn't her party, it is my party, in my house. Just becauseyou and Father Judson have bought their old fish is no reason whythey should come and smell of it in my parlor."

"But Aunt Susan would wonder—"

"Oh, be still! She is worse than you are. If she has her wayshe'll invite every quahaug raker in town."

Considering the occupation of her own masculine progenitor thisremark was risky, for it opened the way for a pointed rejoinder byher husband. But whatever the latter thought he said nothing,being, apparently, content with seeing the names of Captain andMrs. Joshua Bailey added to the list of guests.

Cora T. was right when she intimated that Mrs. Dain was far frombackward in supervising and extending the said list. Captain andMrs. Tobias Higgins might not have been invited except for herinsistence, and there were many others. Her niece-in-law declaredshe did not know where she was going to put such an army, to saynothing of feeding them.

The weather, on the fateful Thursday evening, was fine, in spiteof morning clouds and a doubtful noon. The Cap'n Jim-Carey placewas brilliantly illuminated. Not only the sitting room and diningroom, but the huge front parlor and the little front hall werethrown open and shared the glitter. Even the front door wasunlocked, its green blinds hooked back, and its ground glasspanels, with their cut designs of grapes and flowers, dusted andwashed. In the parlor, in the corner where the whatnot usuallystood, were chairs upon which were to be installed the performersin "Beebe's Four-Piece Orchestra," a costly importation fromBayport.

The whatnot, with its collection of shells and ivory carvings,the alabaster image of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and the cardreceiver made by gluing more shells to a pasteboard box, had beenmoved to the other corner by the square piano which no one hadplayed since Mrs. Cap'n Jim-Carey's girlhood. There were many othercurios on the shelves of that whatnot, including an "alum basket"and an apple tightly stuck full of cloves. The huge "base burner"stove, thanks to Hepsibah's strong arm, had been polished to ebonyglitter, and at one side of it, beneath the mantel, hung a designmade by crossing a whiskbroom and a poker, gilding their handlesand tying them together with bows of yellow and black ribbon. Thiswork of art was balanced on the other side by a gilt-handleddustpan and shovel, also becomingly ribboned. The mantel displayedmore curios and photographs in splint-work or worsted and cardboardframes, while upon the walls were oil portraits of CaptainPhilander and Mrs. Sophronia Judson—George and Carey'sgrandfather and grandmother—painted about 1840 by an artistwho was making a pedestrian tour of the Cape and was willing to"work for his board." There was another oil painting on the parlorwall—"Highlands of the Hudson," it was called—and whenCarey and George were little shavers their admiration of itcentered upon the fact that the sail in the foreground did looksomething like a sail from a point near the sitting-room door, butlike just a daub of white paint when one drew nearer to examine.And its reflection in the light blue water was but another daub ofthe same paint. It must be great to be able to fool people likethat.

There were many things in that parlor—the portraits andthe clove apple, for example—of which Mrs. George Judsondisapproved. But, just as in the case of the "rubbish" in Carey'sbedroom, she had not yet found time to pitch them out. There wasanother reason for her delayed action in this respect. Her husbandprofessed to like that parlor just as it was. It was as he hadalways remembered it and he wished it kept that way.

Supper that evening was a hurried and perfunctory meal, servedhit or miss in the kitchen, in order that Hepsibah and Maggie, likethe other members of the household, might have time to dress andprepare for the grandeur to follow. There had been some discussionas to whether or not George and Carey should don evening clothes.Carey had owned such an outfit since his college days, but George'swas a more recent acquisition. And now, to his wife's disgust, heflatly refused to wear it.

"Of course I won't, Cora," he declared. "Nobody wears a dresssuit down here and do you suppose I'm going to strut aroundto-night in the only swallowtail in the crowd? My Sunday suit isalmost new and it is good enough. When I show off it won't be inthe town where everybody has known me since I was a kid. And Iguess Carey feels the same way. Don't you, Carey?"

Carey certainly did. The thought of the reception and the ordealof meeting all those people, some of them creditors of his ownbankrupt firm, was a horror which kept him awake at night. Hisfirst idea had been not to attend the affair, but to spend theevening in the Higgins' workshop. Aunt Susan's insistence, however,had forced him to change his mind.

"Of course you'll stay right here, Carey," she announced. "It ismy party and I want all the family to enjoy it with me."

Carey, writhing, and tugging at his forelock, uttered one moreprotest.

"Enjoy!" he repeated. "Well, Aunt Susan, I must say I don't likeyour choice of words. I might endure the confounded thing—Isuppose I shall have to, if you insist—but nobody on earthcould make me ENJOY it."

"How do you know? I shouldn't wonder if you had a pretty goodtime. You'll know every one."

He groaned. "Yes, and they know me," he muttered.

"Certainly. I see your point; but let me tell you this, youngman: if you think they'll talk about you any the less if you stayaway you're making a big mistake. They'll notice you're not hereand every living soul will say you were ashamed to meet them."

A savage jerk at the lock of hair. "If they say that they willbe speaking the truth," he vowed. "I am ashamed."

"All right, be ashamed then. But don't run off and hide, like acoward, because then you'll have that to be ashamed of, as well asthe rest of it. Face the music, even if it's the kind of music thatWhat's-his-name's orchestra is likely to play...Come, come, Carey!When I saw you the other night making those wooden bird things Iwas—well, I must say I was pleasantly surprised. I decidedthat you must have—well, never mind. Only don't spoileverything by not coming to my party. I want you there."

So he promised to be on hand and donned his own "Sunday suit"with the feelings of a victim dressing for the scaffold. When hecame downstairs the others were ready, Mrs. Dain serenely majesticin black silk, with Cora T. resplendent in the new gown theWellmouth dressmaker had made for the occasion. The receiving lineformed in the parlor, and Maggie, nose in air as usual, wasstationed at the front door to admit the guests. In spite of herdisdain she wore a triumphant expression, having that veryafternoon forced her mistress to raise her wages under threat ofimmediate resignation if the demand was refused.

The hour set for the reception was eight, but a number of thetownsfolk arrived before that. The Baileys—Mrs. Judson'sdetestations—made their appearance at seven forty-five.Captain Josh explained their forehandedness.

"Fust ones to report on deck, ain't we, George," he observed."Well, that's my wife's doin's. She's so used to goin' early toUncle Tom shows and such like at the town hall so's to get a frontseat—her bein' kind of hard of hearin', you know—thatshe can't seem to get out of the habit. Hello, Susie!" shaking Mrs.Dain's hand with enthusiasm. "Ain't seen you since you made portthis time. Look about the same as you always done, 'bout as big asa pint of cider. Why don't you fat up? Ask my wife—she'lltell you how. She weighs over two hundred nowadays."

Carey, whose place in the receiving line was at Cora T.'sleft—so fixed by his aunt's orders—remained there nolonger than was absolutely necessary. When the throng began to fillthe parlor he slid unobtrusively away and retreated to the sittingroom. Beebe's Four-Piece Orchestra was in full career by this time,rendering "After the Ball," a then popular ditty which its leaderseemed to consider fitting. Even in the sitting room Carey was byno means alone, but he felt himself less conspicuous.

The Lovelands, in all their glory, made their entrance at thearistocratic hour of eight-thirty, almost immediately followed bythe Halls, who may or may not have been watching them. The parloroverflow trickled into the sitting room. Carey, in his corner, wasnoticed and greeted by many. Most of the greetings were cordialenough, but some were frosty and distant. Captain Horatio Loveland,retired and wealthy, shook hands with him, asked bluffly how he wasgetting on and walked off, attended by admiring satellites. Mrs.Loveland's nod was short and her "Oh, how d'ye do?" decidedlysnippy. Miss Nellie Loveland seemed inclined to be morecompanionable. She was a vivacious young woman, with flashing teethand a flow of conversation which at any time was likely to become afreshet. She informed Carey that she had been just dying to meethim again; he was the most talked about man in Wellmouth; did herealize that?

"I think we all owe you a vote of thanks, Mr. Judson," shedeclared. "Some of us would have died of the blues if you hadn'tgiven us something new to talk about. I was SO sorry when I heardabout your business trouble. Of course it was all that awful Mr.Osborne's fault. He must have been a dreadful man, but I don'twonder he fooled you. He fooled everybody else. I met himonce—at the Seaburys' in Boston. Do you know them? They arethe loveliest people. But of course you know them. They said theyknew you."

Carey admitted that he knew the Seaburys.

"Yes. Well, Mr. Osborne came there to call, the very day—Imean at the time when I was visiting there—and everybody wasfascinated by him. I knowI was absolutely fascinated. Hewas so good looking and charming and such a wonderful talker. WhenI told him—just happened to mention it, you know—that Iwas studying art, he was SO interested and asked such understandingquestions. I declare I think I must have fallen in love withhim—mother always scolds me for being so impressionable, youknow. Yes, I think I did fall in love with him. Ha, ha! Isn't thata dreadful thing for me to say?"

She appeared to expect Carey to make some sort of comment, so hesaid, "Yes," explaining a moment later that he meant "No, not atall."

"Well, I couldn't help it, anyway," went on the impressionableone; "and you can imagine my feelings when I read what thenewspapers said about him. But everybody was awfully sorry for you,Mr. Judson—for you and your brother and dear Mrs. Judson andall. And I think it is awfully brave of you to come back toWellmouth to live and work in that old fish place, after what youhave been used to, you know. Father says Mr. Early told him youwere doing surprisingly well with the books, too. That is exactlywhat he said—surprisingly well. But don't you just HATE it,bookkeeping, I mean?"

He murmured something to the effect that he liked it wellenough. The remark was inane, but it answered the purpose. In achat with Miss Loveland, the remarks of other people served merelyas punctuation to her monologue.

"I do hope we shall see something of you now that you are here,"she went on. "Do come and call. I am dying for some one—somecultivated person—to talk to. Bennie Hall—he is a niceboy, but only a boy—will be home from college on his summervacation pretty soon and he calls a good deal, but—oh, well!YOU know, don't you? Do come and see me—us, I mean."...Shepaused and then, bending forward to whisper confidentially, added,with a giggle, "Isn't this just the weirdest crowd you everSAW?"

Members of the weird crowd came over to speak and the Lovelandconfidences were broken off, a fact for which Carey Judson wasprofoundly grateful. But those who succeeded her had altogether toomuch to say concerning their sympathy for him when they heard ofhis disaster in business, their surprise at learning of hisaccepting the bookkeeper's position with J. C. Judson & Co.,and their hope—always, it seemed to him, with an unexpresseddoubt attached—that he might "get along first rate" with hisnew duties. And invariably coupled with the surprise and hope werewords of praise for his brother's action in providing him with thatemployment. If there had been any question in his mind concerningWellmouth's conviction that that action was purely a deed ofcharity this evening's experience would have answered it.

Mr. Benjamin Early espied him as he stood there in the cornerand approached, his wife in tow. Mr. Early's attire was faultlesslyrespectable; the most casual onlooker would have recognized him atonce as a person of worldly importance and orthodox piety. Mrs.Early—her Christian name was Patience—was a moon-faced,hesitating woman who always looked at her husband before making anobservation or venturing a reply.

Mr. Early said, "Good evening, Carey." His wife, after lookingat him, said "Good evening" also. Benjamin observed that it wasfine weather for the reception. "Pashy," after the look, affirmedthat the weather was as nice as if it were made on purpose. Early,his shirt bosom creaking, declared the assemblage "about asrepresentative a crowd of the right kind of people as you werelikely to find anywhere." Before his wife had time to concur heleaned forward and whispered.

"Good chance for you to make yourself solid, this is, Carey.Stir around and shake hands with Cap'n Loveland and Squire Hall andfolks like that. The more you're seen talking with their kind thebetter it will be for you. I'll send a few of the right ones overyour way when I get the chance...Ah, good evening, Cap'n Snow. Goodevening, sir. You're looking well to-night. Fine gathering, isn'tit?"

The sitting room was, by this time, almost as crowded as theparlor and Carey, fearful that the diplomatic Early might besending some of the "right ones" in his direction was seriouslythinking of leaving his corner, when Captain Tobias Higgins cameplowing alongside. Tobias was, as usual, red-faced and short ofbreath, but his handshake was hearty and his greeting free fromcondescension. He and Carey were exchanging small talk when Mrs.Dain appeared.

"Oh, there you are!" she exclaimed. "I couldn't imagine what hadbecome of you. My soul and body! Were you ever in such a jam inyour born days! Come right into the parlor with me. There is someone there you ought to meet and who wants to meet you. Come rightalong. You'll excuse him, won't you, Cap'n Tobias?"

Captain Higgins grinned. "Sartin sure," he declared. "Glad toget rid of him. I can see him any time and there's folks here Iain't seen for so long I begun to think they was dead."

Carey did not want to return to the parlor and he was quite surethat he did not wish to meet any one who might want to meet him,but he obediently followed his aunt. The parlor was packed fromwall to wall and above the clamor of tongues Beebe's Four-PieceOrchestra could be heard playing—for no discerniblereason—Mendelssohn's Wedding March.

Aunt Susan, who had never let go of his arm, draggedhim—not to the receiving line—but to a comparativelysheltered nook in the lee of the square piano. An elderly womanwith a pleasant face and white hair was seated there and, althoughshe did not rise, she leaned forward to extend a welcominghand.

"Why—is it possible!" she cried. "Yes, of course it is. Ican see that it is now. Carey, how do you do?"

Carey, accepting the hand, colored and was embarrassed. She hadaged much during the five years since they last met.

"Good evening, Mrs. Sayles," he said.

He was glad to see her in one way—very. In another not soglad. She was one of the unfortunates a portion of whose money hadbeen "taken care of" by Osborne and Judson. Her husband, SimeonSayles, and Cap'n Jim-Carey had been great friends, and it was theformer who suggested his son's firm handling the "investments." Inhis boyhood days the Sayles' house on the Trumet road had been aplace where he had had many good times. Now, according to towngossip, there was possibility of that house being sold and thereasons prompting the sale had been repeated in his presence morethan once. If, as his aunt had declared, Mrs. Desire Sayles wishedto meet him, he could think of no agreeable reason why she shouldso wish.

She was cordial, however, surprisingly so.

"Let me look at you," she said. "Sit down beside me where I cansee and talk to you. Your Aunt Susan and I have been saving thischair until she could find you. You are even thinner than you usedto be, I do believe, and you never were what I should call plump.And you look older, a great deal older. Well, we all grow old, andI suppose young people show the change more than we who haven'tbeen young for a long time. Emily hasn't changed a great deal. Shelooks much as she used to. She will want to meet you. She was herea moment ago, but I don't see her now, do you?"

He did not see her and was glad that he did not. Ever since hehad learned that Desire Sayles and her daughter were to visitWellmouth he had looked forward with dread to the time when heshould meet them. He knew, of course, that they had been invited tothe reception, and it was his principal reason for hoping he mightbe permitted to be elsewhere.

"She has gone into the other room, I guess," went on Mrs.Sayles, "but she will be back soon. Susan—"

But Mrs. Dain had wandered off and was chatting with anothergroup by the door. Mrs. Sayles turned again to look at him.

"Yes, you look much older," she repeated. "I suppose you feeleven older than you look, don't you?"

He tried to smile. "Perhaps I shouldn't answer that," he said."I may not be a competent witness—as to my looks."

She did not seem to understand, for the moment. Then she, too,smiled.

"Meaning that you haven't paid much attention to them, Isuppose," she said. "Well, as I remember you, you never did dothat. You have been through a great deal since I saw you. I amawfully sorry, Carey."

Here it was—the loathed subject again.

"You can't be as sorry as I am," he vowed, bitterly.

"No, I suppose not. But I am sorry. Emily and I have thought andspoken of you very often since it happened."

"I can imagine that. Mrs. Sayles, I—well, there is no usetrying to ask you to forgive me. And I shouldn't ask it if therewere. But—I wish you would tell me this—is it true thatyou are thinking of selling your property here in Wellmouth?"

Her answer surprised him.

"No," she said. "We have decided not to sell. We did think of itat first. You see, we were afraid we might have to. But we couldn'tmake up our minds to let any one else have the old place. So wesold our Maine cottage instead and gave up the little apartment wehad in New York and we are coming to Wellmouth to live."

He turned to face her.

"To live!" he exclaimed. "To live the year around?"

"Yes. Why not? I lived here when I was a girl. I lived in thatvery house until my husband died. I always loved it more than anyother I ever lived in. I am sure we shall be very comfortable in itnow."

He did not comment on this statement; he could not. He knew, ofcourse, that they had lost heavily, but he had not understood whatsacrifice that loss might mean.

She must have read his thought, or a little of it, for she puther hand on his.

"Now don't worry about that," she said, cheerfully. "Nor aboutEmily and me. We are going to be very happy there, I tell you.Emily is delighted with the idea. She always loved the place andshe likes Wellmouth...Tell me about yourself. How do you like yourwork at the office?"

He tried to answer, but he was not certain of what he said. Shemade the stereotyped remark that George Judson was a very good manindeed.

"I am glad you are going to be with him," she declared. "Healways was your very best friend, Carey, and you will be safe withhim."

He twisted the lock of hair between his thumb and finger.

"What did you say?" she asked.

He looked up. "Did I say anything?" he queried. "I did not meanto. I was thinking, that was all."

"What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that you must wonder at his risking his ownsafety by having me about."

"Nonsense! Carey, will you take an old woman's advice? If youwill, it is just this: Don't fret about what has happened. That youcan't help...I judge by your expression that some one has told youthat before."

"At least some one. Yes."

"Well, it is good advice...Now you haven't asked me a word aboutmyself or about Emily. Aren't you interested in the doings of oldfriends?"

She did not wait to hear whether he was or not, but went on totell of her trip to Europe with her daughter four years before, oftheir little summer home in Maine—that which had beensold—and of Emily's studies in music, which, it appeared, wasa hobby.

"She is planning to give piano lessons here in Wellmouth," shesaid, and added hastily: "Oh, just for fun, of course. She willwant to do something and that will be fun for her—that andthe housekeeping. I shan't be as much help as I should like to be.Since I had that wretched 'shock,' or whatever it was—"

He interrupted. "Shock!" he repeated, aghast. "What do you mean,Mrs. Sayles?"

She shook her head. "There!" she exclaimed. "I didn't intend tomention that word. No one in this town knows about ityet—which is remarkable, considering the town—and Ididn't mean for them to. Perhaps it wasn't a shock—aparalytic shock. The doctors gave it some Latin name or other, but,to be honest, it seemed to me to be at least first cousin to whatold Doctor Doane who practiced here when I was a girl would havepronounced a 'slight shock.' The New York doctors said it was dueto my nerves, or something... Whatever it was it was a nuisance,for it has left me good for not much, so far as stirring about isconcerned."

He was regarding her intently. "When did you have it?" heasked.

"Oh, last fall or in the early winter. Just before Christmas, asa matter of fact. A delightful Christmas present, wasn't it? Itcame, as such things usually do, without any warning. Iwas—"

He did not hear the rest of the particulars. Just beforeChristmas was the time when the news of the failure of Osborne andJudson was spread abroad. It did not need extraordinary imaginationon his part to connect cause and effect. He rose from thechair.

"Why, you are not going to leave me, are you, Carey?" asked Mrs.Sayles. "I was relying on you to keep all those other people away.I don't feel a bit like shaking hands with the whole village. Dostay. Emily will be here in a minute, I am sure."

But he would not stay. He muttered some transparent excuse about"seeing George" and elbowed his way to the sitting room. His ownpet corner was occupied, but he did not mind that. He hurried on tothe little entry leading to the side door and from that doorstepped out into the yard. The night was starlit and balmy, but hadit been black and stormy it would not have made any difference tohim just then. The thoughts in his brain were black enough and, hishands thrust deep in his trousers pockets, he paced up and down,through the alternate patches of shadow and light from the windows,thinking those thoughts.

He strode to the door, then turned and walked back toward thecorner of the house. There was an iron seat there, one of the pairwhich had stood by the front walk. Cora T. had had it moved to thatspot after a call from Nellie Loveland, who had remarked upon thelovely view from the corner. As he approached this seat he wasstartled from his unpleasant reverie by a movement in the shadowand a feminine voice which spoke his name.

"Why, Carey!" said the voice. "Carey Judson, is that you?"

He stopped in his stride. The figure in the shadow rose from theseat and came forward into a beam of light from a window.

"It is you, Carey, isn't it?" said Emily Sayles. "Why, how doyou do?"

She extended a hand and he took it. He even smiled. The humor ofthe situation was tinged with irony. His reason for leaving thehouse had been largely the fear of meeting her and, had he remainedinside, the meeting might have been avoided.

His greeting was not enthusiastic, but she did not seem tonotice.

"Why, how odd that I should find you here—or we shouldfind each other—in this place," she exclaimed. "Once before Icaught a glimpse of you, in the sitting room it was, but before Icould get away from Cap'n Loveland, who had me penned in a corner,you had disappeared. I do believe, though, that I have met everyone else I ever knew in Wellmouth. WHAT a crowd! Where do they allcome from?"

He shook his head. "I don't know," he replied, "but they haveall come, there is no doubt of that."

"Yes. This must be one of the parties with hundreds ofinvitations and no regrets. I feel as if I had been fighting my waythrough a parade. I was so tired of saying 'How do you do?' that Icame out for a minute's rest. I suppose you were trying to escape,too, weren't you?"

He nodded. "Yes," he said.

"Mother was very anxious to have me find you. Have you seen heryet?"

"Yes. I have just been talking with her."

"I'm glad. You—and old Cap'n Tobias Higgins were the twopeople she especially wanted to meet to-night. And Mrs. Dain, ofcourse. She is just as dear as she ever was, isn't she—youraunt, I mean. She says she is going back to Cleveland soon."

He told her what he knew of his aunt's plans for departure, andshe referred again to the size of the crowd and thepeople—old acquaintances most of them—whom she had met.Then she asked:

"Did mother tell you that she and I were going to live here inWellmouth now—permanently, I mean?"

"Yes, she told me."

"Isn't it a wonderful idea? It was my own, and I am very proudof it. And you hadn't heard?"

"No. I did hear that you and she thought of selling yourproperty in Wellmouth, but I think it isn't generally known thatyou mean to live here. Do you really?"

"Of course we do. Why do you ask it in that tone? It isn't acalamity."

It seemed one to him and he could not believe it to be anythingelse to her. He did not answer her question. She went on to tell ofhow the decision had been reached.

"It came to me like a flash," she said. "I think it must havebeen in mother's mind for some time, but she did not mention itbecause, I suppose, she was fearful that I might not like it. But Ido. I love the old home, and I like the town and I have—oh,so many plans about fixing up the rooms and changing things about.And the housekeeping, for just two of us, will be fun. And there ismy music. Did she tell you I was planning to give pianolessons?"

"Yes."

"You must have felt like laughing. I do myself when I think ofmy daring to attempt such a thing. Perhaps you remember my playing.I don't see how any one could ever forget it. But I have studied agood deal, and I THINK I have improved. And the pupils I am likelyto get—if I get any—will be only beginners. And it willbe a—a plaything for me—something to keep meinterested. They say every one should have a hobby of somesort...Oh, and that reminds me, one of the first things I heardafter our arrival yesterday was that you were playing at that oldhobby of yours, bird making. I supposed, of course, that you werestuffing and mounting specimens, as you used to do, but Cap'nHiggins—he and I had a long talk this evening—tells methat it isn't that at all. According to him you make birds out ofwood, and he says they are—well, he says that when you finishone of those—what is it? beetle-heads—it lacksabsolutely nothing but the chirrup."

She laughed gayly as she said it. They were still standing bythe end of the seat and she had been chatting rapidly and, itseemed to him, a little nervously. He understood the reason for hernervousness. He turned toward her impulsively.

"Emily," he said, "I—I tried to tell your mother a littleof how I feel about your being forced to come here to live. Shedidn't say you were forced to do it, of course, but I know youwere—and what forced you. I—well, what is there for meto say? You must have been amazed when you heard I was brazenenough to come back here—to live—and try to work,after—after—"

She interrupted. "Oh, of course I wasn't amazed," she declared."We knew—mother and I—why you came back. You did it toplease your brother. He wrote us all about it—we have been intouch with him ever since—he has been advising us, inbusiness matters, you know, and—But there. I don't want totalk about that. I want to tell you more about my plans about thehouse and about my precious music teaching scheme. And I VERY muchwant to hear more about your wooden birds...Are you so very anxiousto get back into that crowd?"

"No. I am glad to be away from it. But—"

"So am I, and thankful. And it is such a glorious night. Sitdown here on this bench. It does remind one of a graveyard, buteven that has a welcome hint of rest after those packed rooms. Dosit down and talk to me, or let me talk to you. I must talk to someone and you always were a good listener, even if you didn't alwayspay attention. Come."

So, because he could not think of a good excuse for refusing, hedid sit beside her on the iron seat while she went on to speak ofthe new wall paper which she had purchased for their parlor, whichwas, she said, to be no longer a "parlor" in the Wellmouth sense,but a room to be lived in daily and used. She asked his adviceabout the paper and begged him to suggest a carpenter for therepair work. At first his suggestions were few and his replies toher questions absently given, for heavy upon his conscience was theweight of responsibility for the downfall of the Sayles familyfortunes and its accompanying sense of shame and guilt. Again andagain he attempted to return to that subject, but each time sherefused to listen and went on with her rambling chatter concerningher own plans and intentions. Little by little, she broke down hisreserve and reluctance to talk about himself and her evident realinterest in his bird making led him to talk about that, about theHiggins' workshop, the contemplated purchase of a foot power latheand saw, about the probability of more orders in thefuture—about the one actual interest left to him in life. Andnot once—this did not occur to him until afterward—didshe mention the drudgery in his brother's office, ask him how heliked bookkeeping, or any of the questions which every one elseasked and which he hated. In fact, from being particularlymiserable, he began actually to enjoy this conversation with thegirl whom he had so dreaded to meet.

"I am crazy to see those birds of yours," she declared. "I likebirds too. Do you remember I helped you prepare some of those youhad in your room upstairs? I did, whether you remember it ornot."

"Of course I remember. By George, you did, didn't you! Why youstuffed one yourself and it was a tip-top piece of work. It was arobin and it is up in the room yet. I'll show it to you sometime."

"Will you? I should like to see the poor thing. I can't imaginehow it could have looked much like a robin after I finished withit. I should have supposed it would be more like the dog the boystarted to draw and, as he said, it 'came out a lamb.' But I dowant to see those wooden birds of yours and, some day, after the'pupils' have gone—or while I am waiting for some tocome—I am going to walk down to the Higgins' establishmentand sit and watch you work. May I?"

"Certainly, if you want to. Although I can't see why youshould."

"I can. And I shall come. Probably on a Sunday. You are alwaysthere Sundays, so Cap'n Higgins says."

"Almost always. I suppose I am regarded as more than ever wickedfor doing such things on Sunday. Even George doesn't like it, andCora, of course, is scandalized. But—well, so far as going tochurch here in Wellmouth is concerned, that is an ordeal that Ihaven't had the courage to face."

"I know. Of course I know...Well, I shall come, probably someSunday afternoon...What is all the excitement inside there?Something unusual must be going on."

The click of plates and the odor of hot coffee supplied theanswer to the query. Miss Sayles rose.

"Refreshments are being served, of course," she said. "And Imustn't leave mother any longer. You may bring us our share thereby the piano, if you care to, Carey."

They fought their way back through the crowd, against the tidewhich was setting toward the dining room, and leaving her in hermother's company, he joined the masculine whirlpool about the endof the table where Mrs. Loveland, assisted by Mrs. Hall, was"pouring."

After midnight that evening, when Desire Sayles and her daughterwere again in their own home, the former said:

"So you had a long talk with him, did you, Emily? How did heseem to you?"

Emily shook her head. "He is dreadfully despondent, mother," shesaid. "Any one could see that, especially any one who has known himas you and I used to."

"He has grown ever so much older, hasn't he?"

"Yes. And he is so—well, sad and—oh, hopeless. Ipitied him as much as I ever pitied any one in my life. Poorhelpless, innocent thing! Trying to find comfort and forgetfulnesswith those wooden birds of his. I suppose every single person whospoke of him to you was condescending—if nothing worse."

"Most of them would have been worse if I would have let them. HeIS innocent—and was innocent all through, daughter, I knowthat. But his kind of innocence is so near to wicked carelessnessthat it probably deserves punishment—and always gets it. Ihope you didn't let him know how pinched we really are."

"Of course I didn't," indignantly. "He tried to talk about itand would have cross-questioned me, if I had given him the chance.Which I didn't."

"Well," with a sigh, "I wish I could believe that he would everget anywhere in this world. I'm afraid he won't. So long as GeorgeJudson lives he will, I suppose, be tolerated as bookkeeper in thatoffice. But if anything should happen to George—I don't knowwhat he would do. He is, I think, the most impractical person Iever met—and one of the most likable. You can't help likinghim."

"No, you can't. I liked him when he was a boy and I like himnow. And even if his 'carelessness,' as you call it, has forced meinto giving music lessons, I am just as sorry for him as I can be.Almost as sorry as I shall be for the unfortunates who pay for thelessons. Mother, you must go to bed this minute. This has been afrightfully dissipated evening for you."

Carey had not yet gone to bed, but having helped the Judsonfamily, its Cleveland relative, and the servants with the cleaningup, he was at that moment on his way to the stairs. Aunt Susan cameout of the dining room and beckoned to him.

"Well, Carey," she said, "you managed to come through it alive,didn't you?"

Carey smiled. "Yes," he said. Then, as if the fact surprised himas much as it could any one else, he added, slowly, "I—why,to be honest, Aunt Susan, I feel as if I had had a pretty goodtime."

Mrs. Dain's lip twitched. "I thought perhaps you might," shesaid. "Well, if you are invited to any more receptions or parties Ishould advise you to go. They are pretty good prescriptions forsome kinds of people."

Chapter VII

Mrs. Dain's visit came to an end the Tuesday of the weekfollowing the reception. George and Cora begged her to stay longer,but she refused. She was a person of determination, who did her ownthinking and settled her own problems. And, having decided that sheshould go, she went.

"I have played long enough," she said. "I left my house inCleveland in the care of the cook and housemaid. They are goodservants and they have been with me a good many years, but they arejealous of each other and quarrel like cats and dogs. They bothpromised me to keep the house and the peace while I was away, and Ithink they both meant it. But I have had letters from each of themand I can see it is high time I went home. I don't mind seeing myname in the society notes of the newspapers, but I AM fussy when itcomes to its getting into the police items...And I planned to goback about this time, anyway."

Carey was sorry to have her go. Her manner toward him wasuncompromisingly blunt and her criticisms of his character andhabits outspoken. They were honest criticisms, however, andshrewdly wise. He found no fault with them. Since her unexpectedcall at the Higgins' workshop it seemed to him that she had beenmore tolerant of his failings. She had not called there again, butshe occasionally asked him how his "bird dolls" were getting on andhe learned from Captain Tobias that she and the captain had had atleast one long conversation concerning him and his "hobby."

Higgins chuckled as he told of it.

"She's a smart woman, that aunt of yours," he said. "I'll betthere don't anybody fool her much. She got me in a corner thatnight of the sociable—or reception, or whatever you callit—and by the time she was ready to cut cable and let mecruise by myself she had me pumped dry. I wasn't cal'latin' to saymuch about you, Carey. I knew you didn't want your work here talkedabout and did my best to keep my main hatch closed; but sho! shecross-questioned me the way my mother used to when I'd hooked jackfrom school to go swimmin'. And she done it so clever, too. While Iwas talkin' with her I felt pretty satisfied with myself; figgeredI hadn't told a thing that I didn't mean to tell. 'Twan't until Igot home that night that I realized she'd found out all I knowabout you and a lot more that I only guessed. I'm sorry; but that'show 'twas."

Carey was indifferent. "I don't mind," he said. "You couldn'ttell her more than she knew already. The whole town knows what I dodown here in this shop. The people who come into the office ask meabout my 'decoys' continually. I judge they think you and I arerunning a sort of toy factory."

Tobias grinned. "Let 'em think so," he grunted. "They ain't manyof 'em drifted in here to bother you while you are workin', havethey?"

"No. No, they haven't. I guess they aren't interested enough forthat."

"Ho, ho! Don't you believe it, son. The very reason that youdon't want 'em here would be enough to get 'eminterested—some of 'em. If half of the gang here in Wellmouthwas as interested in gettin' a livin' as they are in interferin'with other folks's doin' it taxes would be a consider'ble sightlower than they are. They'd come if they was let come, but Phoebeand I see that they don't. The minute you go into this shop, thatminute our dinin'- room window shade goes up and we commence tostand watch. Between us I presume likely Chip and me have headedoff about fifty loafers that was on their way to help you whittleby settin' around borrowin' your tobacco and matches and doin' theheavy lookin' on."

Carey pulled at his forelock. This was news to him.

"I'm very much obliged to you, I'm sure," he said.

"You needn't be. After all, these are my premises and I'mparticular whose boots wear off my grass."

He shook his head reflectively and then added: "There was onething Susie Dain didn't get out of me. She didn't find out what youwas cal'latin' to do with the money you earned beetle-head makin'.I couldn't tell her that because I didn't know."

If the captain was doing a little fishing on his own account theresult must have been disappointing. Judson made no comment. Tobiasthrew over a fresh bait.

"When I came to think over what she said," he observed, "itseemed to me that was one of the things she 'specially wanted tolearn. I judged 'twas her notion you had some sort of plan of yourown about what to do with that money." Another pause. Carey wasbusy with his paint brush. "The funniest of all was what she saidat the end," went on Higgins. "'I don't know much about his privateplans,' I told her. 'If he's got any he don't tell 'em to me.' Andall she said to that was, 'Good! A person's bein' able to keepthings to himself is a proof that he's got some character of hisown, after all. Isn't that so, Tobias?' 'Course I said it was; butit was funny all the same her talking that way, wasn't it, Carey?Eh?"

Carey, reflecting upon his talk with the captain did think it alittle odd that his aunt should be so interested in what heintended doing with the money he might earn from bird-making. Heremembered she had asked him why he wanted that money and he hadhinted at a secret plan—or hope—concerning the use ofit. But when he had asked her to excuse him for not revealing thatplan, even to her, she had applauded his silence. Then why had shecross-questioned Higgins? He could think of but one possiblereason, which was that she wished to make sure he was speaking thetruth when he said he had told no one.

The thought was distinctly unpleasant. He knew Mrs. Dain'sopinion of him. She had declared him to be a careless incompetent,helplessly impractical in a practical world, and therefore unfit tobe entrusted with money. He quite agreed with her and did notresent the estimate. But he did not wish her to think that hisreason for wishing to earn more than his salary as bookkeeper hadin it anything selfish or dishonorable. He did not care to havethat reason known in Wellmouth, but she was leaving Wellmouth. Hedetermined to tell it to her before she went.

The opportunity came on Monday afternoon, the day before herdeparture. Dinner was over. Cora T. was in the kitchen, playing apoor second in a peppery dialogue with Maggie, whose highmightiness was becoming unendurable and who was threatening tosever connections with her employers. The reception was the finalstraw for Maggie. She told Hepsibah—and did not lower hervoice because of Mrs. Judson's proximity—that "such a boonchof hayseeds>I never seen and I'll break me back cleanin'up afther no more of thim."

George, having an appointment at the bank, had hurried away,leaving Carey to finish his meal at leisure. He had finished itand, as he came into the sitting room, could hear Aunt Susan movingabout in her room overhead, whither she had gone to finish packing.It occurred to him that here was his chance for a talk with her. Hewent up the stairs, knocked at her bedroom door, and found her onher knees beside the trunk and surrounded by intimately personalitems of apparel. She looked up at him over her spectacles.

"Carey Judson," she snapped, "what is it? If Cora sent you youcan tell her I'll come down as soon as I can. I've got troublesenough without settling any fights between her and that Maggie. Ifthe saucy thing worked for me she would have been settled beforethis...Oh, dear me! WHERE shall I put this dress? It came in thisvery trunk, so I suppose it's got to go back in it, but HOW theLord knows! Go and tell Cora what I said and don't bother me."

Her nephew did not obey orders. Instead he seated himself uponthe edge of the bed and crossed his long legs.

"Aunt Susan," he began, slowly. "I want to tell yousomething."

She barked at him like an excited puppy. "GET up this instant,you great lumbering thing!" she commanded. "How many times a day doyou think I want to make that bed? Get UP!"

He did not appear to hear her. As a matter of fact he did nothear. What he had come to tell was tremendously serious to him, buthe realized it was likely to sound silly to others.

"Aunt Susie," he began again. "I hate to bother you,but—"

"But you are going to; I can see that. Well, go ahead and botherand get it over with. I shall keep on packing. I don't believeanything you are likely to tell me is important enough to interferewith that. What is it? You haven't changed your mind and decided togo to Cleveland, after all? That isn't it, is it? I hope not, forI've changed mine and now I think you had better stay where youare."

He looked at her in surprise.

"No," he announced. "Why, no. I guess—I guess I hadforgotten that you suggested my going to Cleveland. No, that isn'tit."

"Well, then, what is it? Come, come! Hurry! Let your hair alone,if you can—and TALK."

He pulled harder than ever at the forelock.

"It's just this," he said. "You remember asking me what I wantedto make the money for—the money for my birds, you know? And Isaid—well, I told you I had rather not tell?"

She was refolding the dress. Now she stopped and looked keenlyat him.

"Cerainly, I remember," she declared. "And I remember tellingyou not to tell anybody, unless—or until—you wantedto."

"Yes. Well, I want to tell you now."

"O-oh! You do. Why?"

"Because there isn't any good reason for not telling you. I wantthat money to—to pay my debts with."

She let the partially folded gown slip from her hands to thefloor.

"Your debts!" she repeated. "What debts? My soul and body! Youdon't mean you owe debts that I don't know anything about. MOREdebts?"

"What? More? No, indeed! They are those you and every one elseknow about. But—"

"Wait! You can't mean the debts of that banking firm of yours.Those are being taken care of. Your creditors know how many centsthey are to get on a dollar. They should be thankful to get thatmuch, I suppose, and some of us are. Those debts aresettled—or as much settled as they ever will be."

"Yes...Yes, most of them are, I suppose. But there are somethat—that—"

"Carey Judson, I declare you frighten me! You look as guilty asa henhouse thief. What are you trying to tell me?"

He did look guilty. Now that the point had been reached when hemust put into words his cherished dream, he found it very hard todo so. It seemed so picayune and childish, after all. He was afraidof being laughed at.

"Well, Aunt Susan," he stammered, "you see—I feel asif—as if I must pay some of those debts myself. Dollar fordollar, I mean. There are people here in Wellmouth, people I haveGOT to pay. I must pay them...Good Lord, I MUST!"

Packing and all connected with it was apparently forgotten. Mrs.Dain rose to her feet. She came over and sat beside him on thebed.

"Carey," she said, gently, "don't look like that. Or talk likeit. Stop it this minute! You have been worrying over this miserablebusiness until you are half sick again. You mustn't do so. What'sdone is done, and to fret yourself into another nervous breakdownonly makes everything worse...Perhaps, after all, you had bettercome to Cleveland with me."

He smiled, crookedly. "My nerves are all right," he observed."So is my mind, as right as it ever was. At any rate it hasn'tcracked sufficiently to make me believe I can pay all my debts,even all here in Wellmouth."

"I should say not! George says the folks in town here lost overforty thousand dollars. Some could afford to lose and somecouldn't; but what IS the use—"

He interrupted. "I think there may be some little use," he said."I'm hoping there is. If I could I would square up with every oldfriend of father's and George's and mine to the last nickel, butthat I can't do. I can pay a little, here and there—or Ithink I can—and if I can I shall. It is those people whocan't afford to lose I am talking about. People who lost a fewthousand dollars, about all they had put by. I can pay some ofthem, a little at a time, and the others needn't know anythingabout it. For instance, I shall get a check for a hundred andtwenty dollars any day now. And I have orders for more birds. Iimagine I can get orders enough to keep me busy a long time. Idon't want the money for myself. George pays me more than I'mworth, and it is more than I need. But, don't you see—"

She laid a hand on his knee. "Wait a minute, Carey," she said,quietly. "I guess I'm beginning to understand. This was the ideayou have had all along? The plan you wouldn't tell me about when Iasked you down at your workshop?"

"Yes. I said it was, didn't I? There was no real reason for mynot telling you then, but—"

"Never mind that. Tell me now. Tell me everything about it."

He went on to tell, mentioning names of those whom he hoped topay first. She learned that he had kept a list of the Wellmouthcreditors and had checked those to whom Osborne and Judson owedlittle and who could least afford to part with that little.

"It wasn't my own idea, exactly," he told her. "Something Georgesaid there at the hospital when he was coaxing me to come backhere—that set me to thinking. He said if I cared to, andcould, pay a few dollars here and there in Wellmouth, on my ownhook, it would do more to square me with the people I know therethan anything in the world. Really that was the deciding factor. Iam sure I shouldn't have come if it hadn't been for that. His idea,I suppose, was that I might save a little from my salary. I amdoing that, too. But afterwards the bird-making plan occurred to meand it looked pretty good."

He paused. His aunt made no comment. After a moment he wenton.

"I don't know how this sounds to you, Aunt Susan," he said, witha twisted smile. "It sounds idiotic and silly enough to me as I sayit. I realize I am talking like the poor, but honest hero of aSunday School book, but I'll be damned if I feel like one... Excusethe emphasis, please. I forget my manners sometimes."

Mrs. Dain sniffed. "I'll excuse it," she declared. "Go on."

"I have gone about as far as I can. There is nothing heroicabout it, and precious little common sense, I guess. And, to behonest, I am doing it more for my own sake than any one else's.It—Humph! well, I suppose the idea fools me into thinking Ihave some self-respect to keep up...That's it."

He twisted a corner of his coat into a ball and squeezed ittight. She saw his knuckles whiten with the force of the grip. Hedrew a long breath and rose from the bed.

"I am telling you this," he said, more briskly, "because Ididn't see any reason for hiding it from you. Don't tell any oneelse, that's all. Cora would think me a jackass—which Iam—and why should George be worried? Now I must go. I shallbe late at the office."

She did not detain him. "Thank you for telling me, Carey," wasall she said.

"That's all right. I didn't want you to think I was going tofollow Osborne's example and buy orchids with my surplus, that'sall."

He hurried out, leaving her still seated on the hopelesslyrumpled bedspread. It was some time before she resumed herpacking.

Next morning Carey, because his aunt insisted upon his doing so,went in company with his brother and Mrs. Judson, to the railwaystation, to bid their visitor good-by. He and she had noopportunity for another lengthy talk, but just before she boardedthe train she led him to one side and begged him to writeregularly.

"I shall expect a letter from you once a week," she whispered."You won't disappoint me, will you?"

"No, Aunt Susan. I'll write, if you care to have me."

"I do. And I want to hear all about your paying those town debtsof yours; who you pay and all about it."

"All right, I'll report progress—if there is any."

"Good! Take care of yourself and don't worry any more than youcan help. I was going to say don't worry at all, but, knowing you,that would be foolish. And I shall write you all the Clevelandnews, including how I get along with the servants and my pains, andall my troubles."

There was a note in her voice as she uttered the last sentencewhich caused him to glance at her quickly.

"Your pains?" he repeated. "You haven't had any more of thosepains such as you had the other night, have you?"

She smiled, grimly. "I have them, more or less, a good deal ofthe time," she declared, "and probably shall have them till thefinal one comes. But I don't want you to tell any one that. Painsare some of the things that aren't helped by advertising...There!Kiss me, and run along. Cora is beginning to glare at us, whichmeans she suspects we have a secret...Well, perhaps we have, but,so far as I am concerned, it shall be one. Good-by, Carey."

Mrs. Judson's farewells were much more effusive. Herhandkerchief was in use when the train pulled out. As they droveback to the Cap'n Jim-Carey place she asked a question.

"Well, Carey," she inquired, with elaborate carelessness, "whatwere you and Aunt Susan whispering so earnestly about? Was sheafraid George and I might neglect you after she had gone, orsomething like that?"

Carey shook his head. "I guess she wasn't greatly afraid ofthat," he said.

"Humph! She looked as if she was afraid we might hear what shewas saying, I noticed that much. What did she say?"

George, to his brother's relief, put in a word.

"Probably she was telling him what she told me, to be a good boyand behave myself," he said. "She is a lively soul, Aunt Susan is.The house will be lonesome for a while now that she has gone."

Cora T. sniffed. "It will be quieter, at least," she declared."If she had stayed much longer I should have had to lose Maggie,that's sure. She and Aunt Susie hated each other. I do not see whysome people feel it necessary to boss everything, no matter wherethey are."

The Cap'n Jim-Carey place was particularly lonely for Careyafter Mrs. Dain's departure. The old lady was sharp-tongued andoutspoken, but he was fond of her. And she was the one person towhom he had confided his dream of paying a few of the Osborne andJudson debts. He had not told her until the last moment, but,having broken the ice and finding the water by no means as chillyas he expected, he would have enjoyed asking her advice anddiscussing names and means. Between George and himself there hadalways been the most complete confidence, but to tell George wasequivalent to telling George's wife, and that he could not do. Atthe end of the first week he wrote his aunt a long letter,announcing shipment of the dozen "beetle-heads" and promising toreport receipt of the check when it arrived.

Time at the office dragged heavily for him. The novelty attachedto learning the routine of the bookkeeping was over; he was as gooda bookkeeper now as he was ever likely to be and the fact wasforced upon him that he would never be a shining success in theposition. He could add and subtract and multiply and divide, whenhe had to, and post and credit with fair accuracy, but doing noneof these things interested him. His interest was elsewhere, outalong the beach with the gulls and sandpipers, or in the Higgins'shop where, on the chance of disposing of them to some one, he hadbegun work upon the first of a dozen black duck. Occasionally hetook a Sunday dinner with Captain Tobias and Phoebe Higgins, andtwice he had accompanied the former on sailing trips in theAmbergris, Junior. At home with his wife, the captain's authoritywas pretty much pretense, but aboard his catboat and on salt waterhe was a martinet. He treated his passengers as he had treated hisforemast hands aboard the whaler.

"Slack up that peak halliard," he would bellow, from his seat bythe wheel. Most catboats were steered with a tiller, but theAmbergris, Junior was not of these. A tiller was a "no-accountfresh water contraption" and Tobias Higgins would not tolerate it.His boat had a wheel and as near a "man's size" wheel as her buildpermitted.

"Slack up that peak halliard," roared the captain. "Do you wanther on her beam ends? What are you sittin' there for? Think you'vegrowed fast. What the blank crash bang ails you? Lively!"

When the crisis was over he would apologize.

"Wonder you don't haul off and lam me with the boat hook,Carey," he was likely to observe. "I know I hadn't ought to go foryou that way, and I don't mean to. You see I've been used tospeakin' out what's on my mind when I'm aboard a vessel—whenI'm on deck anyhow—and since I've been hauled up on dry landI've kind of had to muffle down. Out here, away from women folks,the old habit sort of comes back. Godfreys! It seems good to beable to let go once in a while, but I don't mean nothin' by it. Youwon't hold a grudge against me, will you, Carey?"

Carey rather enjoyed being ordered about by Tobias. The latter'soutspoken roars of fault-finding were a pleasant contrast to thecondescendingly suave nagging of Mr. Ben Early in the office of J.C. Judson & Co. The manager was always outwardly friendly,almost effusively so, but his was the ostentatious kind offriendship which made Carey long to slip from the high stool andkick him. His encouraging comments, his solicitous offer of aid"whenever anything comes up that bothers you, Carey," and his veryobvious conviction that things of that sort were continually"coming up," were hard to bear. And harder still because there wasa measure of truth in that conviction. The problems connected withthe bookkeeping were bothersome.

