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Title: The Left Lady
Author: Turnbull, Margaret (d. 1942)
Date of first publication: 1926
Place and date of edition used as base for this ebook:
   Chicago: Reilly & Lee, 1926 (First Edition)
Date first posted: 15 June 2008
Date last updated: 15 June 2008
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #130

This ebook was produced by: David T. Jones
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




The
Left
Lady



The
Left Lady

By

Margaret Turnbull

[Illustration: logo]


The Reilly & Lee Co.
Chicago




_Printed in the United States of America_



Copyright, 1926
by
Margaret Turnbull

    *    *    *    *    *

_All Rights Reserved_




_The Left Lady_



_To Eltse Van Saun Pierson_




_That April should be shattered by a gust,
  That August should be leveled by a rain,
I can endure, and that the lifted dust
  Of man should settle to the earth again;
But that a dream can die, will be a thrust
  Between my ribs forever of hot pain._

                          EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY.




1


For eighteen years Emmietta Weston had regarded
her father as a clever, unscrupulous, not uninteresting
combination of jailer and tyrant. Now, as she
followed his body to the cemetery, she wondered
vaguely how she would reconstruct her life without
him.

The other members of the family with her in
the limousine, her sister May and that sister's husband
and grown son, were virtually strangers. Emmietta
turned from them to the window and looked
out on East Penniwell. After all, his village had
been the only thing, except money, that Eli Weston
had cared about.

Loungers stood thick on the post office side of
Central Avenue. On week days they lined the corner
next the barber shop. On Sundays, when the automobile
rush through that town was at its height,
they stood in front of the post office and played
"motor poker."

Rob Butts had just scored with 333,033, three of a
kind and a pair, when Ally Castner called out:

"Here comes old Eli's funeral."

They stopped their game and watched the automobiles
cross the corners and go up the hill that led
to the cemetery, two miles distant.

East Penniwell was that curious modern anomaly,
a little village whose principal street had become part
of the main artery of motor traffic between two large
and distant cities. All day long East Penniwell's
main street bore a constant stream of rapidly moving
vehicles; but on either side of this stream the town
lay placid and unstirred.

Its sons and daughters, catching glimpses of life
as it is lived by the care-free and fashionable of the
day, strove to emulate them in their clothes and general
deportment, with more or less success. The radio
in their homes, and the motion pictures at the county
seat, seven miles away, aided and abetted them.

But the loungers on the corner lounged as their
fathers had before them. Occasionally the even tenor
of their leisurely lives was disturbed when some inconsiderate
wife or daughter, whose patent washer,
or job at the box factory kept things going, "turned
sick," or "died on them." Odd jobs were then forced
upon them, but they were only occasional.

The last of the funeral party disappeared over
the crest of the hill.

"Well, Eli's left us," said Zebra Ballins. Zebra had
grown old in this Quaker community, where his white
neighbors treated him as an equal. "Half of them
motors wasn't full."

"I guess all the friends Eli Weston ever had
wouldn't crowd one motor none," asserted Ezra Schumacher,
who was not a Quaker and showed his superiority
and white blood by ignoring or contradicting
Zebra's questions and observations, though he borrowed
Zebra's plug tobacco.

"Speak kinda softly about the daid," advised Zebra.

"I always did speak my mind to and of Eli Weston,
and he being dead ain't gonna laugh at me for a
hypocrite. He wasn't loved none, though he was respected,
on account of his money."

"Well, maybe Miss Emmietta was kinda fond of
him."

"Emmietta did her duty all right by the old screw,
but that ain't saying she enjoyed it none."

"Well," said Zebra, "you folks maybe knows
more'n I do 'bout the feelings of white folks one to'd
each other. I have wu'ked for Miss Emmietta all
times off and on, when Asher Turkle was sick or
somepin', and they wasn't so much love losted between
her and the old man, though it was he that raised
his voice--not she, never."

"Her looks went kinda early," observed Ira Austin.
"Miss Emmietta was a far better looking girl than
her sister May. Yet May, she got married to a regular
New Yorker, more'n twenty years ago, and here's
Miss Emmie, which was far more kinda attractive to
the male sect, you might say, turning out one of these
here left ladies."

Zebra, stared at him appreciatively and repeated
the phrase. "'Left ladies'! Yeah, Ira Austin, that
kinda explains her, don't it?"

"It do," Ira answered importantly. "The way
I looks at it, you see, is that there's three kinds of 'em
when singled. There's them there mannish women, as
are more'n content to be so. In fact, them that's so
damned busy and bossy that a husband would only
clutter up their houses, and wear the pants they prefers
to wear themselves. Then there's them there
old maids, that never coulda been anything else, so
kinda homely, or so kinda without any seeduction or
pleasant female ways, that no man wants them
around. Then, there's the 'left ladies,' as I names
them. Whether its be death or be jilting, or because
some other female helped herself, by way of matiremony,
to their man, there they are. Pretty girls they
have been, like Miss Emmietta. Made for matiremony,
as more'n one man would agree, but whether
it's the contrariness that's in women that they won't
take but the one they want, and be damned to the
rest, or not, I can't say. Anyway, there they are--they're
left. 'Left ladies' is what I names them."

"And a good name too, for such as them," rumbled
Old Man Gillingham approvingly, without removing
his pipe, which always seemed an integral part of his
face. "And a 'left lady' Miss Emmietta's been ever
since the day Tom Hastings took his departure from
East Penniwell."

One of the younger loungers who had been losing,
and was not anxious to have the "motor poker" game
renewed, moved nearer to Old Man Gillingham. "Who
was Tom Hastings?" he asked.

"In course you would ask that question, Lafayette
Hicks, seeing that you was a kinda bow-legged
babby when he left. Yeah, I remember your mother
left ye outside the grocery for a minute and you was
bawling blue murder and getting black in the face that
very day."

"Maybe," Lafayette retorted disrespectfully. "I
ain't in me second childhood yit, and can't remember
all the old bums that usta hold up this wall twenty
years ago."

"Eighteen," corrected Zebra. "Eighteen year it is
since Tom Hastings and old Eli had their run-in. I
was working for Eli that day when Tom came. He
had a turrible determined look on his face. I says
to myself, 'My, my, there Tom Hastings goes to git
his yes or no from Miss Emmie'. But I was mistook.
Twasn't more'n ten minutes before old Eli himself, all
red and angry, showed him out. Tom he shouted: 'I'm
never coming back, damn you!' and went off down this
here very street and to the deepo."