Carey's second trial balance was a trial indeed. Early hadhelped him with the first one, but the second he attempted drawingunaided and the confounded thing would not come right. He laboredover it long into the night, laid it aside until the next night andthen tackled it again. The amount needed to make it square wassmall but the error remained unlocated. George and Cora supposedhim to be at the Higgins' shop busy with what the lattercontemptuously called his "playthings," and he did not undeceivethem. He stubbornly set his teeth and resolved to win the battlehimself, without any one's aid, least of all Early's. Theubiquitous Benjamin had that very afternoon casually inquiredconcerning the balance and Carey had lightly answered that it wasall coming along right. There was—or it seemed to him therewas—a hint of ironic suspicion behind the inquiry and thebland smile accompanying it. He was almost certain that the managersuspected that it was not all right, and was rather pleased thanotherwise. Well, it should be right; he would make it so.

So, at eight-thirty the third evening, he again entered theoffice, pulled the window shades down as near the sills as he couldget them—one of them was out of order and refused to come allthe way—lighted the hanging lamp above the desk, took thebooks from the safe and began poring over them once more. It was awarm evening and he had left a window open to relieve thestuffiness and moderate the ever present scent of fish. Thepartially drawn shade flapped occasionally in the summerbreeze.

He labored with the figures, and labor it was. He hatedit—oh, how he hated it! To save his life he could notconcentrate his thoughts upon the drudgery; they would stray to theblack duck which he had left lying, partially complete, upon thebench in his shop. He was not quite certain whether or not the poseof the neck was exactly what it should be. He must carefullyexamine his photographs and the stuffed model before he went anyfarther with it...Then, with a guilty twinge of conscience, he shutthe duck from his mind and resumed his bookkeeping.

Some one knocked at the door. He looked up from the ledger pagewith a start and a feeling of intense annoyance. Someone—Early or George probably, or perhaps old Jabez Drew, thewharf boss—had seen the light in the office, or had been toldof it by some one else, and had come to investigate. He slid offthe stool and walked to the door. He did hope it might not beEarly. Anybody but that fellow, until that balance was struck.

But when he opened the door he found Emily Sayles standing onthe platform.

"Good evening, Carey," she said. And then: "Why, don't look sothunderstruck! Nothing has happened. I haven't any bad news. I waspassing and your window shade was up and I saw you sitting at thedesk. There was a question in my mind that I wanted answered andwhen I saw you it occurred to me that you would be just the one toanswer it. That isn't such a miracle, is it?"

It was not, of course. Only a few people used the Wharf Roadafter nightfall, although some did, and any passerby would havenoticed the light. But why she should be walking along that road atnine o'clock in the evening he could not imagine. He had not seenher since the night of the reception, although he had heard much.All Wellmouth was talking of her and her mother and their decisionto make the old Sayles house their permanent abiding place; also,of course, the piano lessons.

"Won't you come in?" he asked.

She hesitated. "No," she said, "I won't come in...I guess...Wellthen, I will, for just a minute. But you are busy, I know, and Ipromise you not to stay."

He made no comment upon her change of mind. She entered and heclosed the door. Then he walked to the window and tuggedimpatiently at the refractory shade.

"Never mind that," she said, laughing. "We are not likely to beseen, and if we are I am sure I don't mind."

No doubt she expected him to laugh also, or at least smile, buthe did neither. Nor did he voice the thought, whatever it might be,which was obviously in his mind. Possibly she guessed it, for shecolored slightly, and spoke again.

"Of course you wonder," she said, quickly, "how I happen to behere. I have been up to Cap'n Obed Cahoon's, to see Mrs. Cahoonabout Elsie—their little girl, you know. They want her tocome to me on Tuesdays and Fridays for music lessons. I talked withher mother and Cap'n Obed—he doesn't know a thing aboutmusic, says the only scales he is acquainted with are those on afish—and I talked with Elsie herself. And she is my question.She came to the house last Tuesday and I spent two miserable hourswith the child. SHE doesn't want to play the piano, says she HATESit. And, truly, Carey, I think she is determined not to learn. Sheis spoiled utterly and she has a will like iron, whether inheritedor not I don't know."

Carey twisted his hair.

"I do," he observed. "I know her father."

"I see. Now the question is what ought I to do? I am tempted totell the Cahoons exactly how I feel and that, in my opinion,sending Elsie to me as a pupil will be a waste of their money andmy time. She told me that she would not practice and, judging bywhat I have seen of their control—or lack of it—overher, they won't force her to do so. I wanted to say no to them justnow—to- night, but I did not because—well, because Ifeared it might not be a diplomatic thing to do. I have a bad habitof telling people exactly what I think and mother says only veryrich people can afford to do that. I was turning the matter over inmy mind and wishing there was some one—somebody who knew theWellmouth people better than I did—who could advise me. ThenI saw you—and here I am. Now tell me what to do."

The lock of hair in the center of Carey's forehead was by thistime twisted into a sharply pointed wedge extending downward to thebridge of his nose. He left it hanging there and dropped his handto his chin, which he rubbed thoughtfully.

"How did you happen to be down here on the Wharf Road?" heasked.

"Oh, I didn't tell you that, did I? It just happened, that isall. It is a gorgeous night and the water looked so lovely in themoonlight that I walked around this way instead of going directlyhome. Besides, I wanted to think and I didn't want my thinkinginterrupted by meeting people. Now tell me what to do with ElsieCahoon."

He shook his head. "You say you are not a diplomat," heobserved. "Did you ever hear any one call me anything of thesort?"

He asked the question solemnly enough, but the look accompanyingit caused her to smile.

"No," she confessed, "I can't remember that I ever did. But,perhaps, after all, it isn't diplomacy that I want to hear. Tell mejust how you feel about it. The problem must be settled and thesooner the better."

Carey stopped rubbing his chin and his slim fingers strayed tothe "scratcher"—the ink eraser—upon the desk, and beganplaying with that. That "scratcher" was Early's particular horror.Its use upon the books of J. C. Judson & Co. he consideredalmost as great a sacrilege as making wooden birds on the Sabbath.Because the sacrilege in both cases was committed by the brother ofhis employer his objections were not made openly, but were confinedto hints. Carey, if he recognized them as such, did not heed them.He continued his Sunday bird-making and he continued to correctmistakes with the scratcher. To his particular kind of bookkeepingthat scratcher was as necessary a tool as a pen and was always keptwithin easy grasp.

Now, while considering his visitor's problem, he stood thescratcher on end, reversed it, and then dug absently at an inksmear on the desk. Miss Sayles began to lose patience.

"Do tell me," she urged. "I stopped here especially to have youtell me and I MUSTN'T stay any longer. If you were in my place,what would you do?"

Carey, having removed the ink smear and a little varnish withit, looked up.

"If I were in your place," he said, "I suppose I should tell theCahoons that I couldn't give lessons to their daughter."

She nodded. "I see," she said. "Well, that is what I wanted todo, of course...but—"

"Wait. That is whatI should do and so it makes me feelpretty certain that you mustn't do it."

"Now, what in the world, Carey Judson—?"

"I think you had better give her the lessons. If you don't someone else will and you will have the Cahoons down on you, besides.Cap'n Obed has a good deal of influence in town and hiswife—well, she is blessed with what the papers call an easyflow of language."

"I see what you mean. She and he will say all sorts of horridthings about me. Well, so far as that goes, I shouldn't care ifthey did. I would have done nothing to be ashamed of."

He dropped the scratcher and his tone changed.

"You should care," he said, earnestly. "In a town of this sizeit is not pleasant to be—talked about in that way. I knowit."

She moved nearer the desk.

"Carey," she said, impulsively, "I am sorry. I wish I had notstopped here to worry you with my little troubles. Oh, why DO Ialways act on the spur of the moment?"

"That is all right. As I see it, you may as well give the Cahoongirl her music lessons. If you succeed in teaching her anythingwhy, well and good. If you fail, why—"

"Why, then her father and mother will say it is all myfault."

"That is probably true; but in the meantime you will have madeprogress with your other pupils and will be in a better position toanswer criticisms...There, that is my advice. I think you hadbetter not take it."

"Not take it?...Oh, I see. Because it IS yours, you mean."

"That's it."

He picked up the scratcher again. She turned to go.

"I shall take it, I think," she said. "And thank you very muchfor giving it." Then she added, smiling: "You have surprised me alittle bit. You said you were not a diplomat and I have heardpeople call you impractical; but I should say you had answered thisquestion of mine about as practically, and certainly as honestly,as any one could. I am sure mother will say exactly the same thingwhen I tell her. Oh, by the way, when are you coming to call on usat the house? Mother says you promised her you would come."

He had no recollection of making any such promise. Nor, when hespoke, did he refer to the invitation.

"I hate to let you walk home alone," he said, "but I am afraid Ican't leave here yet. If I were a diplomat I might have concluded atreaty of peace with this confounded trial balance. As it is thewar is still on. Excuse me, won't you?"

"Of course. What is the trouble with the balance? Won't it comeright?"

"I suppose it might if I gave it the chance. The trouble is withme. As a bookkeeper I am a first-class bird stuffer."

"Wouldn't Mr. Early help you if you asked him?"

"Yes."

The monosyllable was sufficiently expressive. She laughed. Then,after another instant of hesitancy, she walked again to thedesk.

"I wonder if I might not help?" she said. "I like figuresand—I never told any one in Wellmouth this and perhaps thereis no need of their knowing—I did some bookkeeping over inNew York. I was a bookkeeper in an office there for three months,and they SAID I was a pretty good one."

He looked at her.

"When?" he asked.

"Oh, this past winter. You see—well, it was before we soldthe Maine cottage and decided to come here. It was more for funthan anything else," she added, hastily. "The firm who employed mewas—the head of it was a friend of ours—and I wantedsomething to keep me busy, so—I did that."

She finished the sentence in some confusion. He understood herreason for embarrassment. And he realized only too well why she hadtaken employment in that New York office. It wasnecessity—not fun—which had been the compelling force.The Osborne and Judson failure again. He pulled the ledger towardhim and took up his pen.

"Good night," he said, and bent over the book.

But she did not go. Instead she came around behind the desk andstood at his side.

"I am going to try and help," she declared.

He shook his head.

"No," he said.

"But I think perhaps I can; and I want to. Why not?"

"Because you—well, to be perfectly honest, you shouldn'tstay here any longer. If any one should see you—"

"Nonsense!"

"I want you to go."

"I know, but I am not going—yet. And if you don't want meto be very angry indeed you won't say another word about peopleseeing me. Do you suppose I should be here if I were ashamed to beseen?"

Her tone was crisp and there was heightened color in her cheeks.He sighed, wearily.

"Emily," he persisted, "if you really want to help me you won'tgive the people of this town any new opportunity to talk about me.You MUST understand what I mean."

"I understand exactly what you mean. And I should stay here nowif I hadn't intended to before. You and I have known each otherever since we were children, and if we can't be seen togetherwithout—Oh! if Wellmouth is THAT kind of a place I am sorry Iam going to live in it...Now tell me about your trial balance. Howmuch is it out of the way?"

Even then he tried to insist upon her going, but she ignored hisinsistence entirely, so he reluctantly informed her concerning thedifference in the balance. It was a small amount. "That sounds likean error in posting," she said. "Of course you have checked yourledger."

He shook his head. "I have checked the ledger and the cash bookand the petty cash," he declared. "Also the bills and the bankaccount. I haven't counted the postage stamps yet, nor the fish inthe barrels, but I'm not sure I shouldn't."

She laughed. "Before you do that," she said, "I would suggestchecking again. I will call the items from the journal to beginwith. No, you call them, and I will check them in the ledger."

So the—to him—wearisome process began once more. Heread the items and she proved their transfer to the ledger. Fifteenminutes passed. Then she interrupted his reading.

"Wait a minute," she said. "What was that last amount? Fourdollars and thirty cents, was it?"

"Yes."

"And it is bill payable, not receivable?"

"Yes."

"Then here is your mistake. You have posted it on the wrongside. Put it over here, where it belongs, and you make a differenceof eight dollars and sixty cents, which is just the amount you areout of the way. And now you are all right...Why, that was easy,Carey."

He tossed the journal upon the floor and, rising, looked overher shoulder. He frowned, pulled at his forelock, sighed and thensmiled.

"You'll notice, perhaps," he observed, "two pencil marks besidethat four-thirty? Yes. Well, that is where I checked it twicebefore and made it right both times. By George, I AM a goodbookkeeper!"

"Oh, that is nothing. Every bookkeeper makes mistakes."

"Don't say that. You hurt my pride. I like to think I amunique...Well, I am ever so much obliged."

"Don't mention it. Now I must go. Mother will think I have beenkidnaped."

He was strongly tempted to ask her to wait until he put thebooks in the safe and then escort her home. But he remembered thatthere was a sociable that evening at the church presided over bythe Reverend Bagness and that, at about this time, people would beleaving. For her to be seen walking along the Main Road with himwould be putting a strain upon certain imaginations which, so faras anything connected with him was concerned, were already crackedin a good many places. For himself he did not greatly mind—hewas past that—but she must not enter upon her Wellmouthresidence and those music lessons under any unnecessary handicap.So he did not yield to his temptation, but merely accompanied heras far as the office door.

"Good night, Emily," he said. "And, of course, all the thanks inthe world for saving the day—or the night—with thatbalance. I shall stay here and make a brand-new clean copy now. Onethat will shake Brother Early's trust in righteousness to thefoundation."

"He expects you to have to call on him for help, I suppose."

"If he doesn't, then his looks the past day or two beliehim."

"I am glad he is going to be disappointed. Now, Carey, when areyou going to call upon mother and me?"

"Oh—oh, pretty soon. Yes, pretty soon."

"I don't believe you mean to come at all, really. Very well,then I know how to make you. Mother has been saying she intendsasking you to take supper with us. I shall tell her to do it atonce. And I am going to come down to Cap'n Higgins' some Sunday andsee your birds, Good night."

Chapter VIII

Carey's premonition that Mr. Early cherished suspicionsconcerning the trial balance was confirmed next morning. Themanager made it a point to enter the office precisely on the strokeof eight and, therefore, it not infrequently happened that theJudson brothers found him there on their arrival. This particularmorning George was a little later than usual and, as they alwayswalked down together, Carey was late also. When they came into theoffice the latter found the safe already open and the books spreadupon the desk. Early was the only one, other than George and thebookkeeper, acquainted with the combination, so, although he wasnot in sight, it was evident that he had been there. He came infrom the back room a moment later.

"Good morning, good morning, Mr. Judson," he said, withdeferential cordiality. Then, still cordial, but without thedeference, he added, "Morning, Carey...A fine day, Mr. Judson. Veryfine indeed. Yes."

George was not in a talkative mood that morning. In fact, or soit had seemed to his brother, he had not been in his usual spiritsfor several days. The change had followed a short business trip toBoston which he had made at the end of the previous week and fromwhich he had returned—or so Carey imagined—ratherdowncast and taciturn. He had offered no explanation and when Careyasked if anything had gone wrong said, "No, indeed. Of course ithasn't. What do you ask that for?" It seemed almost as if heresented the question and his brother did not press it. As a matterof fact it was only in business hours—and then butoccasionally—that the latter believed he noticed thedepression and low spirits. At home George was even more cheerfulthan usual.

He replied to Early's greeting with a gruff "Good morning," andthen, as though realizing the acknowledgment had been somewhatungracious, paused on his way to the private office to observe:"Well, Ben, you beat Carey and me out this morning, didn't you? Isee you've opened the safe. Some one been in to pay a bill? Or in agreat hurry to collect one?"

Early smiled, as he always did when he suspected facetiousnesson the part of his employer. "Oh, no—no," he replied. "No onehas been in. I just opened the safe—to—er—to saveCarey the trouble, that's all."

Carey, however, was already behind the desk and had noticedthings.

"You found the balance all right, didn't you, Ben?" he inquired,casually. "I see you have been looking at it."

Mr. Early did his best to smile. He displayed a liberal expanseof teeth, but his attempt at ease was not a complete success.

"Eh?" he queried. "Oh, yes! Yes, Carey, I—er—saw thebalance there and I—I—er—glanced itover—glanced it, over. A very neat job, I call it. Carey'sdoing pretty well with his bookkeeping, Mr. Judson. He'll be up toour standard if he keeps on. Yes, indeed."

"What IS your standard, Ben?" asked Carey, politely. The manageropened his mouth, closed it, and then decided not to hear thequestion. Instead of answering it he began to speak with Georgeconcerning a recent shipment of fish.

The following Sunday afternoon, as Carey was in the Higgins'shop, alone and hard at work on the second black duck, some oneknocked at the shop door. He went to open it with a strong feelingof impatience. He was busy—happily busy—and he had nowish to be interrupted, even by Tobias Higgins or Phoebe.

The person who had knocked was neither of the Higginses,however, but a huge man with shaggy eyebrows and a thick graybeard. This man looked at him keenly, as if to make certain of hisidentity, then smiled and extended a hand.

"How do you do, Judson?" he said.

Carey recognized him. His own face lighted eagerly and he seizedthe hand and shook it.

"Why, Professor Knight!" he exclaimed. "Is it possible!"

His caller smiled. "Quite," he said, dryly. "Well? May I comein?"

Carey, who was still clasping his hand, almost dragged himacross the threshold.

"I should say you could!" he declared. "You are about the lastperson I expected to see, but I am tremendously glad of the chance.Where on earth did you drop from?"

The professor was almost as tall as Judson himself, andinfinitely broader. His face, under a broad-brimmed Panama hat, wassunburned and he stepped with the vigor and snap of a footballplayer. He took off the hat, exposing a thatch of curly gray hair,and looked about the shop with interest.

"So this is where you hide yourself," he observed. "You areguarded well, did you know it?"

"Why? What do you mean? Sit down."

"I will in a minute. I want to look around first. What do I meanby guarded? I mean just that. Who is the peppery lady in the housein front here? She hadn't the slightest idea of letting me get atyou. Who is she?"

Carey smiled. "That was Chippy," he said.

"Chippy?"

"That is her husband's pet name for her. She is Mrs. Higgins,wife of the old chap who lets me use this place. Did she hold youup?"

"She did. I was marching out here as bold as brass when sheappeared at the door and wanted to know where I was going, who Iwas, why, and what excuse I had for interrupting you. She cross-questioned me like a lawyer and I had to explain that I was an oldfriend, that you had been to Labrador with me, and that I wasresponsible for your interest in birds and such things, before shewould consent to my knocking at your door. Even then I think shewanted to come with me to make sure I wasn't lying."

He laughed heartily, the thick beard shaking like a bush in awind. Carey laughed, too.

"I think," went on the professor, "that it was my reference tothe Labrador cruise which finally turned the trick. She seemed tohave heard of that."

"Yes, I told her and the captain about it. They are good friendsof mine, the Higginses, and they know I don't, as a usual rule,like to have people running in here to bother me when I am atwork—or play—whichever you care to call it. This is asmall town, but there are an amazing number of people in it wholove work—when it is done by some one else...I am sorry shetroubled you, though."

"Not a bit. She has the right idea. I'd like to hire her to sitoutside my door at the museum. Well, let me look at you. You were ayoungster when I saw you last...Humph! You've grown older, myson."

"Yes, I have. But you haven't."

Nor had he, to any appreciable extent, so far as outwardappearance went. The hair and beard, which Carey remembered asblack, were gray, and he wore spectacles, but the eyes behind thosespectacles were just as keen as ever and the motions of the broadshoulders and big hands were just as quick and purposeful as theyhad been during that memorable expedition in the Labrador wilds,the happiest summer in Carey Judson's life.

"You aren't a day older," declared Carey, and meant it.

Knight laughed. "Don't you believe it," he scoffed. "I ought toknow a fossil when I see one and I am moving up into that class.But I mean to have a little more fun before I petrify...Well, nowtell me about yourself. I only arrived last night, but I have heardyou spoken of."

"I am sure of it. Tell me first why you came, what you are doinghere—yes, and what you have been doing since I heard fromyou. Your last letter was—oh, years ago."

"And it wasn't answered, as I remember...Oh, well, never mind,probably it was and I was in Kamchatka or Timbuctoo, or somewhere.I plug away in civilization till I can't stand it any longer andthen I trek. I'll tell you why I am here now...By the way, you saidsomething about sitting down, didn't you? What would you suggest mysitting on? Not that chair, I hope."

It was the only chair in the shop. Carey usually sat on anupturned packing case when at work. He twisted his forelock.

"That chair I keep for any visitors who get past the guard," heconfessed. "It occasionally breaks down and sometimes they go homethen. If you don't mind a box?"

"Not a bit, if it's a solid one. And if you have a sparepipe—?"

Carey produced the pipe, a charred corncob which his visitorregarded with approval, also tobacco and matches. Professor Knightseated himself on the box, blew a succession of smoke rings andthen observed: "I came here—well, I don't exactly know why Idid come. I always liked this place and while—mysister—was living I have had some good times here. It wasn'tspoiled then by a lot of city visitors. Hope it isn't yet."

"Not altogether."

"Humph! It will be some day. Judson, it is a good thing forfellows like you and me that we are living just at this period.There are still plenty of decent cannibal islands to run away towhen civilization gets wearisome. A hundred years from now they'llbe going through Patagonia in Pullmans. Well, I was in Boston,seeing some of the Harvard men about an expedition I am hoping tofinance and go out at the head of—I'll tell you more aboutthat by and by, probably—and I saw an idle Sunday ahead ofme. It occurred to me that Wellmouth was only a little way off, sowhy not spend that Sunday looking the old place over? I came downon the afternoon train, put up at the Travelers' Hotel—Godhelp me!—spent the morning loafing up and down over the dunesand am figuring to spend a good deal of the afternoon with you.That is my story—part of it."

The final sentence was divided in what seemed to Carey apeculiar way. "Part of it?"

"Why, yes; I was wondering whether I had better tell you theother part. I think I will. I had another reason for coming toWellmouth. I came—not entirely, but partially—to seeyou again."

Carey picked up a shaving from the floor and began tearing itinto strips.

"I see," he said, slowly. "They—some one told you that Ihad come back here."

"Yes. A fellow named Moore told me."

"Oh! Ed Moore? Yes, he knew, of course. How did you happen tosee him?"

"In regard to this proposed expedition of mine. He is with afirm of financiers in Boston and expeditions cost money, more's thepity. This young Moore's father used to be interested in naturalhistory—birds particularly—and he helped me finance aprevious trip. He is dead, but his son seems to have inherited alittle of the old man's taste, as well as his millions. In thecourse of our conversation your name was mentioned. Moore said heknew you. Then he told me a lot about you and ended by speaking ofsome decoys you had made for him. He has been away on a fishingtrip and has just returned to find the decoys waiting for him."

"I see. That explains why he hasn't written me about them. I wasbeginning to be afraid they weren't satisfactory."

"You needn't be. He did not want to talk about anything else. Heinsisted on my coming home with him that evening. He pretended hewanted to give me a dinner, but the real reason was that he wantedto show me those birds."

"He liked them, then? I am glad of that."

"Liked them! He bowed down and worshiped them. According to him,Judson, you would have been an invaluable help to Noah aboard theArk. If the old fellow had happened to omit a sample pair of anybird species from his assorted cargo you could have made a coupleof wooden ones and no one would ever have known the difference. Heserved those decoys of yours with the soup and talked of nothingelse all through the meal. He says that if you care to undertakethe work he can keep you supplied with orders to the end oftime."

Carey made no comment. The news that his friend had found the"beetle-heads" satisfactory was gratifying, but the realizationthat Moore must have told his guest many other items of his ownrecent history was not as pleasant.

The professor refilled the corncob from the tobacco tin on thebench and then went on.

"Of course I had to see the things," he continued,"and—well, son, I don't wish to swell your head unduly, but Iwas almost as enthusiastic as he was. The only fault I have to findis that a fellow who knows birds like that should be wasting a partof his time trying to keep books in an office. I understand that iswhat you are trying to do."

Carey stroked his nose. "I notice you say 'trying,'" heobserved. "Every one who mentions those books to me never goesfarther than to say I am trying to keep them."

"Hum! How on earth can a sane man think anything else? No one inthe least acquainted with you could imagine your keeping them well.And that isn't all. I hear you tried to be a banker."

"No...No, I didn't."

"What? You were a banker, weren't you?"

"No. I pretended to be one, because my people seemed to think Iought to be. But I didn't try. If I had I might have saved myfriends a little of the trouble, perhaps."

"Nonsense! If you had tried night and day you couldn't have beena banker any more than I could. And who wants to be one,anyway?"

A slow shake of the head. "I don't, certainly," said Carey,gloomily.

"Of course you don't. What use are bankers, except to supplymoney occasionally to people who are doing something worthwhile?...Now show me some more of those birds of yours. You aremaking more. You couldn't stop if you tried."

Carey, with some diffidence, handed his friend the finishedblack duck. Knight examined it with care. His inspection wasthorough and took some time. Then he nodded his big head.

"Good," he declared.

"You think it is all right, then? I wasn't quite sure about theneck. The one I am at work on now will be a little different. Idon't intend to make them alike, you know—their positions, Imean. No bird is exactly like another...But it isn't necessary totell you that."

"No, it isn't. But why not make them alike? It would be easier,I should say. And as decoys they would be almost assatisfactory."

"Why, yes, perhaps they would. But I shouldn't get as much funout of making them."

"I see. What does Moore pay you for them? If you don't mindtelling me."

"Not in the least. He offered me ten dollars a piece for theother lot, the shore birds. I don't know what he will pay for theducks, but I guess he will pay that."

"Hum! Yes, I should imagine he might, if you pressed him. Howlong will it take you to make the dozen?"

"Oh, I don't know. That one—the first one—tooknearly two weeks of my spare time. The next won't take quite aslong, I hope."

"Hum! And you get ten dollars for each one! Judson, it is easyto see why you didn't make good as a banker. What ARE you wastingyour time down here for?"

Carey did not quite catch his meaning.

"Why, I thought you understood," he said. "I came here becauseGeorge—my brother—was anxious to have me. And, afterall, I had to go somewhere and do something. You see—"

He went on to explain how George had urged him to take thebookkeeper's position in the office, his own reluctance and finalyielding.

"George—you used to know him, Professor," he said, inconclusion, "has been tremendously kind to me. He has stood by meas no one else ever could—or would. Besides, he is afirst-class business man; that isn't my judgment, of course, for Ihaven't any business judgment, but those who know about such thingssay so. I took it for granted he knew best what I ought to do. Hesaid come, so I came. He was willing to hire me, and I can't thinkof any one else who would do as much."

His visitor nodded again. "Yes," he said. "Well, I had heardpractically all that before. This bird making, however, was yourown idea, not his. What does he think of it?"

"Oh, he likes to have me do it. It keeps me amused, he says. Andit does. Honestly, I don't know how I could have stoodthe—well, the living here and meeting all the people I knowand—and so on, if I hadn't had my playthings to turn to. Thatis what they call them," he added, with an apologetic smile, "myplaythings."

Knight rose to his feet and looked at his watch.

"I must be going," he said.

Carey was greatly disappointed. "I thought you were going tospend the afternoon with me," he declared. "I hoped you would tellme about this new expedition of yours."

"I want to tell you about it. That's why I am leaving now. If Igo now I can make the call or two I want to make and have myevening free. I must take the early train for Boston to-morrow. Canyou come to my rooms at the hotel after supper to-night, foranother talk?"

There was no hesitancy in the reply.

"I'll come," said Carey, emphatically.

"Good! I'll be waiting for you about eight o'clock."

He tossed the corncob pipe on the bench, scattering ashes in away that would have shocked Phoebe Higgins' orderly soul, andstrode out of the shop without even a good-by. Carey, peering afterhim through the window, heaved a sigh. With him went romance andadventure, the atmosphere of out of doors and the great, free joyof life and labor at their completest. More than once, in the olddays, Carey had heard Wellmouth people characterize John Knight asa "crank," and, since knowledge of his own bird making becamewidespread, he knew the same name was often applied to him. Itappeared that there were lucky and unlucky cranks. And the formervariety deserved their good fortune, of course. Only a short timebefore, his sister-in-law had observed, in a supper tableconversation, that people usually got about what they deserved inthis world.

He turned back to his workbench and the black duck. It washarder to concentrate upon the poise of the wing than it had been.Memories of that glorious summer in Labrador kept occurring to him.They were useless, even tormenting memories, but in a way they werepleasant. At last he laid the duck down and, his knees crossed andhis empty pipe between his teeth, sprawled upon his packing caseseat, his back against the bench, and allowed his mind to driftunhampered toward the Arctic Circle.

There came another knock at the door, but he did not hear it.Then, after a moment, that door opened a little way, and some onesaid:

"Carey, are you there? May I come in?"

He sprang up and the packing case fell backward to the floorwith a clatter.

"Eh?" he cried. "Why—oh, yes! Yes, of course. Comein."

Emily Sayles accepted the invitation.

"Good afternoon," she said.

He was regarding her oddly. They had not met since the eveningof her visit to the office and, having been favored with no slyhints or sarcasms concerning that evening's happenings he wasconvinced—and thankfully so—that no one had seen herthere. Now, however, his expression as he stood before her was notso much astonishment at her presence as of concern. And his firstremark was, to her, inexplicable.

"I was expecting you," he said.

If he were not surprised to see her she certainly was by hisstatement.

"You were expecting ME?" she repeated. "Why?"

"Eh? Oh, I don't know. I was, that's all."

"I don't know why you should have been. I didn't tell any one Iwas coming here. I wasn't quite sure I should come, myself."

"No?...Well, it doesn't make any difference."

"But it does. I don't understand why you should have expectedme. Do you have what people call premonitions?"

"No-o. Not as a usual thing. But I must have had one now.Perhaps it was because I was thinking of you and—"

He paused and might have changed the subject, but her curiositywas aroused.

"Why in the world should you be thinking of me?" she asked."Wasn't that trial balance right, after all?"

"Yes. Yes, that was right. And why I should have been thinkingof you I—I don't know, exactly...But I was—yes, I wasthinking of you just at the moment when you came. I don't wonderyou were surprised at that. I am myself."

The confession was so frankly ingenuous that she could not helpsmiling. It was true, however. He had been thinking of her. For ahalf hour his thoughts had been busy with the Labrador trip, andKnight, and then, somehow or other, they had returned to Wellmouthand to her. And, with this realization, came the discovery that hehad thought a great deal about her of late. It was, as he had said,odd—very odd. Of course she had helped him with the trialbalance and his interview with her at Aunt Susan's reception hadmade that evening bearable, but—yes, he had thought of her aGREAT deal...Humph! He groped for a reasonable explanation.

"I think it must have been that I was afraid you would come," hesaid, gravely.

She looked at him in amazement and then burst into a laugh.

"Well, I must say I like that!" she exclaimed. "Carey Judson,you are the most— But there, you can't make me angry. I knowyou too well. Of course I came. I told you I was coming here soonto see your birds and the place where you make them. I meant tocome before."

He shook his head. "You know you shouldn't," he said. "I toldyou not to. Mrs. Higgins saw you. She is a good woman,but—she belongs to the sewing circle."

She interrupted. "Carey," she said, quickly, "are you going tosay the same silly things you said the other evening at the office?Unless you promise me not to speak another word of that kind Ishall go this minute and never come back. If you really want to getrid of me you understand now how to do it."

His fingers, as always when he was perplexed or troubled,strayed to his hair.

"I—I didn't mean to offend you, Emily," he protested.

"Well, you have. Shall I go?"

He twisted the lock of hair into a tight knot. There was amomentary pause. Then he said, "No."

"And it is thoroughly understood that what people may say is notto be mentioned by you to me again?"

"Yes."

"Very well...What? Did you speak?"

"Eh? No. At least I didn't mean to. I was thinking about myaunt—Mrs. Dain. She must be a remarkable judge ofcharacter... Sit down...No, not in that chair. That is forcompany."

"Well, I am 'company.'"

"Not that kind of company...Please don't sit in the chair; ithas acquired a habit of breaking down. May I offer youa—er—box seat?"

She did not understand about the chair, but she accepted theseat on the packing box, just as Professor Knight had done. Heturned toward the bench.

"Now I suppose you want to see some of my playthings," heobserved.

"Playthings! Oh, the birds? Yes, of course I do. I am crazy tosee them. But wait a minute. What did you mean by saying Mrs. Dainwas such a wonderful judge of character? Were you and shediscussing my character?"

"Eh? Oh, no! No, indeed! She was discussing mine. She said Ihadn't any strength of mind."

"Why, the idea!" indignantly. "I thought she was fond ofyou."

"She is...That is, I hope she is. But she was quite right. Shemeant I was like the young fellow in Simon Martin, or His FirstGlass, that old-fashioned total abstinence book we used to have onthe shelf at home. It isn't there now; Cora has pitched it out longago. Simon, as I remember, died eventually in the gutter, or acanal—or a ditch—somewhere where there was water. Lordknows why, for nobody hated water worse than he did. But hisprincipal trouble seemed to be that he couldn't say no. I can't sayit either—except in places where I should say yes."

She reflected. "I see," she said, after an instant. "You meanyou should have said no when I insisted upon staying here. Well, itisn't too late yet for you to say it—if you wish to."

He smiled. "I never did wish to," he answered. "And I havealready said yes. So that is settled...Here is the sort of creatureI am turning out in this factory. It is meant to look like a duck.Sometimes I think it does."

Her exclamations at the sight of the black duck were so sincerein their wonder and admiration that contrition at hisweak-mindedness was, for the moment at least, forced from histhoughts. And for a long time it did not return. Urged by her eagerquestions and evident real interest he exhibited his finished duck,the one he was at work upon, the model from which he had made hisbeetle- heads, the stuffed birds from which that model was made,his paints, his carving tools, and, at last, the new foot powerlathe which had just arrived from the manufacturers and had theprevious evening been taken from the crate.

"I shouldn't have bought that," he confessed, guiltily. "Ihaven't the money to pay for it and shan't have, until I get thecheck from Ed Moore, the fellow who ordered the beetle-heads. Cap'nTobias urged me to get it—and goodness knows it will be ahelp and a time-saver—but I didn't mean to buy anything yetawhile. Tobias kept after me and insisted that, if there was anylong delay, he would be responsible for the money andso—well, it was another case of 'Simon Martin'—Iyielded...But I shouldn't—I shouldn't. I had another use forthat money."

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask to what use he referred,but the expression upon his face caused her to refrain. Instead shebegan to speak of the Higginses, what dear, kind, whole-souledpeople they were. It was the right note, for, in praise of hisfriends, he forgot himself. He quoted Tobias' jokes, told of thelatter's pet name for his wife—Emily had not heard it and itamused her immensely—and of the "cruises" he and the captainhad taken in the Ambergris, Junior.

"He is a remarkably well-informed man," he declaredenthusiastically, referring to Higgins. "He is, really. Andhe—he understands, too. Now when he saw me at work on thatshore bird, that very first Sunday, he was as interested as if hecared for birds as—as I do. Of course he doesn't," relapsinginto his customary tone of apology when speaking of his own hobby."Nobody else cares for them like that, no practical, businesslikeperson; but he seems to care a good deal and—and, honestly,he, as I say, seems to understand. I suppose you don't just getwhat I mean by that. There is no reason why you should."

She nodded, her eyes shining.

"I think I do," she said. "Because—well, because I am surethat I understand—a little."

"Eh? Do you? Yes, I guess you do. If you didn't you wouldn't letme bore you like this."

"But you haven't bored me. I am more interested than I have beenfor—well, certainly since I came back to Wellmouth."

"Truly?...That's odd. Most people who come here think I am alittle crazy. No wonder they do. If I were like them I should thinkso, too."

"Be thankful you are not like them—most of them. What dothey or their opinions amount to?"

"Oh, a good deal. You mustn't get the idea that I have a pooropinion of the people here in this town. They are my people; theywere father's people. They are all right and—well, I am theone who is wrong. But I can't help it...And," with anotherdeprecating lift of the lip, "it is pleasant to find some one likeyou and Professor Knight who are—who must be—a littlewrong, too."

"Professor Knight? Who is he?"

He had been sitting on the bench, swinging his long legs andbending forward to speak. Now he straightened in surprise.

"What!" he exclaimed. "Why, by George, that's queer! Is itpossible I haven't said a word to you about Knight? Not a wordsince you have been here?"

"Not one word."

"Well...Well, by George!...Why, he was here just before youcame. Walked in at that very door and I never was more surprised tosee any one—or more glad. And I haven't mentioned his name! Iwas thinking of him when you came."

"Were you? I thought you said you were thinking of me."

"Why, yes. Why, yes, I was. I was thinking of him and about thatgorgeous summer he and I and those other chaps had in Labrador,and—and then, somehow or other, I drifted from that to you. Iwas thinking of you when I heard you call me...Hum!...I don't seewhy. There is no reasonable connection between that Labradorexpedition and you; now is there?"

His question was so seriously asked that she laughed.

"I can't see any," she replied; "but perhaps I may when you tellme more about this Mr. Knight."

"Not Mister—Professor. He is—oh, he is a wonderfulfellow. Why, he—"

He began to sound the praises of the great man, of hisdiscoveries in ornithology, of the honors paid him in this countryand abroad, of the expedition to Labrador and his own part in it;then, at last, of the professor's call upon him that afternoon andof the hint of the new expedition.

"Where is it to be this time?" she asked, breaking in on hisflow of excited enthusiasm.

"I don't know. He hasn't told me yet. He will to-night, though.I am sure. I am going to see him again to-night, at his room up atthe hotel. I am sure he will tell me all about it then."

She leaned forward. "Carey," she said, eagerly, "you don'tsuppose—you don't suppose it is possible he is going to askyou to go with him on that expedition?"

He stared at her. "Ask me?" he repeated. "ME? Why—why no,why should he?"

"Why shouldn't he? You went with him before. And he likes you,or he wouldn't have come here to see you. He might be going to askthat very thing. I am almost sure he is...Oh, wouldn't that bewonderful for you!"

She was quite as excited now as he was. More so, for, after thefirst flush of the amazing and rapturous idea, the myriadobjections to it were forming in his mind. Slowly he shook hishead.

"He wouldn't ask me," he said. "There are hundreds of better menthan I am who would be crazy to go. And they could go...I couldn't,even if I had the chance."

"Why not? Of course you could. You would. You wouldn't THINK ofdoing anything else."

"I couldn't think anything BUT something else. How could I go?Expeditions like those he goes on are expensive. Very often thechaps who go out furnish a part of the money. Where would I come inthere?"

"But I thought the museums and—and societies, whateverthey are, furnished the money."

"Sometimes they do. Sometimes the trip is financed by privateindividuals, persons interested in science, you know. And I judgefrom the little Big Jack said—that's what we used to callhim, 'Big Jack'—that this particular trip he is planning willhave to be financed that way. And, in that case, it is almost surethat every one going on it will have to pay his own way. No, Iguess—but we needn't worry. Of course he has no idea ofasking me."

"I am almost sure that is just what he means to do. Oh, Carey,don't you SEE? He came to Wellmouth on purpose to meet you again.He was so interested in the birds you were making. He— Andyou are going to see him this evening. I shall be dying to learnwhat he does say to you. Will you promise to tell me all aboutit?"

"Why, yes, certainly; if you really care to know."

"I do. Good!...Carey, were you planning to work here to- morrowevening?"

"Yes...But," anxiously, "you mustn't come down here, Emily.I—I know I promised not to say any more about your being seenwith me, but—well, it just won't do, that's all. I like tohave you—you must know that—but—"

"Hush! hush! I have no idea of coming here to-morrowevening."

"Haven't you?...Oh!...Well, that's right."

"If I wanted to come I should, of course, but Idon't—to-morrow evening. You are coming to take supper withmother and me to- morrow evening, Carey."

"What?...Oh, no, I can't."

"Why not? Mother has been charging me for more than a week tosee you and fix a time for your having supper with us. Now thattime is fixed. You are to come tomorrow at six o'clock."

"But I can't, Emily. Don't you see?"

"No. I don't see. You can spare an evening from your ducks aswell as not."

"It isn't that."

"It mustn't be anything else. Carey, you deserve a good talkingto and I am going to give you one. You are behaving ridiculously.You are going about town here, hiding from every one, those whowould like to be your friends as well as those who aren't. If youhad committed some mean crime you couldn't act more guilty orshamefaced."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I have done just that," he said.

"You have done nothing of the sort. You were unfortunate inbusiness. Lots of others have had that happen to them, even here inWellmouth. You think every one is whispering about you and sayinghow wicked you are. They aren't. The worst they have ever said isthat you were careless and let your partner deceive you. And theyare not saying even that now; you are an old story and they haveother things to talk about. They have practically forgotten youand, if they hadn't, the surest way to convince them that you arewicked is to slink and hide and run away. I said there were peoplehere who would like to be your friends, and would be if you gavethem the chance. Why not give it to them?...Oh, do say something!Don't sit there as if you were deaf and dumb. And don't smile,either. What satisfaction do you suppose I get out of lecturing aperson who just sits still and smiles that irritating smile?"

The smile broadened a little. "You are preaching the same gospelthey all do," he observed.

"All? Who are 'all'?"

"Oh, Aunt Susan and George—and Cap'n Tobias. Yes, even BenEarly, although he doesn't say it as bluntly. Benjamin usuallysends his advice by the around the corner route."

"You notice I am not sending mine that way. And, no matter howor from whom it comes, it is good advice. Carey, WON'T you takeit?"

He clasped his knee in his hands and rocked back and forth onthe bench. She waited, fighting her impatience, until he spoke. Andwhen, at last, he did, his reply was, to her surprise, merely amonosyllable.

"Yes," he said.

She gasped.

"You WILL take it?" she cried. "You mean—"

"I mean that hereafter I shall slink and hide no more."

"Oh, please don't be offended. I shouldn't have used thosewords."

"They were the right words. Slinking and hiding were prettynearly what I have been doing. Now I am through. I have been payingattention to my own counsels. I don't know why; I never counseledmyself well, as I remember. My only excuse might be that, prettyoften, when I have followed the advice of other people the resultshave been as bad—or worse. Never mind; I am willing to tryonce more. From now on I shall slap Cap'n Elkanah Snow on the backand call Mrs. Loveland by her Christian name. I forget what thatname is, for the moment, but no doubt she will tell me, if Iask."

This was not altogether satisfactory. Miss Sayles shook herhead.

"Oh, dear!" she sighed. "I am afraid you are impossible."

"I am. And now I am going to be impossible in another way. Whattime shall you expect me to-morrow evening; six, was it?"

"Yes; but, Carey, I don't want you to come if you comeunwillingly."

He ceased to smile. Leaning forward on the bench he spoke slowlyand with earnestness.

"I shall come willingly enough," he told her. "I have wanted tocome very much. A half dozen times I have been tempted to acceptyour invitation to call, but I haven't because—well, because,although I can stand the gossip, I didn't want any one I caredfor—any of my real friends dragged into it. It may have beenoversensitiveness—I guess it was—but it is a part of mymake-up. I made a fool of myself in that crazy business venture ofmine. I ruined hundreds of innocent bystanders, and I was—andam—ashamed of myself. Nevertheless, I dare say I haveadvertised that shame more than was necessary down here and thosewho are still friendly may have suffered in consequence. I am goingto turn over a new leaf and see what is on the other page...Oh, thedecision isn't quite as sudden as it sounds. I have been thinking alot of late. George and Aunt Susan and Tobias—andyou—well, you ARE friends, and I guess the very least I cando is try and please you. I shall be wiping my shoes on yourdoormat at six to-morrow."

The smile was again in evidence, but still his visitor was notentirely satisfied.

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed. "I—I don't know what to make ofyou, Carey Judson."

"Nobody ever did. Father tried to make a banker out of me andsee what happened. It is all right, though, Emily. I'm pretty sureyou and the rest are right. I have been slinking and hidingaltogether too much. Now I shall be openly brazen and displaymyself in the public places."

"Yes," sarcastically, "I can imagine how brazen you will be.Well, at least you will come to supper...Why," after a glance ather watch, "I must go this minute. I had no idea it was solate."

She rose. He slid from the bench.

"Late!" he protested. "It can't be late."

"It is after five and I have been here over two hours...Why,what— You're not going with me, are you?"

He had taken his hat from the nail by the door.

"Do you mind if I do?" he asked.

"I? Of courseI don't mind; but—well," with alittle laugh, "considering what you have said about being seen withme, this is—rather sudden."

"My objection was entirely confined to your being seen with me.You say that is ridiculous. Shall we go?"

They walked through the yard together. A window shade in theHiggins' home moved ever so slightly. They both noticed it. Hestroked his chin.

"Poor Phoebe!" he sighed. "This has been a hard afternoon forher. And sewing circle meets to-morrow...Shall we go across thefields or around by the Main Road? The road would be my suggestion.Tobias has a maxim that is not all bad, 'When you've made up yourmind to tackle pork,' he says, 'you might as well go the wholehog.' I vote for the Main Road."

Emily told her mother the whole story when she reached home.

"I can't make him out at all," she declared. "He is the QUEERESTfellow."

Mrs. Sayles nodded. "Cap'n Jim-Carey was queer, too," she said."Only a few could make him out. Those who did found it worthwhile."

Chapter IX

When dinner, next day, was over Carey started as usual for theoffice. His brother was not with him, having again taken the earlytrain on a business trip to Boston. George's frame of mind duringthe week just past had been the same curious combination of goodspirits and bad which Carey fancied he had noticed of late andwhich he was inclined to believe dated fromhis—George's—former short sojourn in the city. At home,except for occasional lapses into absent-mindedness and silence,George was his jolly, joking self, especially when his wife waspresent, but at the office he was—or so it seemed toCarey—thoughtful, brusque and even gloomy. Instead ofloitering in the outer room beside the bookkeeper's desk, chatting,smoking and exchanging badinage with callers, or with Early and hisbrother, he remained for the most part in his own little room atthe back, and Carey, going in there to ask concerning matters ofbusiness routine, often found him sitting by the window, anunlighted cigar between his teeth, apparently lost in reverieswhich, judging by his expression, could not be pleasant. On the wayhome to dinner, or after closing time, he often suggested walkingaround by way of the post office and at that office he usuallyposted a bulky letter. He came to work earlier in the morning,apparently that he might be the first to look over the mail. Infact, he made it a point to see all mail the moment Jabez Drewbrought it and Carey more than once saw him extract from the packetenvelopes which he pocketed without comment and did not mentionafterwards. That he was troubled his brother was now sure, but whatthat trouble might be Carey had no idea, nor, of course, did heask.

This Monday morning, after Maggie had served his solitarybreakfast—Cora was suffering from one of the headaches whichwere likely to follow her husband's departure on a city excursionto which she was not invited—and remained in herroom—Carey left the house by the side door, as usual; but,instead of walking directly down to the gate, he turned to theright and hurried around to the back door, that opened from thewashroom. Hepsibah was in the washroom, preparing for her Mondayforenoon's labor at the tubs. He whistled to attract her attentionand then beckoned her to the door. She came, wiping her arms on herapron.

"Well, what is it?" she asked, impatiently. "Don't keep me anylonger than you have to. This is wash day and I've got troubles ofmy own. Yes, and a whole lot that ought to be somebody's else's. Idon't know whether you know it or not, but I am supposed to do thatMaggie thing's washing nowadays, she bein' too ladified orlazy—I have my own notion which—to do it herself."

This was news to Carey, who smiled at her classification of thesecond maid. Hepsibah misinterpreted the smile and resented it.

"There's nothing to laugh at," she snapped. "If you could seethe amount of ruffled doodads that woman wears you'd think she wasthe Queen of Sheby instead of hired help. And the way she windsher"—meaning Mrs. Judson, of course—"around herfinger is enough to turn a decent person's stomach. If she has todo this she'll leave. If she don't have so and so done FOR hershe'll leave. But she DON'T leave—no such luck! Well, mypatience is wearin' pretty thin and the first thing they knowthere'll be some real leavin' and it won't be just talk neither. Ifit wasn't that I've cooked and washed for a Judson ever since I wasbig enough to earn my livin' and am gettin' too old and sot to likemakin' changes I'd walk out of this house and let 'em to starchtheir own ruffles... Well, what is it you want? Don't bother me anylonger than you can help."

"I just wanted to tell you that I shouldn't be here at supperto- night, Hepsy. I thought you might like to know it."

"Humph! Sartin I like to know it. With you and George away therewon't be any men folks to cook for, which is a mercy that don'toften come my way on a wash day. She and that Maggie will be here,of course, but they can take what I give 'em and be thankful for somuch...Where are you goin'? Are those bird playthings of yours sodreadful important you can't leave 'em long enough to eat?"

He shook his head.

"No, not as important as that," he replied. "I—well, Ishall probably get supper somewhere else to-night."

"Probably?...Humph! I see I noticed you had your Sunday suit on,but I thought maybe that was because you was too absent-minded toremember that Sunday didn't last all through the week. So you'llprobably have supper somewhere else, eh? Well, I hope Desire Saylesis as good a cook as she used to be. If she is you might go furtherand fare worse."

He stared at her.

"For heaven's sake, Hepsy!" he exclaimed. "How did you know Iwas going there?"

Hepsibah's mouth was as unsmiling as ever but there was anamused glint in her eye.

"I didn't know," she observed, "but I'm like the boy that stolethe green apples—I could guess from the symptoms. Looks as ifI guessed right. There, there! It didn't take such a lot ofsmartness. I heard about you and Emily being out walkin' togetheryesterday afternoon. No, no;I didn't see you, I had otherfish to fry. It happened to be one of that Maggie's afternoons outand she saw you and told me about it. I presume likely she told HERabout it, too," with a jerk of the head in the general direction ofthe room upstairs. "Half of Wellmouth knows it by this time. If youexpected to keep it a secret you and Emily better pick out someother time than Sunday afternoon to do your walkin' in. That's whenmost folks haven't anything to do except look out of thewindow."

Carey had no comment to make. Her statement was but confirmationof his own conviction. He knew that his walk with Miss Sayles alongthe Main Road had been witnessed by many eager eyes and that it wascertain to be the subject of much interested and speculativeconversation. More than once since expressing his vow to turn overa new leaf and pay no attention whatever to the gossip of hisfellow citizens he had repented of that vow. Having turned thatleaf, however, he did not propose to turn it back again—atleast not yet.

"There was nothing secret about it, Hepsy," he said, calmly."Emily had told me she was coming down to the shop to see my birds.Yesterday she came and I walked home with her. Why shouldn't I? Ihave known the Sayles family all my life."

"No reason in the world why you shouldn't. I'm glad to seeyou're gettin' spunky enough to do what you please. It's the onlyway to get along in this town. If you set down to fret about whatfolks will say you'd never get up, for they're sayin' somethin'most of the time. Do as you want to and let 'em talk. That's myadvice and what I told you to do in the beginnin'."

"But how did you know I was going to the Sayles' home forsupper?"

"I said I didn't know. I guessed that was it because Desire toldme she was goin' to ask you there some of these days. She and Ihave had lots of talk and we've talked about you along with therest of this end of creation. Desire Sayles is a fine woman and sheand I went to school together when we were girls. SHE hasn't forgotit; there's nothin' stuck up and Lovelandy about HER... There! I'vegot to get back to my ruffles. Have a good time, Carey. I shan'ttell that Maggie or her where you've gone. Let 'em wonder, if theywant to."

Promptly at six that evening Carey knocked at the Sayles' door.Emily herself admitted him. The little hall looked much as heremembered it. He had crossed that threshold many times in hisboyhood days. When Lawyer Simeon Sayles was alive his family andCap'n Jim-Carey's had been very friendly indeed and Carey andGeorge had eaten many a meal in the big dining room. Emily was alittle girl then and the gap of years between her age and that ofthe older Judson boy was huge. Later, when he came home fromcollege on his vacations, he found the gap greatly diminished,although of course it still existed. Emily was then just beginningher term at the boarding school in Connecticut and Carey rememberedwell his astonishment at the change that first season away fromhome had made in her. He found her worshipful adoration of a lordlycollege sophomore flattering and gratifying. Her interest in hisrecent Labrador trip was pleasing also and it was during thatsummer and the one following that he had permitted her to help withhis bird mounting and the preparation of his specimens. For girlsin general he had no great fancy, nor did they care greatly for theshy, reticent fellow who danced only under compulsion and avoidedstraw rides and beach picnics whenever possible. They consideredhim a nice enough boy, but bashful and almost dull. George was theladies' man always and Carey, even then, was the "queer one" of thefamily. He tolerated and even liked Emily Sayles because she liked,or pretended to like, things in which he was interested. She wasthe one girl in Wellmouth he had remembered with sincere pleasureand, after her father's death, when she and her mother moved to NewYork, he missed seeing her when at home. Also, for some reasonwhich he could not explain, nor attempted to, she had been the onewhom he most dreaded meeting after his disgraceful adventure in thebanking business.

She welcomed him cordially and made no reference to the factthat he had kept his promise and come to supper. He had doubted thewisdom of that promise many times since making it; and when openingthe Sayles gate had fancied that he felt a tingling sensationbetween his shoulders as if eyes up and down the street were fixedupon that spot. When he took her hand, however, the sensationvanished and with it, for the time, his misgivings. After all, ashe had told her at the shop, there were apparently people whowished to be his friends. He had hidden nothing from them. Theyknew his story, all of it, knew the position he held inWellmouth—that he was a failure, a man without a future andan object of his brother's charity. They knew all that and yet,apparently, they still were anxious to offer him their friendship,society and even hospitality. Why shouldn't he accept the offer?Except his brother and the Higginses and—yes, Hepsibah, ofcourse—and Emily Sayles and her mother—he had not areal friend left in Wellmouth. He had returned there, knowing thathe had forfeited all past friendships and sure that he deserved nonew ones. Now he realized that much of this feeling waspretense—make-believe. Honest friendship was what he desiredand needed more than anything else. And here, in this house, itwas, apparently, waiting for him.

"You are exactly on time," said Emily. "I was sure you wouldbe."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because punctuality was always a strong point with you. Perhapsyou have forgotten, but I haven't. On the rare occasions when youdeigned to permit me to come to your house and help you—orwatch you—stuff those birds of yours you didn't like it atall if I was a minute late. I told mother you would appearprecisely at six, and here you are."

"You have a good memory," he said. "Those bird-stuffing dayswere at least a thousand years ago."

"Not quite, I hope. Mother is in the sitting room and she isvery anxious to see you. Go right in. I'm sure you know theway."

He did know the way, but he scarcely knew that sitting room whenhe entered it. The old furniture was there, most of it, but thehideous old wall paper was covered with a new and cheerful pattern,the marble mantel had lost its lambrequins, the windows were hungwith bright curtains instead of the stiff and ugly laces heremembered so well. The changes were all inexpensive, but they weremarked. In the old days that room was formality itself, a de luxeedition of fifty Wellmouth sitting rooms. Now, under thetransforming touch of the hand of another generation, it was aplace where one might not only sit, but sit in comfort. One changehe particularly noticed was that the bulky square piano had beenreplaced by a modern upright.

The big armchair which had been the favorite lounge of Mr.Simeon Sayles was in the place where it used to be, by the centertable. It had, however, been reupholstered and Mrs. Desire Sayleswas occupying it. She smiled a greeting and extended a hand.

"You'll excuse my not getting up, won't you, Carey," she said."I can't do as I want to nowadays. Emily has me in charge and shehas made me promise to stay in the chair until supper is ready. Itis a dreadful thing to have to obey orders from one's own child. Ihope you may never reach that stage."

Emily, at the door, shook her head reprovingly. "She has beentrotting about the kitchen for three whole hours," she said. "Shehasn't the slightest idea of obeying my orders, Carey, and it wasonly when I threatened to call the doctor that she consented to sitdown for a few minutes. She is afraid of the doctor, I am happy tosay. He is my sole reinforcement."

Mrs. Sayles smiled. "I am not afraid of my doctor," shedeclared; "but I don't care for callers who charge for theirsociety. Sit down here beside me, Carey, and talk to me. Emily, ifyou don't look after those biscuits they will be charcoal andalthough that is said to aid digestion I don't want mine helped inthat way."

"Yes, do sit down and make her behave," begged her daughter. "Imust leave you for a few minutes. Supper is almost ready. I shan'tbe long."

She hastened to the rescue of the biscuits and Carey, drawing achair beside that of Mrs. Sayles, listened while the latter chattedof local happenings, of the changes which the carpenters andpainters and paper hangers had made in the old home and how Emilywas responsible for all these changes and had made many others withher own hands.

"She is a remarkably capable girl," declared Desire."Considering whose daughter she is, very capable indeed. And shemanages her mother in a way that makes me feel about ten years old.I remember that your father, Carey, used to say I was too strictwith her. He was an indulgent parent, as probably you know betterthan I."

Carey nodded. "He was indeed," he agreed, soberly.

"Yes, he was, too indulgent in many ways, I'm afraid, and tooinsistent upon his own way in others. Well, if he sees thatdaughter of mine ordering me about now, he must feel, I shouldimagine, that the sins of the parents are visited upon—well,upon those parents themselves, sometimes."

Carey was silent. It occurred to him to wonder how that fatherof his must feel if aware of the consequences which had followedhis stubbornness in the choice of profession for his favoriteson.

Mrs. Sayles noticed his silence and turned quickly to look athim. Then she changed the subject and began to speak of Emily'sventure with the piano lessons.

"She has—let me see—nine pupils now," she said."Some of them she seems to think promising, and others—well,not altogether that. That little Elsie Cahoon is her hardestproblem. That child is her father all over again. There is oneadvantage in having lived in a community as long as I lived in thisone, it supplies you with reasons for things. I knew Obed Cahoonwhen he was a boy and of all the pestiferous little imps of Satanthat ever lived he was probably the worst. He was a saintly littleblue-eyed creature to look at—so is his daughter, for thatmatter—and the way in which he could lie to the teacher afterhaving run away from school to go swimming was nothing less than agift. Every one prophesied that he would surely be hanged some day,if he wasn't drowned before he reached the hanging age. Well, hehas escaped so far, although some of the prophets haven't given uphope. As for that Elsie— Oh, here is Emily, so I judge thatsupper must be ready."

It was and they adjourned to the dining room. Carey's bruisedconscience received another prod as he noticed how slowly Mrs.Sayles moved, leaning upon his arm, and how feeble was the stepwhich he remembered as so brisk and quick. Those sins of thefathers—surely it should be sufficient to visit them upon thesons, without extending the visitation to innocent sufferers likethese.

Desire herself made no reference to her enfeebled condition andchattered gayly all the way to her chair at the table. Emily sat atthe foot and Carey was assigned the head. The meal was a simplecountry supper of the old-fashioned kind, and the conversationaccompanying it of a sort calculated to lure the visitor'sattention from himself and his own worries to impersonal andtherefore more pleasant matters. They spoke further of thealterations in the house, those so far made and the others planned.Emily told of her experiences as a music teacher and was optimisticconcerning the future of her experiment.

"I am enjoying it ever so much," she declared. "Just how rapidlymy pupils may be learning I'm not sure, butI am learning agreat deal—how to keep my patience, for one thing. ElsieCahoon alone is a liberal education along that line."

Mrs. Sayles related more stories of Elsie's father. Some of themCarey remembered having heard before; they were a part of Wellmouthhistory. He enjoyed hearing them again, smiled, and even laughedaloud at times, and, before the supper was over actually told astory or two of his own. For almost the first time—the hoursspent at his beloved bird making excepted—he forgot himselfand spoke freely and without self-consciousness. And notonce—he was not conscious of this until afterward—washe asked a question about the office of J. C. Judson & Co.

When they rose from the table Desire announced that there was tobe no dishwashing, or even clearing away that evening.

"Leave everything just as it is," she ordered. "I shall have togo to my room pretty soon; the doctor and Emily have entered into aconspiracy to make me keep childish hours and when I rebel I am notpermitted to get up until noon next day, so it is easier to do as Iam told in the first place. I am put to bed every night at eight,so I don't propose to waste the three quarters of an hour I haveleft. We will all go into the other room and talk until the clockstrikes. Carey, I don't suppose you realize it, but you are theonly guest—only table guest, I mean—that Emily and Ihave had the honor of entertaining since we came back here to live.I, for one, am going to make the most of you."

Carey was surprised to hear this. The home of Lawyer SimeonSayles was, during his boyhood and college days, a center of socialactivity. The hospitality there was proverbial. Whenever a famouslecturer or a state senator—or, on rare occasions, agovernor—came to Wellmouth, it was usually the Sayleses whoentertained him.

Emily, perhaps, guessed his surprise, for she said: "That istrue, mother, but we mustn't let Carey imagine we have beenentirely neglected. Ever and ever so many people have called andhave been nice to us. Nellie Loveland dropped in the very day ofour arrival."

Her mother nodded. "She did," she agreed. "And sat in the midstof trunks and boxes and told us all about her art studies and thewonderful people she had met in Boston, and retailed every item ofgossip that had accumulated in town here for three whole years.And, therefore, we couldn't unpack as much as our nightgowns untilit was time to put them on. Oh, yes! We have had callers."

"We haven't invited people here," Emily went on to explain,"because we weren't ready for them yet. And we haven't acceptedinvitations because the doctor thinks mother should rest and not goout at night. We did go to your aunt's reception, Carey,because—"

"Because Susan Bain used to be one of my best friends," put inDesire, "and I wanted to see her again. I had a good time, too,even if I did have to stay in bed all the next day to pay for it.But the fact remains, Carey, that you are the first person who hastaken a meal with us since we came."

Carey said that he appreciated the honor, but that he did notexactly see why he was selected as its recipient. Mrs. Saylessmiled.

"You are Cap'n Jim-Carey's son," she said. "And if your fatherhad been living he would have come without an invitation. Cap'n Jimnever stood on ceremony with us. We shall ask George and his wifebefore long, of course, but—well, Emily seemed to think youmight enjoy it more if you came by yourself. NOW we will go intothe sitting room."

The conversation there was quite as general in scope as had beenthat about the supper table. Not once were Carey's personalaffairs, past or present, mentioned. It seemed odd to him. He hadbeen expecting Emily to ask concerning his call upon ProfessorKnight at the hotel the previous evening. She had appeared greatlyinterested in the professor and his proposed expedition, duringtheir talk in the Higgins' shop. As for him he had thought oflittle else. He wondered if her professed interest was soperfunctory that she had forgotten it already.

When the grandfather's clock in the hall boomed eight Mrs.Sayles rose from the armchair. "Bedtime for old folks andchildren," she announced. "Good night, Carey. We have enjoyedhaving you here and, of course, you will come again and often. Oh,no! You are not going home yet. Emily will tuck me in and then shewill be with you. You must wait. Come, Emily."

She left the room, on her daughter's arm, and they moved slowlyup the stairs together. Carey, alone in the sitting room, satsmoking—for they had insisted upon his doing so—histhoughts drifting back to the days when, as a boy, their house hadbeen so familiar to him. As he had told Emily, that time seemed atleast a thousand years before, in another and far happier age.

He heard Emily's step on the stairs. She came into the room, hereyes shining with excitement.

"There!" she exclaimed, pulling a chair near his and sittingdown. "NOW! Now tell me about it. I haven't said a word to motherbecause I thought perhaps I shouldn't until you had seen him again.You DID see him, of course. What did he say? When is he going? Didhe ask you to go with him? Tell me everything. I can't wait anotherminute."

So she had not forgotten. It pleased him to know that she hadnot. She was genuinely interested, after all. He smiled and drewthe lock of hair down over his nose.

"Why...yes," he said, slowly.

"Yes? Yes to what—to which?"

"To everything. I saw him—Professor Knight, of course youmean—at his room in the hotel after supper last night. He isplanning an expedition in South America—up the Amazon andthen, perhaps, a little way into the interior if he can make it.There will be four others in the party. He asked me to be one ofthe four."

She clapped her hands delightedly. "Good!" she exclaimed. "Iknew he would. I was sure that is what he really came herefor."

He shook his head. "I am not so sure," he said, "but he did askme to go with him. I wish I could have said yes; it would have beena wonderful experience."

She leaned back in her chair. "DIDN'T you say yes?" shedemanded. "Carey Judson, don't tell me you told him you wouldn'tgo."

"I told him I couldn't. I appreciated the honor, for it was one,and I tried to make him understand that I did; but of course mygoing was out of the question."

"Why?"

He smiled. "For a dozen reasons," he said. "In the first place Ididn't feel that it would be right for me to leave George."

"Nonsense! George would be the first one to tell you to go. Doyou suppose he would stand in the way of such a gloriousopportunity for you as that is? Of course he wouldn't! He can getanother bookkeeper easily enough; bookkeepers are plentiful. Oh,let me talk to him! If THAT is your only reason—"

"It isn't. There are others. And just one of them is sufficient.I haven't the money."

"Money? Do you mean you would have to furnish money of yourown?"

"Somebody will have to furnish a lot of money before thatexpedition starts. Big Jack—the professor, I mean—feelspretty certain that Moore and his crowd will back him to an extent,but he, himself, will pay his own way and so must each one of theparty. The other chaps are lucky enough to be sons of rich men. Iam not."

"But—oh, dear! Will it cost a great deal?"

"About fifteen or twenty thousand each, probably. Outfit, Indianguides, porters, motor launches, canoes—oh, this isn't goingto be any casual picnic. Knight means to go a long way and stay formonths...So, you see—"

He waved the proposition away, smiling still. She recognized thetorturing disappointment behind the smile.

"Oh, dear!" she sighed. "Fifteen thousand dollars! That IS agreat deal."

"It might as well be a million, so far as I am concerned. Nowlet me tell you more about their plans. By Jove!" enthusiastically,"it will be a trip! They are planning to go first to the islands onthe Pacific side of Central America. They are scarcely known atall, some of them, and the bird life there is—"

He went on to rhapsodize over the prospect of weeks spent inthat paradise.

"From there," he continued, "they will come back to the Atlanticand down to the Amazon. Then, after the new outfit, all the boatsand crews and the rest of it, are ready they will go up theriver—away up. Then perhaps up some of the tributaries. Oh,there are more Rivers of Doubt than one in that neighborhood. Thinkof it! Places where NO one, no white man, has ever been before!There may be birds there that haven't even been classified yet. IfI could go there— But—oh, well!" with a short laugh,"it is something to have been asked."

The fire and enthusiasm died from his eyes and he brushed thelock of hair away from his nose and turned to her, smiling.

"I'm mighty glad the others are going," he said. "I shall bewith them in spirit, at all events."

Her sympathy for him was so keen that she found it hard to facethe inevitable as patiently as he was doing. She frowned and bither lip.

"It is a perfect shame that you can't go," she vowed. "Oh,Carey, isn't there any way for you to get that money? If you toldyour brother, wouldn't he—"

He raised a protesting hand. "I shan't tell him," he said."George has done quite enough for me already. Too much!"

"But he is—every one says he is—a rich man. If hecould advance the money—"

"No."

"Oh, dear! When you say no that way I know you mean it. Butisn't there some one? Your aunt—Mrs. Dain; she is well-to-do.And she is VERY much interested in you. She told mother—"

Again he interrupted. "I have been intrusted with some of AuntSusan's money before," he said, quietly. "Just as I have withyours—and hundreds of others. No, thank you." Then with asudden burst which revealed to her a little of his real feeling, headded: "Emily, if that twenty thousand were raised by publicsubscription and offered to me I shouldn't accept a cent. Goodheavens! what do you think I am?...There! Now we'll talk ofsomething else. I have some news for you. I had a letter from EdMoore this morning. He seems to like those beetle-heads as well asKnight said he did. He wrote a whole lot of nonsense about themand, which is more to the purpose, he sent, not only the check forthe hundred and twenty dollars, but added another hundred andfifty, for the black duck I am making now. Seemed to be afraid someone else might get them if he didn't pay in advance. Pshaw!" with apuzzled shake of the head, "I don't see why he did that. For afinancier he appears to be a trustful person. Not a word about mysending a receipt." To her just then anything connected with hismaking of wooden birds seemed a pitiful anticlimax, but she triedto pretend interest.

"That is nice—your getting the check," she said. "You canpay for your new lathe now, can't you?"

"I shall pay Tobias a part of the price. He advanced the moneyfor the lathe, you know. I shan't pay the whole yet—that is,I doubt if I do. I had intended using the money for something elseand somehow I can't give up the idea...I suppose you are wonderingwhat I mean. I told Aunt Susan before she left, but I haven't toldany one else, not even George. I don't mind telling you though.That is, if you care to hear it."

"Of course I care. What is it?"

"Well," doubtfully, "all right; if you are sure it won't boreyou."

"Nonsense! Tell me."

He reached again for the persecuted forelock. "It will soundfoolish, I warn you," he stammered, hesitatingly. "It always soundsfoolish to me when I say it aloud. I...humph!...Well, I want to paysome of my debts with it. You are surprised, aren't you? I don'twonder."

He began to disclose his cherished plan for making good to themost needy of his creditors in Wellmouth the money they had lostthrough the failure of his firm. As he talked he became moreearnest and she, listening intently, gained a little knowledge ofhow this scheme, or hope, had been an obsession with him ever sincehis return to the village, had, in fact, been the one compellingreason which had forced the decision to return.

"It must sound pretty picayune to you, I know," he faltered,pulling up with a jerk in the midst of his torrent of self-disclosure. "It does to me when I permit myself to think of it in acommon-sense way. When I think of—of you and your mother, andGeorge and Cora, and Cap'n Higgins, and Snow and Lovelandand—oh, all the others right here at home who have beendefrauded through me, I—well, I feel like what I am, and thatis something too mean to mention...Emily, when I first met you,that night of the reception, I tried to tell you a little of myfeelings when I learned that your mother and you had lost so much.You wouldn't let me talk about it. You may find this hard tobelieve, but it is the truth; I didn't really know that your motherhad so much of her money in—in our care. I didn't know ituntil—until after the smash. Oh, I should have known! It wasmy business to know. That is what I was there for. I just lefteverything to Osborne and—Oh, good God, what a mess I made ofit all! What a horrible, unforgivable mess!"

For the first time she caught a clear glimpse of his tormentedself under the mask of shy reticence and "queerness" that heusually wore. He put his hand to his face and groaned and themisery expressed by the action touched her heart with a pity beyondwords. Tears sprang to her eyes. She put her hand upon his arm.

"Don't, Carey, don't!" she begged. "Please don't."

He looked up, drew a long breath, and the mask slipped againbefore his face. He smiled.

"Excuse the hysterics," he said. "I try not to wail over my sinsin public, as a usual thing...Well," more briskly, "what I amtrying to say is that, although I can't attempt paying all myWellmouth creditors, I can, perhaps, pay a few of the smaller ones,and they need it most. Now that I have a little cash in hand, somethat I have saved from my salary and the larger part of Moore'scheck, I am going to begin the payments. What do you think of theidea? As insane as most of mine, is it?"

She was genuinely interested now. Her eyes flashed.

"It is splendid!" she cried. "And just like you, besides. No oneelse would have thought of doing such a thing."

"No one else would have neglected the care of his friends' moneyas I did. And some one else did think of it. It was George'ssuggestion in the beginning. He suggested it to me before I leftthe hospital. We haven't talked about it since, probably he hasforgotten it and believes I have. I haven't mentioned my plan tohim, nor to any one else except Aunt Susan—and now you. Youwon't mention it either, will you? You see, I had rather it wasn'tknown. I—I am a little ashamed of it, as a matter offact."

"Ashamed! The idea! Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. It sounds so—so small, as if I weretrying to buy people's good opinion or—or buy off a little ofthe bad. I am not. I hope you understand that."

"I do. So will any one else with brains enough to understandanything. And of course I shan't mention it, if you don't wish meto. But how about those you pay? Won't they tell others?"

He rubbed his chin in a troubled fashion.

"That is the question," he admitted. "That is the mostperplexing thing about it. I shall ask them not to, of course, buthere in Wellmouth it seems hard to keep a secret. Tobias is alwaysboasting about everything on the Cape being wide open and publicand free. It would seem as if that applies to—er—speechand people's personal affairs; don't you think so?"

She laughed and was glad of the excuse for so doing. The shynessand almost timid apology with which he revealed the project whichhad evidently been sustaining hope for months was far fromhumorous. She laughed, but she felt more like crying.

"Indeed I do think so," she agreed. "Although I guess Wellmouthis no different in that respect from any other place where everyone knows every one else. I think you will have to make those youpay promise not to tell and—well, trust in Providence. Butwho are those first ones to be? You have decided that, Isuppose?"

He nodded. "Yes," he said. "I have, in a way, but I should likeyour advice, if you don't mind giving it. I want to pay Mrs.Samantha Bangs something on account. I can't pay her all, I onlywish I could, but I thought I would give her a hundred as abeginning. You see, her husband, Erastus—'Ratty' we boys usedto call him—worked for father all his life. Practically allshe had when he died was a small insurance and—" he shiftedin his chair and picked nervously at a wrinkle in histrousers—"she invested it through me because—well, Isuppose—yes, I know—because I was a Judson. Sheis—Hepsibah told me—sewing for Anne Smalley, thedressmaker. I thought even a hundred might help her a little. Don'tyou think it might?"

"Yes. I know it would. And she is a dear old soul. Whoelse?"

"Well, there is Miss Letitia Cahoon, Cap'n Obed's second cousinI believe she is. I—I scarcely know why I picked her out.Perhaps it was self-protection, or—or cowardice or something.She is poor and I thought I might give her ALL she lost. It wasn'tbut a hundred and fifteen dollars, but—" he smiled, ruefully."I honestly believe she has talked more about it than any other ofmy—er—victims in town. She doesn't speak to me when wemeet. If she were paid now, the very first one, I thought, perhaps,she might be prevented from doing more talking of the same kindif—or when—she learned that others had been paid. Oh,yes! it is just cowardice. I have tried to make myself believe thatit wasn't, but there is no use trying to make you believe it."

Her laugh was genuine and whole-hearted this time.

"It isn't cowardice at all," she declared. "And paying her is avery sensible thing to do. Goodness knows she needs every cent. Itseems to me you have chosen remarkably well, Carey...Of course I amnot certain that you ought to feel you must pay any one. Thereceivers—or executors—or whatever they call them, havemade a settlement of your firm's debts, as generous a settlement ascould be made, I am sure, and for you to deprive yourself of moneyyou have earned—and must need—is—well, I doubt ifsome people would not think you foolishly sentimental to doanything of the kind. Although," she added, earnestly, "I amawfully glad you are going to do it."

He had not, apparently, heard the latter part of this speech. Hewas fumbling in an inner pocket and from a bundle of papers of allsorts, he drew a long envelope and extracted therefrom a foldedsheet of paper, a bill form with the name of J. C. Judson & Co.printed at its head. He spread it out upon the center table.

"Here is a list of my creditors here in Wellmouth," he said. "Igot it from George. I made him give it to me when I first cameback. It is an awful list, like—like a death warrant, isn'tit? I never saw a death warrant, of course, but when George handedme this I felt the way I should imagine a condemned man must feel.All hope abandon ye who are entered here, you know. I wish, if itwouldn't trouble you too much, that you would look it over, Emily.There may be people whom you think it would be better to pay nowinstead of Mrs. Bangs and Tish Cahoon. Jabez—our wharfman—never calls her anything but 'Tish.' That is to say,nothing more complimentary."

Emily bent her head above the list. She noticed that the paperwas much worn in the folds, as if it had been opened and reopenedmany times. Against certain names were pencil checkings, andwritten notes, such as: "All they had," "MUST pay a little," or"Among the first." Some of these notes had had lines drawn throughthem, as if the person writing them had changed his mind onreflection. Her mother's name was there and something had beenwritten opposite it, but the pencil had blackened this to anindecipherable smudge. Her first thought was of the hours and hoursof despairing consideration which the poor fellow beside her musthave given to this list. She was glad she was sitting with herprofile toward him and that the shadow of the lampshade preventedhis seeing her face distinctly.

He was watching her intently, however, and in spite of hisabsorbing interest in the subject they were discussing, he foundhimself thinking what an attractive picture she made as she bentover that list. The lamplight edged her hair with a halo of yellowfire and the outline of her young face was as clean-cut as an old-fashioned portrait in silhouette. He watched her lips move as sheread the names, and the rise and fall of her long lashes. Strangethoughts were in his mind, very strange indeed to the mind of CareyJudson. He did not, himself, realize that they were there, but,when she looked up from her reading and turned toward him, hestarted as if awakened from an unwonted and not unpleasant dream.He blinked and rubbed his eyes.

She laughed gayly. "Good gracious!" she exclaimed. "I do believeyou have been taking a nap. You look as if you had."

He blinked again. Then he shook his head. "I have been thinking,I guess," he said. "I usually look queer when I do that."

"I don't know any one who thinks more than you do. If that werethe reason I should expect you to look queer most of the time."

His characteristic slow smile was in evidence again. "I havebeen given to understand that that was my usual appearance," hesaid. "I believe my newest pet name is 'Queer Judson.' Itdistinguishes me from my brother, you know."

She had heard the name applied to him and more than once, but itirritated her to find that he was aware of the local habit.

"Ridiculous!" she cried. "Who calls you that?"

"Almost every one now. I was called something like it incollege."

"Who told you you were called that here in Wellmouth?"

"Eh? Oh, several people. My sister-in-law told me first, Ibelieve. She was objecting—quite reasonably—to some ofmy queerness in the matter of the care of my room and she toldme."

"Dear me! That was kind of her, I must say."

"Oh, she was excusable. She objected to my leaving my rubberboots on top of the bureau. I was thinking of something else when Itook them off and I put them in the nearest place. They might quiteas likely have been under the pillow; I shouldn't have beensurprised to find them there—although, usually, I amsurprised when I am able to find them at all...Well, you havelooked over the list of the condemned. Appalling, isn't it?"

It had been, rather, but she had no idea of allowing him toguess that fact.

"It seems to me you have chosen exactly the right pair to payfirst," she said. "When are you going to see them?"

"To-morrow evening, I think. I ought to be at work on my ducks,but I shall probably call on Samantha and Letitia instead. It willbe an ordeal—especially Tish's part."

"Why? They should be very grateful to you."

"They won't be, if I can help it. And—" he was twistingthe lock of hair again, "I shan't know how to tell them what I havecome for. I shan't know how to begin, you see."

"I don't see at all. If I were you I should—"

He lifted his hand quickly. "You couldn't be," he interrupted."That is just it. I am myself, worse luck. Well, I suppose I shallget through with it somehow."

She reflected. "I am dying to know what they say when you givethem the money," she declared. "Miss Cahoon particularly. She willbe great fun. I—I suppose you wouldn't care to have me gowith you?"

For an instant his face lighted eagerly and she thought he wasabout to accept the suggestion. He did not, however. The lightfaded and he shook his head.

"No," he said, with decision. "Thanks, but it wouldn't do. Ifthey talk—and I am afraid they will—they must talkabout me and no one else. My friends mustn't be mixed up init."

"But I don't care in the least."

"No. It is my funeral—or partial resurrection—orsomething. I'll have to perform the ceremony...There!" rising, "Imust go now. I have had a wonderful evening. I wish I could makeyou understand how wonderful. It is the second in sequence. Lastevening, with Big Jack, was wonderful, too."

"It is too bad that you can't go with him on that South Americantrip. I am SO sorry."

"So am I, or I would be if it were even thinkable. And I ownthat I am a good deal set up with the vainglory of having beeninvited to go. Apparently," he rubbed his chin, "queerness isn't sonoticeable up the Amazon...Well, good night. Thank your mother forme, won't you? I shan't try to thank you for your patience andinterest in—in my debts."

At the door, as they shook hands, she said:

"Carey, you will tell me all about your calls on Mrs. Bangs andLetitia, won't you? Tell me just as soon as you can. I amtremendously interested."

He seemed to find it hard to believe. "Are you?" he asked. "Yes.I—I really think you are. If only I could pay yourmother—"

"Hush! Never mind that. And this is only the beginning, youknow. Why, perhaps you can pay every one in Wellmouth someday."

He laughed, but the laugh was short. "Perhaps Ben Early may diein the gutter, like Simon Martin," he observed. "It seems unlikelyat present...Well, I'll report on Samantha and Tish, if Isurvive...Good night."

The door closed behind him and he swung into his long-leggedstride through the darkness to the gate. Across the road, where adim light burned in a sitting room window a shade moved ever solittle. He did not see it move. His thoughts were otherwiseengaged.

Chapter X

Mrs. Samantha Bangs—widow of the late Captain Erastus,irreverently called "Ratty"—lived in a small, story and ahalf, white- clapboarded and green-shuttered house of the usualCape Cod type which was situated on the Lookout Hill Road, but atthe other side of the slope, a full half mile beyond thearistocratic section. She and her husband had bought that housefive years after their marriage, and "keeping the placeup"—that is, seeing that it was freshly whitewashed eachspring, that no pickets should be missing from the fence, nor weedspermitted to flourish amid the grass of the tiny frontlawn—had been their care and pride during Erastus' life.Since his death his widow had continued to live there alone,because, as she said, there was nowhere else to go and she shouldnot feel "to home anywheres else" if there were. It was quiteobvious, however, to her acquaintances in town, that the upkeep,even of as small an establishment as this, was a burden which herscanty financial resources could not carry many years. CaptainErastus had managed to save a few hundred dollars from the wagepaid him by J. C. Judson & Co., and his life had been insuredfor a thousand dollars. The thousand Samantha had intrusted toOsborne and Judson for investment. From that investment she hadbeen notified that she would probably get back one hundred andfifty. Each day, Sundays excepted, she trudged down to the tworooms over the post office where Miss Anne Smalley carried on adressmaking business, and there she did plain sewing from eight inthe morning to five at night. Miss Smalley's temper was a variablequantity, according to the state of custom, and as midsummer was aslack season her employee earned every cent paid for her servicesand was made to feel that she did.

On this particular Tuesday evening Samantha had come home lateand more than usually weary. Her supper was a perfunctory affair,hot tea, and baked beans warmed over from Saturday night and Sundaymorning. She warmed over the beans for the second time, not becausethey appealed to the taste, but purely from motives of economy."I've got to get rid of them everlastin' beans, somehow,"soliloquized Samantha, who, like most individuals in solitaryconfinement, talked to herself. "I can't afford to heave 'em away.Somebody's got to eat 'em, and the last time I set 'em in front ofthe cat he turned up his nose and hollered to be let out door."

So she ate a few herself and drank two cups of tea. Then, tootired to wash dishes immediately, she remained at the table,absently stirring the grounds in the bottom of her cup andthinking, as she so often thought, of how different the suppers inthat room used to be when her husband shared them with her.

A knock at the kitchen door caused her to "jump pretty nigh outof her skin," as she said afterward, and she answered it withforeboding. Callers came to the Bangs house but seldom nowadays andthe only person likely to call at that early hour in the eveningwas a representative of the "Portygee" family next door who had theneighborly habit of borrowing developed to an acute stage.

When, instead of a juvenile Portygee, she saw Carey Judsonstanding on the back step, she was—to quote her ownexpression once more—so took up short that she just stoodthere and gaped like a sculpin. "If I'd seen the Old Harry himselfperched on that step I couldn't have been more upset," declaredSamantha.

"Why, my good Lord!" was her greeting, which, considering thecomparison with the Old Harry, was rather surprising.

"Good evening, Mrs. Bangs," said Carey. "Are you busy—toobusy to see me a minute?"

Mrs. Bangs managed to say that she didn't know as she was busy.She didn't guess likely she was. No, of course she wasn't. Wouldn'the come in?

He entered and she preceded him into the little dining room. Shehad been having supper in the kitchen, but she made it a pointnever to receive company there. She might have asked him to beseated, but she was still too greatly amazed to see him at all toremember conventionalities. Also, it must be confessed, she wasapprehensive. Had he come to tell her that she was not to have eventhe hundred and fifty dollars?

He did not sit, nor did she. He was holding his straw hat in hishand and twisting it around and around by the brim as did JohnAlden when he came to see Priscilla in the "Courting of MilesStandish," the series of "Speaking Tableaux" given by the DramaticSociety of the Universalist Church.

"Mrs. Bangs," he faltered, "I—I—well, I've come totalk with you about—er—er—money."

She gasped. It must be what she feared. He HAD come to say shecould not have the hundred and fifty.

"Money?" she repeated. "Oh, my soul!...Oh, dear!"

He looked as if he would like to echo the "Oh, dear." He put thehat on the table and reached into his pocket.

"I have—er—brought you a hundred dollars," he said."I—I hope you—you can use it."

She stared at him as he produced a pocketbook and opened it.

"I wish it were more," he went on, in the same confused andembarrassed manner. "Perhaps there may be more by and by. You see,I—well, Cap'n Erastus, your husband, was—was—Iliked him and he worked for father so many years, I...Well, here isthe hundred. You will take it, won't you?"

He was counting the bills upon the table. Her fear was acertainty by this time and she stretched out a protesting hand.

"A hundred!" she cried. "Mercy on me! What WILL I do? Theysaid—Mr. George himself told me I'd get a hundred and fiftyanyhow. I was countin' on it I don't see how I CAN do withless."

He looked up. "I beg your pardon?" he said.

"Eh?...Oh, you don't have to do that, Mr. Carey. You don't haveto beg my pardon, if you'll only give me the other fifty. Ishouldn't ask it if I didn't need it so, truly I wouldn't. You see,it's the hens I'm thinkin' about most. Afore Rastus died he saidmuch as a dozen times: 'If I don't get the shingles pretty soon,S'manthy, it'll be too late for them hens.' That's what he said,and 'twas almost his last words. He was took down with his finalsickness and passed away, poor soul, and he never got 'em. Oh, Mr.Carey, if you COULD just— Can't you?"

Her visitor appeared bewildered. He had been absorbed in hiscounting and had heard practically nothing of the first part ofthis involved jumble of jerky sentences. He gazed at heruncomprehendingly.

"I beg your pardon?" he said again. "I don't think I quiteunderstand. What was it your husband wanted?"

She was very much excited and her attempt at explanation was notthe most lucid.

"Hey? What?" she asked. "Oh, shingles was what he wanted. If hecould only have got the shingles afore he died 'twould have beenSUCH a comfort to him."

Carey's mental haze was thicker than ever. He had a vaguerecollection that there was a disease which people called"shingles," but why any one should yearn for it more than any otherhe could not comprehend.

"I—well, really, Mrs. Bangs," he stammered, "I don'tsee—er—I thought your husband died of pneumonia. Itseems to me George, or some one, told me that he did."

"Yes, he did. That's what he died of, bronicle pneumony. Hedidn't suffer none to speak of, which was a mercy, but—"

"Er—just a minute, please. If he had pneumonia I can'tquite see why— There must be some mistake here somewhere. Whydid he want to have—shingles?"

"Why, I've been telling you! He wanted 'em for the hens. Formuch as a year afore he died—passed on, I shouldsay—that henhouse roof has leaked somethin' terrible everytime it rains. The last promise I made to him was that I'd have itfixed soon's ever I could and—and I've been countin' on usin'a little mite of the hundred and fifty Mr. George said I was to getback from the insurance money to put new shingles on the leakyplaces. Lord knows I can't spare an extry cent, but every time Isee them poor feathered critters—though some of 'em ain't gotas many feathers as they'd ought to have; moultin' in the wrongseason, seems so—when I see 'em settin' all hunched up andresigned, as you might say, on them roosts, with the rain a-pourin'down onto 'em like Noah's flood I—well, seems as if ICOULDN'T stand it! And now if I ain't to have but a HUNDRED,I—well, they'll have to drown, that's all there is toit."

Carey's mind was relieved concerning her sanity and his. Hehastened to offer more relief. He explained that she was to have,not only the one hundred and fifty dollars which was to be hershare of the settlement in bankruptcy, but an additional hundredpaid by him from his own savings. At first she did not seem tounderstand, then not to believe, but, at last, when she bothunderstood and believed, her joy and gratitude were the cause ofverbal outpourings which threatened to drown him as the rain hadpromised to drown the patiently resigned fowl.

"My goodness gracious!" she cried. "My goodness sakes alive! Howcan I thank you, Mr. Carey? If you knew what this means tome—and them hens! It's awful good of you. I'll never forgetit. I managed to scratch along on what Annie pays me for sewin',but it's hard scratchin'. And you're goin' to give me this? JustGIVE it to me?"

She had, by this time, insisted upon his sitting down and hepatiently explained and re-explained his reasons for paying herthis small portion of his debt and hinted at the vague hope ofother small payments which might come in the distant future.

"Of course I can't promise that," he said. "If I were able Ishould pay every cent I owe, and the Wellmouth people first of all.I can't do that, but I am going to try and pay a little, here andthere, to those, like yourself, who—er—may need it, youknow. I wish I could make you understand how badly I feel aboutyour husband's insurance money having been lost through our firm.It has troubled me...Oh, well! We won't talk about that. Cap'nErastus was kind to me in a hundred ways when I was a boy and...Well, good night, Mrs. Bangs...Oh, by the way, I want you topromise me not to tell a soul about your getting this money. Thatis part of the bargain; I shall have to ask that."

She was obviously disappointed. "Can't I tell NOBODY?" shepleaded. "Not even Lemuel Baker when he comes to put on themshingles?"

"No. Lemuel, nor any one else."

"Not even Annie Smalley when she learns about it and preaches tome about bein' extravagant and wastin' my money on henhouses? She'salways talkin' about the high wages she has to pay for sewin'.She'll cal'late they're higher than ever now."

"I am afraid you mustn't tell any one. I'm sorry, but itwouldn't do."

"No," with a sigh, "I presume likely 'twouldn't. They'd ALLexpect to be paid right off, the whole of 'em. Well, I'll promise.But I'm goin' to say this to you, Carey Judson: When folks 'roundhere used to call you a thief and a cheat and all kinds ofnames—that was when we first heard of it, youknow—I always stuck up for you. 'He may be a thief, inone way,' I says, 'but if he is it is because he don't know anybetter. He never stole money deliberate, you can't make me believehe did. He may be absent-minded and—and kind of cracked aboutbirds and critters, but that's a failin', not a crime. You wouldn'tbe for puttin' a feeble-minded person in jail, would you? No, youwouldn't. You'd say he wan't accountable. Well, Carey Judson neverwas accountable where money was concerned.' That's what I said, andI meant it, too."

With which frank item of intended consolation and a final "Goodnight, now DO come and see me, Mr. Carey," she closed the kitchendoor and went back to count for herself the little heap of banknotes upon the dining-room table.

Carey's reception at the house of Miss Letitia Cahoon was verydifferent from that accorded him at the Bangs cottage. Letitiaoccupied two rooms over the bake shop on the Main Road. Thefurniture of these rooms was as stiff and hard and uncompromisingas was Miss Cahoon herself. She was a staunch, even militant,member of the church led by the Reverend Mr. Bagness, and oftensaid that the only fault she had to find with the latter'spreaching was that he was altogether too soft-soapy when it came tospeaking right out about folks who pretended to call themselvesGod-fearing Christians and yet went to ride in their buggies on theSabbath Day, and swelled around in their purple and fine linenmaking their brags that they didn't believe in hell.

"You can call yourself a Universalist or a Unitarian, if you'vea mind to," declared Miss Cahoon, in Friday night prayer meetings,"and you can send your children to learn piano playin' and topicture paintin' schools and such abominations all you want to, butwhat does it say in Holy Writ? 'It is a consider'ble sight easierfor a camel to get through a needle than it is for a rich man toget to heaven.' That's what it says; it's there to be read by thosethat's got eyes to see with. All right. If they ain't goin' toheaven, where ARE they goin'? They're goin' to the place that theysay AIN'T a place, that's where they're goin'. And it is our dutyto tell 'em so. If they don't take the warnin', that's theirlookout."

Her favorite hymn was that which asked the question: "Is yourname written there?" She derived much satisfaction from theconviction that many names of those whose paths in this life weresmoother than her own were not there written. When the news ofCarey Judson's downfall came to Wellmouth she made little complaintconcerning her own loss, although the hundred and odd dollarsrepresented more self-denial by far than did the thousands of someof her prosperous neighbors. She grimly accepted it as a punishmentfrom Providence for some remissness on her part.

"I've been slack in my duty somewhere," she said, "and theLord's makin' me pay for it. He'll take his pay later on out of thewicked ones that are responsible, maybe not in this world, but inthe next. And a true believer, such as I HOPE I am, can findcomfort in knowin' that's so."

She had not spoken to Carey Judson since his return toWellmouth. And when, in answer to his knock, she opened the doorand saw him standing in the hall, her greeting could scarcely becalled a speech.

"Humph!" she grunted.

Carey, who had expected about such a measure of cordiality andhad braced himself for the ordeal, bade her a polite good eveningand announced that he had come to see her on a matter of business."It won't take but a moment," he added. "May I come in?"

She hesitated. "I suppose likely you can," she said, after amoment. "I was thinkin' of goin' to bed, but I can wait. Youneedn't shut the door. Leave it open.I haven't got anythingto hide. What is this business you've come to see me about?"

When he told her, with the same hesitancy and confusion he hadshown in the interview with Mrs. Bangs, that he had come to repayin full the sum she had lost by her unfortunate investment throughOsborne and Judson, she was evidently as greatly surprised asSamantha had been, but unlike the latter, she made no outcry andexpressed no gratitude. Instead she regarded him with markedsuspicion.

"Do you mean to tell me," she demanded, "that you are goin' togive me back the money that you and that dissipated partner ofyours took away from me?"

He nodded. "Yes," he said, "that is what I should like to do, ifyou will accept it, Miss Cahoon."

"Humph!...Of course I'll accept it. Why shouldn't I? It was minein the first place. But wait a minute; there's some things I wantto know first. Where did you get the money to pay it with?"

He explained that he had saved a little from his salary and alsothat he had been paid for some work he had done outside theoffice.

"Work?" she asked. "What sort of work? I never heard you wasdoin' any work, except whittlin' out those bird dolls down inTobias Higgins' woodshed, or whatever he calls it. You don't getpay for THAT, do you?"

He explained that, ridiculous as it might seem, he was paid forthe wooden birds.

"My soul!" was her comment. "Well, a fool and his money's soonparted, that's all I've got to say. You make those things onSundays, I hear. Is that true?"

"Why—yes, I suppose it is. I work at them evenings, but Ido some work on Sunday afternoons."

"Humph! Well, bad as I need money, I don't take any that's gotby workin' on the Lord's Day. If that's where it comes from you cantake it right away again."

He strained the truth to the extent of telling her that themoney he intended giving her was derived entirely from his wageswith J. C. Judson & Co. He expected her to be satisfied withthe explanation, but she was, apparently, only partially so.

"Sit down," she said, shortly. "Yes, you might as well. There'ssome more things I want to be sure of before I take any money fromyou, Mr. Carey Judson. What are you payin' it for, anyway? Are youcal'latin' to pay everybody you owe? If you are you've got a job,if what I hear's true."

He assured her that, much as he would like to, he could not hopeto pay all his creditors.

"Then what did you pick me out for?" she demanded.

The answer to this required all the diplomacy at his limitedcommand. He stammered, twisted his forelock, crossed and recrossedhis knees, and then somewhat incoherently explained that he hadplanned to begin repaying those in Wellmouth to whom he owed theleast; and that she was one of these.

"Well," she said, after more reflection, "then I don't know asthere's any good reason why I shouldn't take my own. If I supposedfor a minute you thought you was doin' me a special favor or thatthere was any charity about it I shouldn't take it, you can be sureof that. I may be poor, but I ain't on the town yet, I'd have youto know...I suppose you want a receipt, don't you? I shall give youone anyhow."

She insisted on doing so, although anything as businesslike as areceipt had been far from his thought. When he insisted upon herkeeping the payment a secret he had to undergo another crossexamination.

"Well," she said, at last, "I won't tell. And whenI sayI won't I won't. I can understand why you don't want everybody toknow, of course. Some of 'em here in this town would be sittin' onyour doorstep from mornin' till night if they heard of it. Andthey'd sit there Sundays as well as week days, you can make up yourmind to that. And there's one thing more: When I get—or if Iget—the little mite that your brother told me those receiversor administers, or whatever they call 'em, might pay me as my shareof what was left after the stealin', I'll hand it right back toyou. I want what lawfully belongs to me, but I don't want anymore... There! Is that all?"

Her caller rose. He was glad of the opportunity to escape.

"That is all, Miss Cahoon," he said. "Thank you for taking themoney. And—and I do want to say how sorry I am that you wereput to so much trouble and worry through me. I AM sorry. Pleasebelieve it."

She was standing by the door, which had remained wide openduring the interview.