"And hide nor hair of him ain't been seen since,"
old Ira finished off, "and from that very day seems
as if Miss Emmie took a change."

"Never looked the same, she didn't," agreed another
old man, "but she kep' a tight lip and nobody knew, for
certain, how she felt. She wasn't a w'ine cat, like
Miss May. Miss May now used to cry and w'ine
everything outta old Eli. Regular w'ine cat she was."

"Thasso," Zebra agreed. "Of course it's up to you
folks--you know more'n I do. But now you have
named it, I kin bring in the c'roborration of the fac's.
Miss Emmie never asked for nothing, and the consequences
is she got nothing. Miss May got it all."

But old Ira had had enough of Zebra for the present.
He ignored him and turned to Lafayette Hicks.

"If Tom Hastings did come back, the question is,
would he look at Miss Emmie again?"

"Would she look at him?" thundered her champion,
Ezra Schumacher. "The years may have thinned her,
but again they may have puffed him out like a balleroon.
How do you know they ain't leff him with a
corporation?" he added, with a satisfied glance at his
own thin, wizened frame.

"Ain't we got kinda sidetracked off'n the real
thing?" asked Zebra. "Ain't the real question how
old Eli's lef his money?"

The others paused and looked at him thoughtfully.

"Know anything?" queried old Ira.

Zebra shook his head.

The group stared at the Weston house. It stood
in a triangular patch of green at the end of Central
Avenue, which was the main and indeed the only real
street in East Penniwell. There were only about
twenty houses in all, including the general store, the
post office and the old inn which had been there
since William Penn's time, and now was brilliant with
white paint and signs to catch the motorist's eye and
trade.

The Weston house was a typical Pennsylvania farm
house, built of stone, planned on the simple lines
adopted in those days of adding to the first tiny stone
house a series of other stone houses, of the same shape
but different sizes. If one had been a giant, with a
giant cleaver in hand, the Weston house could have
been divided into three small houses, each built on the
beautifully simple plan of two rooms up and two
rooms down. There were two stairways, one built
in between the first and second house, and the other,
in the living room, much more stately, with balusters
and handrail of mahogany. There were no halls on
the ground floor. The outer doors were all half, or
"Dutch" doors, opening directly into the rooms.

It looked a farm house still, despite its village setting,
and the triangle of ground about it represented
only a tiny portion of the Weston land. The side
road, once a cow path, cut it off from many level, cultivated
fields, still Weston property. There was a
look of meager neatness about the lovely old house and
yard that spoke of toil and scanty expenditure.

Lib Candy, for many years the only female "hired
help" permitted by Eli in his home, drew up the
blinds.

"Cloud-a-Witnesses! Asher Turkle, get through redding
up the foliage and get out before they come back."

"Well," answered Asher, "the heft of my work is
done." He leisurely lifted his great frame, six feet
two inches high, and about one hundred and ninety
pounds in weight, from the floor, where he had been
laboriously picking up one or two faded violets, tiny
pieces of green vine, and a bit of black ribbon. His
eyes twinkled as he put the scraps in the empty fireplace,
but there was no answering twinkle in Lib
Candy's keen green eyes. "There ain't much more an
able-bodied man can do until mealtime."

He waited. Lib went about the room silently, pushing
chairs back.

"Can't I help you none in the kitchen, Lib? They'll
be back in no time. Cars make nuthin' of two miles
and a half now. It's early days to stand out in a
cold graveyard. Grief for Eli ain't apt to be so overpowering
that people'll forget they have to preserve
life, and are in need of some stummick comfort."

"They needn't hurry. They won't get anything
here."

"What! Ain't Miss Emmie give any orders?"

"Not an order."

"Good gravy! Ain't Miss Emmietta taken any
thought for the living? Sunday too, and the shops
shut! You oughta reminded her, Lib."

"I dunno as she exactly forgot," Lib answered, arranging
the cushions on an old horsehair sofa. The
furniture was shabby and the cushions covered some
of the rents in the seat. There was nothing in the
room newer than 1890.

Asher leaned against the doorway and slowly
chewed a carnation stem. "Well, God sends everything
and it's best to take it as it comes, and make
as little to-do about it as possible, but for twenty
years never have I rose up from the table here feeling
bloated with food. Never! I'm no man to lean
toward females as you know."

Lib gave him a cold glance.

"I have always preferred the male sect, but by
Gravy and Potatoes, this is a crusher! I thought, come
Miss Emmie got the reins in her hands you and me,
Lib, might see different times. Do you aim to stay?"

"If Miss Emmie wants me, I'm staying."

Asher looked at her oddly. "Whether I stay or not,
I presoom?"

Lib nodded.

"Lib, hasn't Eli left nothing?"

"He has."

"Yeah, I thought he was a warm man, but I'm saying
now that if he left anything to us--"

"He ain't. I was a witness to his will, and you can't
witness a will if there's anything left you in it. That's
the law, as Eli took good care to tell me."

"Well, maybe if he didn't leave anything to you,
he left something to me--thinking--"

Lib shook her head.

Asher sat down suddenly. "For twenty years I've
been--"

"A fool," snapped Lib.

Asher rose and took a step toward her. "Woman,
do you remember why I came here?"

Lib nodded. "Very well, and Eli did too. He
threw it up at me the day I signed the will. And
why?" Lib looked up at Asher and considered; then
made for her a momentous decision. "Eli knew you
came here twenty years ago because you thought he
being old you stood a chance to manage the farm, get
the tenant house down along the wood road to live in,
and marry me."

She made a gesture which stopped Asher from interrupting.
It had a dignity of its own, that gesture,
and so had Lib.

"Eli knew you'd never ask me without the house
and farm, and you haven't--never. Wait," as Asher
strove to speak. "I knew it as well as Eli. Things
went on. You noticed nothing, just stayed on here,
making a slave of yourself and never having the
gumption to tell that hard old miser where he got
off. And there was you, every Sunday passing the
plate and smiling at all the pretty girls, a free and
easy bachelor. And here was I--not but what there
was two fellers, three if you count old Eli after his
wife died, and he wanted to keep me slaving on, without
wages."

"What!" roared Asher. "What! You mean to
tell me that old Eli--"

"Don't yell. This is a house of mourning. I'm
telling you that old Eli asked me to marry him. But
I wouldn't."

"Why?"

The woman turned on him, ashen with rage.

"Why?" repeated Asher.

The doorbell rang.