"Yes," she said, slowly, "I shouldn't wonder if you was. I guessyou are the kind that would be. 'The way of the transgressor ishard,' so we read, 'and the wages of sin is death.' Though I willsay," she added, "that some of the sinners take a long timecollectin' their salary...Well, considerin' everything, I'm muchobliged to you, Mr. Judson. I'll keep still about it... Goodnight."

Before he reached the door she spoke again.

"Wait a minute," she commanded. "There's somethin' I want you totake along with you."

She went into the adjoining room and returned, bringing twoprinted leaflets.

"You look these over when you get a chance," she said. "They mayset you to thinkin'—I hope so, anyhow."

The door closed behind him. He groped his way down the stairs inthe darkness. Outside, on the platform of the bake shop, he pushedback his hat, drew a hand across his forehead and sighed inrelief.

"Whew!" he exclaimed, feelingly. At home in the solitude of hisown room he inspected the leaflets. The title of one was "Rememberthe Sabbath Day," and the other "Can the Merely Moral Hope forSalvation?" He read the "Merely Moral" tract before retiring. Itspages were slightly tinged with yellow, either from age orbrimstone, he was inclined to think the latter.

George Judson had expected to return from Boston that evening,but he did not appear for another twenty-four hours. At supper heseemed to be in high spirits, although his wife's welcome was notof the sort to encourage hilarity.

"Well," was her remark as they sat down at the table, "you diddecide to come home, after all, didn't you? I was beginning tothink you were going to stay up there for the rest of thesummer."

George explained that he had been detained by one or twobusiness matters.

"You can't always count on getting through with things like thatin a hurry," he said. "You make an appointment for one day and, forsome reason or other, it has to be put off till to-morrow. That'sso, isn't it, Carey?"

Cora T. sniffed. "Oh, yes!" she observed, caustically. "Careyknows all about it, of course. He's such a business man, himself,that he would, naturally. I notice, when you take ME to Boston, itis always you who are in a hurry to get back home again. Thepressing business is always at this end of the line then."

Later on she mentioned that a letter had been received from Mrs.Dain that morning. Her husband, who had been silent for someminutes and whose before supper announcement of prodigious appetitewas not borne out by his performance at table, looked up withinterest.

"Oh, she wrote you, did she?" he asked. "How is the oldgirl?"

Mrs. Judson ignored the question.

"She wrote YOU" she said. "She never seems to think it is worthwhile to address any of her letters to me, for some reason orother. When she was here she didn't hesitate to ask me foreverything she wanted, and goodness knows she wanted enough; butwhen it comes to writing it has to be to a Judson. Some people have'family' on the brain. I'm glad I haven't."

"What did she say?" asked George, again. "You read the letter,of course."

"Certainly I read it. If you are expecting letters you don'twant your wife to read you'd better have them sent to the office.Of course," she added, cheerfully, "I don't know how many of thatkind you do have sent there."

Carey put in a word. "I had a letter from Aunt Susan, myself,"he said. "She is full of trouble with the house and the servants,as usual. And," he added, doubtfully, "I am afraid she isn't verywell. She hinted at having more of those pains of hers and I judgeshe has had to call in the doctor more than once. I don't likethose pains. She had an attack that evening after she hadbeen—"

He paused and did not finish the sentence. Aunt Susan's call atthe Higgins' shop had been, so far as he was aware, kept a secretand he thought it well that it should remain so. Fortunately hissister-in-law was not paying strict attention. She begancatechizing her husband concerning the "business" which haddetained him in the city. George's answers were not very specific."Oh, more fish, that's all," was his summing up.

That evening Carey did what was, for him, a remarkable thing.For the third successive evening he remained away from his blackduck. He started, as usual, for the shop, but instead turned backand walked to the Sayles house. He had promised Emily that sheshould hear how he had fared in his financial transactions withMrs. Bangs and Letitia Cahoon and it seemed to him that now was asgood a time as any to tell her of his experience.

It was after eight when he arrived and Mrs. Sayles had alreadyretired. Emily invited him into the sitting room and did not seemsurprised at seeing him there again so soon. It was he whoexpressed the astonishment at his behavior.

"I can't seem to get my bearings, as Cap'n Tobias would say," hedeclared, naively. "I know I promised you that I was through payingattention to what people might say about me, and that hereafter Ishould do what I liked and go where I pleased, but, even then, Iwasn't sure I could keep the promise absolutely. I had such apleasant time here Monday evening—you and your mother were sokind, and it seemed so good to talk about—about whatever Iwanted to talk about, that—well, I am like Simon Martin oncemore. He took one drink and after that he seldom did anything else.I don't want to be a nuisance though, and I shan't be. I won't diein your gutter, Emily."

She laughed. "I hope coming here isn't likely to kill you," shesaid. "And I know what you have come for. I should have been everso disappointed if you hadn't come. Now tell me all about Samanthaand Tish."

He described the two interviews in detail. He had, in his raremoments of self-forgetfulness, a habit of quiet humor and shelaughed until he was obliged to laugh with her.

"Oh, dear!" she gasped, when he had finished a summing up of thecontents of Miss Cahoon's tracts; "that is perfectly lovely. How Iwish I could have been there!"

He shook his head. "I am glad you weren't," he declared, withemphasis. "Although I suppose the presence of a third party mighthave eased the strain on the proprieties, so far as Letitia wasconcerned. I told you she insisted on keeping the door open while Iwas in her apartment, didn't I?"

"And now," she asked, a few minutes afterward, "who will be thenext on the list? Whom are you planning to pay next?"

He had scarcely planned so far, he told her. When he reachedthat point he should again ask her advice.

"I had another letter from Moore this morning," he added. "He isinsane, I'm afraid. Actually sent me an order for another dozenbeetle-heads, a dozen plover and a dozen 'yellow legs.' More shorebirds, all of them. He wants the beetle-heads before I finish theduck. They are for friends of his, he says. He doesn't care whathappens to his friendships, does he?"

She was delighted with the news. "Why, you are building up areal business, aren't you, Carey!" she exclaimed. "Paying offyour—the people you want to pay here in Wellmouth doesn'tseem so tremendously impossible, after all—the little ones, Imean."

He smiled. "You forget I am past thirty," he said. "By the timeI am ninety I may get through the first twenty-five. Afterthat—well, after that I shall probably begin payment in adifferent way—and climate. For particulars, inquire of MissCahoon."

She came to the door with him to say good night. He saw herglance at the window across the road.

"It has begun," he said, reading her thought. "This Simon Martinhabit must not develop. We are attracting attention already. Ishan't come again, for a while, at least. The gutter is my ownprivate resting place. My friends are not invited to hear mylast—hiccough."

The speech seemed to worry her—either it or the lightedwindow, or both.

"Whether you come here or not I shall come to watch you work,"she declared. "And, some pleasant Sunday, I shall be extravagantenough to hire what they call a hoss'n' team, meaning a horse andbuggy, from the livery stable, and bring mother. She is as muchinterested in your— What-are-they?—beetle-heads, as Iam."

"You mustn't do any such thing. What do you think Tobias and hisChippy will say if I begin holding receptions in their boatshop?"

"I hope they will say, 'How do you do?' at least. Mother hasbeen wanting to call on them ever since we came back here."

She kept her promise the very next Sunday. Mrs. Sayles'exclamations of astonishment at sight of the beetle-head and theducks and her praise of his work were gratifying. Tobias and Phoebejoined them in the workshop and the Higgins' comments werecharacteristic and amusing.

"I'm cal'latin'," declared the captain, "to get rich myself outof this bird factory. Goin' to print up some stock certificates byand by and peddle 'em out at a hundred dollars a piece. 'The Judsonand Higgins Beetle-Head Roost Preferred' or somethin' like that. Weshan't declare any dividends, though. That ain't fashionable thesedays; anyhow it ain't with most of the other stock I've put mymoney into. Maybe we'd better call it one of them 'Limited'concerns, Carey; meanin' that the profits in it will be limited toyou and me. Eh?"

He laughed uproariously at his joke. Carey smiled. "That partwould be taken for granted by most of the investors, I imagine,Cap'n," he said.

When the visitors emerged into the yard, leaving him stillcarving the beetle-head, Phoebe took her husband to task.

"What in the world, Tobias Higgins," she demanded, "do you haveto rake up any talk about investin' money for? Of all things in theworld to say to him! Desire," she added, turning to Mrs. Sayles, "Iwish I could make you folks understand how much we've come to pitythat poor soul in there. When he first came back here I was as downon him as anybody else who had lost money through him and thatOsborne. But now I've come to believe he wasn't any more to blamethan a ten-year-old child. ANYBODY could steal from him and he'dnever know it. He IS a child in most ways, and that's a fact."

Emily put in a word.

"There is nothing childish about his knowledge of birds and suchthings," she declared, crisply. "And some of these days people aregoing to realize how brilliant he is, in his own way."

Phoebe did not answer. The tone of speech caused her to glancequickly at the young lady and then at her husband. The latter,however, did not catch the meaning in her look. He was solemnlyinspecting one of his mammoth boots.

"Now ain't it amazin'?" he demanded. "Look at that hoof of mine.Number eleven and broad in the beam as a coal barge. You'd thinknothin' smaller than a ship's main hatch would be liable to catchthat, wouldn't you? But it ain't so. Let me see the least littlemite of a hole and I have to run and shove my foot into it. Ihadn't no business to make that fool joke about investin' money. Itslipped out afore I realized. Sho! It's too bad. Carey 'll mopeover it for the rest of the afternoon. Tut, tut! A fellow has tolearn to skate on thin ice when he talks to him. He's the mostsensitive critter everI see. Don't you think so,Emily?"

Emily did not answer.

As the horse and buggy drove away from their gate Mrs. Higginswatched it go and then turned to her husband with a slow shake ofthe head.

"That's the third or fourth time she's been here to see him,Tobias," she observed. "And he's been up to their house twiceinside of a week. And did you see how short she took you up whenyou said he was sensitive and all like that?...Hum!...Iwonder."

The captain grinned. "How do you know he was up to see hertwice?" he asked. "Who told you she was, Chip?"

"Oh, I heard it. Hannah Beasley lives right across the road andshe saw him when he came and when he went, both times."

Tobias snorted. "I'll bet she did!" he agreed. "That woman wouldmake a fust-rate for'ard lookout aboard a vessel. There wouldn'tany whales keep out of her sight—not if they was he ones,they wouldn't."

"Well, I don't know about that. Hannah saw him there, anyhow.And Emily keeps comin' to see him. Folks'll begin to talk if itgoes on."

"They'll talk, anyhow. Most of 'em talk in their sleep. Whyshouldn't they go to see each other, if they want to? Her folks andhis were chummy all their lives. Godfreys mighty! Can't a body goto see ANYBODY without all the women h'istin' distress signals? Hewent to see Tish Cahoon the other evenin', I understand. Don'tcal'late he's gettin' sweet on HER, do you? If he is I'll kill him,myself, and put him out of his misery."

Phoebe was very much interested.

"Went to see Letitia Cahoon!" she repeated. "Carey Judson did?Who said so? What did he go to see her for, for mercy sakes!"

"I don't know. Somebody said he did, that's all I know. Probablyhe and she were havin' a little game of seven-up, cent a point, orsomethin' like that. No, no! Tish didn't tell about it. She's beenasked, of course, but she wouldn't say yes or no. That's one goodthing about that clam-shell mouth of hers. It can keep shut whenshe wants it to."

Other Wellmouth mouths were not so tightly closed. Emily's callsat the bird shop on Sunday afternoons were quite regular now. Shewas very much interested in Carey's bird making and her Sundaywalks were almost always in that direction. His conscience stilltroubled him, and he more than once hinted that she should notvisit him there, but she refused to accept the hints and he ceasedto offer them. Occasionally he called at the Sayles' home. It hadbecome for him a port of refuge when his sister-in-law's innuendoesand sarcasms were too annoying or Mr. Early's condescensions andserene pointing out of his errors in bookkeeping too humiliatingand trying to the patience. Mrs. Sayles and Emily never spoke ofhis troubles, there was no condescension or even implied pity intheir manner toward him. It was the one spot in the village which,in essentials, remained to him as it used to be in the old, happy,self-respecting days. He heard none of the whisperings which weregoing about, nor, for that matter, did Emily. As is usual in suchcases the said whisperings were not breathed in the ears of theparties most interested.

Cora T. heard them, you may be sure, and repeated them to herhusband, with sharp-edged embroideries. George, his odd glumnessnow apparent even at home, paid little attention.

"Oh, bosh, Cora!" he protested. "What if he and she do see eachother once in a while? They are old friends. Carey hasn't manyfriends left, the Lord knows. Let the poor devil enjoy those hehas, can't you?"

Mrs. Judson sniffed. "Oh, yes, you'll stick up for him, ofcourse," she sneered. "He's your brother and anything he does isexactly right. Well, you are to blame for bringing him back hereand if anything comes of all this that people are talking about itwill be your responsibility and nobody else's. My hands are cleanand I take pains to tell everybody so."

He turned to look at her.

"What do you mean by anything coming of it?" he demanded. "Ifyou are hinting that Emily Sayles isn't as fine a girl as everlived you—well, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,Cora."

She tossed her head. "Oh, I suppose so!" she retorted. "Well, Ihaven't hinted any such thing, that I know of. I wonder sometimesif you are as prompt to fly up in the air when people say meanthings about me, your own wife, as you are when they talk aboutyour father's friends—yes, or that good for nothing brotherof yours. I wonder."

"I should be if they ever said them before me. As for Carey andthat girl being anything more than friendly, that's nonsense."

"Humph! Well, all I can say is that there is a whole lot of thatkind of nonsense in the world. If—mind you I sayif—Carey is silly enough to even think of getting married andif Emily Sayles is soft-headed enough to marry him, it will be youthey'll turn to for money enough to live on. He hasn't got acent—nor ever will have—and she hasn't got much more,thanks to him and his partner. George Judson, if he ever dares tohint that he's thinking of doing such a crazy thing you tell him ifhe does you're through with him forever. If you don't—well,if you don't tell him just that I'll walk out of this house andNEVER set foot in it again."

Captain Tobias Higgins could have answered this ultimatum as itshould have been answered; would, in fact, have been delighted atthe opportunity. So, too, could and would Hepsibah Ellis, or otherswhose opinion of Mrs. Judson was decided and coincidal. But Georgewas a devoted husband. His reply was of another kind. The speechseemed to agitate him greatly and he put his arm about herwaist.

"Don't, Cora," he begged. "Please don't talk like that.You—you don't know what you're saying. I like tothink—I want to know that you would stand by me whateverhappened. If you didn't—I—I—"

She moved from the embrace and turned to look at him.

"Now what on earth is all that for?" she asked. "What does'whatever happened' mean? You have been acting queer enough lately,and— What are you talking about?"

For just an instant he hesitated. Then he smiled, or attemptedto do so.

"Nothing," he assured her. "Nothing at all, of course. But asfor Carey's dreaming of ever marrying Emily Sayles, that is toofoolish to waste a breath on."

"Maybe. But if he comes to you for money—moremoney—don't you let him have it, ever. You promise me that,or—well, remember what I just said to you."

He sighed and turned away. "He won't ask me," he said. "If heever should, I—"

"Well? What?"

"I should say no. I couldn't say anything else."

"I should hope you couldn't. There, there! Kiss me, if you wantto, and run along to your old office. I've got things to attend tothis morning and I suppose you have."

Carey noticed his brother's odd manner, had been the first tomark it and to be troubled by it. He could not help but feelcertain that George was worried about something and he wonderedwhat it might be. Several times he had dropped hints and once, whenthey were walking home together after office hours, he askedbluntly if anything had gone wrong in connection with business, orelsewhere. George's denial was prompt and almost resentful.

"Of course there hasn't," he declared. "What made you ask that?I'm tired, and I've got a lot of detail on my mind. It gets on mynerves sometimes. I guess I need a vacation."

They walked on for a little way and then he added: "Carey, doyou suppose you and Ben could run the place for a week or so if Iwent away on—well, on some sort of a trip?"

Carey was surprised, but he nodded.

"I am sure Ben could run it," he said. "He thinks he owns itnow. And I would do my best to obey his orders. I guess we couldkeep afloat till you got back. I'm glad to hear you talk abouttaking a vacation, George. I'm sure it would do you good. Wherewere you thinking of going?"

"Oh, I don't know. It occurred to me that I might take Cora andgo out to Cleveland and visit Aunt Susan for a few days. She wouldbe glad to see us, I guess. She has invited us times enough...Don't say anything about it before Cora yet," he added. "I haven'tmade up my mind to go."

Nor did he make it up, apparently. At all events he did notmention the subject again. Carey did not urge him, although hemight have done so had it not been that he was doubtful whether ornot their aunt was well enough just then to entertain visitors. Hisweekly letters from the old lady—letters which he answeredwith a regularity surprising in one of his carelesshabits—were bright and sprightly enough, but in each was areference to the "plaguy pains" which, it seemed, continued totrouble her. "If the doctor had his way," she wrote, "I guess hewould be for keeping me in bed. Well, he doesn't have it; I havemine and intend to have it as long as I'm able to put my footdown."

The summer had passed and it was now September, a beautifulmonth on the Cape. The comparatively few sojourners and boardersfrom the city—few, that is, in comparison with the crowds ofto-day—had gone back to town, then, as now, the opening ofschools and colleges furnishing excuse for the exodus. Carey's birdmaking was an old story by this time and his evenings and Sundaylabors at the Higgins' shop were interrupted by few callers. Phoebeand Tobias could afford to relax their watchfulness. Emily cameoften, and occasionally, when they felt they could afford theluxury of a "hoss'n' team," Mrs. Sayles accompanied her. Once aweek Carey took supper with them at their home. The "talk" was asprevalent in the village as ever, perhaps more so, but it did notreach their ears. Desire was the one upon whom the gossiperssettled the bulk of the blame. She was a dreadful silly to let thatno-account Queer Judson hang around her daughter the way he did.Nothing could come of it, for he was a pauper and a bankrupt andwhy she let the girl waste her time that way was notunderstandable. The effects of the paralytic shock was usuallyoffered as the excuse. Desire must be "feeble in the mind."

Carey finished the dozen beetle-heads, also the dozen black duckand shipped them to his friend Moore. He and Emily between them hadselected the next three individuals upon the list of creditors whowere to receive payments when the check came. Only once had heheard from his friend Knight. In a brief note the professor wrotethat he was having difficulty in financing the South Americanexpedition. "Money is tight, whatever that means," he wrote. "If Idon't have better luck than I have so far the trip may have to goover for another year. By that time you may be able to come along,Judson. Don't YOU get 'tight' on the prospect," he added.

There was little probability of Carey's doing so because of anysuch prospects as his were likely to be. On the evening of the daywhen he received the letter he took it up to the Sayles house toshow Emily. He knew she would be as interested as he had been.

It was nearly eleven when, after his tramp home, he entered theyard of the Cap'n Jim-Carey place and strode up the walk to theside door. Except on occasions when his brother and Cora T. wereentertaining or had gone out for entertainment elsewhere, theyretired early and by ten the only light burning was the hand lampupon the table in the dining room, where Hepsy always placed it forCarey's use when he came in. To-night, however, he was surprised tofind the house illumined from second floor to kitchen.

As he entered he heard a babble of voices in the kitchen and,from somewhere above stairs, the sound of hysterical wails andsobbings. As he closed the door from the entry Maggie came runninginto the dining room.

"Oh, it's you, is it, Mr. Carey!" she exclaimed excitedly. "My,but Mr. George 'll be glad to see you! He's havin' an awful timewith her up there. He's been down here two or three times askin'for you. I think he'll be wantin' the doctor soon. He's all upset,himself, poor man, and—"

Carey interrupted. "What's the trouble?" he demanded. "Is Corasick?...Where IS Hepsy?"

As her name was uttered Hepsibah came in from the kitchen. Shewas very solemn and less calm than he had ever seen her.

"Carey," she said, "I've got dreadful bad news for you. Thetelegram came about half an hour ago. Carey, I know you'll feelworse than any of 'em, but you'll have to hear it sometime and itmight as well be now. Your Aunt Susan is dead."

Chapter XI

That was all the telegram told them. "Mrs. Dain died suddenly attwo-o'clock to-day. Funeral Friday." That was all. It was signed byone E. W. Phillips, and George vaguely remembered the name as thatof their aunt's attorney and general business consultant there inCleveland.

Carey was at first too shocked by the staggering news to speakor question. Then, recovering somewhat, he asked Hepsibah forparticulars. Other than the contents of the telegram she had noneto give him. She, herself, was grief-stricken.

"An awful good woman your Aunt Susie was, Carey," she said. "Ithought a sight of her."

George, she told him, was with his wife in their room upstairs."He's havin' one time with her, now I tell you," she added, with aflash of indignation. "Considerin' some of the things I've heardher say when your aunt was visitin' here I should think she MIGHTfeel a little mite upsot and conscience-struck. I guess likely shedoes. Anyhow, she's behavin' like a young-one and, if I was marriedto her, I'd treat her like one."

Carey went up to the door of his brother's room and knocked.George opened the door and came out. He was very solemn, of course,but his face was flushed and in his manner, or so it seemed to hisbrother, there was a curious something which the latter had notexpected nor could define. He took Carey's hand and his own handwas trembling. His greeting, however, was conventional enough.

"Pretty tough, eh, old man?" he said, sadly.

Carey nodded. "Yes," he agreed.

"Tough enough. Cora and I feel as if we had lost the best friendwe had. She is taking it hard, poor girl."

It sounded as if she were. From behind the closed door came sobsand hysterical moans and outcries. Even Carey, the mostunsuspicious of men, could not help feeling a little surprise atthe depth of his sister-in-law's sorrow. His own was, however, toooverwhelming to permit of the feeling being more thanmomentary.

"Hepsibah says the telegram gave no particulars at all," hesaid.

"No. It must have been very sudden. I suppose we shall hear moreto-morrow. Well, we've all got to go sometime or other, but I hadno idea her time would come so soon. There must have been more tothose 'pains' of hers than we thought—or she did either, Iguess."

Carey doubted this. He believed his aunt to have been quiteaware that her condition was serious.

"Well," he began, dully. "I—" and then paused. Why talk ofit now? Instead he asked: "Is there anything I can do to help you,George? Anything you and Cora want done to-night?"

"No, I guess not. She and I will have to go to Cleveland, ofcourse. We shall take the early train—that is, if she is incondition to take it. I wish you might go, too, but I'm afraid Benwill need you at the office."

From the closed room came an agonized call. "George! George!"wailed Cora. "Where are you? How can you go away and leave me likethis?...GEORGE!"

George turned the knob, "I mustn't leave her another minute," heprotested. "She—well, this is a terrible blow to her, Carey.She thought as much of Aunt Susan as I did. I'll see you in themorning...Eh? Oh, yes, I'll call you if I need you. Goodnight."

He entered the room. As he did so Carey heard another wail of"George, why DON'T you come?"

He wandered down to the kitchen again, told Hepsibah and Maggiethat his brother and sister-in-law would take the morning train andwould therefore require an early breakfast, and then sought his ownroom. Face to face with the truth, he found it hard to realize. Yethe had vaguely feared something like it and now tried to tellhimself that he should have expected it. His aunt's seizure thatevening on the way home from the bird shop, the hint she haddropped during their conversation at the railway station, thereferences in her letters to the "pains"—all these showedthat she had been prepared for a fatal, and perhaps not far distanttermination to her trouble. And, doubtless, he, too, should haveanticipated it. But he had not; he had been worried, but he had notdreamed she might die so soon. Now she was dead, the last of hisfather's and mother's generation and, except for his brother, thelast of his blood who had known him as a boy. Ever since he was ababy his Aunt Susan had had an influence upon his life. Betweenthem had always been an everpresent interest, hers in him and, inthe more careless thought of a child and youth, his in her. Shenever forgot his birthday; her Christmas present for him alwaysarrived on time. And when his high dreams of a bright futuresmashed with the failure of his ridiculous banking venture it wasshe whom he had dreaded to face quite as much as any of the othersufferers from his folly. She could afford to lose the moneyinvested through him, but he could not afford to lose—as hehad lost—her respect and trust.

Her frank expression, in their first conversation, of the lossof that trust had hurt. She was always sharp-tongued and blunt, butshe never dissembled and he was sure she had never said to othersmore than she said to him. Her erasure of his name from her willwas a relief, in a way. It was what she should do and, if she hadasked his opinion, he would have urged her to do that very thing.Yet she had not entirely thrown him over. She was convinced that hewas not fit to be trusted with money, but his attempt at paying asmall part of his Wellmouth debts had pleased her—he wascertain of that. He was very glad he had not neglected theircorrespondence. Once a week, as he had promised, a letter had goneto her from him, and hers in return had been welcome indeed. Nowthat he thought of it, she was the only one, Moore and Knightexcepted, from whom he had received letters since his return toWellmouth, and those of the last two were more of a businessnature. He was glad to think that his aunt knew of his payments toSamantha Bangs and Letitia Cahoon, that tidings of those paymentsreached her before she died. At least she had understood that hewas seriously in earnest. If she could only have lived a littlelonger he might have been able to show her more proof. With herdeparture from this world his small list of friendships had shrunkonce more. Friends? Whom might he count as close friends? George,of course—and Hepsibah—and—well, it mightbe—Emily Sayles. Emily and her mother would be greatlyshocked at the news. They both were very fond of Mrs. Dain.

He sat there, by the window, until the small hours of themorning, thinking such thoughts as these. Some of the thoughts werepeculiar in their triviality. One was that the "heirloom," thepainting of the Glory of the Wave, would now be his again. AuntSusan had said that it should come back to him when she was"through with it." He determined to hang it where it used to hang,in that very room, and Cora's objections should count for nothing.It was his, and, for Aunt Susan's sake if for no other reason, itshould remain there undisturbed. Another thought—and onewhich hurt—was that he could not attend the funeral; he, theoldest Judson, and called, in the old days, "Aunt Susie'sfavorite." George and Cora must go to Cleveland, of course, and hecould not be spared from the office. Nevertheless...Oh well! it wasa part of his punishment and he had brought it on himself.

He carefully repressed this feeling at breakfast, where hisbrother, in his so seldom worn black suit, and Cora T. in hastilyimprovised mourning, were solemn reminders of a sad occasion.Cora's grief was less hysterical now, but she professed that shecouldn't bear to eat a thing, the sight of poor dear Aunty's face,right there where she always used to sit, was before her everyminute. She broke down again when the carriage drove up to thedoor, and her husband and Carey and Maggie—the latter, toquote Hepsibah, a "little mite more human than usual"—wereall called into service to help her out and into the vehicle.Hepsibah was present, but she did not offer assistance. Her facialexpression was worth notice and her sole utterance as the doorclosed behind Mrs. Judson was a mighty "Umph!"

George bade his brother farewell at the step. Behind the gravityof his countenance was, or so Carey could not help thinking, thatsame queer evidence of repressed excitement. Everything he said wasconventionally fitting the occasion and he never smiled, but toCarey—who had known him since the day he was born and wasaccustomed to reading his every mood—there seemed a qualityin his manner which nothing explained satisfactorily. Heseemed—yes, he seemed, not only excited, but pleasantly so,and that was impossible, for George's affection for his aunt hadbeen as strong as Carey's.

He gave his brother a few hasty directions concerning the officework, messages of explanation to Early, promised to writeparticulars as soon as he reached Cleveland and to return at thefirst minute possible.

"Oh, while I think of it," he said. "You better let all mypersonal mail lie on my desk till I come back. Ben will attend tothe business mail, but he needn't touch the rest. I'll see to thatmyself. There will be nothing important in it, anyway. So long, oldman. See you later."

Carey detained him momentarily. "George," he said, hesitatingly,"if it isn't too much trouble I wish you would buy—well, justa few flowers, or—or something, you know, for thefuneral—for me. I'll pay you for them when you comeback."

"Sure! Sure! Of course I will, old boy. Well, good-by."

They drove off, a distant whistle from the train at the EastTrumet station five miles away, hurrying their departure.

Carey went slowly back into the dining room. Hepsy was there,awaiting him. To his surprise her first speech touched directlyupon his own thought.

"I declare," she observed, "if it don't look as if George neededa death in the family, or somethin' like it, to shake him out ofthe dumb fit he's been in for the last month. He's been livelierlast night and to-day—yes, and better spirited, if 'twould besensible to use such a word, than I've seen him afore for a goodwhile. Seems funny, don't it, but I swan it's so."

During the week following the death Carey labored hard at thebooks of J. C. Judson & Co., enduring resignedly theoverbearing nagging of Mr. Early, whose elevation to superiorauthority had, as Jabez Drew expressed it, "gone to his head, sameas rum." The manager's intoxication took the form of pettyfault-finding and irritating peerings over the bookkeeper'sshoulder, with more than the usual numbers of references to the useof the "scratcher." Also he was extremely particular concerning thehours of arrival and departure and his expression as he pored overthe daily mail was a study of importance and responsibility. He didnot venture to disregard instructions in regard to the "personals,"however. But two letters addressed to "Mr. George Judson. Private,"came to the office and these were permitted to remain unopened uponthe desk in the inner room. Each of these, Carey noticed, bore thenumber of a post-office box in Portland, Maine, in their upperleft-hand corner.

Carey, himself, received but two letters that week and each ofthose came from Cleveland. The first came the morning followingthat of his brother's departure. The handwriting upon the envelopehe recognized at once, and with the shock which always accompaniesrecognition of the writing of a hand since stilled forever. It wasfrom his Aunt Susan and she had written and posted it the eveningbefore her death. It was a long, cheerful, newsy letter. She hadbeen very busy, the servants were at last settling down to what shesupposed might be called a sort of armed neutrality; at any rate,they had agreed not to leave: "Which was what each of them vowedthey were going to do the minute I set foot in the house and havebeen vowing ever since." There were a lot of repairs to be made andthey were under way. "I can begin to see daylight at last, Carey,and if the doctor CAN tinker up my various ailments so that thosepains of mine don't happen around about every other twenty- fourhours, which they have developed a miserable habit of doing eversince I landed here from Wellmouth, I shall think there is Balm inGilead, after all." At the bottom of the fifth page she wrote: "Imust tell you how pleased I was to have you write me of your callson Erastus Bangs' widow and that other woman. I laughed over yourstory of her and her tracts until I began to be afraid I shouldhave a pain in a new place, and that would be what my cook wouldcall 'super-FLOOus.' I must say, Carey, that your grit in carryingthe thing through and, more than all, writing me that you intend togo on with it, pleased me very, very much. I am beginning to changemy mind about you, Carey. Yes, and I HAVE changed it decidedly inanother respect, and, as you may learn some day just as I have,about some other people. There must be considerable Judson in you,after all, even if there is precious little 'banker.'"

He read the less intimate portion of this letter to Emily thatevening, when he called at the Sayles' house. Emily and her mother,the latter especially, felt Mrs. Dain's death keenly. Desire andSusan were girlhood friends and had kept up the friendship eversince. Carey learned, and was surprised to learn, that his aunt hadwritten Mrs. Sayles several times since her return toCleveland.

"There was a good deal about you in those letters, Carey,"confided Desire. "Nothing that you would be ashamed to read,either."

Emily, it appeared, had not read the letters herself. "Motherread me parts of them," declared the young lady, "but, for somereason or other she never let me read them nor her own replies. Iam beginning to think I am discussed in those letters just as youare, Carey. Mother, of course, is a hen with one chicken and itlooks as if you were the closest to a chick which Mrs. Dain hadunder her wing. So they talked us over between them. Old people arelike that, I suppose. Not that mother is really old, ofcourse."

The second letter, which arrived late in the week, was fromGeorge. It supplied the hitherto missing details of Aunt Susan'sdeath. "Angina pectoris," wrote George, "just as you and Isuspected. Her heart had been in shaky condition for a long while,and she must have suffered a great deal. She was plucky and nevertalked about it. She always reminded me of father, in so many ways;I have heard you say the same thing. She had a streak ofstubbornness in her make-up. That would account for her turningagainst you as she did after your hard luck. I am awfully sorryabout that, old boy, but you can always count on me to see that youhave an easy berth. You know it, don't you? And I think you mayease your mind with the thought that the old lady softened towardsyou a little bit toward the end. She said, for her, some prettydecent things about you before she left us to come out here."

There were particulars of the funeral, which was a large one,and then some rather irritable comment concerning delay in thesettlement of the estate.

"Phillips, her lawyer," wrote George, "is sick. He had beenunder the weather for weeks, and the shock of Aunt Susie's deathknocked him out completely. He managed to send us that telegram andthen collapsed. Couldn't even come to the funeral. Cora and I hopedthat the will might be probated and a general settlement at leaststarted while we were here, but it looks as if it couldn't be. Weshall have to come home in a day or two, I guess, and wait untilPhillips is up and about again before attending to the rest of it.Then I shall probably have to make another trip. It is too bad, anda confounded nuisance. I suppose things are going well at theoffice. I get daily bulletins from Ben. He hasn't opened mypersonal mail, has he? Of course there may not be any, but, ifthere is, see that he keeps his paws off. Cora, poor woman, isstill pretty badly shaken. Her nerves are on the tremolo most ofthe time and I have my hands full with her."

On Saturday came another telegram announcing that the Judsonswould arrive in Wellmouth on Monday. They did so and Carey stolesufficient time from the office to meet them at the station. CoraT.'s outfit of deep mourning was brand-new and complete by thistime. George, also, was still in black. The somber shadow cast byMrs. Judson had the effect of making her brother-in-law, in hisancient gray suit and now out of season straw hat, feel aconsciousness of unbecoming irreverence. He had not bought newclothes because of the expense. Then, too, he remembered someobservations of his aunt's concerning the trappings of grief.

George went directly to the office after dinner. The first thinghe did upon arriving there, so Carey noticed, was to go into theinner room and open and read the two letters upon his desk.Whatever their contents they did not seem to depress him greatly.In fact his manner was surprisingly brisk and his interest in allbusiness details keen. His step was as quick and his method ofquestioning Mr. Early as bright and to the point as Careyremembered them when he first came from the hospital to take up hisdreaded duties as bookkeeper there. The glumtaciturnity—noted not only by him, Carey, but remarked byHepsibah—had vanished. The cloud, either imagined or real,which had hung over him for weeks had lifted, apparently. What hadcaused it to gather, or what fair wind had blown it away, werebeyond his brother's surmise.

The second Sunday after George's return was one of thoseglorious early fall days to which Wellmouth was occasionallytreated at that season of the year. Carey went down to the Higgins'shed immediately after dinner. Captain Tobias saw him enter theyard and came out to join him. The captain had a message todeliver.

"I've got a letter for you, Carey," he announced. "I was up tothe post office last night and Sam Griggs give it to me. Said itcome on the evenin' train and, bein' as 'twas marked 'Important'and Jabez wouldn't call for the store mail until Monday, maybe I'dtake it along and hand it to you when I see you to-day. Here 'tis.Come from Cleveland, I notice. Name of Phillips printed on theenvelope. Somethin' to do with your aunt's affairs out there, Ishouldn't wonder, eh?"

Carey thanked him and took the letter. Ordinarily he would haveopened it immediately, but this time he did not. To tell the truth,the captain's curiosity was a little too obvious. He was so veryeager to find out what the letter contained that Carey feltinclined not to gratify the desire. He put the envelope, unopened,in his pocket, and spoke concerning the weather. Tobias hung aboutfor a little while and then went into the house to prepare for adrive which he and Mrs. Higgins were to take that afternoon. Careyset to work upon one of the black ducks and soon the letter wasforgotten entirely.

An hour or so later Emily opened the shop door. She had come,she announced, to ask him to go for a walk with her along thebeach.

"It is such a glorious day!" she exclaimed. "Leave those woodenbirds of yours for a little while and come out of doors and see thereal ones. I feel like walking miles and I don't want to walk themalone. Please come. The exercise will do you good."

He protested that he ought to work, the bird making had beenrather neglected of late, and he ought to catch up. She would notlisten to his argument and, at last, he yielded. They walkedtogether up the shore, under a sky deeper blue than any August hadshown, beside a sea bluer still and ridged with flashing lines ofwhite. The breeze blew freshly in their faces, the gulls andsandpipers screamed or whistled, the hard yellow sand creakedbeneath their feet, the pines tossed green plumes above thehilltops. They talked of an endless variety of matters, none ofthem important, but none saddening or disheartening.

They walked almost to the lighthouse at West End, then theyturned and climbed the hill to the right—Sewaucus' Hill wasits name, so called because, a hundred years or more before, an oldIndian named "Sewaucus," or Quaukus, had had his dwelling upon it.Old Sewaucus, apparently, had been sufficiently civilized toappreciate a view. From the top of that hill the entire semicircleof Cape Cod Bay was visible, the distant roundings of the Ostablehills lying low to the south and the high summit of Manomet liftingfrom the water far away to the west. In a secluded gully just belowthe ridge, where they were sheltered from the wind, they sat downto rest.

Carey was in an oddly uplifted mood that afternoon. He talked agood deal, for him, and most of his sentences were not only begunbut finished, instead of being allowed to fade away in the middleas he relapsed into absent-minded silence. A part of this was dueto Emily's light spirits. She drew him out of himself and made himforget the burden of his local pariahdom. She chatted and laughedand he followed her example. He was always, although he scarcelyrealized it, happier when with her than at any other time, and thisafternoon he was very like the whimsical, dryly humorous, lovableCarey Judson she used to know.

She sat in the shadow of a gnarled and wind-twisted pine and hepushed the sand down from the bank behind her to form a support forher back. Then he curled his long legs into what looked as if itmight be a most uncomfortable knot, and clasped his knees with hishands.

"There!" Emily exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction. "Isn'tthis the most beautiful spot on earth? Or on this part of theearth, at any rate?"

He nodded. His reply was, for him, prompt and emphatic.

"It is—just now," he agreed. "There is no doubt aboutit... Even the upper Amazon would have to take a back seat."

She turned to look at him, and a wave of the pity she alwaysfelt for him swept over her. She laid a hand upon his.

"Oh, Carey!" she cried. "I am SO sorry you can't go on thatexpedition. If you could only get that money! Isn't there ANY wayyou can get it?"

He smiled. "If I had it in hand," he said, "I could not spend itin that way. I have other uses for it, as you know."

"Yes—yes, of course. I understand. I doubt if many otherswould feel that way, but—well, I am glad you do. When are yougoing to play Lady—I should say Lord—Bountifulagain?"

He looked at her.

"Meaning?" he asked.

"Oh, you know what I mean. When are you going to visit the nextassortment of—of—"

"Of my creditors? Just as soon as I get another check fromMoore. And that won't be until I ship those ducks. Upon which, bythe way, I should be working this minute."

She did not speak for a brief interval. Then she said: "Carey,what would you do if you had all the money you wanted? Oh, I knowyou would pay everybody you owe, or think you owe, and a whole lotof others you would be afraid you might owe and had forgotten. Iknow that. But suppose they were all paid, with interest if youlike, and you had—oh, a lot of money left—what wouldyou do then?"

He smiled once more and pulled at the lock of hair above hiseyes. "That is a conundrum I never have attempted guessing," hesaid. "It scarcely seems worth the trouble, does it? I don't knowwhat I should do. Proceed to lose the money as fast as possible, Isuppose."

"Of course you wouldn't. You didn't lose it this time; some oneelse, some one you trusted as you always trust everybody, lost itfor you. You wouldn't ever go into the banking business again."

"No, no, I shouldn't do that."

"Then what would you do? Go with Professor Knight first of all,naturally."

"I don't know. I might do that—first of all."

"Certainly you would! But haven't you any other—oh,dreams—hidden away in the back of that queer head ofyours?...Oh, I beg your pardon! Why did I use that word? I hateit!"

"It is a good word. My head is queer, like the rest of me...Yes, I suppose I dream sometimes, without realizing it. Whenever Ido realize it I make it a point to wake up."

"Why? Aren't yours pleasant dreams?"

"Altogether too pleasant. It is the waking which isdisagreeable."

"Tell me some of your dreams—the nicest one first."

He shook his head. "No," he said.

"Why?"

"Because—well, because you would not think itpleasant."

"Of course I should," indignantly. "If it is pleasant to you whyshouldn't it be to me?"

"Because it is insane and, even when a lunatic is happy in hisinsanity, his friends aren't likely to enjoy his ravings."

"Oh, DON'T talk that way about yourself!...I wish youwouldn't."

"Very well, I won't. Suppose we don't talk about me any longer.Or about dreams. There are realities enough."

"But I don't feel like talking of realities—now. Dreamsare ever so much nicer. It is going to rain to-morrow, at least themilkman told me so when he came this morning. He said to-day wasnice enough, but it was a 'weather breeder' and that a 'weatherbreeder' always meant a storm before long. I suppose he is right;to- morrow's storm—and the piano lessons I must give ElsieCahoon—are realities, and to-day's blue skies and gorgeousirresponsibility the dream. Well, just now I feel like makingbelieve it is a dream that is going to last—always."

He shifted his feet in the sand. "I wish it might," he said,impulsively. Something in his tone caused her to turn and look athim. He was looking at her and again, as on other very rareoccasions in their later acquaintanceship, she felt as if the maskhad slipped and she were given a glimpse of the spirit behind it.She met his gaze; then she turned away and her next remark hadnothing whatever to do with dreams.

"I suppose your brother has heard no more from the lawyer inCleveland about the settlement of your aunt's estate?" sheasked.

"No. He has been ill, the lawyer, I mean...Eh? Why, that remindsme."

He put his hand into his pocket and drew out a mass of envelopesand papers, apparently an accumulation of letters, old and new. Hebegan looking through them in the slow, absent manner in which hedid most things. She scarcely noticed what he was doing.

"Carey," she said, "I haven't spoken of it to you before,because—well, because I didn't like to, but—there isn'ta chance, is there, that Mrs. Dain's death may make any differencein—in your financial affairs? She must have beenwell-to-do—every one about here says she was rich. And youand George were her only near relatives."

He looked up from sorting the pocketful of crumpled envelopesand old letters. "If you mean that I may have inherited anythingworth while from Aunt Susan," he observed, "the answer is that Ihaven't. Whatever she had George will have, of course."

"Why, 'of course'? You are her nephew, just as he is."

"But I had my chance and threw it away, and a good sized sum ofhers along with it. She was too shrewd and wise a business woman tolet me have more to throw after it. She told me so while she washere. She told me that she had cut me out of her will, and I toldher she had done precisely the right thing. Which she had...Youdon't look very much surprised, Emily. Probably she may have toldyou or your mother of her very sensible intention."

Emily frowned. "She did say something of the sort to mother,"she admitted. "Mother did not mention it to me until the news ofher death came. Mrs. Dain shouldn't have done it. I can't see whyshe did. She should have understood you better. She should haveknown that you were not to blame at all, really. She should—Oh, how COULD she!"

Carey's smile was without the slightest trace of bitterness."She did understand me," he said. "She knew, and said frankly, thatI was not fit to be trusted with money. George will have it and heshould. George is the finest fellow in the world. Able and honestand generous— There is nothing too good for George."

"But he is rich already. He doesn't need it and you do. Carey,think what you could do if all that money were yours. Why, youcould do anything—everything you would like to do. That dreamof yours—the one you wouldn't tell me—might come truethen, just as well as not."

He shook his head.

"Not that one," he said. "Dreams like that one don't cometrue...Hum! Here it is. I began to think I had lost it."

For the first time she noticed the contents of the pocket. Thebulk of it he had dropped upon the sand between his knees. Oneenvelope, a comparatively fresh and uncrumpled one, he was holdingin his hand.

"What are all those things?" she asked.

"Eh? Oh, those are a few oddments and remainders that I havebeen carrying about with me for a month or so. I turn my coat intoa wastebasket, always did. When I was a youngster the habit used toworry mother and Hepsibah. I remember Hepsy's remarks when shefound a few deceased minnows in my Sunday jacket. I had intendedusing them for bait the Sunday before...Speaking of Aunt Susanreminded me that Cap'n Tobias gave me a letter just before you cameto the shop. He said it was postmarked 'Cleveland.'...It is, isn'tit...Eh? Why, it must be from Phillips, Aunt Susan's lawyer. Thereis his name in the corner."

He did not seem in the least excited, or even interested. Shewas, however, very much so.

"What can he be writing you about, Carey?" she demanded. "Whatdo you suppose it is? Open it! Open it right away!"

Placidly he tore open the envelope, unfolded the typewrittenenclosure and began to read. He had read but a little way when sheheard him gasp.

"What is it?" she cried, eagerly. "What is it, Carey?"

His face had gone white and his hands were trembling. He did notanswer, however, but read the letter through to the end. Then thehand holding it fell to his knee and he sat, staring over thebay.

"Carey—" she begged, in alarm.

He handed her the letter. "Read that," he faltered. "Read it...Why, why—good heavens!"

She snatched the letter and read it through. When her ownreading was finished her face was as white as his.

"She—she has left you all her money!" she gasped. "All ofit! To—to you!...Oh, CAREY!"

He drew a hand across his forehead. Then he laughed, brokenly."It's a joke, of course," he said. "Some one is having fun with me.This isn't—isn't the first of April, is it?"

She did not answer. She was reading the letter again. "Read italoud—please," he faltered. "If you don't mind. And—andread it slowly."

She did so. It was rather long. Phillips had, apparently,dictated it to his secretary. The letter referred to the illnesswhich had prevented his attending to business and his regret thatthe George Judsons had been obliged to leave Cleveland before hecould make a move of any kind toward the settlement of the estate.He was on the way to recovery now and he had felt it his duty towrite Carey this letter in order that the latter might be at leastprepared for the unexpected fortune which was to be his. Mrs. Dainhad called him—Phillips—into consultation a fortnightbefore her death. She informed him that she had changed her mindconcerning the disposition of the bulk of her property. Instead ofmaking her younger nephew, George, the heir to her estate, or thegreater part of it, she had decided to leave it to Carey. And, withthe lawyer's assistance, a codicil to that effect had been added tothe will.

I gathered [Phillips had written] that she felt you were in needof the money and that Mr. George Judson had sufficient means of hisown. When the tidings and particulars of your unfortunateexperience in the banking business came to her knowledge, she was,naturally enough, greatly disturbed and somewhat incensed. She toldme that you had convinced her that any considerable sum of moneywould be a hindrance to your welfare, rather than a help, and itwas then that she first changed her will and, with the exception ofa small legacy to you, made your brother her heir. Since her visitto Wellmouth, or during that visit—she did not explain herreasons to me fully—her resolution had faltered, she had beenled to reconsider, and the codicil mentioned was the result. Icannot, at present, inform you definitely as to the value of yourinheritance. Including the house and real property I should roughlyestimate your coming into possession of from one hundred thousandto one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. This is, however, onlyan estimate. I shall attend to the will, etc., very shortly, assoon as my doctor permits my being up and about. I write you thisletter, not knowing what your plans may be, nor what effect uponthem this, as I presume, unexpected change in your circumstancesmay have. You are, of course, the only person yet aware of youraunt's dispostion of her effects. If I may be permitted to suggest,my suggestion is that you keep the matter a secret until thecontents of the will is made public. That, however, is of coursefor you to decide. I felt it my duty to inform you of your goodfortune, for the reasons I have heretofore mentioned. Icongratulate you, Mr. Judson, and shall await yourinstructions.

Emily finished her reading. Then she sat in silence, the typedsheets held between her fingers, her face showing the fight she wasmaking to grasp the unbelievable fact contained in the letter.Carey, too, was silent. His gaze was fixed upon the low hills faracross the bay, but he did not see them. He was struggling tocomprehend—to believe—to think—

She was the first to awaken from the daze. She drew a longbreath and turned to him, her eyes shining.

"Oh, Carey!" she cried. "Oh, CAREY!"

He started, blinked, and turned to meet her look.

"I—I— Good Lord!" he sighed. "Eh?...Oh, goodLord!"

She leaned toward him and took his hand. It lay limply in hersas if he were quite unaware of her touch.

"Mr. Carey Judson, man of affairs, I—I, too, congratulateyou," she said, her voice choking between a laugh and a sob.

He blinked again, then he laughed, or attempted to do so.