"They're back." Asher moved toward the door.
He turned as he reached it. "After they go, you
and me has a telling, Lib Candy."

Lib, her head bent, went past him toward the
kitchen.

Asher, a sardonic expression twisting a face that
was meant by nature to be merely good-natured,
opened the door and indicated, with a wave of the
hand, the living room.

May Weston Kent, very handsome in her modish
mourning, swept past him, followed by her husband
and son. She sank down in the most comfortable
chair in that uncomfortable room. Her husband
and son went toward the closed window and stood
looking out. The rest of the assemblage filed in, after
the Misses Mink. They were all from the village or
nearby farms. They grouped themselves about the
room, staring at May Kent, who ignored them. Being
country folk, they seemed able to maintain silence for
a length of time that seemed interminable to the Kents.

The stillness was broken by the Misses Mink, who
always found silence intolerable. It was unknown in
the Mink household. When Miss Annie and Miss
Susan were not talking together, they were talking to
someone else, or telephoning. They were twins, who
had never gotten beyond the pink and blue ribbon
stage of girlhood. They still wore the ribbons; and
still prattled sweetly of "Sister and I." Even to-day
when they were in decorous black, as befitted the occasion,
Miss Susan's ribbon was black grosgrain, while
Miss Annie's was black moire, with a white edge.

"Where's Emmietta?" they asked each other, and
then turned, like puppets on the same string, and asked
the silent Asher at the doorway, "Asher Turkle,
where's Miss Emmietta?"

"Search me," said Asher.

In the shocked silence that followed, the door
opened and Emmietta Weston came in. She was a
small woman. Her clothes were old and cheap. Her
reddish brown hair, abundant enough, but dull and
lifeless, was drawn from her brow, and her face set
in lines that betokened resignation, achieved only after
a hard struggle with naturally high spirits.

There was very little likeness between the faded
Emmietta and the buxom, well groomed, and still
blooming May. There was certainly no hint that Emmietta
was the younger. Emmietta Weston was a
drab woman, looking more than her thirty-seven years,
whereas May Kent, had it not been for her tall son,
might have claimed to be considerably under forty.

Behind Emmietta, like her shadow, appeared Lib.
Emmietta turned to the waiting roomful.

"Friends," she said softly, "there will be no will
reading here--and no dinner."

There was a swift interchange of astonished glances,
and almost a murmur, which quickly subsided as Emmietta
put up her hand to her hard black hat, and
removed the antiquated silver hatpin that skewered it
on.

"There is dinner for everyone at the Crossroads
Inn. Asher Turkle will look after you, and the bill's
paid."

She handed her hat to Lib, and drew a long breath.
"As for the will--everything is left to me unconditionally,
and those of you that are curious as to particulars
can look it up at the county court house next
week, or speak to Mr. Fair. He's attending to everything
just now."

She looked at the wide eyes and open mouths of
some of her guests. "I am too tired to talk--or to
eat. Thank you all, and good-bye for the present."

She turned and went swiftly up the stairs. Lib
went back to the kitchen.

Asher, his jaw dropped in astonishment, suddenly
recollected that his was the honor of "bossing things"
at the Crossroads Inn.

"Them that's set for eating, follow me," he said,
"and they will git their meal hot."

"Hot victuals wait for no man," agreed the farmer
nearest the door and rose to his feet. His wife, simpering
a little, hung back, to show her neighbors that it
was the rude male's hunger, not her own, that forced
her to lead the procession. They were followed by
the Misses Mink, who were whispering that since there
was nothing at home, it was better to get their dinner
at the Inn. They endeavored to conceal from everybody
that a dinner at the Inn was an event in their
lives.

"Even if she gets a reduction for numbers," said
one mourner voicing the thoughts of the others, "it
will set her back at least a dollar a head. What would
old Eli have said to that?"

The room was clear of all but the Kents, when
May, an angry flush showing beneath her delicately
applied powder and rouge, rose to her feet and, disregarding
the efforts of her husband and son to stop
her, called up the stairway, "Emmie! Emmie! Come
here! It's May."

There was silence for a moment and then Emmietta
appeared at the top of the stairway.

"It's no use, May. I am worn out. I cook for nobody,
not even you."

"But the will?"

"Mr. Fair will send you a copy, but you will find
it's just as I said. Father left everything to me, stating
that at the time of your marriage he gave you
your portion. That's true, and you know that Father
never forgave you for insisting on having it in cash.
The rest is--mine."

"How much--is it ?"

"Ask Mr. Fair. Quite a large sum, I believe, but
I've earned it. Eighteen years of slavery, insufficient
food, scraping, quarrelling. No amount of money can
pay me back--my youth."

"But Weston," May began. "Surely he left something
to Weston?"

"Mother!" Weston Kent called.

"May!" her husband warned.

"Oh, don't mind," Emmietta said, looking down
at brother-in-law and nephew without rancor.

May burst into loud sobs.

Emmie's face hardened. "Father was never harsh
with you, May, and yet you didn't weep like that
over his grave. His death meant freedom to me, but
I would willingly have endured a little more drudgery,
just to buy him a few years of the life he liked so
well, and hated so to leave."

Her eyes filled. She turned slowly to go toward
her room. "Mr. Fair will answer any questions you
like to ask, and there's dinner in a private dining room
for you. Lib and I are quite done. We have got to
rest."

With a wave of her hand May turned to her husband
and son. "Go over to the Inn and begin your
dinner. I'll join you."

"Mother!" exclaimed Weston, then "Good-bye
Aunt Emmie." He ran lightly up the steps and kissed
her. "Take it easy, and have a good time for once in
your life. Don't let Mother bulldoze you into doing
anything you don't want to."

For the first time Emmie relaxed as she patted his
shoulder. "Good boy, Weston, I'll remember that."

"Good-bye," said her brother-in-law. "You have
had a damned hard time, old girl. Buck up and get
some good out of the money, and, whatever May
says, I can support my family."

He turned to his wife. She was frowning now.
"If you take my advice, May, you will leave Emmie
alone, but if you must talk make it snappy. She's
in no mood to be bothered."

He paused a moment at the open door and then as
May, her back toward him, stubbornly waited for him
to close it, he looked up at Emmie quizzically, raised
his eyebrows, and shut the door upon himself and his
son.

Outside the two men looked at each other.

"Better let Mother get it off her chest," Weston
advised. "Her return to normal will be all the
quicker."

His father nodded, lighted a cigarette, and they
went toward the Inn.

Emmietta sank on the step next the first landing,
and leaned her head against the stair rail.

"Emmie do you think it's just that you should
have everything?"

"Everything that you left? Why yes, May, I
do."

"Emmie, don't you love my boy?"

"How can I? I'm prejudiced in his favor, but I
don't really know him and neither did his grandfather.
That's where you made a mistake, May. You had no
use for the man who made the money you were so
eager to have and spend. It would have made all the
difference in the world if you had cared enough to
come down here oftener; or, if you had asked me to
your house, I think Father might have let me go.
But you never did. Father spoke of it several times.
We had a queer, crabbed stick for a father, but his
blood was the blue blood you boast about. He had
some of the instincts of a gentleman, though his love
of money stunted most of them, otherwise I couldn't
have borne--what I had to bear."

"It was your own fault. You might have managed
him."

"I couldn't. You wouldn't understand, but I--I
couldn't."

"Emmie, are you going to be Father all over again--about
money?"

"I won't talk about the money."

"Emmie, we look prosperous, but it's been hard
these last few years. I'm anxious for my boy's welfare.
He's threatening to leave Princeton because of
a girl he's in love with. There's an older man with
more money."

"Well, if she's that sort of girl," and Emmie closed
her eyes wearily, "isn't it the best thing that he finds
it out now?"

"It isn't the girl, it's her mother. Emmie, I don't
want you to give me anything, now, or ever, but if
you would make a will making Weston your heir, I
could tell the girl's mother--"

Emmietta rose and clutching the balusters looked
at her sister.

"No, I'm through. I'm through being used. I'm
going to live as I choose. Understand me once for all,
I'm through--through being a doormat."

She sank down in a heap on the stair. May gave
a loud cry and ran toward her. Emmie straightened
up and, her hand on the rail, started toward her
room. "I'm not even going to faint about it. It's
no use your having hysterics. I mean to be left
alone."

As May went down the steps and toward the Crossroads
Inn, Lib came up the stairs with a cup of tea,
and a soda cracker on a plate.

"Miss Emmie, it's Lib. Let me in."

"Come in." Emmie was sitting at the window.
Her hands lay listlessly in her lap.

"Just a cup of tea, Miss Emmie. After awhile, you
and me'll have something to eat."

Emmie took the cup mechanically, and began stirring
the tea. Lib watched her. Just so, without appetite,
had Miss Emmie accepted food during the weeks
of her father's illness. Lib watched her apprehensively.

When she began to sip the hot tea, Lib's face
cleared. She moved a little nearer, and spoke softly,
as though she feared the four walls might hear.

"Miss Emmie. He's back."

Emmietta turned toward her amazed. "He's back!
Lib, you aren't going off your head are you? We
saw him buried."

"I wasn't speaking of Eli Weston. I was speaking
of somebody else. Somebody that went away
from here eighteen years ago."

"Eighteen years ago!" Emmietta repeated blankly.
Then slowly there came into her face a look that
approached terror. She put down her cup and grasped
Lib's arm.

"Lib, do you mean _him?_"

Lib nodded.

Emmietta began to tremble. "It isn't possible. How
do you know?"

Lib sniffed. "Well, I guess I'd know Tom Hastings'
face anywhere. You can't fool me. He's back
and he's here."

"Tom here?" Emmietta shook from head to foot.
"Why does he come back now?"

Lib stared at her. "Don't _you_ know, Miss Emmie?
Didn't _you_ send for him to come?"

"Me? Send for Tom Hastings! Ask Tom Hastings
to come? Why, Lib, as God hears me, I hoped
never to see his face again."




2


A man never knows what he has left behind him,
until he comes back to it.

Without misgivings, Tom Hastings had stopped
his car at the Crossroads Inn garage and asked for five
gallons of gasoline. After the gas had been supplied,
he parked the car, and went along Central Avenue,
glancing about him with a roving eye that saw its
Sunday aspect, and noted the changes that eighteen
years had made.

Eighteen years had made more changes in the Tom
Hastings who had left East Penniwell, but, of course,
Tom was not so keen to note those. He had grown
up with himself, as he would have put it, whereas East
Penniwell had been practically standing still for all
those years. The same houses, the same name on the
general store and the Inn, but the garage, its brilliant
oil signs and the "hot dog" stand just beyond the
post office, were new. Some of the houses had been
painted a different color, some of them added to, but
as a rule they were easily recognized.

Tom Hastings was not given to sentimentalizing,
but it did give him an odd feeling to note how East
Penniwell had waited for him, while he had been out
in the world changing and watching changes. He
went his leisurely way toward the Weston house, quite
unaware that behind every window of the main street
he was being watched, mostly by faded feminine eyes
that had been young and flashing when he left East
Penniwell.

"Tom Hastings is back!" Already the report had
run through the little town, for of course Tom
had been recognized at the garage. Indeed his name
had been noted on his wallet by John Smith, who kept
the garage, and he had sent his son and heir posting
home to tell his mother. Mrs. Smith had gone to the
party-line telephone at once, and used it to good effect.
All up and down the street they were waiting to see
Tom Hastings, how he looked and where he was
going.

The verdict was that he was looking "pretty fair
for a feller that had been gone from East Penniwell
so many years." As to his direction, the whole town
felt romantically certain. It was only right and
proper that Tom Hastings' first call should be on Miss
Emmietta Weston, though some "kinda thought it
was a little untasty, his picking out the funeral day."

On the whole, however, it was conceded that a man,
having stayed away eighteen years and having arrived
too late to attend her father's funeral, should make
haste to the house of his lady, and show her that
eighteen years had had no effect on his devotion.

"Ain't it romantic?" exulted one stout matron, who
had gone to primary school with Tom and Emmietta.
"Ain't it for all the world like a novel, that Tom Hastings
should be so faithful and come arunning back to
Emmietta on this here very day of her bereavement."

"He ain't running, Mom. He's walking slow and
poking with his stick at the road."

"That's only his kinda natural embarrassment."

"He's staring round a good bit too. He don't look
shy, that bird don't."

"Harvey, you dry up! A man like that can't show
any feelings in front of people."

"Well, he ain't any moving pitcher hero, that I
should stand here agaping at him."