"It—it is a good joke, isn't it," he stammered. "That is,it—it would be, if—if—"

She interrupted. "A joke!" she exclaimed. "It isn't a joke atall. It is the truth. You are to have all that money, Carey. To dowhat you want to with...Oh, I'm SO glad! I—I think I am goingto cry. I'm sure I don't know why; I feel like screaming for joy,but—but I am crying. Isn't it ridiculous!"

He sighed again. Then he shook his head. "It is ridiculousenough, there is no doubt of that," he said. "The whole thing, Imean. Of course it is a mistake. Aunt Susan told me—"

"Oh, yes, yes! I know she did! But she changed her mindafterward. He says so, here in the letter. She made a codicilleaving it all to you. Don't you SEE? That is what he says, in somany words, and he was her lawyer. She has left it all to you, justas she ought to have done, of course...Oh, Carey, itmeans—why, you can go with Professor Knight as well as notnow. You can! You can!"

He shook his head, once more. "No," he said. And then with moredetermination, "No, I can't do that, Emily. Even if this is trueand—but I don't believe it is. I think the poor fellow issick and off his head; he must have been crazy when he wrote thisletter. Even if it were true, and he isn't insane, then I should beif I took this money. It doesn't belong to me. It is George's, ofcourse. He expects it."

"But it isn't his. He couldn't have it if he wanted it. It isyours. Besides, he doesn't need it at all; he is a rich man. Everyone calls him that. He—"

"Wait, wait, Emily. That doesn't make any difference. I don'tdeserve it. I had money and I threw it away, not only mine but somuch that didn't belong to me. George lost a lot through mycarelessness, so did Aunt Susan, so did your mother. Yes, and sodid half of Wellmouth. Look how George has stood by me... Whereshould I be if it hadn't been for him? God only knows, I don't. No,it is his, and he shall have it. It is the least I can do forhim."

"But he won't want it. He doesn't need it, I tell you. He willbe more glad than any one to know you are to have it. Carey, don'tyou see what it will mean? You can pay all the people in Wellmouth,all whom you owe, every one of them, in full. And still have a lotleft. Don't you SEE?"

Apparently he saw, for the first time. He rose to his feet.

"By Jove!" he gasped. "By Jove, I COULD do that, couldn'tI?"

She, too, sprang up and stood beside him.

"Of course you could!" she agreed eagerly. "The Wellmouth debtsaren't so very much. How much did you say they werealtogether?"

He tried to think. "I—I can't seem to remember anythingvery distinctly," he confessed. "It seems to me they amountto—oh, well, forty thousand, or something like that."

"Yes. Yes, I am sure that is it. Only forty thousand, and youare to have more than one hundred and ten thousand! Why, you canpay those debts, all of them, and go on the South Americanexpedition and—and have a great deal left...Oh, Carey, I MUSTcry! I must! You don't mind, do you? It—it is just because Iam so happy—for you."

She laughed and cried together, dabbing at her eyes with herhandkerchief.

"I know I am as silly as I can be," she confessed, hysterically,"but—but I have been so sorry for you, and I have beenwishing and wishing there was some way I might help you—andnow this has come. And I am so glad—SO glad!"

She laughed and choked and wept together. He was standing closebeside her, looking at her with a rapidly changing expression, anexpression of utter amazement and then of growinghope—belief—almost of conviction.

"By Jove!" he gasped, under his breath. "Emily, I— Areyou—are you really so glad—so happy, just becauseI—I—"

"Because you are going to be happy at last? Of course I am!"

His long arms seemed to move of their own accord, withoutconscious effort of will. For an instant they hovered about her.Then they clasped her tight and crushed her to him.

"Oh, by Jove!" he said again. "I—I— Oh, mydear!...I—I—O-oh," with a long, rapturous sigh, "I KNOWI am crazy now."

She lifted her head to look up at him.

"Perhaps we both are," she whispered, "but I don't mind, doyou?"

Then followed one of those intervals usual in such cases. It wasnot entirely a silent interval. Much was said on both sides, butnothing of marked originality; millions of humans have said thesame things, and will, if the race is to continue, say them throughthe ages. When, at last, they sat down once more in the shadow ofthe dune, he put his hands before his face and, to herastonishment, began to laugh, quietly, but almost like one whosenerves were unstrung.

She was alarmed.

"Don't, dear," she begged. "Don't! You frighten me. What isit?"

He dropped his hands. "Emily," he said, "tell me: I AM awake,aren't I? I'm not asleep or—or dead—or anything likethat? I'm not?"

She was still frightened. The question was so impossible yetasked with such earnestness.

"Don't say such things, please," she pleaded. "What DO youmean?"

He smiled. "Oh, it is all right," he said. "Only it just seemsas if I must be asleep, that's all. If I am I never want to wakeup, of course, but—well, you see, this—something likethis—was my dream; the one I couldn't tell you."

Chapter XII

The shadows of the beach plum bushes and pines were long and thechill of the September evening was upon them before they rose fromthe hollow behind the dune and began their walk back to thevillage. It was Emily, of course, who first remembered that thescheme of creation contained such an element as time. Carey hadforgotten it altogether. His state of mind was far removed from allpractical considerations. He was still, apparently, not quitecertain that his sudden transition from the depths to the heightswas actual and not imaginary and he broke off in the middle of morethan one flight into the rainbowed future to announce that it justcouldn't be, happiness like this belonged to the other fellow, notto him.

"You see," he said, apologetically, "I have been dodgingbrickbats so long that I—well, I guess I duck my head as amatter of habit. You are sure, Emily, that—that you really docare enough for me to—to—by Jove, I don't see how youcan! You shouldn't, of course."

"I think I should. And I know I do."

"You are throwing yourself away, that is what they will all say.Great Scott, what WON'T they say!"

She laughed, happily. "You and I agreed, long ago," she toldhim, "that we didn't care in the least what was said. And truly,Carey, do you think they are going to be tremendously surprised? Ihave heard—rumors have come to my ears which lead me toimagine that Wellmouth is expecting something very like this."

"You don't mean it!"

"I do. Mother has been—well, warned by sympathetic friendsthat unless she were more careful of my behavior and associates Imight come to some such dreadful end."

"Dear me! Oh dear! What will your mother say when you tellher?"

"She will be pleased. She is fond of you, and respects you andbelieves in you. She knows, she must know I have been falling inlove with you from the first time we met, there at your aunt'sreception. Yes, and long before that. I used to think I wasdesperately in love with you when I was a girl home from school andyou used to condescend to let me help you with your bird mounting.You weren't in the least aware of my devotion; you were far toolofty and superior in those days."

He shook his head. "You!" he exclaimed. "And—and animpractical, moony failure like me! Well," with a determinedoutthrust of the chin, "if I fail again it won't be for lack oftrying to succeed. But I know what will be said. They will say I amafter your money and that you have taken me to support."

She smiled and pressed his arm. "You forget, dear," she said."That is exactly what they won't say. You are the one with moneyand I am the dependent. You are worth a hundred and twenty thousanddollars, Carey Judson."

He drew a long breath. "Humph!" he mused. "I keep forgettingthat, don't I? Yes—yes, I suppose it must be true, if thatman Phillips isn't off his head. But, my girl, I'm afraid therewon't be much left after my debts are paid...I must pay them."

"I want you to pay them. And there will be a good deal left. Andeven if there weren't it would make no difference. You and I couldget along somehow. And you are going to succeed. I am sure of it.We shall have to wait, of course, but when you come back from SouthAmerica Professor Knight will find something for you to do; I knowhe will. By that time you will have shown him what a wonderfulnaturalist you are and he will never let you leave him. Wait andsee."

There was more of this, much more, with occasional lapses intothe reality of the immediate future and its problems. Ever loominglarge in Carey's mind was the disappointment in store for Georgewhen he should learn that his older brother, and not he, was toinherit the Dain thousands.

"I am afraid George may feel hard toward me," he said. "He hasexpected that money and he may feel that I am to blame in some way,that I influenced Aunt Susan against him. I wish she had, at least,shared equally between us."

"No, indeed," she protested, stoutly. "George has plenty ofmoney, he doesn't need this. He cares so much for you and he isalmost as unselfish as you are; not quite, no one could be that. Hewill be surprised, of course, but, after the first surprise isover, he will be delighted. He is a good man and a goodbrother."

"There never was a better. Well—yes, I think possiblyGeorge may be glad, for my sake. But Cora—her joy won't beoverwhelming. Whew! I dread meeting her after that will is madepublic."

Emily frowned. "I HOPE you won't mind what SHE says," shedeclared. "I don't like her at all. Neither does mother. And thereare very few who do. Your Aunt Susan had decided opinionsconcerning that woman, and I have heard her express them."

Among the few matter-of-fact items discussed during that slowwalk in the gathering shadows was the question as to whether or notCarey should tell his brother of the letter from Phillips. It wasdecided to tell no one for the present. Nothing was to be gained bypremature disclosures; wait until the will was opened, counseledEmily. Carey agreed that this was best.

"I guess I am a coward," he said, "but, dearest, I think Ishould like to put off the storm as long as possible. Even ifthis—this clear sky of ours is what your milkman saidto-day's sunshine was, a 'weather breeder,' I want to make it lastas long as it will. It is decidedly unusual for me and—and Ikeep reaching for an umbrella. My Wellmouth debts paid, and a stakein the bank—and you to work for! Whew! What was it the oldwoman in the Mother Goose verse said: 'Mercy me! Can this be I?'Something to that effect."

It was long after supper time when he entered the sitting roomof the Cap'n Jim-Carey place. George and Cora were there, theformer smoking his after-supper cigar and his wife reading aromance by E. P. Roe. She looked up from the page and her greetingwas strongly flavored with sarcasm.

"Well!" she observed, with an air of surprise. "You've comehome, haven't you? And so early! We began to think you were takinganother night out. We had counted on your eating supper with us; Idon't remember your saying anything about being invited somewhereelse. But of course you shouldn't be expected to take that troubleon our account. Who were the lucky ones this time; theHigginses?"

Carey, who had only that minute remembered that supper wassupposed to be a part of the average daily routine, wasconscience-stricken.

"I—I—" he faltered. "I am awfully sorry, Cora. Yousee—"

His sister-in-law interrupted.

"It was the Higginses, wasn't it?" she asked again. "Phoebe mustbe planning to take boarders next summer. I suppose she wants toget used to having company at table."

Carey shook his head. "Why no," he confessed. "I did not havesupper with the Higginses. They were away. As a matter of fact,I—"

Once more Mrs. Judson broke in upon the unfinished sentence.

"WHAT!" she exclaimed. "Why, good gracious me! Was it theSayleses AGAIN? Well, well! George," with a significant glance ather husband, "this is getting serious. No wonder people aresaying...Hum! well, no wonder."

This was so close to the truth, although in one way far from it,that Carey reddened, became more confused and appeared quite asguilty as he felt.

"I haven't had supper at all," he blurted, desperately."I—I forgot all about it. I am dreadfully sorry. It is allright, though; I am not a bit hungry."

Cora T. straightened in her chair. "O-oh!" she said. "Oh, I see!Well, in that case, if you didn't care enough about it to rememberit, I suppose it doesn't make any difference—except perhapsto those who took the trouble to get it ready for you. THEY mightbe a little put out, but that doesn't matter, of course."

George, who had been fidgeting and puffing nervously at hiscigar, put in a word.

"There, there, Cora!" he said. "Of course it doesn't matter.Hepsy's kept your supper for you, Carey. Go out and see her; she'llfix you up."

Carey thankfully departed to the kitchen, the sound of Mrs.Judson's prodigious sniff accompanying him to the door. After hisexit the lady turned to her husband.

"He HAS been with that Sayles girl, even if he didn't stay forsupper," she announced. "Did you see how red he got and how foolishhe looked when I mentioned her name? Well, whatever happens thereyou can't say I didn't warn you, George Judson. The whole town ischattering about it. I should THINK Desire Sayles would have moresense than to let it go on, even if her daughter IS weak in thehead."

Carey, although conscious of a tremendous pull in the directionof the Sayles' dwelling, fought against it and remained at homethat evening, going to his own room very soon after finishing thesupper Hepsibah had kept warm for him. Knowing what he knew andthat George and Cora did not yet know, he could not remain withthem. Each time that his brother's eye met his he felt as if thesecret—or pair of secrets—must be written plain uponhis face. He went to bed shortly after nine, but his brain was intoo great a whirl for sleep. The amazing revolution in hislife—the complete overturn in all his plans for thefuture—more than all, the paralyzing fact that Emily Saylesreally loved him, was willing to marry him, and that that marriagewas now a sane, human possibility—why, yes, acertainty—all these were miracles. They could not betrue—but they were. He could pay every debt he owed inWellmouth. He could—there was a chance that he might give upbookkeeping and work openly and whole-heartedly at his birds orsomething like that. He could be a free, respected andself-respecting member of society once more. He—HE, queerCarey Judson, could marry the most wonderful girl in the world,marry and, perhaps, have children of his own—live and be likeother men. HE could! And Emily had said—he repeated everyword she had said to him during those glorious hours behind thesand dune. Then he sprang out of bed and paced up and down theroom, trying to grasp it all, to comprehend.

Only the thought that his brother might consider himselfunfairly treated kept drifting in to mar his ecstasy.

At the office next day his use of the scratcher became sofrequent that Mr. Early's remonstrance was more than a hint. Theperturbed Benjamin crept up behind him during one furiousscratching and Carey was made aware of his presence by a hissingintake of breath close to his ear.

"That isn't—isn't ANOTHER mistake, is it, Carey?" queriedthe manager, in agonized entreaty. "I—I hope not."

Carey turned his head. "Eh?" he asked. "Oh, no! It is the sameone, Ben. I have made it again, that's all. I'll get it righteventually, if the paper is thick enough."

Mr. Early's irritation got the better of his usual diplomaticheed to the fact that the bookkeeper was his employer'sbrother.

"We shall have to buy you another one of those things, I guess,"he observed, tartly, referring to the scratcher. "That one must beworn out by this time."

Carey's reply was as serene as the weather of the daybefore.

"Not a bad idea, Ben," he agreed heartily. "Sometimes I make twomistakes at once and it might save time if I could dig with bothhands."

That evening, after supper, he went straight to the Sayles'homestead. The hour was earlier than that of his usual calls and hewas quite aware that his progress was observed from manyneighboring watch towers. He did not care in the least. The timewas approaching when he would set the beacons burning from one endof Wellmouth to the other. HOW they would talk when theyknew—all! He laughed aloud as he strode up the walk, and thesmile was still upon his lips when Emily opened the door to admithim. In the little hall she whispered—after more importantwhisperings on both sides—that she had not yet told hermother their great secret. "And I haven't told her of your aunt'sleaving you the money, Carey," she added. "I thought, perhaps, itmight be as well to wait until the will was made public. Then wecan tell the whole story and mother can hear all the good news atonce. She must be told first of all, of course."

After Mrs. Sayles had retired they sat together upon the sofa inthe sitting room talking of the future, of his debts and theirpayment, of the probability of his joining the South Americanexpedition—Emily insisted that it was a certainty and wouldnot listen to any doubts or misgivings on his part—ofpossibilities of employment afterward, work which was to be of thesort he loved and for which he was fitted. "With Professor Knightsomewhere," she said. "He will find it for you, Carey; I know hewill." The subject of marriage was touched upon but vaguely, for,first of all, so she declared, he must think of his career and thesuccess which would come when he was once established in hisprofession. "We must wait until you find the opportunity you aresure to find, dear," she counseled. "Then—well, then we canbe together. There is so much to be thought of before that. Even ifeverything else were settled and assured I could not leave mothernow. Perhaps, by and by, she may be well and strong enough to gowith us, wherever we may go—to live, you know, but at presentthat is out of the question. We must be patient and wait. Perhapsthe waiting won't be so very long."

Once he expressed the dread which was always in his mind, thefear that his brother might consider himself ill-used and that theaffection which had always existed between them might be shattered,or at least impaired.

"I don't feel right about taking all that money, Emily," heconfessed. "I try to see it as you do, and I suppose that George iswell-to-do and doesn't need Aunt Susan's hundred thousand,but—well, I know he has expected it, and that every one willfeel that he should have it. He has always been so straight andhonest and capable. He hasn't wasted his substance in—inriotous banking. Father always gave me the best ofeverything—yes, and a larger share than he ever gave George.I know that and so does every one else, I was the spoiled favorite.Oh, I know it! I have heard it said often enough. And it is true.Now—"

She interrupted. "Don't!" she protested. "You mustn't talk so.George will be the gladdest of all when he knows that, after allyour trouble, at last you are to have a bit of good fortune. Hewill; but even if he shouldn't be, if at first he maybe—well, just a little disappointed, you must not allow thatto influence you. It is right, absolutely right that you shouldhave your aunt's money. She wanted you to have it, she tookcare—as ill as she must have been—to make sure that youwere to have it. It means practically nothing to your brother andeverything in the world to you. Carey, dear, I want you to promiseme this: You will not permit anything—anything oranybody—to persuade you against accepting Mrs. Dain's legacy.This isn't for my sake. For myself I don't care at all. If you wereas poor as poverty I should still be just as happy as I am thisminute. It is you I want. But for your own sake you must take thechance which has come to you. Promise me you will take it and neverthink of doing anything else. Promise."

He sighed, but he promised. "I will—because you want meto," he said.

"Give me your word of honor that nothing George, or his wife,may say or do will make you change your mind."

He hesitated. "My word of honor, then," he said, gravely, aftera moment. "It is going to be hard, but—I suppose you areright. It does seem as if that was what Aunt Susan wanted...Verywell, it is settled. Now let's talk about something pleasant."

There was much that was pleasant—very much—and theytalked of it until eleven o'clock. At the door Emily whispered:

"Carey, there is just one thing I want you to tell me you aresure of. I have made you promise to accept this inheritance fromyour aunt. I have insisted upon it. Tell me that you don'tthink—tell me, you KNOW I am not in the least interested inthe money for its own sake. I am not! Oh, I am not! It is just foryou and what it means for you. Tell me you are sure of that."

He did tell her, of course, and tried to make the tellingconvincing.

"It seems a little superfluous, all this, doesn't it, dearest?"he asked, with a happy laugh. "By the time those Wellmouth debtsare paid, and if I do go with Big Jack, there won't be enough ofAunt Susan's money left to worry about. Some, perhaps, but notmuch."

"I hope there won't be. I do truly hope so. Carey, I—Iwant you to believe this: If you had asked me to marry you thatevery first evening when we met at the reception, I think—Ithink I should have said yes. And if you had asked me after Iheard, from others, the news of your being a wealthy man I—Idoubt if I should have said it. I might—perhaps I couldn'thave helped saying it—but I should have tried to say no. Ishould have been ashamed to say anything else. You see—well,you see, when you did ask me, I—I was so happy for your sake,that—oh, it just happened, didn't it?"

He held her close. "That was my lucky day," he vowed. "I don'tremember that I did ask you, so far as that goes. I certainlyshouldn't have dared do such a wildly outrageous thing if I hadremembered what I was doing or—or who I was—or what youwere, I guess, as you say, it just happened. You are sure you arenot sorry that it did?"

Well...it was half past eleven when the Sayles' gate swung shutbehind him.

The next morning he and his brother walked together, as usual,down to the office of J. C. Judson & Co. George was, as he hadbeen of late, in good humor and he chatted of this and that. It wasCarey who had little to say. The storm, foretold by the milkman,seemed still far removed; the sky was as clear and the sunshine asbright as on the Sunday which had been tagged a "weather breeder."George commented upon the fact.

"Gorgeous weather, isn't it?" he observed. "All the old saltshave been prophesying that we are going to pay for it pretty soon.Jabez Drew has been issuing bulletins for a week and the better theday the blacker his prophecies. Jabez vows he never saw a stretchof weather like this at this time of the year without a hurricaneor a typhoon, or some other upset following in its wake. He saysthe 'equinoctial gale' is about due and that we can expect it toheave in sight at any minute. That 'equinoctial' is the shiftieststorm on record, it seems to me, but all the old-timers swear byit. It never shows up according to schedule, but that doesn't shaketheir faith in the least. If it doesn't come one week they waituntil the next and if it doesn't come then they wait until it doesand then declare they prophesied it just the same. Father used tobe always on the lookout for the equinoctial; don't youremember?"

Carey absently agreed that he did remember. His brothernodded.

"Of course you do," he said. "It comes from the deep seatraining, I suppose. When a sea captain has a stretch of fair windand blue water he is certain that it is too good to last and is onthe lookout for squalls ahead. Father used to say that he wasalways suspicious when there was nothing but smooth sea under hisbows for more than three days running. 'When the glass is highthat's the time to watch it,' was his pet word. That is trueenough, maybe, but it works the other way sometimes. I've seen allcreation as black as the devil and then have it clear away justwhen I was ready to give up hope...Indeed I have!"

The concluding sentence was emphatic and accompanied with a longdrawn breath expressive of what seemed to be relief. Carey lookedat him in surprise. George caught the look and slapped him on theback.

"So don't you get to worrying about the 'equinoctial,' old man,"he said. "I've come to believe that there is just as much truth inthat other motto, that about its being darkest just before sunrise,or whatever it is...Well, here we are. Wonder if we beat Ben againthis morning."

They had not. Mr. Early was already behind the bookkeeper'sdesk, looking over and assorting the mail which Jabez Drew, alwaysthe earliest of the early birds, had brought down from the postoffice. Jabez was outside by the door, and George lingered to speakwith him concerning a shipment of fish which was scheduled to leavefor Boston that day. Carey entered alone, and after hanging his haton the rack joined the manager behind the desk.

"Well, Benjamin," he observed, "glad to see you so serene andsmiling after last evening's dissipation. Anything important fromUncle Sam?"

The "dissipation" had been a sociable at Mr. Bagness' church.Mr. Early looked annoyed. The flippancy of the greeting andquestion was a shock to his dignity, a dignity which, to be honest,the bookkeeper was in the habit of shocking rather frequently.

"Oh—ah—good morning, Carey," he said, shortly;adding, "No, I never let MY dissipations, as you call them, keep mefrom getting to work on time. Never. Of courseI don'thappen to be a relation of the firm, though...Humph! IS our clockhere a little mite fast? According to that it is pretty nearquarter past eight."

Carey did not answer. He had picked up the smaller heap ofletters upon the desk and was looking at the upper one. Hisexpression was odd. Early did not notice the expression but he didnotice what his subordinate was doing. He took the packet ofletters from the latter's hand.

"THAT happens to be Mr. George's private personal mail," heannounced, sharply. "Of course you've forgot that nobody else issupposed to handle that."

Again Carey made no response, nor did he attempt to retain theletter. In the upper left-hand corner of the envelope on the top ofthe little heap he had seen a printed name and address. The namewas E. W. Phillips, and the address a number in a street inCleveland, Ohio. He knew, as well as if he had read the envelope'scontents what that contents was. It was the announcement, alreadymade to him and now made to his brother, that Mrs. Susan Dain hadleft her worldly goods to Carey Judson. And in a few minutes Georgewould read and know.

Mr. Early, surprised by his silence, had turned and was lookingat him. Now he spoke.

"Why, what is the matter?" he demanded. "Are—are you sickor something?"

Carey might have answered this time, he was struggling to do so,to say that nothing was the matter, that he was all right; but justthen his brother, having concluded his instructions to the wharfboss, came into the office. Early promptly forgot the bookkeeperand his questions concerning the latter's strange look andbehavior, and greeted his employer with unction.

"Good morning, Mr. Judson," he said. "Another fine morning. Yes,indeed. Ahem! A good deal of mail this morning. I haven't had achance to look it over yet. There are some personal letters for youand," with a glance at his companion behind the desk, "I have, ofcourse, laid 'em to one side. Here they are."

George took the half dozen letters and idly shuffled them.Carey, anxiously watching, saw him pause and stare at one of theenvelopes. Then he put them in his pocket.

"I see," he said. "Well, I've got a few matters to attend to andI'm going into my room for a little while. I'll talk with you aboutthe mail later, Ben."

He went into the private office, closing the door behind him.Carey longed to go with him, to be there when he opened the letterfrom the lawyer, to explain, then and at once, his own feeling ofamazement at Aunt Susan's change of mind, his conviction that shehad made a mistake, his knowledge that he was not deserving of sucha benefaction. He would have liked to ask his brother'spardon—for what he could not be certain, but he would haveasked it. More than all he would have liked to make sure that, asEmily was sure, George's disappointment was not keen, and that, asshe declared, he was happy in his, Carey's, good fortune.

The door, however, remained shut and George did not call forhim. With a deep sigh he turned to open the safe, take out theledger, the journal and the rest of the books, and square hiselbows for the day's grind.

It was a grind, even more so than usual. Mr. Early methodicallyand importantly opened the letters remaining upon the desk,assorted the bills and checks, and grudgingly delivered to hisassistant such enclosures as required attention. Carey, strivinghard to fix his thoughts upon affairs in that outer office and dragit from those in the room where his brother sat, entered and postedsomehow, he realized and cared little how. As the minutes wereticked off by the ancient clock and still no call for him came fromhis brother, as still the latter's door remained closed, his ownagitation grew and grew.

It was after ten when the door did open and George Judsonappeared. Carey, looking anxiously at his face, saw that it wasflushed, that his eyes were congested and—or perhaps it wasfancy born of a guilty conscience—it seemed that his hand ashe took it from the knob was shaking. Carey tried to catch his eye,hoped that he might speak, but George did not look in his brother'sdirection nor did he utter his name. Early, who had been nervouslyawaiting the opportunity to confer upon matters of the dailyroutine, stepped forward with an apologetic cough.

"Ahem!" he began. "Mr. Judson, now if you're ready, there areone or two little things that—that perhaps you'd like to goover with me. If you ain't too busy, of course."

George brushed by him as if he had not heard. He took his hatfrom the rack.

"I—I can't talk with you now, Ben," he said, with anapparent effort. "I'm going out for a while. Go ahead and use yourown judgment...No, don't bother me."

The last was a command given in a tone which caused the managerto stare.

"Oh—er—well—all right, all right, Mr. Judson,"he stammered. "Just as you say. I don't know as there's anything sovery important. I just—that is—"

His employer appeared to realize that his manner may have seemedoddly abrupt. He stopped and spoke, but without turning hishead.

"All right, Ben," he said, more quietly. "Don't mind me. I'vegot a bad headache and—and I'm going to try and walk it off.I'll be back by and by, probably. If I don't—why, don'tworry...I shall, though. Yes, I'll be back."

After his departure Early turned a puzzled face to thebookkeeper.

"A headache!" he repeated. "I never knew he was subject toheadaches. Can't remember his ever having one before. It must havecome on mighty sudden and he certainly looked as if he hadSOMETHING. Seemed to be all right when he came down this morning.Did he say anything to you about feeling sick, Carey?"

Carey shook his head. "No," he said, and was silent while themanager continued to comment and surmise concerning the suddenindisposition. He was profoundly thankful when outside dutiescalled Early from the office. He knew—or felt certain that heknew only too well—the cause of his brother's "headache."Above all things he dreaded the coming of the dinner hour and thefamily session awaiting him at the Cap'n Jim-Carey place.

His forebodings, however, were not realized. George was not athome when he entered the dining room. He had gone over to the bankat Bayport, for some reason or other, so Cora T. announced, and hadsent her word to that effect by Jabez.

"What in the world he went there for I'm sure I don't know," shesnapped. "It isn't the day for directors' meeting. I suppose likelyhe told you, though. He generally tells everybody but his wife.Seems to think I won't be interested in his doings. Do you knowwhat he went to Bayport for?"

Carey was obliged to admit that he did not know; George had saidnothing to him of his intention. Mrs. Judson seemed to think itrather queer.

"Didn't he say a word?" she persisted. "To you or to Ben Earlyor anybody? Didn't he say ANYTHING?"

"No...Well, he said he had a headache, and that he was going outto walk it off. That is all he said."

This admission, made on the impulse of the moment and withoutforethought, was a mistake. Cora T. leaned back in her chair.

"A headache!" she repeated. "Well, that's something brand-new. Inever knew him to have a headache in all his life. I'm the one thathas the headaches for the family. He didn't tell me there wasanything the matter with his head when he went out of this houseafter breakfast. And there wasn't anything wrong with his appetiteAT breakfast, either. You went down with him to the office. Did hetell you then that his head bothered him?"

"No. No, not that I remember."

"I guess you would have remembered if he had told you. He wentout to walk the headache off? That was it, was it?"

"Yes. That is what he said."

"Well! And the next thing we hear he's gone to Bayport. Hedidn't walk THERE, I guess. Humph! there's something pretty funnyabout all this, I must say...And what has become of YOUR appetite?You haven't eaten a thing so far. YOU haven't got one of thoseall-of-a-sudden headaches, have you? If you have they must becatching."

Carey tried to eat and did eat a little, but every mouthful wasa struggle. His answers to his sister-in-law's questions were vagueand absently given and he volunteered no remarks of his own. Coradeclared the dinner to be about as unsociable a meal as she hadever sat down to and her suspicions at its conclusion wereevidently quite as keen as they had been at the beginning.

George did not return to the office that afternoon and hisbrother spent a wretched session at the books. He tried to satisfyEarly's curiosity by telling the latter of their employer's suddencall to Bayport, but Benjamin could not imagine what had sent himthere and his speculations were quite as annoying as his formerworry concerning the headache.

Carey Judson went home to supper with a dread even greater thanthat which had accompanied his walk to dinner. And again that dreadappeared to have been unwarranted. He found George in the sittingroom. He looked pale and jaded, but he explained that this was theafter-effect of the headache, which had stricken him withoutwarning. He went on to say that he had walked up and down the beachfor an hour or so and then, his suffering much relieved, rememberedthat he had an errand at the bank in Bayport and had taken the noontrain to that town.

"I wanted to look up that note of Sam Hawley's, Carey," headded. "That is due pretty soon and, as I told you, I am a littleworried about it."

Carey had no recollection of his brother's expressingapprehension concerning the Hawley note. The sum involved was not alarge one and, so far as he knew, Sam was perfectly good for theamount. He caught George's glance, however, and, reading in itanxiety and what appeared to be a desire for agreement, nodded andsaid "Yes." Just then Maggie called them to supper and unpleasantquestioning by the still suspicious Mrs. Judson wasavoided—or at least postponed.

Supper, as dinner had been, was an unsociable meal. Carey,covertly watching George, found in the latter's manner andappearance no solace for his apprehensions. George was very nervousand he ate almost nothing. Cora T. did the most of the eating andof the talking also. A few moments after they rose from the tableCarey took his hat and went out. He was going down to the shop fora while, he said.

And to the shop he went. He was strongly tempted to call uponEmily, but he resisted the temptation for two reasons. The firstwas that work upon his birds had been very much neglected of late;the second was his anxiety concerning George. He was sure that theletter from Phillips conveyed the news of Aunt Susan's codicil toher will and he was now equally certain that that news had come asa tremendous shock to his brother. There was more thandisappointment in George's look and bearing. He had aged yearssince morning. Even Cora had declared that her husband looked as ifhe had had typhoid fever instead of just a headache. And Carey hadknown George, had shared his joys and troubles since childhood.They were far closer than brothers usually are. No, George was hardhit, and Carey knew it. He could not understand why, but it was so.And, for some unguessable reason, he had not yet told his wife oftheir aunt's change of mind, in the disposition of her property.Cora's attitude toward her brother-in-law proved that. Carey hadexpected scenes and reproaches and bitter recriminations from her.No matter how complacently and cheerfully George might haveaccepted the tidings of his slighting in Carey's favor she wouldhave been angry and envious and savagely resentful. Carey, when heentered the sitting room and found his brother there before him hadbraced himself for the storm; but there was no storm. Mrs. Judsonwas sarcastic and tartly ironic, but she was always that. No, herhusband had not told her the news. He had kept it a secret, evenfrom her, and so far as Carey knew, this was absolutelyunprecedented. She might be capable of keeping a secret from herhusband, but George had never before been known to hide anythingfrom his wife. The fact that he had done so in this instance wasthe most disturbing element in the affair.

Carey's work upon the black duck was not at all satisfactorythat evening. He gave up trying after a while and sat there uponhis packing box brooding and downcast. The dazzling sunshine of hisown great happiness was now shadowed by the cloud which apparentlyhad settled upon his brother, the brother who had stood by himthrough his trouble, who had pulled him to land when he wasdrifting—where? To suicide, perhaps. If George had not beento him more than a brother, if he had not offered him a home, anopportunity, had not suggested his attempt at paying some of theWellmouth debts—if George had not done all this—? Why,if it had not been for George he might never have come back toWellmouth. And, if he had not come, he might never have met Emily.He owed everything to George—everything!

He left the Higgins' yard shortly after nine o'clock and walkedtoward home. Again he was tempted, late as it was, to visit theSayles' home and tell Emily of George's strange behavior and of hisown distress of mind, and ask her advice. He did not go there,however, and for the same reason which had kept him away at first.If he told her she would be as troubled as he was. Perhaps—hedid not dare believe it, but perhaps—it was not the loss ofAunt Susan's money which was disturbing his brother. It might besomething else, and until he knew what it was, learned it fromGeorge himself, why distress Emily? No, he would wait. He wouldfind an opportunity the very next day and have a heart-to-heart,frank and open talk with George. That is what he would do.

He reached this conclusion on his way home. Instead of crossingthe fields as he usually did after leaving the workshop, he walkedalong the shore until he reached the upper end of the wharffronting the office and warehouse of J. C. Judson & Co. As hecame up to the road he was surprised to see a light in the officewindow. He could not imagine who might be there at that time ofnight and tiptoeing to the window, the shade of which was still inthe condition in which it had been on the evening when Emily sawhim struggling with the trial balance, looked in.

A man was standing behind the tall desk, his own desk, lookingover the books which were spread before him. At first, his eyesdazzled by the light, Carey guessed the man to be Early. A momentlater, however, he saw that it was not Early, but George Judson.And just then George looked up and Carey saw the expression uponhis face.

He waited no longer. Striding from the window to the door heopened it and entered the office.

Chapter XIII

The door opened quietly, but the sound of Carey's step and therush of air accompanying his entrance caused George, whose head wasagain bent over the books and papers upon the desk, to look up witha start. He caught his breath with a gasp and his hand shot forwardas if to hide one of those papers. He was pale, his eyes werebloodshot, and upon his face was that same expression which Careyhad noticed there when he peeped beneath the window shade. Hestared for an instant and then, the tension of his attitude relaxedas he recognized his brother.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, in evident relief. "It's you, eh?"

Carey crossed the room and stepped behind the desk.

"George," he asked, "what are you doing here?"

George's hand drew the paper which it partially concealed nearerto him and farther away from the side upon which Carey wasstanding. Carey caught a momentary glimpse of it as he did so andsaw that it was a large sheet covered with lines of figures,figures which meant nothing to him. He paid no attention to it,however. His eyes were fixed upon his brother's face.

"George," he persisted, "what is it? What is the matter? Whatare you doing down here at this time of night?"

George, the sheet of paper now hidden by his right arm, tried tosmile and to appear at ease, but the attempt was ghastly.

"Why, nothing, nothing," he said, hurriedly. "I—I wantedto do a little figuring, that's all and—and I couldn't do itto-day—that headache, you know—and—and so Ithought I would—I would—"

He left the attempt at explanation unfinished. Carey's gaze wasstill fixed upon his face and he turned away.

"What are you staring at me like that for?" he demanded,irritably. "And what are you doing here, yourself?...Eh?" withsudden anxiety. "Cora didn't send you, did she? She doesn't knowwhere I am?"

"No. At least she doesn't know it from me. I haven't seen hersince supper time."

"Then who sent you down here after me? Who told you I washere?"

"No one told me. I have been down at Cap'n Higgins', working onmy birds, and I walked home the long way, that's all. I saw youhere alone—that window shade is only partly down—and Icame in. That is why I happen to be here."

George drew his left hand across his forehead. "Oh—oh, Isee!" he muttered. "Well—well, all right. I'm tired andnervous, I guess, and— Oh, clear out and don't bother me,Carey. I'll be home pretty soon. Don't tell Cora you saw me here.She'll ask a lot of questions and—what's the use? Go away,will you, like a good fellow."

Carey did not move. Instead he remained where he was, lookinghis brother straight in the eye. George attempted to meet the lookfor a moment, but again he could not do so.

"Stop staring at me, will you?" he exclaimed, turning once moreand picking up a pen. "Can't you see I want to be by myself? Forheaven's sake go away and let me alone!"

Carey laid a hand upon his shoulder.

"George, old boy," he said, quietly, "don't go up in the airlike that. You and I have pulled together long enough to know eachother's ways by this time. Something has gone wrong and I know it.Pretty far wrong, too, I'm afraid. I haven't the slightest idea ofclearing out till you tell me what it is. Come on; out with it. Imay be able to help you, you can't tell."

George seemed to lose control of the feelings he had beenstruggling so hard to suppress. He whirled about, the papersbeneath his elbow fluttering to the floor.

"You help me!" he retorted, in a savage sneer. "YOU!...Oh, shutup and get out! Get OUT, before I say something you won't like tohear."

He tried to throw off the hand upon his shoulder, but its gripmerely tightened.

"No," declared Carey, "I won't. Now then, George, you're introuble. All right, I've been in trouble myself and not so long agoand you stood behind me like a brick. Do you think I am likely toforget it? Maybe I CAN help you. Maybe I know what the troubleis—or part of it."

George faced him now, staring at him in a sudden panic ofintentness which his brother had not expected nor couldunderstand.

"What! What!" he cried. "What's that? You know—you can'tknow! Who told you? Have you been reading my letters? Have you andthat damned Early been spying on me? Good heavens, it hasn't gotinto the papers, has it?...What do you mean? What are you talkingabout?...Speak up! Don't stand there with your mouth open. WHAT doyou know?"

Carey's mouth was open and his eyes as well. The fierceness ofthis outburst made him speechless for the moment. He had believedthat he knew the cause of George's trouble, but now his convictionwas shaken. Perhaps he did not really know at all. Apparently therewas something more, something far worse.

"Why, George," he pleaded. "I— What IS it?"

George ignored the question. "Answer me, will you!" he demanded."What are you talking about? What do you mean by saying you know?Does any one else know? Does—good heavens! does she—Does Cora know?"

"Of course she doesn't. She, nor any one, except you and me,knows it yet—that is, if we are talking about the same thing,George. I had a letter from that lawyer, Phillips. It came onSunday. He wrote me about—about Aunt Susan's leaving me hermoney."

He paused, expecting his brother to express surprise, to makesome comment; but he did not. He did not speak, and after a moment,Carey went on.

"So I know it, you see," he said. "In the letter Phillips askedme not to tell you or the family until—well, until the willwas made public. I wanted to tell you, old man, indeed I did. I amglad to get all that money, George. I can use it all right; but Idid feel—yes, and I do feel badly to think you aren't to haveit. You should have it, you deserve it, you know. And, honestly, Ican't understand—"

George interrupted. He seized his brother's arm and, leaningforward until his face was close to Carey's, peered into thelatter's eyes.

"Wait! Wait!" he commanded, hoarsely. "Is that—thatabout—about her will—what you meant when you said youknew?"

"Why, yes. Yes, of course. I—"

"Wait! Is that ALL you know?"

"All! It's enough, isn't it? I tell you, George, I have felt asguilty as a crook ever since I got that letter. Of course, as Isay, I am glad to get the money. The Lord knows I need it, but Ididn't expect it. I caught a glimpse of the envelope with Phillips'name, the one you got this morning, and so I guessed that he musthave written you what he wrote me. I have been hoping you might notfeel too bitter against me, but of course—"

Again George broke in. If he had heard and understood thegreater part of this halting explanation and apology he did notrefer to it. Instead his speech was a repetition of the command towait.

"Hush! hush! hold on!" he ordered. "Don't say anything more tome for—for a minute. I—I want to think."

Carey was silent. George left the enclosure behind thebookkeeper's desk and, his head bent and his hands in his pockets,strode over to the door, opened it, and stood there, looking outinto the quiet night. His brother watched him anxiously. For muchmore than the promised minute he remained there; then he seemed tomake up his mind. He shut the door, locked it carefully, and cameback to the desk.

"Carey," he said, more calmly, "come into the private officewith me. I'm going to make a clean breast of the whole business. Ishould have done it pretty soon, anyway. All day long I have beentrying to see my way through the fog, and you were the only lightin sight. I intended to have a talk with you to-morrow, but itmight as well be now. You said perhaps you would help me. Well, Iguess you can, if you will. If you don't nobody can. And if nobodydoes I'm gone, that's all...Come on! Let's get it over."

He threw open the door to the inner room and led the way intothat small apartment. Carey, his brain filled with a dread of heknew not what, followed him. George's roll-top desk stood by thewall, a revolving chair before it. He threw himself into the chairand opened the desk. Then he turned.

"Sit down," he ordered. "Wait a minute. Light that lamp first.I'm going out to get a paper or two. You stay here."

He rose and went again to the outer office. When he returned hisbrother had lighted the hanging lamp and was sitting in anotherchair beside the desk. George sat down. In his hand was the sheetof figure-covered paper upon which he had been at work when Careyfirst came upon him. He looked at it, turned it over and over, andthen spoke.

"Carey," he said. "I've been a fool. I've behaved like a fooland now I'm paying for it. Of course you don't know what I mean bythat. Well, I am going to tell you...It isn't so easy totell...I'll begin with the worst, so you may know just where Istand. I am right on the edge of smash, failure, bankruptcy. UnlessI can get money—and a lot of money—inside of the nextmonth I'm going to smash and the old firm is going with me. That'sthe plain truth. There! Now you know it. Nobody elsedoes—yet."

Carey could not believe it. His brother's reputation as awealthy man and a shrewd, cautious, farseeing man of business wasso firmly fixed in his mind that even his confession, made with thedeliberate earnestness of despair, failed to carry conviction. Hestared, breathed heavily, and then slowly shook his head.

"Nonsense, George!" he protested. "Don't exaggerate. You don'tmean it. YOU fail! Oh, come now! It isn't as bad as that."

George shrugged. "I am trying to tell you just the plain truth,"he declared. "If you don't believe me wait until the month is upand there'll be proof enough. Yes, I'm on the rocks and the firm isthere with me. The Judsons are going to get into the papers againand in pretty much the way they did before. A family trait, eh?Lord! It would be funny—if it wasn't a long way from fun forme."

Carey was beginning to believe, in spite of himself. Andyet—and yet it seemed so impossible. He was no business man,nor did business interest him, but his acquaintance with theaccounts of J. C. Judson & Co. was sufficiently intimate toshow him, or so he thought, that the house was doing well. Eversince his return to Wellmouth his brother's praises as one of thetown's influential solid men of affairs had been poured into hisears. The old sea captains spoke of George Judson as a financialRock of Gibraltar and the failure of one was no more to be expectedthan the collapse of the other. Yet George must know what he wastalking about. His tone, his manner, his haggard pallor—quiteas much as his words—these were guarantees that he was indeadly earnest. And suddenly Carey remembered his own suspicions ofa few weeks before, suspicions that something was seriouslytroubling his brother. Since Aunt Susan's death it had seemed tohim that George's trouble, whatever it was, had vanished. He hadwondered why. And now—now he thought he began to comprehend,to catch a glimmer of the truth.

"Go on, George," he faltered. "I can hardly believe it, ofcourse; but if you say so, why— Go on; I won'tinterrupt."

George nodded. "Don't interrupt, then," he said, grimly. "Themore interruptions the longer it will take me to tell the thing. Itisn't a pretty story and I want to get it out of my system. When aman has made a jackass of himself he—well, he doesn't enjoytalking about it. It isn't pleasant to boast of being a fool."

Carey stirred, uneasily. "This jackass can understand thatmuch," he said.

George was too deeply engrossed in his own humiliation andanguish of spirit to heed. He groaned and then continued.

"Yes, I have been a fool," he repeated. "And yet—yet, byJove, it didn't look like a foolish deal when I went into it.Looked like a sure thing. I believe yet it would be a sure thing ifI could hang on and wait. It hadn't anything to do with thebusiness here—in the beginning. That is the worst part of it;that is what people won't understand. They will say I used thefirm's money for private speculation. Well, I did, in the end, butI didn't mean to. By the Lord, Carey, I didn't! I swear I didn't.It—it got me, you know. It just got me."

Carey raised a hand. "Hush, hush, George!" he urged. "I know youwell enough to be sure you haven't done anything wrong. Tell mewhat you did do. And pull yourself together, old boy. Come!"

George tried his best to be calm. He did not succeed, of course,but he managed to tell his story in a fairly connected and coherentway. It took a long time, as he told it, but, briefly put, itamounted to this: A Boston business acquaintance of his, "One ofthe big men up there, Carey; one of the biggest, I give you myword," had spoken with him concerning an interest he had taken in ashipbuilding company in a Maine seaport city. The present companywas a long-established, conservative corporation which had builtships and steamers, wood, iron and steel, for years; the woodenones for two thirds of a century, the iron and steel more recently.The Boston financier—Carey recognized his name; he had been afriend of Cap'n Jim-Carey's—confided to George that this firmhad acquired the sole rights to a new form of marine engine which,they believed, would revolutionize the steamships of the future.They had formed a subsidiary company to develop that engine and,later on, to market it. The Boston man had invested a large sum inthe new project. He offered George Judson, as his friend, theopportunity to come in with him and his associates "on the groundfloor."

"It looked like a chance for a million, Carey," vowed George. "Iswear it did. Yes, and does yet, if I could wait. Of course Ididn't figure on having to wait more than—well, ayear—for my first returns. I put all I could scrape togetherinto it. I took a good-sized block of stock. It pinched me to getthe ready money, but I considered myself pretty well fixed, mycredit was good at the banks and everywhere else, the firm here wasdoing well and—well, I plunged. Oh, yes! I was a fool!...ButI guess you, or anybody else, would have been as big a fool if thechance had come your way. I'll bet you would!"

Carey, hunched in the chair, his long legs crossed in theircustomary awkward knot, his fingers playing with the lock of hairin the middle of his forehead, nodded gloomily.

"I never missed an opportunity of making a fool of myself yet,George," he observed. "You would probably win your bet. Goahead."

George went on. For a month or two everything connected with hisventure went well. Then new and unforeseen complications developed.A rival inventor claimed infringement on patents of his own. Theclaim, upon investigation, proved genuine. To avoid lawsuits andthe publicity which was not desired as yet, it was decided to buyoff the claim. A large sum of money was necessary and the firstassessment was levied upon the stockholders. The demand caughtGeorge Judson unprepared, but, through the sale of securities andpledges of personal credit, he managed to meet it. Others, however,followed. The manufacture of the new engines entailed more outlaythan had been anticipated and there was a second assessment. It washere that George, in desperation, drew upon the credit of his firm,J. C. Judson & Co.

"I had to pay that assessment," he said. "Had to, or lose all Ihad put in, and I couldn't do that. They were certain—the menbehind the thing, you know—that everything would be all rightin the end and that this would be the last payment I should have tomake. So I gave the firm's notes. People who knew me up there inBoston, and who had known father, were willing to take my paper andthey did. It looked as if I were going to pull through and keepafloat. For a month or so I felt pretty safe. Then there was athird assessment."

Carey, listening anxiously, could not repress an exclamation ofdismay. His brother heard it and groaned.

"Yes," he said. "I know. It was like a fist between the eyes forme. I was beginning to catch my breath again and see a littledaylight, when it landed. Carey, I don't know how I have looked andacted for the last few weeks; I have done my best to keep upappearances at home and around this office, but I felt all the timeas if everybody that saw me must be watching me and suspecting.Cora doesn't know, of course. I couldn't tell her. I CAN'T tellher. She wouldn't understand and—and...Oh, good heavens!"

He put his elbows on the desk and covered his face with hishands. Carey, bewildered and aghast, leaned forward.

"Yes, yes, I know, George," he murmured. "Well, she doesn'tknow, you say?"

"No, not yet. But she will have to know pretty soon; everybodywill know, unless—but there, let me tell you the rest."