But Harvey's older sister was entranced. "Mom,
ain't it wonderful. Here's Miss Emmie so quiet.
Everybody thinking she was forever going on keeping
house for her stingy old Pop, and her so sweet
about it. Always the nicest kinda ideas if you told
her about any kinda little affairs--"

"H'mm, and what little affairs have you been confiding
in her, Miss? I'd like to know. You ain't
any age to be having affairs, Gerty, and if I catch
you--"

"Oh, Mom, I don't mean just myself, I mean all us
girls could easy go to Miss Emmie and talk about
fellows and things. She kinda seemed so interested,
and she knew a good many things to tell about when
her and you was at school. She told me you was awful
popular and it was a wonder to her that Pop ever
got you to say 'Yes'--so many was after you."

"H'mm," but the "h'mm" was an extremely gratified
and mollified one this time. "Emmie told you
that, did she? Well Emmie was no wallflower herself.
I'll say that. A prettier girl nor a jollier one than
Emmietta Weston nobody wanted to see, until that
fellow walking up the street--left."

"That's just it. Why, it's kinda the village romance,
ain't it, Mom?"

"Oh my land, Gert, I don't know. I just hope
it turns out all right for Emmie, poor thing. My,
I'm that nervous."

"Well, he ain't," said Gerty, disappointed. "Ain't
it provoking the way men acts, Mom? You'd think
he was going to a business meeting or somepin'."

And that was precisely what Tom Hastings thought
he was going toward. The brick company, of which
he was president, wished to extend its holdings in the
East. There had come to Tom a vision of the red
shale roads and fields of his native town. He had
sent out scouts, who confirmed his memory. The
lands behind the Osage orange hedge of Randall's
farm, and those of some outlying farms, owned by
Eli Weston, were ideal for brick making.

The report having been favorable, Tom decided to
motor down Sunday, and look over the ground himself.
It would amuse him to return to the home of
his youth as a benefactor and promoter, and it might
be that, as one of themselves, his old friends and
neighbors, ignorant of what the years had done toward
lining his pocket book and making him a power in his
financial world, would give him better terms than a
stranger.

As to where he was going to learn the truth about
present values and possibilities, Tom Hastings had
not the slightest doubt. Unhesitatingly he made his
way toward Eli Weston's house. The old man held
mortgages on half the farms Tom wanted to buy. Indeed,
Eli Weston held mortgages on half the farms
in the county. If Tom had Weston backing him, the
rest would be easy.

Eli Weston had been Tom's guardian, and Tom
smiled to himself as he thought of his last interview
with him. Tom looked forward with pleasure to proving
the old man wrong. Eli had prophesied, as he
slammed the door in Tom's face, that the day would
come when Tom would be begging him for help. Well,
to-day Tom was in a fair way to make Eli richer
than ever, and Eli would appreciate that.

That he would find Eli waiting for him, Tom
never had the slightest doubt. Eli was the mean and
wiry kind that lived forever. Tom had not inquired,
feeling sure that if anything had happened he would
be notified. There were old matters involving Eli
and Tom's father's estate that made this certain. Eli
had been living when his scouts were here three weeks
ago, but Tom had told them specifically to leave him
alone. Eli's death had been sudden, so Tom, ignorant,
strode confidently on, thinking, with quiet humor,
that it would give old Eli quite a turn to see him, and
that, for several reasons, terms ought to be easy.

Tom went up the path, and lifted the knocker on
the old-fashioned door. As he waited for a response,
he tried to remember the household, as it must be
nowadays, so that he might be properly ingratiating
and polite. Oh yes, two girls, one of them at least
married. Yes, May was married before he left. There
remained one girl, who must be married too by this
time, and that old sister of Eli's who was the housekeeper.
What was it they called her? "Aunt Em."
That was the name. He must remember that, and
several other names, in order to make this visit pleasant
and profitable. It would make a hit with the oldest
inhabitants, if he could manage to remember names.

The door had not yet opened, so Tom knocked
again. It seemed to him that far off in the interior he
heard steps and a voice.

The essential difference between men and women
is never more strangely shown than by the memories
that survive of the same period--the same event. Tom
Hastings' busy life in the outer world had crowded
East Penniwell and Emmietta Weston into the dim
background. Emmietta, shut in, as she had been for
years, to a dull routine of household cares, unrelieved
by any touch with the outside world, save through the
few books that she had been able to borrow or beg,
had long since committed to memory every speech,
every action of the Tom Hastings who had occupied a
place in the foreground of her life. East Penniwell's
people and days were a mere memory to Tom Hastings
and not always a pleasant one. Among these
memories Emmietta Weston was so far in the background
that he gave her no more than a passing
thought.

At last the door was opened by Emmietta, herself.
Lib, in an agony of embarrassment, had refused. "You
should be the first, Miss Emmie," she had insisted.

It was dusky in the living room. All the blinds
were not up and it was late afternoon. There was
light enough for Tom Hastings to be seen by the
woman who opened the door, but Tom saw only a
faded, washed-out looking female, in an unbecoming,
ill-fitting black dress, who motioned to him to enter.

"Is Mr. Weston at home?" he asked her as he
stepped inside.

"No," Emmie managed to say, as she closed the
door hurriedly, fearful of East Penniwell's eyes. This
was so dreadfully unlike what her first meeting with
Tom Hastings should be that she was utterly at sea.

He followed her in. "When will he be home?"
asked Tom, disliking the room. It was dim, unlighted
and heavy with some sort of perfume. Afterwards
he knew it must have been the funeral flowers.

Then, as she continued silent, he remembered patiently
that it was not East Penniwell's way to give
much small change in the way of speech, and turning
to her he began, "If he--"

"He'll never be home again," the woman said, in
an odd choked voice. "He--he was buried to-day."

"What!" Tom exclaimed. "To-day! I beg your
pardon, Aunt Em." Then, as the woman started, almost
shivered and drew back, he continued, hurriedly,
embarrassed, and without looking at her again, "I
would never have intruded, if I had known. You see
I've been away so long."

"Yes," said the woman, "it's a long time--eighteen
years."

"I haven't had much news of East Penniwell."

"No."

"So, I thought I'd stop in, as I was motoring
through to-day and ask--ask Mr. Weston about some
business. I hope you will accept my sincere apologies."

He paused, but there was no response from Emmie.
She could not speak.

"I have been West, you know, for a long time," explained
Tom.

"Yes," Emmie managed to say, and motioned toward
a chair.

But Tom did not sit. He walked toward the doorway.
"I am simply without words to express my
regret at having intruded on you, to-day."

Again Emmie waited, then said slowly, "Lawyer
Fair's the executor. He has charge of the estate."

"Thank you. I'll see him later. I'll be down again.
If there is anything I can do--"

"Nothing," the woman standing there in the shadow,
watching him, answered.

"Well, if there should be, remember I am at your
service, and glad to do anything." Tom opened the
door himself, the woman seemed so slow, or stupid.
Stupefied with grief, he corrected himself, fatigue of
course, and no longer young. Yet, how wonderful
these country people were! Positively Aunt Em
didn't seem a day older than when he had turned his
back on East Penniwell. He looked again at the
silent figure, in the shadow.

"I shall be back in a day or two, and in the mean-time
my respects to the daughters. May was married,
I remember, and Emmie?"

"Emmie hasn't married," the woman murmured,
and then with a little gulp, "I--I'll give--her--your
respects."

Tom closed the door and went down the steps.

Emmie sank down in a heap. Lib heard her and
came running down the stairs.

On either side of the street the faces at the window
reflected oddly different disappointments and conclusions:

"Found out it was no time at all to call."

"Don't look none too pleased."

"H'mm, pretty short call, after eighteen years stay-away."

"What do you expect when he comes on such a day
as this?"

"D'ye think Miss Emmie's given him his come-uppance?"

"Started in early. Musta heard old Eli left a heap
of money."

"Maybe Miss Emmie thinks she don't need to take
him back, but she'd better go slow. There's so many
left-over females since this here war, that a woman on
the upper slope of thirty better take heed what she's
doing."

But the younger portion of East Penniwell--its
girls--sighed romantically, despite bobbed hair and
lip sticks. They wondered what Miss Emmie would
do, now that Tom Hastings had come back to her.

Lib helped Emmie to rise to her feet and put an
arm about her shaking frame. Lib's face, hard and
lined as it was, expressed acute sympathy--until she
discovered that Miss Emmie was laughing.

"Miss Emmie, are you crazy?"

"No," Emmie managed to say, between gusts of
painful laughter. "For the first time in years, Lib,
I'm completely sane. All my illusions are gone."

Lib looked at her as she leaned against the wall.

"Miss Emmie, that _was_ him, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Emmie answered, as soon as she could get
her breath, "that was Tom and this is Emmie Weston.
Only he didn't think it was." She stopped laughing
and her whole face changed. "Lib," she said, and she
held her ancient friend and servant's arm in a hard
clutch, "he thought I was Aunt Em!"

"Cloud-a-Witnesses!"

"Lib, on your sacred word, do I look like _that_?"

"It was dark in the hall," Lib began.

"The truth, Lib. The truth, so help you."

"Well, Miss Emmie," Lib faltered, "with all you
have been through, the nursing and all--lately. Maybe--let
me give you a cup of tea."

But Emmie held her fast.

"The truth, Lib, as you hope for Heaven."

"Well, then, Miss Emmie, yes. You do favor her
some. As she was--say eighteen years ago."

"Answered." Emmie sank down on the floor again.
She said nothing for a long time, then, "And Aunt Em
was sixty, eighteen years ago!"

She rose determinedly. "Lib, go into the kitchen
and get me something to eat. Is Asher back?"

"Not yet, Miss Emmie."

"Then as soon as he comes send him to me." But
before Lib could leave, Emmie called again. "No.
Lib, go over to the Crossroads Inn now, and if my
sister hasn't gone, get from her the name and address
of the woman who does her hair."

"My Saints! Miss Emmie, have you gone off?"

"No."

"This day of all days!"

"Never mind what day it is. Father understands
me now, better than any of you. But don't let May
come near me. Tell her my hair's coming out, and I
want to send for a tonic. Tell her you have to do
something to keep me quiet--and that's true."

"Yes, Miss Emmie." Lib turned and went without
looking back.

Emmie stood motionless for a few moments and
then resolutely walked into the front room and started
to light the big oil hanging lamp in the middle of the
room. She decided that it wouldn't do. All East
Penniwell would see it and stare. She took a candle
from the mantel shelf and lit it. Candle in hand she
went to the long greenish mirror, in a gold frame,
hanging over the tip-table. Emmie held the candle
close to the glass and surveyed herself.

"Tom was right," she admitted finally, blowing out
the candle. "Aunt Em and worse, because Aunt Em
was resigned and I'm not."

She went to the passage between the dining room
and the kitchen and began to grind the handle of the
old-fashioned party-line telephone that was against
the wall. She called up 436 J and, while she waited
for a response, endeavored to get her thoughts under
control. She must not betray undue agitation. Emmie
knew her East Penniwell. It would get every
detail. She must not tell too much, for half the receivers
on her line were down, as she knew by the
muffled sound of John Smith's voice. John was tired
and hurried. He had been very busy that day, for
he himself had driven her to the cemetery, because he
thought it was "due Miss Emmietta." She knew she
could rely on John.

Quickly, and with as little excitement as possible,
and yet with enough to show him that it was a matter
of importance, she asked if he could give her a closed
car and a driver to go all the way to New York, that
night.

John was astonished. "Now look ahere, Miss
Emmie, nobody could want to accommodate you
more'n I do, but there ain't a man here I could get to
undertake such a journey at such short notice. My
Guy, Miss Emmie, New York's New York, and it
takes some going and some brains to get about in that
town. To-morrow now, Miss Emmie, would give us
some time to look about us."

"John, I've got to go to-night."

"Well, then that's that, Miss Emmie. I got to admit
I got the car. You give me, say half an hour, to look
up Bill Sladen and see if so be he'll undertake the
job. Bill's a good, careful driver. I'll call you back
in--say half an hour--and let you know. But, my
Guy, Miss Emmie, that's some order you've given me
and it'll cost you some."

"I don't care what you charge me, John, as long
as I get there to-night."

"Miss Emmie, I'll do my damndest, seeing it's you."

John Smith hung up the receiver and returned to
his supper table and the cup of coffee that was getting
cold. He surveyed his waiting wife with uplifted
eyebrows. "It's enough to make old Eli turn in his
grave. Here's Miss Emmie determined to go to New
York at any cost. Any cost, mind you! And to-night!"

He reached out and helped himself to a big slice
of bread and butter, and held out his plate for some
preserves.

"I gotta reach round and get things started. Hen,"
to his peaceful and somnolent son of twelve, "you
stop eating and go over to Sladen's and tell Bill I got
an order to drive to New York to-night, and will he
stop round and see me about it. Try to tell him in
the entry, so his wife won't hear everything and start
a row. Let her think it's just a 'mergency about some
bust-up machine down the road a piece, if you can,
without akshally lying. Now, Mother, I know what
I'm 'bout. Teenie Sladen 'ull throw a fit about New
York."