Faced with this new and staggering complication he hadendeavored to meet it, somehow. He had gone at once to the holdersof the notes in Boston and asked for an extension of time. In twoinstances he was successful, in the third he was not. The holder ofthat note—the largest—was himself facing an unexpecteddemand for money and had counted upon payment of the Judson note tomeet the demand. That note must be paid when it fell due.

"If I don't pay the assessment," George explained, "I mightpossibly pay the note; but if I let that assessment go all I haveput into that miserable engine company will be lost, every cent ofit—and that means smash—smash and nothing else. It willclean me out, Carey. And—and I CAN'T let it go. This WILL bethe final assessment. The Boston people tell me that much iscertain. The company is ready to do business, the factory is built,prospects are first rate. This payment is needed just to clear offthe debt and start fair. And—and now—NOW, just when Icould begin to get back what I have put in, when I honestly believeI might be on my way to making that million I hoped to make,I—I...Oh, it is TOO hard! It can't be. I can't face it...Iwon't. You are my only chance, Carey. Unless you are willing tohelp me out of this mess I'll—well, I can't swear what I maynot do."

Carey did not speak immediately. Gradually, during thisrevelation of his brother's agony he had been dimly conscious ofthe appeal behind it, was growing more and more certain what thatappeal would be. And, as the certainty grew, with it grew abenumbing consciousness of what it meant to him, of the answer hemust make, of what that answer must be.

He sighed. "Well, go on, George," he urged. "We can't let you doanything desperate, you know; and you're not going to do it. Go on.Tell me the rest."

George went on to tell of his desperate effort to save his ownfortunes and those of the firm. Times were not bad exactly, butthey were not good. Business was fair, but collections were slow,and any such sum as he was in need of impossible to raise.

"At last," he said, "I thought of Aunt Susan. She was well fixedand I knew—or thought I knew—that she was going toleave me the bulk of her property when she died. I made up my mindto go to Cleveland, tell the whole thing, lay my cards on thetable, and see if she would either lend me the eighty or ninetythousand I had to have or borrow it for me out there. I hated to doit—you can guess how I dreaded it—but I had made up mymind to do it. And then she died...Carey, I don't know what youwill think of me, but I swear I—I was almost glad when I gotthe news. As fond as I was of her, I—I was almost happy thatnight. It is an awful thing to say—to tell you—but itis the truth. I went to bed that night thinking: 'This will save meand the old firm.' In one way I was sorry, as sorry as you were.And in another—well, I wasn't."

He groaned again and turned away, as if fearful of meeting hisbrother's look. If he had met it he would have found it one of pityonly. This last revelation, was not unexpected. Carey—yes,and Hepsibah—had noticed the strange air of elation, ofrelief, in George Judson's manner that night, the next morning andever since his return from the funeral at Cleveland. Hepsibah hadspoken of it.

Another moment of silence followed. Carey said nothing; he couldnot. His own thoughts were far away from that office and hisbrother. They were busy with the shadow that was darkening abouthim, with the overthrow of all his dreams—of Emily. Georgeraised his head.

"Well," he said, recklessly, "that is the truth, anyway. I don'twonder you won't speak to me. I am as ashamed of myself as you canbe; but it is the truth. That is how I felt. And maybe if you hadbeen in my place—if you were in the hell I was in—youwould have felt pretty much the same. It is easy to be decent whenyou haven't any reason not to be."

Still Carey did not speak. George shrugged, and continued.

"Then, this morning," he said, "I got the letter from Phillips,telling me that she had left everything to you. To YOU! God knowswhy she did it! She gave me to understand that she had cut you outaltogether. You may not believe it, but I was sorry when she toldme that. I tried to make her change her mind, to leave you alittle, anyway...Humph! I needn't have troubled myself. She wasplaying a little joke on me, that's all. She always liked youbetter than she did me, and, for some reason or other—one ofher cranky notions, I suppose—she never had any use for Cora.Well, she's dead, so there is no use calling her names, but..."

Carey broke in. "There, there, George!" he protested. "She isdead; and she was good to you and me."

"Good to YOU; there's no doubt of that. And I was as fond of heras you ever were. Yes, and did my best to show her that I was.Lord! it seems sometimes as if it didn't pay to keep your nose tothe grindstone as I've done all my life, to be honest and work hardand try to do the right thing. What's the use? When father lived Iwas always the one who paid the fiddler while—while otherpeople danced. Do you supposeI didn't want to go tocollege? Do you supposeI wanted to be stuck down here andplug along in the rut, without a chance to make good up in the citylike—well, like you? AndI could have made good there.I could—I know it...Oh, well! never mind. I'm not holding itagainst you, Carey; don't think I am. And I'm saying a lot ofthings I shouldn't, of course. I'm sore, that's all. Sore and sickand—and about crazy... And as for making good," with a savagesneer, "I'm a fine one to talk about that just now. People will saythe Judsons are all either fools or crooks, and maybe they won't befar wrong. I can stand it myself, I suppose, but when I thinkof—of Cora, I—I—"

The tears came to his eyes and he turned away again, staring atthe wall behind the desk. Carey bent forward and put a hand on theback of his chair.

"George," he said, quietly, "you are hauling down the flag awhole lot too soon, it seems to me. How much do you need to squarethat note and pay your assessment to that engine company? Eighty orninety thousand you were going to ask Aunt Susan for, you said.Would that have kept you and the firm out of trouble?"

George nodded. "Yes, it would," he said.

"So you could stay out—for keeps?"

"Yes, I guess so. There won't be any more assessments, that muchI know."

"All right. Phillips says Aunt Susan's estate will amount toover a hundred thousand, so you're all right, aren't you?"

George whirled about in the chair. His hands tightened upon thearms and the blood rushed to his face.

"What!" he cried. "What's that? Do you mean—do you meanthat you—"

"I mean that with this money of Aunt Susan's you can pay yournote and the assessment. Then you will be out of the woods."

"You—you mean you will let me have that money? Youwill?"

"Of course. Why not? That is what you were going to ask me todo, wasn't it?"

George's eyes closed. He turned and then, to his brother'sconsternation, dropped his head upon his arms on the desk, andbegan to cry like a child. Carey sprang to his feet and bent overhim.

"Here, here!" he exclaimed. "Good Lord, George, don't do that!What is it? It's all right now, isn't it? There isn't anythingmore? There isn't— Don't, I tell you! Stop! Take it easy, oldboy. Come! I can't stand this."

George raised his head. Slowly he leaned back in the chair anddrew a long breath.

"All right, Carey. All right," he said, with an effort. "Don'tmind my playing crybaby. I'm—I'm pretty well shaken thesedays and—and this— Humph! Well, you knocked me over,that's all... You mean it? You will let me have that money?"

Carey nodded. "Certainly," he said. "Come now; you didn't thinkI wouldn't."

"I didn't know what to think. There isn't any real reason whyyou should. It is yours; she left it to you. They are mighty fewthat would, in your place...And," with a sharp lift of anxiety inhis tone, "you said—you told me just now you were glad to getit. You said you needed it. You did! That is what you said."

Carey smiled. "Sshh!" he ordered. "Yes, I did say so. Well, Ithought I did need it. But I guess—well, George, I don't needit as much as you do. At any rate, it is yours. Take it and don'ttalk any more about it."

"Of course I shall talk about it. Good heavens, do you thinkI'll let you do this thing for me and keep my mouth shut, as if itwas nothing?...Why—why, Carey, you've saved my life, that'swhat you've done. I was going to ask you—yes, I was—butyou can't imagine how I hated to do it. I suppose you've plannedall sorts of things you were going to do with this money."

Carey rose to his feet. "Oh, never mind that, George," heprotested, nervously. "It's all settled, isn't it? Come on! Let'sgo home."

George seized his arm. "Indeed we won't go home," he cried."Why, we've only begun to talk. I want to show you some figures. Iwant you to understand just what shape the firm is in. You aren'tGIVING me this money, Carey. You're lending it to me, that's all.In two years—maybe in a year—I can begin to pay youback. I'm going to pay you, you know."

"Oh, all right, all right, George. I'll take your word forit."

"I don't want you to take my word. I've got the figures righthere. I was going over them when you came. J. C. Judson & Co.isn't in so far that it can't pull out, now that you've given itthe chance. Let me show you these figures."

Carey's face was now as pale and haggard as his brother's hadbeen, and his attempt at a smile as great a failure.

"George," he said, wearily, "what is the use of showing figuresto me? I'll take your word for them without looking. And I neverfound any one who would take mine after I had looked. Come!"

"No, I shan't come and don't want you to go. Sit down hereagain. Carey, I don't like this. You don't act like yourself. Seehere, boy, this giving up the money—for a littlewhile—isn't going to hit you too hard, is it? What were thoseplans of yours?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing. That is what most of my plans amountto—nothing. Don't talk about them."

"I shall talk about them. And when you speak and act that way Iknow they ought to be talked about. What were they? Tell me."

"No. They aren't worth telling. For heaven's sake, George,forget them, will you?"

George looked at him intently. His brows drew together.

"Carey," he said, slowly, "what is it? I want to know what youmeant to do. Give up bookkeeping, I suppose, and go off somewhereand settle down with your birds and natural history stuff?Something like that, was it?"

"Yes. Yes, something like that. But it doesn't make anydifference."

"If that is all, then you can call it just a postponement. Intwo years at the outside you will be able to do that, or anythingelse in reason. But is that all there was? I'm in a bad hole, aboutas deep a hole as a man can be in, but I'm not going to lift myselfout by shoving you down. YOU aren't in any money trouble, are you?Any more, I mean?"

Carey shook his head. "No," he said, with a short laugh. "I'mnot. Make your mind easy on that."

"I didn't see how you could be. Then you are just disappointedat not being able to give up your job at the office—oh, Iknow you don't like it—and play at being a naturalist. Isthat it?"

Carey lied bravely. "That's it, George," he said. "I'm a kid,you know. I'll never grow up. I am a little disappointed, but I'llget over it."

"You're sure that's all? Well, I hate to disappoint you. And Ihate to ask you to postpone your fun, but—"

His brother interrupted. "That will do, George," he said,firmly. "You know what you've done for me. I know it, if you'veforgotten it. Now it is my turn and it is all right...Well, are wegoing home?"

They did not go home—then, nor for another hour. George,insisted upon showing the financial statement, explaining it, andpointing out his reasons for optimism concerning the future. Carey,coaxed back again to the chair, pretended to listen and to expressunderstanding, but it was all pretense. His thoughts were also ofthe future, but there was no optimism in them.

At last George folded the paper and put it in a pigeonhole ofthe desk. Then he turned toward his brother and again there was ahesitancy, an embarrassment, in his manner and tone.

"Carey," he said, "I—I have asked favors enough of youto-night, but I am going to ask one more. I must ask it and you'vegot to say yes. If you don't—if you don't I shall bein— Well, not as great a trouble as I was before you said Icould borrow the money, but in one that is bad enough. One Ihaven't got the nerve to face, and that's a fact. It won't meanmuch to you—at least I can't see why it should—but itwill mean the difference between peace and perdition to me."

He picked up a penholder and began tapping the desk with it.Carey, not understanding what this new favor might be, nor caringgreatly, anxious only to get away, to be alone, tried to hurry himon.

"All right, George," he said. "I'll say yes before you ask it.You can consider it said already, if you want to. What is it?"

"It is just that—well, it is just that you won't tell asoul about what I have told you to-night. If it came to be knownthat I had been making a fool of myself as I have it would shakeeverybody's confidence, my credit and the firm's would be down tozero, my other creditors might crowd me and there would be thedeuce to pay. We've got to keep it a dead secret, you and I. Wehave, there is no other way out of it."

"All right. I understand."

"Perhaps you don't understand, exactly. You mustn't tell ANYone. No one must know that you have let me have thismoney—no, or that Aunt Susan left it to you. Even that mustbe kept to ourselves—for the present, anyway. It must."

Carey was amazed. Even to his unbusinesslike mind this newdemand seemed ridiculously impossible. Yet it was made, in earnest.He twisted his forelock, shifted in his chair, and then shook hishead.

"I suppose you know better about such things than I do, George,"he observed, "but—well, I don't see how we can keep that toourselves. Wills are public property, aren't they? They print themin the papers for everybody to read. I have seen them there."

"Yes. Yes, they do sometimes. And this one may be printed,perhaps. I shall try to get Phillips to keep it out of print, if hecan. If he can't—well, if it gets to be known about here, youand I must say it is all a mistake. There was a codicil, you know;Aunt Susan changed her mind. She did, that is the truth, but wemust let them think that the change was the other way about. Sheintended to leave her property to you, but she didn't—sheleft it to me instead. The announcement in the papers was wrong.That is what they must think, all of them."

Carey's bewilderment was greater than ever.

"Why?" he stammered. "I can't see— Why, George? Whatdifference will it make? It is my money. I can do what I like withit, can't I? If I choose to turn it over to you what—"

George broke in. His manner was an odd combination of eagerness,anxiety, and shamed embarrassment. He laid a hand upon hisbrother's knee.

"Wait a minute, Carey," he begged, "I'm going to tell you why.I—I've got myself into another mess—at home this time.I haven't told Cora a word about—about that engine company orhow close I am to losing every cent she and I have in the world.Oh, she knows I took that stock. She knows that, but she doesn'tknow that I have been ruining myself paying those assessments. Shethinks everything is all right and that—well, that I am on myway to being a millionaire. I ought to have told her at first, Isuppose. I wish now I had; but I didn't. I didn't want to worryher, and I thought everything would come out right, pretty soon.She is proud and—and high strung—and, by the Almighty,Carey, I don't know what she might not do if she learned I wasclose to smash and—and had kept it from her, been lying toher and—and all that. You see, don't you, old man? You knowher. Why—why, she might kill herself. She might; her nervesare—well, you know what they are. She might leave me.She—she never would forgive me, I know that. You've got to gothe whole length with me, Carey. Don't you see? You've GOT to."

Carey saw, at last. As his brother said, he knew Cora Judson.That she would commit suicide was wildly ridiculous. Nor would sheever leave her husband unless perhaps when convinced that thelatter was utterly and irretrievably ruined. It wasabsurd—all this; but it was not absurd to George. He believedit; his worship of his wife was a very real and true thing, thegreatest influence in his life. Blind to all her faults; patientand excusing under her domineering nagging—he loved andadmired her and indulged her every whim. HE believed she might dothese things. And he was afraid. Carey saw now that it was the fearof her, much more than the fear of bankruptcy and disgrace forhimself, which had been tormenting him to desperation the pastmonths. He saw it—but what he could not see was his own wayout.

George, anxiously watching him, gripped his knee tighter. Careyfelt the hand tremble. Yes, it was real to GeorgeJudson—tremendously, agonizingly real.

"It will be easy enough, Carey," he insisted."Perhaps—yes, probably, no one here in Wellmouth will everknow what is in that will. I shall go, myself, to Cleveland. Ithink I shall. The people here expect the property to come to me.Cora expects it, of course. She—"

And now Carey, groping for that way out, broke in upon him.

"Wait, wait, George," he urged. "I—I don't see. Whyshouldn't Cora know that Aunt Susan's money came to me and that Ilet you have it? We—we could fix up some sort of explanation,couldn't we? I invested the money with you—say? I let youhave it to—to buy fish with, or something. Wouldn't thatdo?"

"No. No, it wouldn't. Don't you see? No one must know. Therewould be all sorts of talk. And Cora would ask questions; she hasbeen asking them for weeks. She suspects that I am hiding somethingfrom her. If she knew that you were Aunt Susan's heir she wouldbe—well, she would feel pretty hard about it. I don't knowwhat she might not say to you. She thinks—er—naturally,that I ought to have that money. If she learned you had itshe—she would say things to you—and to everybodyelse—and—and some one would find out the truth. Thenthose Boston fellows—the ones with the notes—would beworried and—Carey, we've GOT to lie about it. You don't wantto see father's firm go under. You don't want to see me ruined, myhome broken up...Come! for God's sake! it isn't so much to ask, isit? Haven't I—well, you have told me over and over that ifever there came a time when you could get square for—for myhelping you when you were down and out, you would—"

It was the final straw, the one appeal that could not beresisted. Carey rose.

"All right, all right, George," he broke in. "I'll keep my mouthshut. I'll try to...I am going now. I don't want to talk any more.Don't ask me to."

"I won't. I'm sorry it had to be this way. I can see there issomething I don't understand. But—"

Carey's long tortured nerves gave way.

"You don't have to understand, do you?" he demanded. "I'll dowhat you ask—if I can. And I suppose I can. That's enough,isn't it?"

He hurried to the door. George called to him to wait, that hewould walk home with him; but he did not wait. He strode throughthe outer office and out into the night, a night now as black andlowering as his own thoughts, as threatening and prophetic of stormand disaster as his future.

Chapter XIV

"Well!" observed Cora T., as she and her husband came downstairsthe next morning, "I will say that, for a man who was as used up asyou were yesterday, you do seem remarkably lively, not to saychipper, George Judson. Yesterday I began to think it was hardlyworth while fretting myself sick planning meals for you and thatbrother of yours. And you were scarcely out of bed this morningbefore you began to wonder what we would have for breakfast. Itmust do you good to have headaches."

George laughed. "Perhaps it does," he replied. "I certainly feela whole lot better than I did yesterday, that's a fact. Where isCarey? He is usually down ahead of us."

"I don't know where he is. I don't know where he was lastnight, either. It was late enough, goodness knows, when YOU got in.Seems to me you might at least forget your old fish store when itgets dark, even if you have to hang around it all day. Otherbusiness men take a day off once in a while, but not you. You'lltake to working Sundays pretty soon, I suppose, like Carey.Everybody talks about his never going to church and spending hisSundays whittling and loafing down there at Tobe Higgins', I get soashamed of listening to hints about his doing that, and about hischasing after Emily Sayles, that I hardly dare look people in theface. Why, the last time I met Nellie Loveland she—"

Her husband hastily broke in to ask if breakfast was ready. Justthen Maggie appeared to announce that it was.

"Is Mr. Carey down yet?" inquired George.

"No, sir. I ain't seen him."

"All right. He will be in a minute, I guess. We'll come rightout, Maggie. Humph!" he added, turning to his wife, after themaid's departure, "that's funny about Carey. He is always up byseven. Don't suppose he is sick, do you?"

"Sick? No! He doesn't work hard enough to make himself sick. Ifa person stays up all hours you can't expect him to jump out of bedat the crack of dawn. Do you know what time he came into this houselast night? Well, I don't either, but I know it was after elevenwhen YOU came upstairs and he hadn't come in then."

George nodded. "So you said," he admitted, rubbing his chin."That is funny, too. I don't see where he went after—"

"After? After what?"

"Eh? Oh, after he left the Higgins' place. I hope he didn't getwet. It was beginning to rain when I came into the yard."

"Well, if he did it was his own fault. And, if you asked me toguess, I should guess that Sayles girl might know where he was. Idon't know what time he came home, but I woke up and heard theclock strike three, and I could hear him stirring around in hisroom then. IfI was Desire Sayles and Emily was my daughter,I'd—"

George motioned her to silence. "Sshh!" he ordered. "Here heis."

Carey entered the sitting room. His appearance startled hisbrother and, for the moment, caused even Cora T.'s impatience athis tardiness to be forgotten. Her inference that he had notretired until after three seemed to be warranted. He looked as ifhe had been awake all night—yes, and several nights. He badethe pair good morning. Mrs. Judson was the first to acknowledge thegreeting and her remark could be scarcely called an acknowledgment."Well, for mercy's sake!" she exclaimed. "What IS the matter withyou, Carey Judson?"

Carey regarded her, apparently with surprise.

"Matter with me?" he repeated. "Why—why, is there anythingthe matter?"

His collar was rumpled and soiled, evidently the one he wore inthe rain of the previous night. He was pale and his eyes were heavyand sunken. His hair was tumbled and his chin unshaven. Georgefrowned anxiously.

"Are you sick, Carey?" he asked.

Carey shook his head. He tried to smile. "No," he said. "No, I'mnot sick; not sick, George, no. Why should you think I was?"

Cora answered the question.

"Because you LOOK as if you were sick—or asleep—orhalf dead, or something," she declared. "Look at yourself! Look atyour hair! What have you done to it?"

Carey put a hand to his hair, felt it, and then moved dazedly tothe mirror hanging by the closet door. He peered at hisreflection.

"Humph!" he observed, gravely. "Humph! it looks as if I hadn'tdone anything to it. I must have forgotten to comb it. That isodd."

His sister-in-law sniffed. "I should say it was odd," shedeclared. "As much as that. And you forgot to shave, too, didn'tyou?"

Carey rubbed his chin. "I think you are right, Cora," headmitted. "I—I seem to have forgotten a good manythings."

George's puzzled and anxious frown was still in evidence.

"What is it, old man?" he asked, quickly. "What has struck youall at once?"

Carey turned from the mirror. "I don't know, George," heanswered, with another wan smile. "Perhaps it is that 'equinoctial'you and I were talking about. THAT seems to have struck, judging bythe weather outside."

The wind was wailing about the house, rattling the dead leavesof the woodbine over the side door, and driving splashes of rainagainst the windows. George paid no attention to the weather.

"If you are sick," he said, "you go upstairs again and turn in.We can get along without you at the office to-day. Go ahead now; besensible."

His brother shook his head. "I'm not sick," he repeated. "Iwas—well, I had a rather mean night. I didn't sleep very welland—and I guess I'm not quite awake, that's all. You and Corahave your breakfast. I'll go up and finish my toilet—or beginit. Don't wait for me. I'm not very hungry this morning."

He turned, and, crossing the room, climbed the stairs which hehad just descended. George and Cora T. watched him until hedisappeared and they heard his step on the floor above. Then theformer spoke.

"What on earth ails him?" he demanded. "He acts as if—asif he didn't know what he was doing."

Mrs. Judson's sharp voice supplied a reason.

"He acts the way folks are likely to act after they've stayedout till three o'clock," she answered. "Look here! You don'tsuppose he's beginning to take to drink, do you? He might. It runsin your family, drinking does."

Her husband stared in amazement.

"Runs in our family!" he repeated. "What are you talking about?Who ever drank in our family?"

"Your mother's uncle did, for one. He used to get tipsy everylittle while when he was on voyages. Oh, I've heard my owngrandfather tell about it. He was sober enough when he was aboardhis ship, but when he got into foreign ports he—"

"Rubbish!" impatiently. "I doubt if Carey ever drank any morethan I ever did—or as much. Don't be foolish, Cora."

"Foolish! Well, from what I hear about colleges, there isdrinking and carousing enough going on there most of the time. Andwhat do you mean by saying he never drank as much as you did? Inever knew you drank at all. THAT is something new. I seem to belearning all the time. Well! I must say!"

Maggie reappeared with another announcement concerningbreakfast. Mr. and Mrs. Judson went into the dining room, the ladystill talking. She continued to talk during the entire meal. Georgesaid little. He seemed very uneasy and more than once suggestedthat perhaps he had better run up and see how Carey was gettingalong. His wife sternly snubbed these suggestions.

"You let him alone," she ordered. "If he doesn't care enoughabout his breakfast to come and get it then he can go without. Ifhe hasn't been drinking, all I can say is that he acts as if hewere going crazy. I shouldn't be surprised at THAT. A grown man whospends his spare time making playthings out of wood hasn't very farto go. The next step ought to be the asylum...Oh, DO stop frettingabout him and talk to me before you go out and leave me alone allday. He's all right, or will be pretty soon. A person who stays outrampaging around until three o'clock in the morning is likely tofeel queer when morning comes. Yes, and not want his breakfast,either."

Carey, shaved and combed and clean-collared, joined them, justas they were rising from the table. He insisted that his brothershould not wait for him.

"Go right along down, George," he said. "I may catch up with youbefore you get there. Hurry! You are late already."

George, after a glance at the clock, reluctantly departed. Hisparting words were that, if Carey did not feel fit, he should takethe day off. Cora did not deign to remain with herbrother-in-law.

"I've got things to do," she declared. "There's a churchcommittee meeting this forenoon, and time means something to me, ifit doesn't to other people. You help yourself to what you want. Iguess there's enough; there generally is."

She flounced into the sitting room, slamming the door behindher. Carey, left alone, drearily stirred his cup of lukewarm coffeeand gazed at the rain as it beat upon the window. A moment or twolater Hepsy appeared from the kitchen.

"My land of love!" she exclaimed, as he pushed back his chair."You ain't through your breakfast already, are you? Why, you ain'tate enough to keep a sick chicken goin' till noon time." Then, asshe saw his face, she added: "And you look like a sick chicken, ifever a body did. What ails you, Carey Judson?"

He moved toward the door. "Nothing, Hepsy," he said. "I'm allright, I guess."

"You guess! Well, you always was a poor guesser. If what you'vegot is nothing, then you'd better see the doctor and get SOMETHIN',quick...Carey, you ain't worried about HER, are you? Oh, I heardher tongue goin'! You could hear it way out in the woodshed. She'salways this way when she's got a missionary meetin' on to bile. Iwish they'd send HER missionaryin'. The Bible wants to know whatmakes the heathen rage. If they had her amongst 'em a spell theywouldn't have a chance to rage; she'd do it for 'em. Between herand that Maggie I've about got to the end of my towline. I don'tknow how much longer I can stand it. If it wasn't that I've workedfor Judsons all my life I WOULDN'T stand it. Carey, why don't YOUget married and let me come to work for you?...Now what are youlaughin' at? If you can call such a sickly performancelaughin'?"

Carey turned, his hand upon the door knob. "Hepsy," he said,"why not laugh? 'Laugh and the world laughs with you. Weep—'and it laughs at you, I guess. I don't wonder. Well, so long."

All that weary day at the office he fought with the figures uponthe Judson & Co. books. Early's busybody questions annoyed himless than usual; he paid no attention to them. His brother'ssolicitude was harder to bear and to dispel. George, of course, wassuspicious. He called him into the inner office and would havequestioned.

"I know there's something dead wrong, Carey," he insisted."Don't tell me there isn't. Look here," lowering his voice, "is iton account of our talk last night? Is there something on your mindthat you haven't told me? Does my borrowing Aunt Susan's money makesuch a devil of a difference to you? Because if it does—well,you know what it means to me, but I'm not altogether a hog. I'mnot—"

Carey motioned him to silence. "Forget that money, will you,George," he commanded, sharply. "That matter is settled, and whatis the use of digging it up again? I've forgotten it myself. Nowyou do the same thing."

George frowned. "Forgotten it, have you?" he repeated. "I don'tbelieve it. And I am beginning to believe—Carey, you didn'tdeny that you made some plans of your own when Phillips wrote youabout the will. What were they? If they were so darnedimportant—important to you—that giving them up is goingto make you as sick and half crazy as you look and act to-day,then—"

"Oh, dry up, George, will you! I'm—I'm—I've got oneof your headaches, that's all. I had a bad night, and I'm cranky, Isuppose. Now let me go. Ben is out there, waiting for me."

"I wish you would tell me what those plans of yours were. MaybeI could help them along a little."

"What plans would I be likely to have? There, there! If I amnervous to-day, do you wonder? What you told me about your affairslast night was enough to make us both nervous, I should say."

George looked relieved. "Oh!" he said. "Yes, it must have been abig shock to you, that's a fact. You needn't worry now, though.You've pulled me up to the wharf, and if ever I get a chance to doas much for you—well, it will be done. That is something YOUmustn't forget. Say, Carey, where did you go last night after youleft here? Is it true, as Cora says, that you didn't get home untilthree o'clock?"

"What? Don't bother me, George...All right, Ben, I'mcoming."

The dinner hour was another trying period, although Cora T.'sabsence at her mission meeting helped to make it more endurable. Inthe afternoon there were few visitors at the office. The wind, bythis time, was almost a gale and the rain a steady, drivingdownpour. Captain Tobias Higgins, oilskinned, sou'westered andrubber-booted, dropped in for a minute or two on his way to thepost office. He declared it to be Black Republican weather. "Justwhat you might expect with a Board of Selectmen same as you andyour gang put in last town-meetin', Ben," he added, addressing Mr.Early, whose politics, like his religion, were strictlyorthodox.

"What became of you last night, Carey?" he demanded. "When itcommenced to rain I went out to the shop to see if I couldn't lendyou a slicker, or an umbrella to get home with; but you'd gonealready. Wasn't took sick or anything, was you? You look kind ofpeaked to-day, seems's if you did."

Carey, pretending to be very busy, answered the question withthe brief statement that he was all right. He was glad when hisfriend left the office.

The ordeal of supper he bore somehow. But when, just beforeeight o'clock, he came down from his room and announced hisintention of going out, he was obliged to face a battery ofprotest.

"Go out again! To-night!" exclaimed George. "In a Storm likethis! Of course you aren't going to do any such thing. Where areyou going?"

"Oh, I don't know. Down to the shop, perhaps. I have gotsome—some things to do and the rain won't hurt me."

"Won't hurt you! This tornado would drown a fish...Come here!Come back here, Carey!"

The slam of the door shut off the shriek of the gale and therush of the rain. George Judson turned to his wife.

"Well, for heaven's sake!" he exclaimed, aghast. "I believe heIS crazy!"

Cora T.'s smile was significant. "He is crazy enough in oneway," she observed. "There is only one person that can cure him andunless she is crazy, too, she'd better do it pretty soon. I'm farfrom being the only one who is saying that very thing."

Her husband stared. "Do you mean you think he has gone up to theSayles'? A night like this?" he demanded. "Nonsense! And he said hewas going to his shop."

"No, he didn't. He said 'perhaps' he was going there.Iguess he isn't. And 'perhaps' he is going to call on his preciousEmily, rain or no rain. You mark my words, George Judson, unlessshe or her mother—or you—come to their senses prettysoon, you'll have two paupers on your hands to support instead ofone. I've said it before and now I say it again. It's my prophecyand you can take it or leave it."

George said "Nonsense" again, but not quite as confidently. Hewalked to the window and, raising the shade, gazed out anxiouslyinto the huddle of threshing trees and rain-streaked blackness.

Cora was right. Carey Judson, his head bent against the blasts,an unopened umbrella in his hand, and the water pouring from hishat, his shoulders and his face, was even then striding along theroad in the direction of the Sayles' homestead. All that day, andfor the greater part of the preceding night, his imagination hadtrodden that road and each trip had ended, in despairing futility,at Emily's door. On the other side of it she would be standing,waiting for him, her face aglow with welcome, radiant with faith inhim and their future, eager with new plans for the life they wereto live together, confident, trusting, happy. And he—whatwould she say when he told her? What could he tell her? That wasthe most horrible feature of it all; he could tell her nothing. Thebare fact that their dream was ended, that was all. George'sconfession and desperate appeal had sealed his lips. He could nottell why he must not accept Aunt Susan's legacy. He could notexplain. He could not tell even that the sacrifice was for hisbrother's sake. FOR that sake he must be silent. She mightsurmise—but he had given her his word of honor that nothingGeorge might say or do should shake his resolve to keep and use themoney which was to have opened the gate of Eden for him and her.She might—perhaps would—guess that he had yielded, but,if she did, she would know that he had broken his promise to her,had lied to her. Well, he had. As he saw it, he could have donenothing else. George's hand had been the only one to reach down tohim when he was in the depths. George's voice was then the only oneto whisper comfort in his ear. And now it was George who appealedto him for salvation. He could not have refused.

If he could but tell her the truth she would forgive him. Shewould understand and forgive—he knew it. He hadpromised—yes; but who could have expected this? She wouldforgive the broken promise if she knew why it had to be broken. Hewas sure of that. If he could explain, could give his reasons; butthat he could not do. The slightest whisper—George had saidit—might mean his brother's ruin and the sacrifice would havebeen in vain. He could not explain, nor hint. No—no! He couldsay nothing in his own extenuation. He could only tell herthat...that...Oh, what COULD he tell her?

When, the evening before, he had left the office, to go out intothe night and face the catastrophe the full enormity of which hethen scarcely realized, he had started up the beach, walking andthinking. The rain began to fall and continued to fall. The windsteadily increased. He did not heed. For miles he walked and when,at last, he entered the side door of the Cap'n Jim-Carey place andclimbed the stairs to his room, he was quite unaware that he wasdrenched to the skin. He threw off his soaked garments and lay downupon the bed to think and toss and think again until morning. Bythat time he knew—knew that his riddle was answerable only byone word—despair.

All that long day he had been stretched upon the rack. More thanonce he had been tempted to write Emily a note, telling her thattheir love had been a mistake, that nothing could come of it, thateven their friendship must end and she must not ask forexplanations or try to see him again. It would have been by far theeasier way and the result would be the same. Once he even began towrite the letter, but he tore it up. No, he must see her. He mustgo through with it to the inevitable end. She would think him aliar and a weakling, but she should have no reason to think him acoward.

It was nearly nine when he came up the walk to the Sayles' door.A faint light burned in a room upstairs, Mrs. Sayles' room. Thewindows of the living room were alight also. Emily was there andher mother had retired. Well, that was what he had hoped. He had tosee her alone and to have waited, to listen, to have been forced totake part in a casual conversation, was more than he could haveborne that night.

The sound of the knocker as it clattered against its plate onthe door was like the tolling of a death bell. The wait whichfollowed seemed interminable. Then he heard her step and the dooropened. She saw him standing there, a dripping silhouette againstthe wild background of the storm.

"Why, Carey!" she cried, in amazement. "Carey Judson! What AREyou doing here—to-night? Why did you try to come in suchweather? Come in! Come in this instant! You must be wetthrough."

She seized his drenched coat sleeve and drew him into the hall.He did not resist, nor did he speak. She was too concerned abouthis condition to notice his silence or the fact that his greetingwas not that of an eager lover.

"Take off that wet coat this very minute," she insisted. "It issoaking. Why, you must be half drowned. Why DID you come away uphere this horrible night? Come right in by the fire. Take off thatdripping thing. Hurry!"

She was tugging at the garment as she spoke, but heresisted.

"No, Emily," he said.

"No! Why, what do you mean? Aren't you going to stay, now thatyou have come?"

"No. Not long. I—I—"

"Carey! What is the matter? Has anything happened? What isit?"

He disengaged his sleeve from her grasp and led the way into thesitting room. She followed him, anxious and alarmed. He stood uponthe braided mat by the center table, his drenched hat in his hand,the water dripping from it, from the hem of his coat, his soddenboots, running in rivulets down his face to complete the ruin ofhis collar and tie.

"Emily—" he faltered, and then stopped. She was gazing athim and her cheeks were losing their color.

"Carey!" she gasped. "Oh, Carey! What is it?"

He breathed heavily. Hard as his renunciation had been inprospect, it was harder now in reality; now that she was there,before him, with all her beauty and appeal, all the love and pityand yearning in her eyes, all that was to have been his—washis even yet. How could he give her up! Oh, he would not! Whyshould George—

For the instant his resolution faltered. Then it tightenedagain. He must go through with it.

"Emily," he began, "I—I have come to tell youthat—that—"

"Yes, Carey?...Oh, my dear, what is it? You frighten me!"

"Emily, I have decided that—that all this—this thathas been between us is—is a mistake. You and Ican't—can't go on with it. It must end—now. It is amistake. We—we can't. I came to tell you so...Oh,"desperately, "don't make it any harder than it has to be. DON'Tlook at me like that!"

She was looking at him and she continued to look. And now shecame forward and laid her hand upon his arm.

"Carey, dear," she said, gently, "you mustn't do this. Youfrighten me very much. Come and sit down. Please do! You can tellme then. Don't stand there and—and— Oh, PLEASE!"

He shook his head.

"No," he said, after a struggle, "I can't. I mustn't stay. Thereis nothing to be gained by my staying and—and it would onlybe harder—harder." He paused again, and then went on,speaking hurriedly, almost incoherently. "Something hashappened—I mean I have been thinking and I have made up mymind. I mean I can't marry you. I must give you up. I—I havecome to-night to tell you so and—and to say good-by...That isit, to say good-by. It is all over."

She did not speak. She was now as pale as he, and her eyes weregazing directly into his. His own gaze shifted. He staredwretchedly at the floor.

"That is all, I guess," he muttered. "Yes, it is all. Just good-by...Well, good-by, Emily."

He turned, dropping his hat as he did so. He did not seem awareof it, nor did she. He moved toward the door, leaving the hat whereit had fallen. She spoke his name.

"Carey!" she cried.

He did not turn, but he stopped.

"Yes?" he asked, wearily.

"Carey, wait. You can't go this way, of course. You must tell memore than that. You must."

He sighed. "I can't tell you anything," he said. "There isn'tanything to tell. I have just been thinking, that's all,and—and I have thought it out...I am sorry. You can't forgiveme, I know that. I don't expect you to...Good-by."

"Stop! Carey, you can't go like this. What has happened sinceyou were here last? Tell me."

"Nothing. Nothing has happened. I—I have been thinkingand—and—Oh, I told you I had, Emily. Let me gonow."

"You told me something had happened. You began to tell me that,and then you changed your mind. What has happened? You must tellme. I have the right to know that, at least."

"Yes—yes, you have. God knows you have! I can't tell you,though. You mustn't ask. Just let me go—please."

"Something has happened, then. Of course I knew it had. And youwon't tell me what it is?"

"No...It wasn't anything. I—I— You're well rid ofme. You will be thankful by and by."

"Thankful! And it wasn't anything—this happening, whateverit was, that has changed all your life—and mine! Carey, hasyour brother—"

"No, no!" in agonized entreaty. "He hasn't— Don't ask meabout him. Don't ask me anything. Oh, don't!"

"I am sure it was your brother. Carey, you promised me—yougave me your word of honor not to be influenced by anything Georgeor his wife might say or do. You promised me that. Have you brokenthat promise?"

His eyes closed and he swayed on his feet. "Emily," he pleaded,"if—if you care—if you ever cared—anything forme, anything at all, you won't torture me any longer. I—Ican't stand it. Say good-by and—and let me go—andforget me, that's all. Just forget me. I am not worthremembering."

"Carey, tell me this: Are you doing this because you don't loveme any longer? Or because you find you never did really loveme?"

He turned then, and took a step toward her. His eyes blazed andhis arms lifted. Then they fell helplessly back. He groaned, andrushed from the room. She heard the outer door close behindhim.

She went back to the table and sank into the rocker. Her feettouched something and she looked down. It was the hat he hadforgotten, wet, shapeless and forlorn. She picked it up and held itin her hands. She pictured him, bareheaded, drenched, hopeless,fighting his way through the storm. Then her tears came, but theywere not tears of anger or a just resentment; they were tears ofpity—overwhelming, heartbreaking pity for him.

Chapter XV

When George Judson finished dressing next morning he stopped atthe door of his brother's bedroom on his way to the stairs.

"Carey," he called. "Carey, are you all right?"

There was no answer and, taking it for granted that Carey hadalready gone down to the sitting room, he was about to turn away.Then he decided to make sure. He opened the door. Carey had notgone down, nor had he risen. He was still in bed and the sight ofhis flushed face upon the pillow caused George to utter anexclamation and to hasten to his side. He laid a hand upon hisforehead and found it blazing with fever. Carey woke andstirred.

"Why—why, hello, old man!" he said, dazedly. "Up already?I am late, I guess. I'll be with you in a shake."

He tried to rise, but got no farther than to prop himself uponone elbow. He blinked, caught his breath, and sank back again.

"I—I seem to be dizzy—or something," he muttered."Indigestion, I guess. It's all right, though, George. I'll bebetter in a minute."

George ordered him to stay where he was and hastened downstairs.A few minutes later he was on his way to fetch the doctor andHepsibah was flying about Carey's room, smoothing the pillows andbedclothes, straightening the window shades, picking up odds andends, and scolding to herself as she did so. The condition of hisgarments, thrown helter-skelter about the room just as he had takenthem off the night before, caused her to wax eloquent.

"My soul and body!" she exclaimed, lifting a sodden heap ofdampness from the floor and shaking it into the wrinkled semblanceof a coat, "Look at that jacket! Soakin', soppin' wet yet! And thepants are worse. And as for the rest of your things—myheavens and earth! Carey Judson, why—WHY did you get yourselfinto such a state? Every rag you had on is as wet as if it had beenin a washtub, and that's where most of 'em are goin' to go thisminute. WHAT sent you out of door such a night as last night wasthe Lord only knows, and He won't tell...No, no! And I don't wantYOU to tell, either. You keep right still in that bed till thedoctor comes. If you haven't got your never-get-over it'll be amercy...What shall I get you for breakfast? No, don't you answerme. Don't you try to talk! Oh, where IS that doctor? Tut, tut, tut!Well, if it ain't pneumony then we're lucky. The idea of yourcruisin' down to that bird cage of yours in such a flood! That'swhere you was, wasn't it?...No, don't tell me! Don't you speak! Youkeep still in that bed."

Carey had no intention of telling her, nor had he any desire tospeak. The fever aches in his bones and the throbbing pain in hishead were of themselves sufficient to prevent his doing so. Worsethan these, however, was the crushing memory of his parting withEmily and the realization that that parting was final. He hadreturned home in benumbed blank misery. He remembered nothing ofthe walk nor of his reaching his room—nothing. His night hadbeen one confused dream after another and where reality ended andthe dreams began he could not have told. Now, awake, he wished onlythat he might never have wakened. Hepsibah was prophesyingpneumonia. Well, he devoutly hoped her a true prophet. Pneumoniawas quick and soon over and often fatal.

It was not pneumonia, however. A bad cold, so the doctor saidwhen he came, the result of exposure, tramping the streets duringan equinoctial gale. The patient must stay in bed for some days atleast, must be kept warm, must not worry about business or anythinglike that, and must take liberal doses of bad-tasting medicine, theusual prescriptions of the old-school physician.

George, anxious and alarmed, questioned him when he left theroom.

"It isn't serious, is it, Doctor?" he asked. "He looks badenough."

Doctor Hamlin combed his long beard with his fingers. In thosedays whiskers were an essential part of the equipment of a generalpractitioner.

"No," he declared, "I shouldn't call it serious. He does lookbad, that's a fact, but so far as I can make out he's got cold andthe fever that goes with it. We'll pull him through all right, butit looks as if we should have to do all the pulling. He doesn'tseem to take any interest in the job. Asked me if he was going todie and when I laughed at the idea, he—well, I declare heacted more disappointed than encouraged. Has he had any nervousshock lately; any serious trouble, or anything like that?"

George shook his head. "No-o," he answered, thoughtfully. "No,nothing that—well, you do your best for him, won't you,Doctor?"

Doctor Hamlin did his best, but it was a week before his patientwas well enough to leave his room and another before he regainedstrength sufficient to carry him back to the office of J. C. Judson& Co. George was solicitous and kind; Hepsy waited upon himnight and day, cooking for him what she called "sick folks'messes," and trotting up and down stairs to bring them and makesure that he ate them after they were brought. Maggie was cheerfuland talkative. Even Cora T. was surprisingly gracious, particularlyduring the latter part of his illness. She was in high good humorthen and tolerant toward the world in general.

For news had come to Wellmouth and Wellmouth was discussing it.It reached the town, as most outside news did, by way of the Bostondailies. A dozen citizens reading those dailies in Griggs' storehappened upon the Associated Press dispatch at practically the sametime. It—the dispatch—was brief and was headed"Cleveland." It concerned the will of the late Mrs. Dain of thatcity. She had, so the item stated, left an estate estimated at onehundred and twenty-five thousand dollars and, except for a fewtrifling legacies to old servants and friends, the property was togo to a nephew whose name was Judson and who resided in Wellmouth,Massachusetts.

That was all, there were no further particulars. It was enough,however, so far as Wellmouth was concerned. "A nephew" was, ofcourse—the town took it for granted—George Judson, andhe, already a rich man, was now richer by another hundred thousand.Callers came to the house to congratulate Mr. and Mrs. GeorgeJudson. The Lovelands came, and the Halls, and others of the elite.Cora T. received them graciously, accepted the congratulations withbecoming humility, wept a little when Aunt Susan's name wasmentioned and spoke casually of a summer in Europe "some of thesedays, perhaps. We've been talking about going for ever so long, youknow, and now I guess we shall. Not that this extra money makes anyreal difference, but it will help Mr. Judson feel easier aboutleaving his business." She spoke, too, of additions and repairs tothe Cap'n Jim-Carey place which were to be made in the immediatefuture.

To the Reverend Mr. Thomas, when he called, she said:

"Yes, of course George and I do feel sorry about poor Carey. Wedid our best to show Aunt Susan that he wasn't really to blame fornot being a practical business man and letting his banking businessgo to ruin. I said to her—over and over again Isaid—that Carey couldn't help being just a dreamer andabsent-minded and all like that; he was made that way and hecouldn't help it. But Aunt Susan was SO practical herself that shecould only see it her way. He wasn't fit to be troubled with money,she said; he had proved it by losing all he had of his own and alot of other people's. Yours, too, Mr. Thomas. Oh, everybody knowswhat you lost and what it meant to you. Aunt Susan knew what anable, common-sense—what you call conservative—man myhusband is and she knew HE could be trusted with ANY amount. But weshall look out for Carey, of course. He'll never come to wantagain. Mr. Judson and I will see to THAT."

Other callers brought their congratulations to the office.Captain Tobias Higgins was one of these. He walked into the inneroffice without knocking, greatly to the indignation of Mr. BenEarly who, having had the duties of bookkeeper temporarily added tohis other weighty cares, was busy at the desk and did not guess hisintention until too late to protest. Not that it would have madeany material difference if he had.

The captain entered the sanctum, closed the door behind him, andstood beside George Judson's desk, his hands in his trouserspockets—his "beckets," he called them.

"Well, George," he observed. "I see by the papers that you'vehad another windfall. Some folks are always under the tree when theapples get blowed off. Every time I've ever been under there theonly thing that comes down is the rotten ones. I ain't complainin'when the other fellow has better luck, though. You're a good squareman and you deserve what's comin' to you. I'm glad for you. So'sChippy."

George smiled, although he seemed a little embarrassed.

"Much obliged, Cap'n," he said. "Well, what's up? What can I dofor you?"

"Nothin' for me, thank you. I generally manage to make out to dofor myself and the apples I get I pay for. I came into—to—well, to talk about somethin' that ain't any ofmy business. That ain't as common a habit with me as 'tis with theheft of folks in this town, but I'm goin' to do it now. Can youspare a minute or so?"

George said he could and invited his caller to be seated. Tobiassat, rubbed his knees with his big hands and cleared his throat. HEseemed embarrassed now.

"I just—well, I just wanted to say a word to you aboutyour brother, about Carey," he began. "George, I might as well behonest and tell you that I was disappointed when I read that in thepaper about Susie Dain's will. Now, don't make any mistake aboutwhat I mean. You deserve all you can get and I'd be the last one togrudge it to you; but—well, Phoebe and I were kind of hopin'that your aunt wouldn't leave Carey out altogether. When she fustcome here to visit you and Cora she was pretty down on him. Nowonder—no wonder at all. So was I when I found my sevenhundred had gone to pot with that bankin' firm of his. So waseverybody else, I guess. But after you fetched Carey back here, andI come to see more of him and know him better, I began to change mymind about him. I began to realize that, of all the gang whosuffered from that smash, he was the one that suffered most. Ibegan to see, what I ought to have realized in the beginnin', thathe wasn't to blame any more than a child. He IS a child in a wholelot of ways, and a fine, clean, lovable sort of child at that. I'vecome to think a sight of your brother, George. Yes, I have."

He paused. George nodded.

"I'm glad you've found that out, Tobias," he said. "I have knownit all along. I don't believe—honestly, I don't believe thereis a better man in this world than Carey Judson."

"I guess you're right, George. Well, he's always said the samething about you, fur's that goes. Well, what I washopin'—yes, and comin' to believe, too—was that youraunt was veerin' 'round to the p'int of the compass herself. Fromsome things she said to me and Chippy afore she went back toCleveland we'd come to think she was. And—well, we ratherguessed that maybe she would look out for him in a money way whenshe died, if not afore. She hasn't and—well, I think it'skind of too bad. Hope you won't get mad, George, on account of mysayin' this, but it's the way I feel."

He regarded his companion rather anxiously as he made this frankstatement. George did not meet the look. Instead he turned over apaper or two upon the desk and was silent for an instant. When hedid speak there was no trace of irritation in his tone.