He took another piece of steak, as Hen protested.

"Aw, I ain't half finished. Mom, don't let Pop
eat my pie."

"Dear me," said the excited Mrs. Smith, as Hen
got up slowly from the table. "You'll be wore out,
John, with things coming on you as they have to-day.
Do eat all you can, before you begin rushing round,
so's you'll have something in your stummick to work
on. Ain't it awful the way things jist whirl? Tom
Hastings leaving his car in the garage one minit, the
next minit taking it off and rushing out. Then Emmietta
Weston, right on the heels of his coming, calling
up like that! My gracious, John, it has a kinda
flavor of an elopement, ain't it?"

John Smith paused, balancing the rest of his steak
and a few fried potatoes on his fork. "My Guy!
Women's certainly the en-tire limit! An elopement,
and Tom Hastings goes off in his car looking no
more like a bridegroom than I do. Why, there's as
many as ten things might call Miss Emmie to town,
and none of them be Tom Hastings. There's settlements,
and things about her father's estate between
her sister May and herself, for one thing."

"Oh, you say so! Then why ain't she going to
New York in May's car? May ain't started yet, and
there's plenty room in her car."

"That's so," agreed John, open-mouthed.

"Ain't you heard about the estate? Everything
left to Emmie, and nothing to May or her boy at all."

"How'd you hear that?"

"The Mink girls stopped in."

"My Guy!" John stopped. "If May ain't gone
home, I'm a good mind to--"

"John, don't you dare say anything to May Kent.
The nasty, stuck-up thing! Never came near her
father or her own sister for years, and now all ready
to make a fuss because Emmie's got the money. Believe
me, John, if Emmie wants to go to New York
ahead of May she's got her reasons."

Before John could reply, Hen came back from his
errand.

"Bill's coming. Mis' Sladen, she didn't ask me
anything on account of being at the telefoam, talking
to Annie Mink. Annie Mink says Tom Hastings left
the house, and just after he left Lib went a dashing
over to the hotel and spoke to Mis' Kent, just as Mis'
Kent was getting into her car, and right after that
Miss Emmie she 'foamed you, Pop, and right after
that she 'foamed Lawyer Fair to come over immejitly
and he's on his way across the street now."

He paused for breath. "Gimme my pie, Mom.
Annie Mink knowed all 'bout Miss Emmie 'foaming
you, Pop, and she asked if Bill was going, and advised
Mis' Sladen to leave him go for Miss Emmie's
sake, because he was better'n that Oxel Johnson any
day. Here's Bill coming now."

"My Good Peanuts!" John Smith rose. "You
women's got me all tewed up about me own business."
He went slowly toward the garage, but turned to call
out: "Mom, you keep away from that there receiver
until I get Miss Emmie settled, is all I ask you."

    *    *    *    *    *

Emmietta and Lib faced each other.

"Here's the address, but Miss May says everything
the woman does or makes is terrible dear," said
Lib.

"I know." Emmie took the slip of paper. "I'm
going to New York. I'd like you to go with me, Lib.
I'll need you."

Lib was aghast. "My Saints! Where we going
to stay when we get to that God forsaken city in the
middle of the night?"

Emmie's eyes lit up with amusement. She looked
a quite different person, when she smiled. "Oh, Lib,
brace up! We're not two young girls going to be
'lost in the great city.'"

"I rode once to Trenton," Lib told her, and shivered.
"Asher took me." And then as she saw the
amusement in Emmie's eyes, she said her say: "Maybe
you'n me ain't young fools, but there's old fools, and
middle-aged fools, that gits lost in the city. Where
we going to spend the night?"

"There are hotels."

"Miss Emmie, do you know what kinda hotel we'll
land in?"

"There's one I heard May say some friend of hers
stayed in. It's all right, Lib. We'll be safe."

"H'mm, safe." Lib sniffed. "How about our
pocket books?"

"We don't have to think about them."

Lib's face took on a white and frightened look.
"Miss Emmie, it's the last time I'll allude to it, but
while God gives me breath I feel that I should say at
least this to you, and you know it's no thought of
myself makes me say it. It's just my thought for
you. Miss Emmie, Eli Weston was a mean man and
a mean man's somethin' awful. A mean woman's
something worse. But, Miss Emmie, there's such a
thing as being foolish, and there's old age. You promise
me you'll hold on to somethin'. Put money in the
savings bank--for your old age."

"I have already done it, Lib. Mr. Fair is looking
after the money. There's enough put by for your old
age and mine, so don't worry, Lib."

"I shall worry," Lib told her mistress honestly,
"and it's but natural that I should, seeing that I have
you to look after and everything strange about me,
but I won't fret. I should be fretted to death if I
thought we was spending our last cent to put up a
kinda bold front."

Emmie turned and regarded Lib with astonishment.
"Who told you we were going to do that?"

"Oh, Miss Emmie, I ain't blind. What else would
make you dash off to New York after all that's happened,
specially after Tom Hastings' visit, except to
put a good face on a bad business?"

"Lib, don't get in my way. I'm going to be out of
this house and on my way in an hour's time, if I can
get the car. I don't care who's against it."

"Miss Emmie, listen."

"Lib, you know this town and you know what
they'll say about me and Tom Hastings now. Well,
are you standing by me, or are you siding with Tom
and the town? Lib, what would they say in East
Penniwell if they knew what you and I know about
Tom Hastings' home-coming?"

"Oh, Miss Emmie, you can't do anything. It's all
in Tom Hastings' hands."

"Is it? Just you wait and see."




3


When a man fronts catastrophe on the road, he
looks in his purse--but a woman looks in her mirror.

Emmietta's mirror told her, distinctly, that there
was no time to lose in consulting Mrs. Calla Lilley,
beauty specialist, at the address obtained by Lib.

The first impulsive plunge toward freedom had
carried her successfully out of East Penniwell, but
here in New York, the magnificent but unknown, the
thought of what lay before her in her effort to regain
some portion of her lost looks terrified Emmietta.

Visions of placing herself, beyond recall, in the
hands of some one who would relentlessly proceed to
make upon her all the experiments which she had read
of in books and magazines, haunted Emmie, waking
and sleeping.