"That's all right, Cap'n," he said, gravely. "I shan't quarrelwith you over that...Well?"

"Well," Captain Higgins seemed more embarrassed than ever."Well," he began again, "that's off my mind and this is what Ireally came aboard to talk to you about. You see—George, Iwonder if you realize what a darned clever fellow that brother ofyours is—in his way? I don't cal'late you do. I didn't,myself, for a long spell. Those wooden birds he is makin' down inmy shop, the average jackass—and there's a lot of that kindof average in Wellmouth—calls 'em playthings and doll-babiesand the Lord knows what. Even the folks with as much brains as theAlmighty allowed to a horsefoot crab think what he's makin' arejust decoys. They AIN'T just decoys, by thunder! They'rebirds—that's what they are—birds. When he finishes withone of 'em all it needs is a whistle or a quack. Why, George,listen to me."

He went on to enthuse at length over the miraculous perfectionof the beetle-heads and black ducks.

"I ain't the only one that's gone loony over 'em," he declared."That Moore man, up there to Cambridge, you ought to read some ofthe letters he writes about 'em. And that fellow that spent Sundayin town here a month or two ago—Knight, his name was; hissister used to live up on the Back Road, you remember. Well, seemshe's in the bird business, runs a museum or a bird show orsomethin' of the sort out West, I understand he does. He toldSparrow up at the hotel that he'd never seen anything as nighperfect as those beetle-heads of Carey's. That's what he said.Well, now, George, you see—"

He explained his own interest in the work. He had helped Careyto the extent of advancing money for the purchase of a band saw anda lathe, would have done more if he had been permitted. He hadoffered to go into partnership with him and back the enterprise tothe extent of two thousand dollars if necessary.

"He wouldn't let me," he snorted, indignantly. "And I could havespared the money just as well as not—or I would have sparedit, anyhow. The trouble with Carey is that he's just as big ajackass as the rest of 'em when it comes to realizin' how goodthose birds really are. He 'pooh-poohs' me when I tell him so. ButI'm right. Why, George, there's money in that bird making, a lot ofmoney. That Moore alone would dispose of a thousand of Carey'sdecoys if he could get 'em. Carey can't turn 'em out, that's what'sthe matter. He ought to have a factory, a reg'lar little factorywith steam power and machinery and the like of that.THEN—well, then we could build up a business that would hum.Yes, sir-ee! hum like a taut jib sheet in a gale such as we hadlast week."

He paused, principally for lack of breath. George said nothing.The captain seemed disappointed at his silence, but went on.

"That's what I came to you about," he continued. "I didn't knowbut what, now that you'd got this extra cash from your aunt, youmight be interested enough to go in—well, with me,say—that is, as far as I COULD go in—and back yourbrother with a chunk of that money. Build him a factory, get himgoin', and then set on the quarter deck and let the hands pass aftthe dividends. It would be worth your while, I tell you that."

Again he paused, expectantly waiting. George Judson was stilltoying with the papers on his desk. He asked a question.

"Cap'n," he queried, slowly, "do you think Carey had counted ongetting money from Aunt Susan and—well, doing something ofthe sort—carrying out some such scheme as you have beentelling me about?"

"Eh? I don't know. If he has he's never said anything to meabout it. Maybe he has, though; 'twouldn't be surprisin'. I'vepreached it to him enough. Why? What makes you ask?"

"Oh, nothing...If he had had any such plans—if he had hadany reason to expect anything from that will—he would be agood deal disappointed now, wouldn't he?...Yes, he would... Humph!that would explain—"

He did not finish the sentence. Tobias jogged his memory."Explain what?" he asked.

"Nothing...Well, Cap'n, I am glad you told me all this. I'llthink over your proposition. I can't do anything just at present.I—er—well, I need the money for other things; but I'llthink it over and some day—then, perhaps, we'll see."

Higgins was obviously disappointed. He rose from his chair.

"Better think about it pretty hard," he grunted. "It's a goodchance for you and it would be the makin' of Carey. And he deservesall the help he can get. Yes, he does. He won't ask you for a cent,of course; he wouldn't ask me. That's him, all over. But if eitherof us came to him for help we'd get it—we'd get the last redcent he had in his pocket. You can think that over, too, George, ifyou've a mind to."

He rolled out of the office, righteous indignation anddisapproval in the set of his jaw. George leaned back in his chair.He, too, was disturbed. It troubled him to know that CaptainHiggins considered him overcautious at least—stingy andself-centered, probably. That opinion, however, he might be able tochange in a year or two, when his own tangle was straightened. Andin one way the interview had brought relief. He believed heunderstood now the cause of Carey's peculiar behavior, hislistlessness and dejection. The "plans" to which Carey had referredhad to do with the expression and development of the latter's birdmaking. The letter from the lawyer, that which had brought the newsthat the old lady's hundred thousand was his, had opened a way tothe "factory" and all the rest of the air castles for whichHiggins' exuberant fancy had supplied material. George was notinclined to share Tobias's optimism regarding the fortunes to bemade by unlimited supplies of decoys. He, like the majority ofWellmouthians, estimated his brother's hobby rather lightly. Andthe idea of Carey Judson as the head of any important businessventure was pathetically funny. The new "bird company" could endonly as the firm of Osborne and Judson had ended. He was sorry forCarey, very sorry and very sympathetic; but he could not helpfeeling relief in the knowledge that the wrecking of the latter'splans was not more seriously disastrous. Carey was down in themouth now, poor fellow, but he, George, would make it up to him byand by. Indeed he would!

He said nothing to Carey or Cora, or any one else, concerningthe talk with Captain Higgins. His manner toward the convalescentwas kindness itself. Cora T. was somewhat suspicious of thiskindness; she feared it might lead to foolish generosity. She tookher husband to task on the subject one evening, when the pair werein their room preparing for bed.

"Look here, George," she demanded. "What were you and Careyholding hands about over in the corner just now? What was he askingyou to do? I tried to hear, but you both were whispering and mightyanxious that I shouldn't. What was it?"

George laughed. "We were talking about his going back to work,that's all," he replied. "He was trying to tell me that he was wellenough to go now, and I was telling him that he shouldn't do anysuch thing. That is all we were talking about. There wasn'tanything secret about it. Cora, what does make you so suspiciousall the time? You can scare up more mare's nests than anybody Iever heard of."

Mrs. Judson's eyes narrowed and her thin lips tightened.

"Maybe I have reasons for being suspicious," she announced. "Andas for secrets—why didn't you tell me that Tobe Higgins hadbeen trying to get you to let him and Carey have money to throwaway in that crazy wooden bird foolishness? Why didn't you tell methat?...Humph! I don't wonder you look ashamed. I should think youwould. Well? What have you got to say?"

Her husband found it hard to say anything at the moment.

He might not have looked ashamed exactly, but he certainly didlook surprised and rather guilty.

"It—it didn't amount to anything, Cora," he protested. "Ididn't think it was worth while bothering you with. I said Icouldn't do it, anyway...How in the world did you come to hearabout it?"

"Oh, I heard! I hear a good many things you think I'll neverhear—and hope I won't, I guess likely. Phoebe Higgins toldsomebody and that somebody told somebody else and, finally, it gotto me. I said a few things whenI heard it, I can tell youthat. George Judson, you didn't give that man the least bit ofencouragement, did you?"

"No."

"You're sure? You told him you wouldn't do it, now or at anyother time? That is exactly what you told him?"

"Yes."

"Well, if you hadn't I would have gone to him and told himmyself. Impertinent, interfering thing! What right has he got tosay what you shall do with the money your aunt willed to you? It isyours, isn't it; yours and mine? Poor Aunt Susan wanted us to haveit and she took pains to make sure that we got it. SHE knew thatCarey wasn't fit to be trusted with a penny; yes, and that hedidn't deserve one, either. He was behind that Tobias's impudenttalk, of course. HE was the one that put him up to come begging.Oh, if you ever let him have any of that moneyI'll—I'll—"

"Oh, be still, Cora, will you? Carey didn't know that Higginswas coming to me. He didn't know a thing about it, the cap'n saidso. And I said no, didn't I? What more do you want?"

"I want this much more: I want you to promise me you will never,NEVER let him have a dollar of that money, no matter what kind ofexcuse he puts up. You're so soft-headed you never can say no theway it ought to be said. You promise me that you'll say it now andmean it and stick to it. Will you?"

For a man who could not say no, George said it then with amazingpromptness.

"No, I won't," he declared, emphatically.

"What! WHAT? You won't promise me—"

"No, I won't. I told Higgins I couldn't spare the money and Ishould have told Carey the same thing if he had asked—whichhe wouldn't have done. But I'll be hanged," he added, his voicerising, "if I promise what I'll do the next time, if there ever isone. I don't know what I'll do. Confound it, Cora, how can you goon this way! Aunt Susan thought as much of Carey as she did ofme—of us. Yes, and by all that's honest, he has just as muchright to her money as we have. Just as much. More, if you want toknow."

Cora T. gasped. "More!" she repeated. "More right to— Oh,you're crazy! I never heard such nonsense in my life. GeorgeJudson—"

"Be still. Carey's the salt of the earth, that's what he is, andI'm tired of hearing you run him down. Stop it. And stop picking onhim. Now you know how I feel. Go to bed and behave yourself."

She did not go to bed, nor did he, for some time...There werethe usual tears and agonies and threats of suicide on her part andrepentant pettings and fervent protestations of affection on his.The quarrel ended, of course, in his being partially forgiven,provided he never, never, never treated her so cruelly again. Butthe question of the promise was still unanswered. George did notmake that promise, and Cora did not insist upon his makingit—then. From experience she had learned just how far, in thematter of relations between the Judson brothers, it was wise topress a point. This did not mean, however, that the point shouldnot be pressed later on. She could wait; but she did not intend toforget.

She expressed sympathy for her brother-in-law, expressed it tohim when her husband was absent.

"Of course," she said, "George and I feelterribly—terribly, Carey—about Aunt Susan's not leavingyou anything in her will. We think she ought to have left yousomething, even if it wasn't much. It was natural enough,considering what a lot of her money you had had already in thatbanking business of yours—that she should have given Georgeand me most of it, but we do think you should have had a few of herown personal things, if only to remember her by. Well, you shallhave them; George and I will see to that. There is that shippainting of great-grandfather Judson's; she thought the world ofthat. You shall have that picture, to keep always, Carey, and morebesides. And, of COURSE, you can have a good home here with us justas long as you want it."

Carey thanked her solemnly. After she had left the room hesmiled for the first time in a long while.

Hepsibah's indignation was emphatic.

"I'm ashamed of Susan Dain," she vowed. "I thought she had moresense. No, I don't want to hear you make excuses for her. I'mashamed of her and that's all there is to it."

There were callers, not many but a few, who came to the Cap'nJim- Carey place, to inquire concerning Carey's health and to seehim, if possible. Mrs. Higgins came and Captain and Mrs. JoshuaBailey and several others. Mrs. Benjamin Early came on a Sundayafternoon in tow of her husband. There had been a brief but pointedinterview between the pair at the Early dinner table that noon.Mrs. Early had ventured one of her very rare protests.

"But, Ben," she said, "I don't see how I can go callin' thisafternoon. I don't truly. I tore my best dress goin' into meetin'this mornin'. You know I did; you heard it go. Cap'n Elkanahstepped right on the train of my skirt and I declare I didn't knowbut he would pull it right in two. He IS such a heavy man! ThatSimmons boy, the one that drives the express cart, says the wayCap'n Elkanah hauls his feet around always makes him think ofmovin' trunks. Now it will take me a whole day to fix that dressagain. How can I go out callin' on Sunday afternoon? I haven't gotanything fit to wear."

Her husband snorted. "Then you'll have to wear something thatain't fit," he announced. "We've got to go there, that's all. CareyJudson is a plaguy nuisance, sick or well, but he's the boss'sbrother and we've got to palaver to him.I don't care howhe's getting along. If he never was able to get back to his job inthe office it would be the best thing for the office and everythingin it. Such a set of booksI never saw! But George asked meyesterday when we were coming up to see him, so we've got to go.Come on! Let's get it over with."

They called, but they did not see Carey. No one, except thedoctor and the members of the household had caught a glimpse of himsince he was taken ill. He went to his room the moment callers wereannounced and obstinately refused to come down during the visits.To his brother or Cora, when they urged him to do so, his answerwas always the same.

"No, I don't feel up to seeing them yet awhile," he declared. "Iwant to get well and back to work as soon as I can, and talkingseems to make me nervous. Say that I am lying down or something ofthe sort. Part of that will be true, the 'lying' part, atleast."

Cora accepted the excuses complacently enough. She was alwaysquite willing to dispense with her brother-in-law's society. Shewas much too fond of being the center of attention herself to carefor that of a possible rival. Questions concerning Carey's healthshe answered with the statement that he was getting along realwell. "Just a cold, that's all; exactly what you might expect afterthe soaking he got in that storm. Oh, dear! He doesn't take anymore care of himself than a child might, and George and I have tolook out for him and think for him as if he was a child. We areglad to do it, of course. George thinks the world of him and so doI, but we realize we shall always have him on our hands to care foras long as we live. Don't tell any one I said that, Mrs. Snow, willyou? George wouldn't like it a bit if he knew I said it outside thefamily, but it is the living truth. All of us have our burdens inthis world, don't we?"

George's remonstrances were not as easily quieted.

"You ought to see these people, Carey," he insisted. "They'vetaken pains to come here to see you and you ought to say 'How d'youdo' to them, if nothing more. Why, Desire Sayles and Emily havebeen here twice to ask about you and once Emily came alone. She wasreal disappointed when Cora said you couldn't see anybody. The nexttime she comes you make it a point to see her, will you? I thoughtyou and she were—humph!—well, pretty friendly. Thewhole town used to say you were, anyhow."

Carey, sprawled in the rocker by the bed, did not look at hisbrother. "Oh, I guess they don't want to see me, George, really,"he said. "They are being polite, that is all. I am much obliged tothem, of course, but— Oh, don't bother me any more, that's agood fellow."

"Humph! If you think Emily was only being polite when she camelast Sunday, you're mightily mistaken—or I was, one or theother. She wouldn't take no for an answer at first. I had a goodmind to come up here and drag you downstairs by the scruff of yourobstinate neck. What makes you so pig-headed all at once? What hascome over you?"

Carey smiled in a lopsided fashion.

"Oh, nothing in particular, George," he replied. "This cold, orthe equinoctial or something, took the ginger out of me, I guess. Idon't feel up to talking...Just let me alone. I'll be moderatelydecent by and by, I hope. I shall try to be."

"Better try pretty soon, then. Here you are fussing because thedoctor and I won't let you go back to the office before next Mondayand yet you say you haven't got ambition enough to go downstairsand meet some of your best friends. That equinoctial must have beena tough one, I should say. Emily Sayles looks as if she had beenout in it, too. I never saw her so white and peaked since I'veknown her. She says she is all right, but I give you my word shedoesn't look or act all right. Now if she comes again you see her,will you?"

Carey, his face still turned away, was absently twisting hisforelock.

"Well, perhaps, George," he said. "But don't worry. Probably shewon't come again."

He was practically sure she would not. From his bedroom windowhe had watched her come up the walk to the side door that Sundayafternoon. He had watched but a moment, however. He turned away,fearful that his resolution might falter, that it might not beequal to the strain. He locked the door and when his brother calledhim, groaned, and vowed that his head was aching and that hecouldn't be disturbed. Later on Hepsibah brought him a note.

"Emily left it for you," explained Hepsy. "She came around tothe kitchen door after she left here and asked me to hand it to youwhen I got a chance. Said she was afraid you might not be able tosee her and so she wrote this at home afore she started. She looksabout as used up as you do, Carey. Vows she isn't sick or anything,but I know somethin' ails her. She's workin' herself to piecesgivin' those pesky piano lessons, I shouldn't wonder. That ElsieCahoon is enough to wear out one healthy set of nerves. Next time Isee Desire I'm goin' to tell her what I think about thoselessons...Well, there's your note. If there's any answer I'll seethat she gets it. And," lowering her voice and glancing cautiouslybehind her at the closed door, "I'll take care that nobody elsesees even the outside of it. No use in stirrin' up more talk aroundthis house than there is, already. THAT would be like stickin'extry bones into a salt herrin'."

Carey read the note after Hepsibah's departure. He did not do itimmediately. He turned the envelope, bearing his name in herfamiliar writing, over and over in his hands, and when he did tearit open it was with a sudden burst of desperation. The note wasbrief.

Carey, dearest [she had written]. WON'T you see me? You MUSTtell me more than you did the other night. I know you have not toldme the real reason for your speaking as you did. And I know thatwhen I hear that reason I shall understand. You and I cannot partthis way. You must tell me everything and let me judge what is bestfor us to do. If something has happened—and I know ithas—to make you feel that you and I cannot be together as weplanned—if it is only that we must wait, why, that isnothing, dear. Nothing at all. And if you broke your promise to meI know you did it for a reason you thought sufficient. Just tell mewhat it is, that is all I ask. You will do that for me, won't you?I beg you to.

It was an hour later when he sat down at the table in his roomto write his answer, a long, long hour. And another had endedbefore the reply was written. It was shorter even than her note hadbeen.

Dear Emily [he wrote]. I can't see you. It would not do any goodand would only make us both more miserable than we are. I can'ttell you anything more than I told the other night. You must notcome to see me again and when we do meet, as I suppose we shall ifI stay here in Wellmouth, you must not ask me for my reasons. Youmust forget me as soon as you can.

This was the final result of the hour of writing and rewriting,tearing up what was already written and beginning again. The utterhopelessness of his position overwhelmed him just as it had thenight and day following his brother's confession and appeal. ForGeorge's sake—for George's sake he must keep silent. If heexplained—if he even hinted at an explanation, she wouldinsist that such sacrifice was unnecessary; she might go to Georgeand demand that the latter restore the money which was his onlymeans of salvation. If she did that the whole affair would almostsurely be made public. Then the old firm, the firm their father hadfounded, would go to ruin, George would be crushed, he would be apauper—yes, and his domestic happiness would be wrecked also,for he knew Cora, her pride and temper. Compared with suchdisaster, what else mattered? Nothing, of course. No one accountedhim as anything but a failure; a failure he had always been. ButGeorge Judson—why, Wellmouth swore by him, just as it hadsworn by and boasted of Cap'n Jim-Carey. He could not desertGeorge. This was always the one inevitable conclusion of histortured self- questioning and desperate struggle. He must do whatGeorge had asked him to do. He would.

So his note to Emily was short and cold and decisive. All thelongings and heartbreakings of his tormented soul, all the pleasfor forgiveness, he wrote them, but he tore them to bits andconsigned them to the wastebasket. The briefer, the more brutal,that word to Emily, the more conclusive. She would hate him now;well, if she did she would never try to see him again or ask forthe reasons he could not give. It would be better, in the end, forher. She might forget him sooner, and be happier in consequence.Anything which might make her life easier and her futurebrighter—well, that was what he desired, surely. Yes, he diddesire it. So, if she hated him—well, that was as it shouldbe.

He crushed the note into its envelope, hurried down to thekitchen and gave it to Hepsibah. Then he hastened back to his roomagain to begin once more the fight with his always waveringresolution. He won that fight and Hepsy delivered the note thatevening. Emily called no more at the Cap'n Jim-Carey place.

He went back to the office and the books the following Monday,two weeks after his illness began. George and he walked downtogether. George was in a cheerful mood. Things were lookingbrighter, much brighter, he told his brother. The items in thepapers concerning the will had been read by his Boston creditorsand they had helped a great deal.

"That was a lucky mistake, if you can call it a mistake," hesaid. "That leaving your name out of the piece in the papers, Imean. Everybody takes it for granted that I am the 'nephew' AuntSusan's money is coming to, and it saves you and me a whole lot oftroublesome explanation. I am willing they should think so now, butsome of these days—in a year or so, I hope—I shall bein a position when their knowing the truth won't do any harm; thenthey shall know it. They shall know what you have done for me, oldboy. I'll see to that."

Carey's remonstrance was emphatic.

"No, you won't," he declared. "I don't want them to know it. Letthem keep on thinking what they think now. It will be better forall hands."

George slapped him on the back. "Don't you believe it!" heexclaimed. "They are going to know, all right. And you are going tohave that money, with interest. That was a part of our bargain. Ihaven't forgotten it, if you have."

"I don't want it, George. What good is money to me? What would Ido with it if I had it? Lose it, that's all. I am not fit to havemoney. Ask any one here that knows me, they'll tell youso—and be glad of the chance."

"No, they won't, for I'll tell my story first. That is thetrouble with most people, Carey; they DON'T know you. I do...Oh,well! we'll attend to all that when the time comes. Just now,though, that twisted newspaper yarn has helped a lot. Why, thatfellow in Boston, the one that holds the note that was worrying memost of all, writes that he isn't sure that he can't give me arenewal, after all. I know what that means. It means that he haslearned that I am sure of an extra hundred thousand and he feelssafe. You and I have got to keep our secret for a while, and I tellyou again I am mighty thankful it is a secret. It is a mercy youdidn't show anybody the letter you got from Phillips. If you hadthe fat WOULD have been in the fire."

Carey did not answer. He had shown that letter to one person andit was his doing so which had lifted him to Paradise and thendropped him into the pit. If that letter had not been in his pocketthat Sunday afternoon his lot, hard as it was, would have been somuch easier. Emily would never have known of his love for her, andhis renunciation would not have been accompanied by the knowledgethat she thought him a liar and a brute. She might never have knownthat he loved her, but at least she would not hate and despise himas now she did. Yet she had loved him then; she had told him so.The memory of her love, even though it was now turned to loathing,was the one bright spot in the blackness.

At George's suggestion he had signed a power of attorney makinghis brother his representative in all matters pertaining to thesettling of the Dain estate, and the collection of the inheritance."When the settlement is made," said George, "I will turn the moneyover to you, you can sign a receipt or whatever Phillips thinksnecessary for you to sign. Then you can hand the money to me and Iwill give you my note. That will be the simplest way out, Ithink."

Carey did not care how it was settled. He did not wish any note.So far as he was concerned he never wished to hear of his AuntSusan's legacy again.

At the office he did his best to keep his mind upon the rows offigures, the current prices of cod and haddock and halibut, themonotonous routine of the daily grind. So far as accomplishingresults was concerned he succeeded surprisingly well. Even thesupercritical Early deigned to express a measure ofsatisfaction.

"I declare, you're getting along pretty well, Carey," heobserved. "You don't make as many mistakes as you did there onespell. I guess being sick was what you needed. Maybe it showed youthere was something worse than keeping books. Eh? Ha, ha!"

Carey pulled at his pet lock of hair.

"It isn't altogether that, Ben," he replied, solemnly. "Ilearned what it meant to be away from you for two whole weeks. Iwas pining for you, Ben...No, please don't move. Stand right therein the sunshine for a minute longer. I have a hard bit of adding todo and the sight of your face will be an inspiration."

The manager grunted. He was suspicious of levity somewhere. As amatter of fact there was a note of carelessness, almost of recklessbravado as he estimated it, in his subordinate's manner these dayswhich was new and which he neither understood nor liked.

He expressed this feeling to his wife at supper thatevening.

"I can't make him out," he declared. "He's different, somehow.He does his work considerable better than he did, though mercyknows that isn't saying a whole lot; but he just seems to take itall as a sort of joke. Yes, and I swear if I wouldn't almost say hetook me as a joke, too, if such a thing was possible. When I haulhim over the coals for digging holes half through the ledger withthat everlasting scratcher he's so handy with, he always stopseverything to listen as if he was in church and I was preaching asermon. He never used to answer me back—except once in awhile. Now he always does. What he says is mostly nonsense, but itsounds respectful enough, almost too respectful, if you know what Imean. And when I come to think it over it always seems as if therewas a kind of poking fun at me underneath. Nothing you can put yourfinger on, you know. If he was fresh I'd put my foot down on him,Judson or no Judson. It ain't freshness exactly,it's—it's—well, I don't know what it is. Kind of 'don'tcare a hang,' that's the only way I can describe it. But comingfrom moony, sleepy-head Carey Judson it's strange. Yes, he'sdifferent. I don't know why he is, but he is."

Mr. Early was not the only one who noticed that difference.Captain Tobias Higgins noticed it when he dropped in at his back-yard shop to watch the bird making. Carey carved the black duck andplover and beetle-heads in his spare time, just as he had donesince his tenancy of the Higgins' outbuilding began, but it seemedto the captain that his interest in the work was not as keen, andthat he was less critical of the output.

"If it was anybody else," Tobias confided to his "Chippy," "I'dsay he was gettin' sick of the job or careless or somethin' likethat. 'Tain't that the birds he makes ain't good enough. Godfreys!They're so good that I feel like gettin' my gun and takin' a shotat every one he turns out. It ain't that, but—well, it's morethat he don't sit and squint at every feather and pick flaws andshake his head and groan when it don't suit him. He seems a lotmore willin' to let 'em go as they are, and that ain't natural forhim. And he acts queer other ways. Sometimes when I go out there hewon't say a word scarcely; don't seem to hear me when I talk tohim, and looks so kind of pale and—oh, miserable, you know.Then the next time he talks a whole lot about nothin', and makesjokes and tries to sing; and godfreys! when HE sings that's sadderthan anything else! Well, I don't know what 'tis, but somethin'sgone skewangles with him. I'm goin' to ask George if he knows. I'mgettin' kind of worried."

Early in November Cora T. departed on a trip to Washington. TheLadies' Literary Society, of which she was secretary and a brightlyshining light, was going in a body—not a large body in theaggregate, although as individuals there were some rather bulkyexhibits. The White House, both branches of Congress, the SupremeCourt and Mount Vernon were to be honored by their attentions andMrs. Judson delivered lectures, lectures historical, architecturaland governmental, at breakfast, dinner and supper during the dayspreceding the exodus. The excursionists departed on a Fridaymorning train and Captain Higgins declared that all the occasionlacked to make its grandeur complete was a brass band. "Though," headded, "the depot master tells me that there was so much tongue-waggin' and clack a-goin' on the platform that a body couldn'thardly hear the engine whistle, let alone a bass drum, if they'dhad one."

The Judson brothers were left alone in the Cap'n Jim-Careyplace, to be cared for by Hepsibah and Maggie.

On the following Sunday afternoon, after Carey had, as usual,gone down to his bird shop, George was reading his Saturday EveningTranscript in the sitting room when Hepsibah entered to announce acaller.

"Desire Sayles is here," she said, "and she says it's you shewants to see. She's comin' right in...Yes, here she is now."

Chapter XVI

"Well, Mrs. Sayles," observed George Judson, after Hepsibah hadgone and he and his visitor were alone in the sitting room, "thisis something of a surprise. I didn't expect callers here at home,now that Cora is off sight-seeing. I am very glad to see you,though, of course. Take off your things, do. Where is Emily?"

Mrs. Sayles accepted the armchair which he pushed forward, andthrew back her cape. She did not, however, remove her bonnet. Shewas breathing quickly and appeared fatigued.

"First of all, George," she said, "you must let me rest a minutebefore you expect me to do much talking. This is the longest walk Ihave taken for almost a year. Oh, why DO you live on the top of thehighest hill in town!"

George looked at her in surprise.

"You didn't walk up Lookout Hill, did you?" he asked. "Of courseyou didn't!"

"I most certainly did, all the way up. Sylvanus Snow and hiswife were going out to ride and they brought me as far as thecorner of the Main Road. They would have brought me all the way, Isuppose, if I had told them I was coming here, but I didn't tellthem. They thought I was going to the Halls' and I let them thinkso. There is no particular reason why they, or any one else, shouldknow that I was coming here to see you, George—and severalwhy they shouldn't. I walked—or climbed—up from thecorner and I am decidedly out of breath."

George rose to his feet. Considering the state of Desire Sayles'health the idea that she should have dreamed of making such aneffort was incomprehensible. He was rather alarmed.

"Let me get a—a cup of tea or something," he urged. "Hepsywill make it for you in a jiffy. You shouldn't have done such athing, Mrs. Sayles. I wonder Emily let you do it. Is she withyou?"

"She is not," with emphasis. "No, no, I don't want any tea. I amall right, or I shall be pretty soon. Oh, I do lose patience withmyself these days! There was a time, when your mother was living,when I could run back and forth between this house and mine a halfdozen times a day and think nothing of it. But now—oh, dear!Be thankful you are young, George Judson. Old age is nothing to beproud of, take my word for it...And sit down, please. I have agreat deal to say to you and not much time to say it in."

George sat, rather reluctantly. He made the tritely politeprotest which her remark concerning age seemed to invite. Desireaccepted the compliment with a tired smile. "Thank you," she said,dryly. "I may not look as old as I feel, but if I don't it isbecause it is impossible for any one to look as old as I feel justnow... There, there! I didn't come here to discuss my age. Where isCarey?"

"He has gone down to his workshop, I suppose. That is where hesaid he was going and where he usually goes on Sunday afternoons.But I don't understand how Emily happened to let you come alone.She isn't with you, you say?"

"No, she isn't. She hasn't the slightest idea that I have leftthe house. She has gone up to Obed Cahoon's to talk about thatchild of his. She seems to feel conscience-stricken because Elsiehasn't made the progress with her music which sheexpected—Emily expected, I mean—the little imp has madequite as much asI expected. I wishI could have atalk with Obed. It might not—probably wouldn't—do himor his daughter any good, but it would help me a great deal.However, I didn't come to free my mind concerning Elsie Cahooneither. To do that completely would take more time than I can sparethis afternoon. Well, George, Emily isn't here and you say Careyisn't. That is precisely what I hoped, for it is of those two thatyou and I must talk now... Is that door shut—andlatched?"

Judson, wondering what on earth all this secrecy could mean andimpressed by the earnestness of her tone and manner, walked to thedoor leading to the dining room, made sure that it was securelyfastened, and returned to his chair. Mrs. Sayles waited until hewas seated and then leaned forward.

"Now, George," she said, "I want you to listen to me and notinterrupt when I am talking; and answer my questions when I askthem. This is an important—very important matter I have cometo see you about. It must be settled—and I think—ITHINK you can help me settle it if you will. First of all, what isthe trouble with your brother? Do you know?"

George's wonder was now close to bewilderment. There was nodoubt whatever that Desire Sayles was in deadly earnest and thatshe had risked her health in order to interview him that afternoon.The important matter she had come to discuss must have something todo with Emily Sayles and Carey. What, he could not imagine. Hisbewilderment showed in his face as he spoke.

"Trouble?" he repeated. "Trouble with Carey? What do you mean,Mrs. Sayles? So far as I know, he is all right. He caught cold inthat storm last month and was knocked out for a fortnight, but heis over that now. What sort of trouble do you mean? I don'tunderstand."

His caller seemed a little doubtful.

"Are you sure you don't?" she asked, slowly. "Well, perhaps not.Certainly you don't if you can sit there and tell me there isnothing the matter with him. Of course I know he has been sick;every one in town knows that. And I believe the doctor tells peoplehe is all right again. But that doesn't prevent my knowing quite aswell that he is a very long way from being all right. GeorgeJudson, DON'T you know what is the trouble with Carey? Or are youonly making believe?"

George's expression should have been answer sufficient. Therewas surprise in it, and puzzled perturbation, but there was notrace of embarrassment or guilt. He shook his head.

"I certainly don't, Mrs. Sayles," he replied. "And when you say'trouble' I don't—well, what sort of trouble are you hintingat?"

"I am not hinting, George. There will be no hinting on my part.I am going to be frank enough before I finish, goodness knows. I amasking you if you know of any reason why your brother should havechanged absolutely from what he was a few weeks ago. People aresaying he doesn't look well and that his sickness has changed hisappearance surprisingly, but it isn't that kind of change I mean.George, do you know of any sudden shock, ordisappointment—anything of the sort—which has come toCarey of late?"

George's expression had altered. His look of puzzled innocenceand surprise was superseded by one quite different. He was thinkinghard, groping for the meaning behind her words, and for an instantthe alarming suspicion that she or Emily might have learned thetruth concerning the contents of his aunt's will flashed to hismind. So far as he knew no one on the Cape was aware of Mrs. Dain'sreal disposition of her property, no one save Carey and himself. Itcould not be that. She had used the word "disappointment," however.Then another idea came to him. He remembered Tobias Higgins'conversation that day in the private office of J. C. Judson &Co. It might be that the captain had told others of his propositionthat he—George—should back Carey's bird manufacturewith the presumed legacy. He might well have done so and Desire andEmily might share Higgins' resentment and fancy that Carey sharedit also and was brooding over it. That seemed probable—atleast more probable than any other surmise.

He frowned slightly and toyed with his watch chain. Mrs. Sayles'sharp scrutiny did not waver.

"DO you know of any such thing?" she persisted. "You look now asif you did. You must answer me, George. I should not ask you thesequestions if I hadn't a very serious reason for asking. I have toldyou that I intend to be very outspoken and frank. I hope you willbe. I have known you and Carey since the days you were born and Iam about as close and old a friend as you two have in the world.Also," she added, with the trace of a smile, "I am not in the leastafraid of you, you see."

He met her look then. "Mrs. Sayles," he said, "I don't exactlysee what you are driving at, but— Well, I guess. Cap'n TobeHiggins has been talking to you, hasn't he? If he has, and youfeel, as he seems to, that I ought to take the money that AuntSusan left—the money that is coming from her estate—toback his scheme of organizing a company and building a factory forCarey to use in making his decoys on a big scale, I—well, Ican only tell you what I told him, that I can't spare that moneyjust now. Yes, and I will tell you more than I told him. If I hadthe money lying idle I should think a long while before I backedCarey in another business venture. He isn't a business man. He ismy brother and I would do anything on earth for him—anythingthat would help him, I mean—but I don't believe making himthe head of a business concern would help him at all. It would onlymean another failure; at least that is the way it looks to me now.I am sorry if he is disappointed and troubled about it. I didn'tknow he was. I didn't even know that Tobias had mentioned the ideato him. Certainly Carey has never spoken to me about it. And I amjust as sorry if you and Emily feel—"

She broke in on the sentence. "George Judson," she demanded,"what in the world is all this? What are you talking about? TobiasHiggins hasn't said a word of any such plan to me. I haven't seenhim for a month. I didn't know anything about it, and I am sureEmily doesn't."

George's bewilderment returned. "You don't!" he exclaimed."Well, then, I'm sorry I spoke of it. But when you were so certainthat—"

Again she interrupted. "Now we must stop talking in circles,"she declared. "It doesn't get us anywhere and I haven't time forit, besides. George," earnestly, "please answer me this question:There will be more, but this is the first one: Didn't you know thatyour brother and Emily were engaged to marry and that, for somereason—heavens knows what—he came to her that awfulnight in the rain and gale two weeks ago and broke their engagementwithout giving her the slightest sane excuse for doing it? Didn'tyou know that?"

George leaned back in his chair so suddenly that it creaked.

"What!" he cried, sharply. "What's that you say, Mrs.Sayles?"

"You didn't know it, then! No, I can see you didn't. Well, it istrue. They were engaged and then, the night of the storm, Careycame to our house and broke the engagement. Now can you think ofany reason why he should do such a thing?"

George did not answer her question. The statement she had madeseemed so incredible that he scarcely believed it.

"Carey and Emily were—were ENGAGED, you say?" he repeated."Really engaged to be married?"

"Yes. And you didn't know even that? Well, I didn't know itmyself until a day or two ago. Of course I could see that he andEmily were growing more and more friendly. So far as that goes theyhave always been friends. And I shouldn't have been greatlysurprised to hear that they had concluded to be something more thanfriends. In fact, I rather expected it. And I was satisfied withthe idea. I like Carey Judson. Oh, I know that he isn't preciselywhat I should call a practical person, and I have learned to mysorrow, and as a good many others have, that as a business man inthe ordinary sense he is a decided failure. But in his ownparticular line, the line the Almighty fitted him for, I amconvinced that he is far from being a failure. I believe that,given the right chance, he is capable of making us all proud ofhim. And, aside from all that, I like him—I have always likedhim. He is as good as gold, and as kind and generous and brave asoul as ever lived. I know how they talk about him, that they callhim 'Queer Judson' and make fun of him, but I haven't spent all mydays in Wellmouth, thank goodness, and Wellmouth's opinion isn'tnecessarily law and gospel to me—indeed it isn't! And,besides, I am not the most practical person on earth, myself. Ilike what money will buy well enough, and I should be quite willingto have more of it than I have now; but there are some things onecan't buy with money and some others that I wouldn't sell for allthe millions on earth. My daughter's happiness is one of those. Ihad much rather see her marry a good, poor man than I would a richbad one. That may be an old-fashioned and sentimental doctrine, butit is mine. If she loved Carey and he loved her, then I wascontent. I was a poor girl and I married a poor man, and whateverof the world's goods came to us afterwards we earned and enjoyedtogether. No, if Emily had come to me and said that she and Careycared for each other and meant to marry, I—well, I probablyshould have asked her what they expected to live on after they weremarried, and I might have said, 'Wait a while,' but I shouldn'thave objected in the least. There! That's a long speech, but it isonly the text of my sermon. You and I must go a great deal furtherwith the matter than that before I leave you this afternoon."

George was listening now; he had heard all that his visitorsaid, but he seemed to be lost in thought. He shook his head oncemore and drew a long breath.

"So they were actually engaged," he said again. "Well,well!...Of course I have heard—I knew—that he wascalling at your house pretty often, and that there was a lot ofgossip drifting around, but there is so much of that in a town likethis I seldom pay attention to it. I never supposed there wasanything serious between Emily and Carey. Great Scott! Why,I—I guess I should have laughed at the notion. Careywas—well, I know his circumstances and—and—"

He stopped short, with a sudden catch of the breath. Then heasked, quickly, and with a sharp change in his tone:

"When did they decide to do this?"

"What do you mean? When did they decide to marry? Oh, I don'tthink they had gone so far as to consider the time of marriage.They were to be married some day, that was all. At least that iswhat I gather from what Emily told me."

"I don't mean that. I mean was—well, was thedecision—the engagement—er—a sudden sort ofthing? When did you hear about it, Mrs. Sayles?"

"I heard about it only a day or two ago. And when I did hearthere was no longer an engagement; Carey, as I told you, had brokenit. Emily didn't tell me this of her own accord; I am not sure thatshe would have told me for ever so long, perhaps never, if I hadn'tinsisted on being told. I have, I hope, a moderate amount of commonsense and that shock I had last winter hasn't affected my eyes tothe extent that I can't see what is as plain as a pikestaff. Emilyhad been very happy, so happy and in such good spirits that I beganto suspect what might have happened to make her so. Then, all atonce, she was as miserable as she had been joyful. She was pale andsilent and perfectly wretched and when I asked her if she wassick—which of course I supposed she must be—she saidshe was well and that nothing was the matter. I knew better thanTHAT, of course, so I began to look for a reason. Carey had beendropping in for supper or to spend the evening pretty frequently.Now he didn't come at all. He was sick, himself, of course, but notvery sick; yet when Emily and I came here to call he wouldn't seeus. I put two and two together, as any one would—any mother,certainly—and when I was ready I shut Emily up in the sittingroom with me and made her tell me the whole story. She did andthere were some parts of that story, George, that sent me down hereto see you to-day. Emily doesn't know I am here. She had no idea ofmy coming. She would be perfectly furious if she even guessed it.But that doesn't make any difference. I had to talk toyou—and—yes, I guess, George, you will have to talk tome."

George was silent. His brows were drawn together and now therewas a strained, haggard look upon his face. He sighed, glanced ather, and then looked away.

"Go on," he said. "Tell me the whole of it, please. All thatEmily told you. That is, if you think she would be willing for youto tell. I—I guess I ought to hear it."

Mrs. Sayles nodded, a nod which expressed decisive and absoluteagreement with the last statement.

"I KNOW you ought to hear it," she declared. "I am as sure ofthat as I am that Emily wouldn't consent to have me tell you. It isfor her sake—and Carey's—yes, and yours, too, I hope,George—that I am going to do that very thing. Nowlisten."

She told, as Emily had told her, of the latter's walk with Careyon the fateful Sunday afternoon. Then of Carey's suddenrecollection of the letter handed him by Captain Higgins on hisarrival at the workshop. She described the reading of that letterand its amazing contents, also the entirely unpremeditated andspontaneous avowals of mutual affection which followed. She stoppedthen, apparently waiting for him to speak, but he did not. So shecontinued.

"That letter and the news in it were responsible, as you cansee," she said, "for the engagement. I don't suppose—beingCarey Judson—he would have ever dared to speak of such athing if it hadn't been for that. But that, of course, changedeverything. He was—he thought he was—worth over ahundred thousand dollars and—well, even in these days aperson worth that amount can consider marriage. They talked, thosetwo—oh, Emily told me everything—about what he coulddo, now that he wasn't poor any longer, all about his plans, plansthat he had told her about before...I wonder if he ever told youany of those plans, George? I doubt it. I think he never told themto any one except Emily. Oh, yes! and Susan Dain. He told them toher when she was here visiting at your house. DID he tell them toyou?"

George's hands were tightly gripped upon the arms of his chair.His head was bent and she could not see his face.

"I guess not," he muttered. "I—well, you can tell them tome now, if you care to. I should like to hear them."

"You are going to hear them. They are worth hearing. They maygive you a little idea of the sort of man your brother is, downunderneath his 'queerness.' Did he ever tell you how he had begunto pay some of his debts here in town?"

George looked up then, startled, for the moment, from hisrestraint.

"Pay his debts!" he repeated. "What debts?"

"He didn't tell you even that? He hasn't told you anything, Isee. Well, he wouldn't, I suppose. He would be afraid it mighttrouble you. He has been scrimping and saving from the salary youpay him as bookkeeper and working night and day at that bird shopof his, to pay some of the poor people in town the money they lostwhen that rascally Osborne wrecked their banking firm."

She went on to tell of Carey's cherished plan, of his payingMrs. Bangs and Letitia Cahoon, of the list of Wellmouth creditorsand its careful checking. She told also of the offer from ProfessorKnight, of the expedition to Central and South America.

"It would have been a wonderful opportunity for him," shedeclared. "You can see that, yourself. The chance of a lifetime. Hetold Emily of it when the offer was first made and she urged him toaccept. She wanted him to go to you, or to Susan Dain, and borrowthe money. He wouldn't do that. He considered that he had alreadysquandered and lost enough of his aunt's money, and as for takinganother penny from you, asking more favors from the brother who hadsaved his reason and his life, that is the way he expressed it, hewould not listen to such a thing. I wish you might hear some of thethings he says about you, George; some he has said to me and morethat Emily says he has said to her. If you could hear you mightrealize that there are such things as devotion and gratitude inthis world, in spite of all the cynical stuff we read inbooks."

She paused again, but George made no comment.

"As for his plans—well, if he had any such plans as TobiasHiggins spoke to you about he has never mentioned them to me or toEmily either. I don't believe he had them. Any scheme with asstrong a personal element as that wouldn't have appealed to CareyJudson. His one plan—the one he had set his hearton—was to pay every cent the people in Wellmouth had lostthrough his wicked carelessness, as he called it. Why, even afterthat lawyer's letter surprised him into letting Emily see how hefelt toward her- -even then, she tells me, he insisted that beforehe could think of marriage, or of going with Knight or anythingelse, those debts must be paid...And he has never told you a wordabout it?"

George shook his head. "No," he groaned.

"Well, you know it now, at any rate. And now, George, here iswhat I really came to talk with you about. Carey and Emily wereengaged. They were very happy. Certainly she was and there doesn'tseem to be any doubt of his happiness—for a little while. Itwas on a Sunday afternoon that they had their understanding thereon the beach. He came to call the next morning, Monday, and, so shesays, was as full of hope and optimism as ever. Of course, eventhen he seemed to feel uneasy about accepting all of the money hisaunt had left him; he said over and over again that he didn'tdeserve it, and you did, and that he ought to, at least, share itwith you. Emily told him—and I must say I think she wasright—that you didn't need it. That it would have meant onlyan extra fortune for you who had one already, whereas it meant allthe world to him. She said, too, that she knew you would be moreglad than any one else when you learned of his good luck. Well,that was the way that Monday evening session ended...The next timehe came it was quite different.

"On Tuesday evening—that was the night when the stormbegan—he did not come, although she rather expected him. Butthe next Wednesday he came, and mercy knows she did NOT expect himon such a night as that! She says he was soaked to the skin, he wasas white as a sheet, and his look and manner frightened her almostto death before he spoke a word. And when he did speak it waslike—well, as if he was in a sort of daze. He scarcelyseemed, she says, to know what he was saying. He stayed only a fewminutes and all she could get from him was that it was all overbetween them, their engagement was a mistake, it must end then andthere. Even their friendship must end and she must never see himagain and forget him as soon as she could. No explanations, nosensible reasons—nothing. When she tried to get him to saymore he ran away, out into that howling gale, bareheaded. Shehasn't seen him since, though she has tried several times. She hasheard from him, though."

She went on to tell of Emily's note of appeal and itsuncompromising, almost brutal answer. Through all the long storyGeorge Judson sat in the chair, his head bent and his gaze fixedupon the floor at his feet. When she finished he neither looked upnor spoke. She regarded him intently and then continued:

"There, George," she said, "now you know as much about it as Ido, or as Emily does. I wonder if you don't know more. On thatMonday your brother was sane and happy and full of hopes andglorious expectations. On Wednesday he was in despair and wretchedand almost crazy. What happened, between that Monday and Wednesday,to make him that way? I wonder if you don't know—or canguess. Emily is sure that you do, or can, and—well, to behonest, I am almost as sure, myself. IF you do then you must speakout. You must, George. Carey is your brother and you owe it to him.Emily is my daughter and I don't intend to let her happiness go towrack and ruin without a fight. If you don't tell me, I shall tryand find out in other ways, that is all."

Still he was silent. Her next speech was in a tone lessgentle.

"There is no use beating about the bush," she said. "As I toldyou before, I have some common sense and I can see through a holeas big as a barn door. Carey had a letter—Emily saw it andread it—from Susan Dain's own lawyer, the one who drew herwill and was in charge of her affairs, stating as plain as a factcould be stated that she had left him property amounting to ahundred and twenty- five thousand dollars. Last week we learned,through that item in the papers, that she has left it all to 'anephew' named Judson here in Wellmouth. Every one takes it forgranted, of course, that you are that nephew. Even Cora says youare, and, so far as I have ever heard, you have never denied it.Well, are you, George? If you are, why did Mr. Phillips write Careythat letter which came to him? Was there another will? Did theyfind it after Carey's letter was written?...Or," she paused andthen added, impressively, "is there something else between you andCarey that no other person knows about, not even your wife?"

George's rigid attitude changed. One of the hands upon the chairarm lifted to his forehead and he leaned heavily upon it.

His caller was relentless. "There is one thing more. I may aswell tell you before you answer me," she persisted. "Emily madeCarey promise solemnly—she knew him, you see, and she knewthere was nothing on earth he would not do for you—she madehim give her his word of honor that no one, you and Coraespecially, should be permitted to persuade him into giving up thatinheritance which had come to him. Emily thinks he broke thatpromise. She is almost sure of it. I think, in all probability, sheis right. Is she, George? You must answer me now. Is she?"

He rose to his feet. The face he turned toward her now was sounlike that of the good-natured, contented, self-assured GeorgeJudson she had always known that she would scarcely have recognizedit.

"Why, George!" she exclaimed in alarm. "Why, George,what—"

He raised a hand. "Don't say any more, Mrs. Sayles," he begged."I—well, I—you have told me things this afternoonthat—that—"

"I had to tell them. For Emily's sake—and forCarey's."

"Yes, yes," hurriedly. "I know. I am glad you did. Only don'tsay any more now, please. If you don't mind I—I should liketo be alone and—and think for a while."

"You shall be. I am going this minute...But—well, George,what are you going to do?"

He was walking up and down the floor. He continued to do so fora moment before he spoke. Then he turned.

"Is Emily going to be at home this evening?" he asked.

"Yes. That is, I suppose so. She generally is at home in theevening."

"All right. I shall probably—yes, I will come up to seeher then. I will. Good-by, Mrs. Sayles...Oh, I—I must seeabout getting you home again. Of course I must. Ask Hepsy to tellthe man to harness the horse. I would attend to it myself,but—but—"

"You nor Hepsy need do any such thing. I shall walk as far asthe Halls'. I was planning to call there anyway; it is my excuse toEmily for leaving the house this afternoon. The Snows will stop forme on their way back from their drive. Don't trouble about me,George. I shall be all right."

He smiled—or tried to.

"Well, if you are sure," he said. "Good afternoon...Oh, and Mrs.Sayles, I don't think you—or Emily—need worry anymore."

She hesitated. She wanted to tell him that now her worry wouldbe concerning him. She did not, however; she went out and lefthim.

When Carey returned from the bird shop he was surprised to learnthat his brother had gone out and had left word that he would notbe home for supper. As a matter of fact he did not come home untilafter eleven, and when Carey, awake and, as usual, reading in bed,heard his step in the passage at the head of the stairs and calledto him, he did not answer. He went into his own bedroom and closedthe door.

The next morning he seemed tired, and he certainly looked so,but he declared himself to be perfectly well and assured Hepsibahthat nothing was the matter. When Carey asked concerning hiswhereabouts the previous night he said that he had been on abusiness errand and volunteered no particulars.

Chapter XVII

Carey was a trifle late that Monday evening in reaching theHiggins' premises. He and his brother ate supper together and thenGeorge had gone up to his room, saying that he must write a letterto Cora. He had talked little during the meal and seemed, as he hadseemed all that day, absent-minded and distrait. The tired and wornlook which his brother and Hepsibah had noticed and commented uponat breakfast was still upon his face, but he dismissed allquestions concerning his health with the statement that nothing waswrong with him and silenced the solicitous inquiries of thehousekeeper by the impatient request that she let him alone.

"I am all right, I tell you," he insisted. "I am not hungry,that is all...Well, I suppose you are going down to your birdwhittling, as usual, aren't you, Carey?"

Carey was not quite certain whether or not he should go to theshop that evening. He, too, had not been talkative during the meal.The day had seemed particularly long and now the prospect of a fewhours of relief with his tools and brushes was not as alluring asusual. He wondered if even that source of forgetfulness wasfailing. The previous afternoon he had made two calls in thevillage, had amazed and delighted two more of the Osborne andJudson creditors by paying their small losses in full. From them hehad exacted promises that knowledge of the payment should be kept asecret. Their joy and profuse thanks had gratified him and, for thetime, acted as a cheerful tonic upon his spirits. Now he wasfeeling the reaction. He had looked forward to the erasure of thosetwo names from the long list and, when he found his thoughtsstraying to the hopelessness of his own future, had forced them toreturn to the pleasant anticipation of that act. Now it was done.Now he must set to work again in preparation for the next payment.And, to his dismay, he found his ambition lagging. He really didnot seem to care whether or not he ever made another decoy.

When he answered his brother's questions by expressinguncertainty concerning his occupation that evening, George, forsome reason, appeared to find that answer a trifle disturbing. Hestopped on his way to the stairs.

"Oh, I guess you'll go," he said. "Why don't you? You might aswell be doing that as loafing around here alone. I'm going out,myself, by and by, for a little while. Oh, yes! And you can do me afavor if you want to. You can take Cora's letter to the post officeon your way down. I'll finish it in a few minutes; it won't be along letter."

Carey made his decision. "All right, George," he said. "I'll go,I guess. As you say, I might as well whittle as loaf. I'll takeyour letter, of course."

George climbed the stairs. Hepsibah, standing in the doorway,sighed. "Well, now, what has come over HIM all at once?" she wantedto know. "Is HE goin' to be sick? Or is the peace and quiet aroundthis place since she cleared out for Washin'ton so much of a shockthat the unnaturalness of it is gettin' on his nerves? Maybe that'sit, I shouldn't be surprised. I find myself wonderin' if it reallyis as quiet as it seems these days, or if I'm gettin' hard ofhearin'."

The letter was soon written and George handed it to hisbrother.

"You will be at Higgins' until nine o'clock, won't you, Carey?"he asked.

The tone of the inquiry seemed more than casual. Carey turned tolook at him.

"Yes," he answered. "I shall be there. Why?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing! Don't forget the letter."

After Carey had gone, George turned to Mrs. Ellis.

"Hepsy," he said, "I'm going to drive—er—over toTrumet by and by. It's a nice night. Don't you want to go withme?"

Hepsibah stared. "Why—why, I suppose I could go," shesaid. "And I haven't been to ride for I don't know when. But whatin the world makes you want to take me along?"

"Oh, just for company. You be ready at half-past eight. We shallprobably start then."

When Carey reached the post office and dropped the letter toCora T. in the slot beneath the rack of boxes, Sam Griggs came outfrom behind that rack with another letter in his hand.

"Here's some mail for you, Carey," he said. "Came on to-night'strain. I put it in with the J. C. Judson bunch, but you might justas well have it now, hadn't you?"

Carey accepted the proffered envelope and thrust it unopenedinto his coat pocket. He was expecting a letter from Moore, hisBoston friend, and he took it for granted that this must be fromhim. He walked out of Griggs' store and strode moodily along thebeach until he reached the Higgins' front gate. The latch caughtand clicked noisily and, as he passed the house the back dooropened and Captain Tobias called to him.

"Ship ahoy, there!" he hailed. "That you, Carey? You're kind oflate to-night, ain't you? Come in a minute and pass the time of daywith me and Chippy."

Carey did not feel in the least like making a call or listeningto Wellmouth gossip as retailed by the voluble Mrs. Higgins. Hewent in, however, but declined the captain's invitation to take offhis hat and coat and come to anchor abaft the stove.

"Can't stop, Cap'n," he said. "I must get to work if I am goingto accomplish anything to-night."

Mrs. Higgins spoke her mind. "That's just the trouble with you,Carey Judson," she declared. "Tobias and I were talkin' about youat supper time—yes, and we've talked a whole lot of othertimes lately. We're kind of worried about you. You work altogethertoo hard. You slave away at that office every workday, and onSundays and evenin's you're down here cuttin' and paintin' andcontrivin' every minute except meal times. You do too much work.It's beginnin' to show in the way you look. I never see such achange in anybody as there has been in you these last fewweeks."

Carey smiled. "Oh, you mustn't worry, Mrs. Higgins," he said."That cold I picked up last month rather took it out of me, Iguess."

Tobias nodded. "You're right, it did!" he vowed. "And the wayyou dig into work night and day is takin' it out of you, too. Whatyou need is a vacation and you'd ought to have one. Ask George tolet you off for a couple of weeks. He can do it, as well as not.Godfreys mighty! Ain't he got Ben Early and ain't Ben capable ofhandlin' the whole United States Navy, let alone two or threefishin' schooners and a set of account books? 'Course he is! Heowns up to it, any time a person asks him. Look here, Carey; me andChippy are figurin' on goin' on a little trip and we don't see whyyou don't go along with us. Cora T. Judson and her crew have goneto Washin'ton to give the President a treat; why can't the rest ofus fo'mast hands go, too? 'Course," he added, with sarcasm, "mywife may not be high-toned enough to ship aboard a Ladies' Lit'rarySociety, but that ain't any reason why we can't navigate a dory ofour own. We're goin' to go, some time between now and Thanksgivin'.Why don't you come along with us?"

"Yes, do, Carey," urged Mrs. Higgins. "We'd just love to haveyou."

Carey thanked them and said he would consider the proposition.It seemed the simplest way to avoid argument and hasten his escape.Phoebe returned to the subject of his cold, spoke of the prevalenceof colds and minor ailments in town and expressed gratitude thatshe and her husband had so far escaped contagion.

"You ain't the only one that's lookin' peaked and pulin' thesefall days," she said. "Indeed you ain't. Why, Tobias says he seesthe doctor's buggy flyin' around, up and down the road, every timehe goes to the village. Caroline Snow is laid up, and the Bassettboy and—oh, I don't know how many more. And Emily Sayles issick, too. Did you know it?"

This statement and question, spoken with guileful innocence, hadan effect which was noted—as, perhaps, it had beenexpected—by both Tobias and his wife. Carey, whose hand wasupon the doorknob, turned back.

"What?" he asked, sharply. "She—Emily Sayles is sick, yousay?"

Phoebe nodded.

"Yes," she said. "I understand she is. She's real poorly,anyhow."

Her husband, who was watching their caller intently, laid a handon her knee.

"Now, heave to, Chip," he ordered. "You hadn't ought to say sheis sick. You've heard folks say she must be sick, or that somethin'ails her, that's all. I guess likely she ain't real sick, Carey.She's up and out and givin' her piano lessons, same as ever."

"But she looks right down miserable," declared his wife. "I knowthat myself. I met her at Griggs's only a day or two ago and, Isnum, I was real shocked to see how white and used-up she did look.She told me she was feelin' pretty well, but I didn't believe it.And her mother is worried about her, I know that...We thought,Tobias and I, that you might have heard some particulars,Carey."

Carey shook his head. "No," he said. And added, "Well, I must begetting to work. Good night, Cap'n. Good night, Mrs. Higgins."

After the door had shut, Phoebe turned, in triumph, to herhusband.

"Ah, ha!" she crowed. "You see now, don't you, Tobias? Younoticed how he looked when I said she was sick. That's what's thematter. The same thing ails her that ails him. There's been sometrouble between those two and they're both upset about it."

The captain was inclined to believe she was right, but he madeit a point never to agree too completely.

"Oh, bosh!" he snorted. "That's woman's talk, that is. You andall the rest of the sewin' circle gasworks have been so sot on theidea that she and Carey were keepin' comp'ny that you can't get itout of your heads. Maybe they weren't at all."

"Yes, and maybe they were, and maybe they've had some sort ofquarrel and it has broke 'em all up. It don't take much to maketrouble between young folks that are goin' 'round together. Youremember that time when we went to that strawberry festival inBayport and that young minister they had there then told my fortunewith tea leaves and said I was goin' to marry a tall, thin man wholoved books and nature and could understand a girl with refinedinstincts like mine. I remember how you talked to me all the timewe was drivin' home. We didn't speak to each other for a week and Icried myself to sleep every night. Oh, I shouldn't do it now!Indeed, I wouldn't! I'd have a few things to say, myself. But I didit then and was just about half sick; and, after we made it up, youtold me you'd been as miserable as I had. YOU may have forgottenit, but I haven't."

The workshop, when Carey entered it, was cold and dark anduninviting. He lit the bracket lamp above the bench and gazedlistlessly at the partially finished decoy and the tools laidbeside it. They did not interest him at all. He turned to kindlethe fire in the stove and, as he did so, the letter in his overcoatpocket brushed against his arm with a crackling sound. He drew itforth and held it beneath the lamp. The name printed in the cornerof the envelope was not Moore, as he had expected, but one quitedifferent. The letter was from his old friend, ProfessorKnight.

He threw off his coat and hat and sat down upon the packing boxby the bench, tore open the envelope and read the inclosure.Knight, it seemed, was back again at his museum in the midwesterncity. The proposed expedition was off for the present. Thedifficulties in its financing, those mentioned in the former letterto Carey, had proved too formidable to overcome that year, andperhaps for a longer period.

This doesn't mean that I have given up the idea [wrote theprofessor]. I am just as keen for it as I ever was and some ofthese days I shall carry out the plan and, when I do, I am stillhoping that you can go with me. I am writing you now concerninganother proposition. One of the assistants here in my department isleaving on the first of January. He has a good position offered himwith the museum in Chicago that he should accept and which, on myadvice, he has accepted. I must fill his place and I can't think ofany one as competent to fill it as you would be, Judson. You wouldbe working directly under me in the Ornithological Department and Iknow we should get on together. The salary isn't that of a bankpresident—they don't pay you bird stuffers in fivefigures—but it is more than I should imagine you are gettingin your brother's fish business. And, if you cared to, you mighthelp it out by making those decoys of yours in your spare time.

He stated the amount of the salary—it was far frommunificent, but it was larger than Carey's wage asbookkeeper—and went on to urge acceptance of the offer.

I shall hold the position open until I hear from you [he wrote].I sincerely believe the opportunity is a good one. You and I havepulled in harness before, and you will like the work, for it isyour kind. And, of course, there is always that South American tripwaiting in the offing. Come on. I need you. Throw your accountbooks out of the window and come out here and do a man's job. Writeme at once. Better still, telegraph. One word will be enough,provided the word is "Yes."

Carey read the letter through. Then he read it again. It seemedunbelievable, an offer like this coming to him. The thought of whatit meant was overwhelming. To work with "Big Jack" again, todevote, not a little, but all of his time to a labor which was notreally labor but play, to be free to pursue his hobby at itscompletest, and to be paid for doing it! Why, it was a miracle! Andit was offered to him—queer Carey Judson! Out there, awayfrom Wellmouth and these people who had always known him, he wouldnot be "queer," at least no queerer than Knight and his associates.It was what he had always longed to do, what, as a boy, he hadbegged his father to permit his doing.

His first impulse was to rush up to the telegraphoffice—that office would be closed if he did nothurry—and send the message, the one word, which his friendurged him to send. Then he decided that the next morning would doas well. Perhaps he should tell George before telegraphingacceptance. Yes, he ought to do that. George would not greatly mindhis leaving the employ of J. C. Judson & Co. Any bookkeeperhired to take his place would be an improvement on the presentincumbent. Ben Early would be glad to see him go. Yes, he would. Hemight not say so; no, he would express sorrow at his leaving. Careycould imagine with what suave condescension and guarded good wishesthat sorrow would be expressed. He smiled at the fancy.

George would be glad to hear of his good fortune. It wouldrelieve him of the care of his impractical brother. And Cora T.would be delighted to be rid of him. Emily—when she heard ofit—she—

His train of joyful reverie came to a stop with a jerk. Emily!What difference could they make to him, her thoughts now? His joysand hopes were hers no longer. If this offer of Knight's had cometo him before George had made his desperate plea—if it hadcome before the news of Aunt Susan's legacy! Oh, if only Aunt Susanhad adhered to her original decision and had left the money toGeorge, as she should have done! If George had not made his selfishdemand for secrecy, had not silenced him—Carey—byreminding the latter of the debt of gratitude he owed his brother,then—why, then—

He threw the letter upon the bench and groaned in savagerebellion against the Fate which had always made, and was stillmaking, a joke of him and his life. Again he regretted his lack offirmness in yielding so completely to George's pleadings. Then wasthe time when he should have refused to keep silent. He should havetold his brother that Emily Sayles had seen the letter from theCleveland lawyer, that she knew the Dain property was his, and,although acceding to the request that no one else should learn fromhim of George's peril and urgent need, he, Carey, must and wouldtell her why he must sacrifice his and her immediate happiness andplans to help the brother who had helped him.

Then—THEN he could have gone to her and made hisexplanation and begged her forgiveness for the broken promise andshe would have been willing to wait until George's crisis was past.In her letter to him she had declared herself willing to wait. Nowit was too late. She did not love him now. She hated and despisedhim—she must. Oh, how could he have been such a quixoticidiot! Now it was too late.

Well, was it, after all? Might he not go to her even now andtell the whole truth? Perhaps, even yet, when she knew that truth,she would forgive him. He had a mind to do it. Why should hesacrifice everything to George? Why not, for once, think of himselffirst and let George take his chance? George might still have themoney; he did not care for the money at all. But for her, forEmily, he cared—oh, how he cared—and longed—andyearned! The momentary uplift which Professor Knight's letter hadbrought to him vanished. He did not care about the offer which had,when he read of it, seemed so wonderful. He cared aboutnothing—except her.

The temptation to go to her now, that very night, was strong. Hewas close to yielding, closer even than he had been at any timesince he made his first rash decision. But he did not yield. He hadgiven George his solemn promise. One promise he had broken already,but to break another would be too despicable. He would acceptKnight's offer, go away, leave Wellmouth and its memories and itshateful, sneering people, and do the work he loved and knew that hecould do well. That is what he would do. As for the debts he owedand upon the payment of which his hopes and strivings had beencentered for a year, he might send on money from time to time andpay them in that way. He did not much care at that moment whetheror not they were ever paid.

He rose from the packing box and lifted the lamp from thebracket. He was about to blow it out, preparatory to going back tohis room at home to write Knight his acceptance of the offer, whenthe shop door opened and George Judson came in.

Carey was surprised to see him, even in his present state ofmind he was surprised. During his long tenancy of the Higgins'workshop George had visited him there not more than two or threetimes. He had expressed no intention of coming that evening.

"Hello!" hailed George. "Just in time, I should say. Gettingready to leave, were you?"

Carey nodded. "Yes," he said. "What brought you down here,George?"

George shivered. "Great Scott, man!" he exclaimed. "This placeis as cold as the doleful tombs. Have you been here all the eveningwithout a fire?"

Carey shrugged. "Isn't there a fire?" he asked, absently. "No, Iguess there isn't. I forgot to build one. Well, what did you comefor, George? What do you want?"

"I want you to come right up to the house with me. I drove downto get you. Come on!"

"What do you want me at the house for?"

"I want you there because there are one or two things I want totalk over with you and I am blessed if I risk my health talkingabout them in this ice chest. Hurry up! Get your coat on andcome."

Carey, slowly, and with his usual awkwardness, twisted himselfinto the coat. He picked up his hat and moved toward the door.

"What are those matters you want to talk over with me, George?"he asked. "Business matters? Because, if they are, you knowperfectly well it is no use asking me about them. And I don't feellike it to-night, anyway."

His brother pulled him through the doorway.

"I didn't say I was going to ask you anything, did I?" heobserved. "Wait till we get home and you'll see for yourself what Iwant of you. Come, lock up! Get a move on!"

The Judson horse and buggy were waiting at the gate. Thebrothers climbed into the buggy and George took up the reins.During the short drive home neither spoke. Carey was still deep inhis gloomy musings and George seemed to be thinking and disinclinedto talk.

They left the vehicle in the drive and entered by the side door.George led the way into the dining room. Carey noticed that thedoor to the sitting room was shut, a most unusual happening.

At that door George paused and laid a hand on his brother'sshoulder.

"Go in there and wait, Carey," he said. "I want to see Hepsy aminute. No, don't wait here. Go in." He paused, and then, leaningforward, added, in a curiously earnest whisper and with an oddshake in his voice, "Old man, the next time you have things on yourmind that I ought to know, tell them to me and save us alltrouble."

Carey turned. "What!" he asked, sharply. "What do you mean?"

George did not reply. Instead he opened the door and, with asudden push, propelled his brother into the sitting room. Then heshut the door between them and hurried out to the kitchen.Hepsibah, arrayed in her Sunday dolman and bonnet, was sittingthere awaiting him.

"Maggie is out, isn't she?" asked George. "All right. Then, comeon, Hepsy! You and I are going over to Trumet."

A minute or two later the horse and buggy moved out of the yard.And, in the sitting room, Carey Judson, white and shaken, wasstanding staring at Emily Sayles, who had risen from the rocker ashe entered.

She was the first to speak. She had been expecting him and hehad most certainly not expected to see her. She came forwardsmiling, and held out her hands to him.

"Well, Carey," she asked, "aren't you even going to say 'Goodevening'?"

He did not take the offered hands. He gazed at her inuncomprehending bewilderment, his brain trying to adjust itself tothe shock of seeing her, his imagination whirling amid all sorts ofwild speculations as to her reasons for being there! He put hishand to his forehead and it struck the brim of his cap. He hadforgotten that he was still wearing it. Mechanically, he took itoff. But still he could not utter a word. As usual she seemed tounderstand.

"Yes, Carey," she said. "I am really here. You wouldn't come tosee me, so I came to see you. And this time you can't run away andhide. Take off your coat and sit down. We have a great deal to sayto each other."

He did not remove the coat, nor did he sit. He spoke,however,

"Why did you come?" he demanded. "I told you not to. Youshouldn't have done it. There isn't any use in our talking. Oh,Emily, can't you understand there isn't? You—you are going toask me questions. I can't answer them. WHY did you do this? DidGeorge—"

She interrupted. "Hush, hush!" she begged. "You are beginning tolook—and speak—the way you did that dreadful night whenyou came to the house, and I never want to be reminded of thatagain. Take off your coat, and sit down and listen to me. Pleasedo."

"No. No, I won't—I can't! Why DID you come? Why couldn'tyou believe what I told you—what I wrote you? If Georgehas—"

"Hush! Listen, dear, please. And don't say another word untilyou hear what I am going to say now. It is allright—everything is all right. I know now. I understand.George has told me... Think—try and think what I am saying.George has told me—he has told me everything."

Again he put his hand to his forehead. It was the hand holdinghis cap, but he did not seem to be aware of that. The cap dangledbefore his face and the words he uttered came from behind it.

"I—I don't—I don't understand," he gasped. "You sayGeorge—you say he has—has—"

The cap fell to the floor.

"You say George has told you!" he cried. "He hasn't—hecouldn't!"

"Yes. Yes, he has. He has told me everything. That is why I amhere. He brought me here to meet you. He has told me all about yourletting him have the money and why he had to haveit—everything. I understand now, Carey. I do, truly...There!Now you will take off your coat, won't you? And sit here and becalm and let me talk to you...That's it. Now dolisten—please."

She pulled the coat from his shoulders and laid it upon thetable. He made no effort to help with the operation, but he did notresist, nor did he when she led him to the armchair by the rocker.He appeared to be moving in a fog and not in the least conscious ofmoving at all. She sat beside him. It was not until she had done soand leaned forward to speak again that he uttered a sound. Then hedrew a long breath and attempted an apologetic smile.

"You—you will have to excuse me," he faltered. "I amqueer, I know; but—but— Well, that is to be expected ofQueer Judson, isn't it?...Humph! Emily, I don't seem to get whatyou are saying to me. If you mean to tell me that—that Georgehas— Oh, but he hasn't!"

"Yes; yes, he has. Of course you don't understand, poor boy, butyou will in a minute. Just now you mustn't talk or ask questions. Iam going to tell you what has happened and why it happened. Youwill be good and listen to me, won't you?"

He sighed. "Why, I'll try," he said, with a slow shake of thehead. "Of course I don't believe—I can't believe youmean—what I mean. But I'll listen. Tell me."

"You must believe. And you will, because it is perfectly simple.Oh, Carey, if it had been any one but you there would never havebeen this terrible month for us both. Any one else wouldhave—But there, you ARE you and I wouldn't have you any oneelse. When you came to me that night, in the storm, and spoke andlooked and behaved as you did, I was frightened almost to death. Ithought you must be insane; for a little while I really almostbelieved that. Then I tried to think of a reason and, when I couldthink at all, there was but one reason that seemed to me to accountin the least for your breaking our engagement so suddenly, leavingme without a word of explanation or...Well, never mind that. Theonly reason I could think of was concerned with the money your aunthad left you. I remembered your promise to me that you would notlet your brother persuade you to give up that inheritance. Ibelieved, for some reason or other, you had been forced to breakthat promise, give up the money and all your plans—our plans.If that was so then, because you were you, I could understand yourfeeling that you must give me up, too. For my sake you would feelthat way; not for your own; I never believed that.

"But, if that were the truth, then why didn't you tell me yourreason? Why didn't you give me the chance to say, what I shouldhave said, that I didn't care about the money at all? Except that Ifelt it was yours, that it belonged to you, that you needed it andshould have it, I did not care one bit. If you were as poor aspoverty I should love you just the same—oh, I told you that,Carey! You know I told you that."

He would have interrupted, but she would not let him.

"Wait!" she said. "You must wait. I have only begun to tell you.Well, I tried and tried to see you; I came here when you were sick,once with mother and once alone, and you would not see me. Then Iwrote you that letter and your answer was—was— No,never mind. I know why you wrote as you did. You couldn't trustyourself to write in any other way. You felt that I must not seeyou again and the only way to do that was to make me hate you. Oh,Carey, as if I ever could do that!"

He groaned. She went on, quickly.

"So, at last," she said, "I told mother. I hadn't told herbefore, even of—of that afternoon down on the beach. I hadbeen waiting until you were there and we could tell her together.But I told her at last and she—Carey, dear, she is the onewho has saved us. If it had not been for her—! Well, shelistened and she asked me a lot of questions and then, withouttelling me a word of what she intended doing, she came alone, lastSunday afternoon, to this house and saw your brother. She told himeverything, about our engagement, about your getting and showing methat letter from Mrs. Dain's lawyer, about your coming to me thatdreadful night, about everything. And she told him what shesuspected as to why you had acted as you had.

"That evening George came to see me. He was—well, he wasnot in the state you were in when you came—no one else COULDbe just like that—but he was very much disturbed andconscience-stricken and worried. He told me of his businesstrouble—"

Carey broke in then. "What!" he cried. "He told you that! Why,he must have been crazy! No one should have known that; he told meno one but him and me must ever know it. He made mepromise—Why, Emily, that was the reason I—"

"Yes, yes! I know all that, too. Of course I do. But, Carey,couldn't you have trusted me to know it? I can keep a secret. Socan mother. We shall keep this one. George is perfectly safe as faras we are concerned. If you had told him then that you must tellme, all would have been so easy. Why didn't you tell him? Oh, whydidn't you?"

He tried to explain. "I—I didn't see how I could," hestammered. "He was so—so desperate—and so fearful thathis creditors might catch even the least rumor about it. And Coradidn't know. He said she mustn't know. He was afraid shemight—well, might do almost anything. He is so very fond ofher, he worships her."

"Yes," dryly, "I know he does. I don't. But never mind her.Carey, dear—"

He broke in once more, seeking justification, not for himselfeven then, but for his brother.

"Don't you SEE, Emily?" he urged. "I think—I think I mighthave told him about—about you if it hadn't been that he wasin such a state that I did not dare say anything. He begged me topromise not to tell a living soul. And when he reminded me—Idon't think he meant to do it, he is the last person to do such athing—when he reminded me of all he had done for me, of whatI owed him, I—I HAD to promise. Why, Emily, think what he hasdone for me! Think what I DO owe him! How COULD I say no toanything he asked? How could I?"

"YOU couldn't, of course. Another person might have rememberedwhat was owing to himself—yes, and to me, but not you, mydear. I understand why you promised then and why, afterward, youfelt you must give up your future and your life's happiness to savehis. George understands it, too. He told me so and, of course, whenhe did, after mother's talk with him, he came straight to me andmade me understand. George is a Judson and—I am quotingmother now—there never was a Judson who wasn'thonorable."

She paused. He said nothing. The whole revelation had come tohim with the suddenness of a lightning flash. He was stunned by it.He did not realize, even now, what was beyond, what it might meanto him.

She saw that he did not, and she smiled, a smile with tears veryclose behind it.

"There, Carey," she said, softly. "Now you know that I know asmuch as you do—yes, and that your brother knows, too. Do youstill want to break our engagement? Shall I go away now,and—forget you, as you ordered me to do in your letter?"

He came out of the fog with a start. He sprang to his feet sosuddenly that the chair fell backwards with a crash.

"Emily," he cried, "what do you mean? Do you meanthat—that you—"

She was still smiling, although the tears were running down hercheeks.

"I mean," she said, "that unless you insist upon it I am goingto marry you some day, Carey Judson, and I am quite willing to waituntil that day comes."

The old clock on the mantelpiece had ticked many, many timesbefore he or she descended from the clouds and spoke of earthlyaffairs. Even in the midst of his aerial excursion he broke in uponmore interesting matters to utter inarticulate protests.

"But I don't see how you can do such a thing," he repeated. "Ican't see why you do it. I haven't any money now, not a cent exceptwhat I can earn, and that will never be much. I am funny, youknow—queer—I can't help it. I shall always be doingfoolish things. And you, why you could marry ANYBODY!"

She laughed, happily. "I am going to marry you," she said. "I am'queer,' myself, I guess. At any rate, I shall be proud to be QueerJudson's wife."

"But I don't know WHEN I can marry you. George must have thatmoney of Aunt Susan's. He needs it. He—"

"Hush! Certainly he must have it. He is going to have it. Weboth understand that."

"And I shall never be anything but—eh? Why, I forgot!Where is that letter?"

He withdrew his arm from the position it had occupied for atleast an hour and rummaged hastily in his coat pocket. A shower ofpapers, pencil stubs, bits of string and odds and ends were sentflying about them as the letter from Knight was dragged forth andexhibited. She read it eagerly and then, as he had done when hereceived it first, she read it over again. She dropped it in herlap and looked up at him with shining eyes.

"Why, Carey!" she cried. "Why, Carey, this is wonderful!"

He nodded. "Yes, it is," he agreed. "I could scarcely believe hewas in earnest when I read it. To think he could find a place outthere for a fellow like me! Yes, it is wonderful enough,surely...Humph! You don't suppose he is doing it, not because hethinks I could really be of any use to him, but—well, justbecause he is sorry for me, or anything like that?"

She looked at him steadily. Then she shook her head. "I shouldlike to scold you," she declared, "but I mustn't—to-night. Hewants you, Carey, because he knows you are what you are and whatyou are capable of doing. And of course you will send that telegramthe very first thing in the morning?"

He seemed doubtful. "Why, I don't know," he replied. "I wasgoing to—that is, I think I should have done it after I hadhad a talk with George. But now—I don't know. I—well,dearest, now that—that I have got you again, I can't leaveyou. At least I can't seem to think of leaving you; even to beexhibited in a museum," he added, with one of his twistedsmiles.

She was reading the letter for the third time. When the readingwas finished she looked up once more and there was an odd, half-humorous, half-serious expression on her face.

"Perhaps you may not have to leave me," she said, quietly.

He stared, then gasped. "WHAT!" he cried. "Why, Emily!Why—Oh, but you can't mean THAT! Think of what it would costto live—in any sort of a city. And the salary is prettysmall. It is bigger than I am getting—I won't sayearning—now, but it is very small."

She nodded. "I know," she admitted; "but you can still makethose beetle-heads and things. Professor Knight says you can. AndPERHAPS some people might not be TOO particular who taught theirchildren the piano. Mother always says I am a pretty goodmanager...Well, we will ask mother; she always knows what to do inan emergency."

And just then the Judson horse and buggy plodded and rattledinto the yard.

Chapter XVIII

Carey walked home with Emily that night. George, on his arrival,had asked no questions; a look at their faces was sufficient. Heshook each of them by the hand and turned to leave the sittingroom.

"The horse and buggy are outside here, Carey," he said. "WhenEmily is ready to go you can drive her home."

His brother and the young lady exchanged glances. "I think I hadrather walk," she said. "It is such a beautiful night."

George, after another look, said, "Oh, all right," and went out.The walk home was not a hurried one. Carey bade her good night atthe Sayles' door, a parting far different from his frenzied dashfrom that door into the wind and rain the night of the"equinoctial." His progress back along the road and up the slope ofLookout Hill was a peculiar one. If his sister-in-law could havewitnessed it—fortunately it was witnessed by no one—shemight have found further proof of her surmise that he had taken todrink. He walked sometimes on the sidewalk, sometimes in the middleof the road, and quite as often in the stretch of stubby dead grassand weeds which lay between. He whistled, he sang, he laughedaloud, and when he again entered the sitting room, his cap on oneside, his pet lock of hair dangling about his nose and his trouserslegs below the knees thickly plastered with burrs and "beggarticks," he found his brother there awaiting him.

"Why—why, hello, George!" he exclaimed. "Haven't you goneto bed yet?"

George ignored the inane question. He looked him over from headto foot.

"You old idiot," he observed; "you're a sight. Did you knowit?"

Carey grinned. "Am I?" he queried. "Well, I—generally amone, so your wife tells me. I don't care, George. Do you?"

"Not a bit. If it pleases you to look as if you had beencrawling through the cow pasture on your hands and knees, I amsatisfied. Anything that makes you happy I shan't find any faultwith... You old jackass! Why did you keep all this to yourself? Whyin the devil didn't you speak out that night in the office, insteadof hiding it from me and driving yourself to the insaneasylum?"

Carey's grin disappeared. He looked contrite and troubled.

"George," he said, "I—I can't thank you for what you havedone for me to-night. It is no use to try. Emily saysyou—well, if it hadn't been for you she and Iwould—would—George, I had given up hope. I had writtenher that—that—"

"I know what you wrote her. She told me; she told me everything.At least I can't imagine that she or her mother forgot any of theessentials. Carey, why didn't you tell me, yourself? When I askedyou to promise not to tell a soul about lending me the money AuntSusan left you, why didn't you tell me you wouldn't do any suchthing?"

"Why—why, George, how could I? You were in such a terriblemess. Of course I had to promise. Anybody would have done it."

"They would, eh? I suppose anybody would have thrown over alltheir plans, and the girl they were to marry, and just let theirwhole life go to blazes and never have whimpered, or even hinted.Yes, they would! Carey, do you suppose if I had known— Say,what sort of a fellow do you think I am?"

Carey hastened to protest. "I know the sort you are, George," hedeclared. "That was just it. When I remembered what you had donefor me—"

"Oh, be quiet! Do you suppose if I had known about you and EmilySayles—what there was between you, to say nothing of yourgetting that letter from Phillips and showing it to her—doyou suppose I shouldn't have told you to tell her the whole story?She would have kept it to herself. She and her mother can keep asecret; they will keep this one."

"Yes," eagerly. "Yes, they will, George. I know they will. Emilysaid they would. They, and you and I, will be the only ones inWellmouth who will ever know Aunt Susan didn't leave you herproperty. And this isn't going to make a bit of difference aboutyour having that money, George. Not a bit. If I thought it would Ishould—well, I should go to Emily again and tell her it wasall off. I should have to do that. But it won't!"

"No, it won't. And I must have that money for a while, Carey. Ihave counted on it and made my arrangements to use it, and I can'tback out now without making a bigger smash even than I saw comingbefore. That money is going to tow me to land, old man... There!That is enough for to-night. You have got a mighty finegirl—about the best there is, I guess—but she isn'tgood enough for you. No woman that ever lived was that."

Carey gasped. "What are you talking about, George?" he demanded,indignantly. "Emily is—why, when I think that a girl like heris willing to marry a—a failure like me, it—it makes mealmost ashamed of her. I—"

"Oh, do shut up! You and I will have more talks later on. Go outin the kitchen and pick those burrs off your legs, if you can. Ifyou can't, go to the barn and use the curry comb...Go ahead! If youstay here I shall kick you, or break down and cry over you, orsomething. Perhaps both...Good night, Carey. But don't you forgetthat I intend to get even—or as near even as I can—forall this. Give me a little time, and...Well, good night."

Meanwhile Emily and her mother were discussing the "emergency."Emily, after parting with Carey at the door, went up to hermother's room and found Desire awake and eager to listen. She heardthe tale which her daughter had to tell and was as happy in itsending as Emily knew she would be. The news of Carey's offer fromProfessor Knight she received with enthusiasm.

"It is just exactly what he deserves and precisely the sort ofwork he can do," she declared. "I am so glad for you both."

Emily nodded. "Yes," she agreed, "it is very wonderful.If—if only he did not have to go out there alone. Of coursehe must accept the offer, but—oh, well! we may not have to beseparated so very long. The doctor says you are ever so muchbetter, dear, and when you are strong enough perhaps we—youand I—can go there, too. Don't you think we could,mother?"

Mrs. Sayles was thinking and she thought a moment or two beforeshe spoke. Then she said, with decision: "He mustn't go therealone. If ever a man needed a practical, common-sense wife to lookout for him and take care of his home and his money that man isCarey Judson...I must think about this—yes, I must think. Hewill be here to see you to-morrow evening, won't he? Yes, of coursehe will. Well, by that time I may see a way. No, I mustn't talk anymore now and you must go to bed. Good night, my girl. Iam—yes, I really am—as happy as you are."

And when Carey came to the Sayles' house that evening, quiteoblivious of and caring nothing for, the eyes that peered frombehind the window shades across the road, he found that Mrs. Sayleswas sitting up past her usual hour for retiring and that she hadsomething important to say to both Emily and himself.

"I have been thinking about you two, Carey," she said. "When yougo out there to work with Professor Knight— Oh, by the way,have you sent him the telegram?"

Carey nodded. "I sent it this morning," he said. "He knows nowthat I am going to take the place. I hope he hasn't changed hismind. I shouldn't blame him much if he had, but—well, itwould be a disappointment."

"He hasn't changed it. Unless he has changed a great deal sinceI used to know him when he visited his sister here, he knows hisown mind. Have you told your brother of the offer?"

"No, not yet. I was afraid something might happen and I wantedto hear from 'Big Jack' again before I said anything to him."

"All right. George can wait. He will approve when he learns ofit, I know. Now then; as I told Emily last night when she told me,you mustn't go out there alone. You aren't fit to be aloneanywhere. You needn't thank me, it is the plain truth and not acompliment. As I see it, Emily ought to go with you. You and sheshould marry and go together."

Carey stared and Emily was startled. She shook her head.

"No, mother," she said. "Unless you can go, too—and, nowthat I have had time to think about it sanely, I realize that youmustn't attempt such a thing—unless, or until, you can gotoo, I shall stay here. Carey and I are willing to wait. Aren't we,Carey?"

Carey nodded. "Of course," he declared.

"You don't need to wait. I have been thinking, myself, and,daughter, I shan't let you wait on my account. Carey needs you andyou ought to be with him. You will probably have to do some closefiguring and go without much more than the bare necessities to getalong on his salary, but that is all right. It will be good forboth of you. My husband and I got along on a lot less than thatwhen we were first married and I wouldn't trade the memory of thoseyears for the ones that came after them. No, you and he must marryand go together."

Carey looked decidedly dubious and Emily's shake of the head wasemphatic.

"No, mother," she said, "that's out of the question. I shall notleave you in this house alone. Even if we could get, or afford, amaid from Boston to come and keep house for you, I shouldn'tconsider it."

"Neither should I. But if we could get a capable, honest womanin Wellmouth here, one we have always known and liked, you mightconsider it, mightn't you? And I believe, I know such a woman andthat she would be glad to come. In fact she has hinted that shewould like to do that very thing. She has been here to see me twoor three times in the past fortnight—when you were out,Emily—and she has told me that she doesn't believe she canstand working and living where she is much longer and, if she couldfind a home with what she calls her kind of folks, she would movein a minute. Wages, she says, would make little difference to her;she has saved all her life and she has a small income of her own.She and I are old friends and her living with me would suit usboth. She would jump at the chance, I am sure."

Carey did not speak. He had guessed the answer to the riddle.Emily had not.

"What woman do you mean, mother?" she asked.

"I mean Hepsibah Ellis. You would be satisfied to leave me inher care, wouldn't you? There is no one on earth more capable."

Emily was astonished. She looked at Carey and then at hermother.

"Hepsibah!" she repeated. "Why, Hepsibah would not leave theJudsons. She has lived in that house since she was a girl."

"I know that. But there was no Mrs. George Judson and no Maggiethere then. She likes George, but she can't get along with hiswife. So long as Carey was with them it might be hard for her toleave, but when Carey goes I think she will go, no matter whethershe comes here or not. And if she does come here you can leave mewith an easy mind, Emily. You must come and visit me once in awhile, if you can afford it, and, perhaps, by and by, if thatdoctor is right and I do get a little of my strength back, I cancome and visit you. But I shall never go out there to live. In thefirst place, I do NOT believe in old people living with theirmarried sons and daughters and, in the second, I shall never giveup this house. It was my home when Simeon was alive, I am fond ofit, it belongs to me and I belong in it. There! Now send Hepsy tome, Carey, and I think she and I can settle the matter in fiveminutes."

There was much more argument, but the next day Hepsibah calledupon Mrs. Sayles and the matter was settled just as the latter hadprophesied. Hepsy told Carey of the settlement that evening.

"It is just exactly what I'd rather do than anything," sheannounced. "I like Desire Sayles and I rather guess she likes me.And SHE is a lady, not a second-hand clam peddler trying to play atbein' one. And so you are goin' to marry Emily, are you, CareyJudson? Well, I was kind of in hopes it might work out that waysome time or other, though I didn't hardly dare believe it. She'san awful nice girl and a sensible one and if anybody can make youeat your meals at a reg'lar time and behave like a rationalChristian, I guess likely she can. But she'll have her handsfull...My, my! but all this is goin' to make that Cora T. set upand take notice. I wonder if her ears are burnin' down there inWashin'ton. I presume likely not. She's too busy wavin' her hand tothe President when he goes out to ride. If his horse would onlystep on her, so's he'd take notice of her bein' there, she'd behappy. Well, if it does I hope it puts its foot down hard."

Carey and his brother had many more talks in the private officeof J. C. Judson & Co., conferences which puzzled Mr. Early andmade him suspicious and slightly jealous. George, on the whole,approved of the immediate marriage.

"The salary isn't very large," he said, "and it will cost youmore to live out there than it does here, but I am for it just thesame. You need a manager if anybody ever did, and with old JohnKnight to see that you don't put your pay envelope in your hat oryour hair instead of your pocket, and with Emily to take it out ofthat pocket and make sure that the money is used to pay bills with,instead of being tossed to any Tom, Dick, and Harry that asks youfor it, I guess you'll do pretty well. And, in a year or two," headded, earnestly, "I am beginning to believe I can pay you a good-sized part, at least, of Aunt Susan's hundred and twenty-fivethousand. That engine game is commencing to look like a winneralready. I hardly dare believe what they write me about it, but Iguess it is true."

Carey was disturbed, as he always was when the legacy wasmentioned.

"Now—now, George," he protested. "You mustn't talk likethat. You keep that money as long as you want to. Besides, don'tyou see, you mustn't let Cora know that it isn't yours.She—well, you said yourself—"

George motioned him to stop. "You don't understand, Carey," hesaid. "If this engine gamble of mine goes the way they tell me itis sure to go, a little matter like a hundred thousand won't bebothering Cora in a few years from now. She and I will have so muchthat— Oh, well! that may be all moonshine, but whether it isor not you shall have the money Aunt Susan left you, Cora or noCora. That is the least I can do for you. The very least."

Carey sighed. "Well, I wish you wouldn't talk about it," hesaid. "I—I don't know why, but I always hate to talk aboutmoney, or think about it. That banking business of mine made mefeel that way, I suppose. This world would be better if therewasn't a dollar in it."

George laughed. "Yes, yes, I know," he said. "Some day beforeyou leave here, Carey, I wish you would write out your ideas aboutmoney and give me what you have written. I should like to send itto Harper's Bazar. They would be glad to print it—on the backpage with the other jokes."

Knowledge of the marriage—which was to take place justafter Christmas—was kept a secret from every one except thoseimmediately concerned and Mrs. Sayles and George and Hepsibah.Carey worked steadily at the books, but he found it very hard tokeep his mind upon them. The scratcher was continually in useagain. The edge which that implement put upon Ben Early's nerveswas far keener than its own. He hinted and remonstrated and,occasionally, lost his temper and scolded, but Carey was alwaysprovokingly serene.

"Ben," he said, on one occasion, "you are going to miss me afterI am gone, aren't you?"

The manager started in surprise.

"Gone!" he repeated. "Where are you going? What do you mean bythat?"

Carey grinned. He was sitting upon the high stool and now heturned and began twisting the lock of hair which was always hisplaything when troubled or amused.

"Why, I may leave you some time, Ben," he drawled. "We are hereto-day and gone to-morrow; that is the quotation, isn't it? If Ishould go—or when I go—I shall buy a new one of thesethings," holding up the scratcher, "for the house and give you thisone to remember me by. It is—er—dull and notornamental, so it ought to call me to your memory, I shouldthink."

To but one other person, except those who knew already, did hedisclose his plans and the great secret. That person was CaptainTobias Higgins and the place of the disclosure was the platform ofthe railway station and the time a minute before the departure ofthe afternoon train. Tobias and Phoebe were starting for New Yorkand Washington on the "vacation" they had told Carey was incontemplation.

Tobias was surprised, and pleased, although disappointed tolearn that his workshop was to lose its tenant. He offeredcongratulations, declared Emily Sayles to be a fine girl and goodenough to be anybody's wife, but he sighed, too.

"I hope your cruisin' away off in those latitudes is goin' toturn out all right, Carey," he said. "I guess likely 'twill. But ifit don't, you come right back here and you and me will go into thebeetle-head business the way it ought to be gone into. There'smoney in that—you mark my words there is. Them beetle-headsof yours—well, I've got one of 'em—the one you give meone time—stuck up over the picture of the old Ambergris downin the dinin' room. I whistle to it about every time I go in andout of that room and—well, it ain't whistled back yet, butit's gettin' ready to, I can see that. Don't you forget me andChippy when you're out there in that bird stuffin' place. Write us,will you? And, say, Carey, you tell that Knight man that if his oldmuseum is fallin' behind so fur's as trade's concerned, all he'sgot to do is to set you to whittling and charge ten cents admissionto see you do it. He'll have to build on an extension to hold thecrowds, if he does that. You tell him I said so."

One evening, a week or so later, Emily and Carey were togetherin the Sayles' sitting room. They heard a quick step on the pathand a knock at the outer door and Emily went to open the latter.Hepsibah Ellis was standing there and she was evidentlyexcited.

"Is Carey in there, Emily?" she asked. "Well, can I speak to himand you a minute? I've got some news to tell and I guess likely youboth will think it's pretty interestin'."

She hurried into the sitting room without waiting for aninvitation. Emily followed her, wondering what the interesting itemof news might be. Hepsibah, standing in the middle of the braidedmat by the door, nodded several times and drew a long breath. Therewas satisfaction in that breath, and triumph in her manner.

"Well," she announced, "I've done it."

Carey, of course, could not understand.

"What have you done, Hepsy?" he asked.

Hepsy nodded again.

"I've done what I've been waitin' to do and been lookin' for'ardto doin' for a fortni't," she proclaimed. "I've give my notice.That's what I've done."

The understanding was not made more clear by this pronouncement.Emily looked at Carey and he at her.

"What notice? What do you mean, Hepsy?" Emily asked.

Hepsibah nodded for at least the tenth time. Then shesniffed.

"SHE came on to-night's train," she said. "She gave us asurprise party. We didn't expect her till to-morrow."

"She?" repeated Emily.

Carey knew whom she meant. There was but one "she" for HepsibahEllis.

"Cora!" he exclaimed. "Did Cora come to-night?"

"That's what she did. And she was all puffed up with vaingloryabout her doin's in Washin'ton and Philadelphia and the land knowswhere; I tell you she was! ButI took her down soon as everI got the chance. George was out to lodge meetin'—he wasn'texpectin' her, you know—and that Maggie was out larkin'around as usual, so while she was eatin' supper and she and I werealone in the dinin' room I saw my chance and I took it. I told herI was goin' to leave, wasn't goin' to work in that house after nextSaturday night."

Both her hearers were startled and perturbed.

"Why, Hepsibah!" cried Emily. "Why did you tell herthat—now? You aren't coming here with mother until the end ofthe month. Did you tell her why you were leaving?"

"Of course I didn't! I didn't mention a word about you twogettin' married. I knew you or George would want to tell her that.I didn't say where I was going to live and work, either. She canfind that out for herself by and by. But I've decided that I need alittle vacation and a trip somewheres just as much as she ever did,or as Tobe Higgins and his wife, and I'm goin' to take one. I'mgoin' up to Boston and stay a whole week, I am. I don't care whatit costs me. But, oh, dear, I wish you could have heard the lastthing I said to her. That is what tickles me so. I've been laughin'over it all the way up here." She laughed again at the memory.

"Well, why not let us laugh, too," suggested Carey. "What didyou say?"

"I said—oh, dear me, it's funny! We had it back and forththere for a spell, and finally she says: 'Well, I guess there isn'tmuch doubt that I can get along without you perfectly well. You'renot indispensable by any means; and as far as that goes, I've beenthinkin' of gettin' a better-trained servant from Boston. Maggiethinks she knows of one that will suit us. I should have done itbefore,' says she, 'but I didn't like to hurt your feelin's. Youhave always said that you would never work for anybody but aJudson.' That give me my chance."

Hepsibah paused to indulge in another triumphant chuckle.

"'How do you know I ain't goin' to work for a Judson now?' saysI. 'Maybe I am. Or, if I ain't, what I am goin' to do amounts topretty much the same thing.' Then I marched out and left herstarin'. She didn't know what I meant, butI do, and that'ssatisfaction enough for ME."

THE END

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