She could see herself delivered over to some autocratic,
intolerant, beauty doctor, who would peroxide
her hair, "lift" her face, change the shape of her nose,
pluck out her eyebrows, put belladonna in her eyes,
give her a permanent wave and rouge, powder and
paint her--without listening to her protests that all
she wanted was to remain herself, plus a little of what
she had lost.

Emmie felt peculiarly inarticulate when she tried
to formulate just what she did want done. The
trouble was she did not really know what could, or
should, be done. She must place herself in somebody's
hands.

It was an uncertain business at the best, and here
was Lib--her green eyes narrowed to slits by her
terror of the new and strange, and the complications
that arise from suddenly finding oneself sitting in
luxury's lap--watching her like a cat.

Emmie's heart failed her. Lib was so overwhelmed
by the big hotel and the city that Emmietta would
have to take her with her. And what if, after all,
Emmie came out of the beauty shop worse than when
she went in?

Emmie, who was waiting in the hotel lobby for a
taxicab to take her to Calla Lilley's establishment,
cast a wary glance at Lib, who, with her head thrust
before her, and an expression on her face that told
the stranger nothing and Emmie everything, came
toward her. Emmie noted idly that Lib was clutching
a bit of yellow paper convulsively in one of her hands,
but as Lib volunteered no comment, and Emmie
wanted her to approach the coming trial in as amiable
a frame of mind as possible, Emmie did not question
her about it.

"Are you sure you want to come, Lib?" she began,
as the doorman indicated the cab was ready, but Lib
swept on toward the door, without waiting.

"Nuthin' would make me stay here alone," was
Lib's reply, as they went through the revolving doors,
which always so rattled Lib that she went round more
than once, unless rescued.

In the cab, Lib shook so visibly, and emitted such
mouse-like cries of terror at their hairbreadth escapes
from certain death in the ride from the hotel to Madison
Avenue, that involuntarily Emmie braced herself.
Other people did this every day. She must take her
chance. When there is nothing to look back for, it
is as well to go on.

Emmie stole a slightly contemptuous look at Lib,
who was still clutching in her hand the yellow paper,
which Emmietta never doubted contained their names
and addresses in case of fatal accident. She might
be in little better case than Lib, she reminded herself,
but at least she would keep it to herself. "Brace up!
Lib," Emmie said, with the kindly impatience one
uses in cases of hysteria. "Come, here we are!"

It was characteristic of Mrs. Lilley's shop that it
was never spoken of as a "beauty shop," a "hairdressing
parlor," or a "manicure place," although all
three industries were carried on there. It was to a
great number of well-known people just "Calla Lilley's."
Hair, face and nails were beautifully attended
to, it is true, but all those things one could get elsewhere.
It was Calla's personality that made her place
unique, combining all the delightful chattiness of an
old-time barber shop, with up-to-date sanitary methods,
and a private cell to yourself.

A tall, strong, handsome woman, her Saxon origin
showing in the strength of her arms and her fair hair,
Calla had an abiding interest in other people's affairs,
and an enthusiasm for her trade that made her literally
priceless. She believed so firmly in the tonic she
sprinkled on your hair and rubbed in with strong fingers,
that you could not help but believe it would perform
all the marvelous things she promised.

It was not Calla's way to tell you that your hair
was splendid when it was not. No, she admitted it
was in a sad way, but in the next breath, while she
rubbed your head with her wonderful hands, she so
filled you with hope that what could be done would
be done that you went out looking far better than
when you came in.

With the aid of her clever husband, Calla was
amassing a fortune, for fortunes are to be made by
anyone who will aid, or pretend to aid, women to
look with satisfaction in their mirrors. Calla's honesty,
her splendid enthusiasm and her skillful hands
had built for her a clientele that required the hiring
of half a dozen assistants in the shop itself, to say
nothing of an equal number in the laboratory, whence
Calla's preparations, with the famous golden lily on
the label, went far and wide.

Her customers numbered not only the rich and pampered,
who wished to be freshened after a night at the
hard work of amusing themselves, and of whom she
had many, but artists, authors, business men and
women, who found it paid them to relax and let Calla
rub the tired wrinkles from their faces and the cobwebs
from their brains.

Not every one who could pay the price could enter
Calla's door. There was a "Sorry, no appointment
possible. Our books are full," ready for any customer
whom Calla did not like, or whom she had
ceased to desire.

Into this discreet temple, dedicated to the art of
beauty, came the two odd-looking women from East
Penniwell.

The appearance of the two having been observed
carefully through the partly opened office door, Miss
Boldar, Calla's secretary, advanced and asked their
business. Emmie, without looking at Lib, said that
Mrs. Kent, Mrs. Horace Kent, had sent her. The
secretary, asking them to wait, went in search of
Calla, herself.

"Two people, sent by Mrs. Kent, want to see you."

Calla sighed. This had been a rush day and few
of her assistants seemed to realize that she was human.
It took time and tact to leave one customer,
yet keep her satisfied, while she took a look at another's
scalp, and jollied a third along by telling her that she
would be "there in a minute." Calla had every desire
to send these people away with the statement that she
was too busy to see anyone, but she was a business
woman, and Mrs. Kent, though trying at times, was
a good customer, and had sent her several desirable
people.

"What do they look like?"

"Queer and countrified."

Calla looked at her in secret disgust. The blockhead!
Was that all she could see? Mrs. Van Dieman
was rolling in money, and one of Calla's best customers,
yet she looked like a ragbag.

"Ask them to wait a minute. I'll be out just as
soon as I get Mrs. Hemming's hair in the curlers."

That done, Calla called the colored maid to hold
the electric dryer and went out to interview Mrs.
Kent's friends.

There was something about Calla that appealed to
tired, worn-out Emmie the moment she saw that erect,
vital personage coming toward her. Equally there
was something about Emmietta that made Calla desire
to get her hands on her at once. Never would she let
that woman go out of her shop, provided she had
money enough to pay for all that ought to be done!
Calla would even give her cheaper rates, if necessary,
for the pleasure of seeing it done. Within Calla
surged the urge of the creator. She itched to have
her hands on that hat and drag it from the lusterless
hair. Where the average person would have passed
Emmietta as an overworked, middle-aged woman,
Calla saw great possibilities. Emmie's hair, though
dry and lifeless now, was reddish brown and needed
only a little polishing to gleam again. Her face was
drawn and lined, but it was not too old to yield to
face creams and massage. She might be just a little
too wiry, but exercise and diet, and again massage
would take care of that. There were possibilities in
Emmie--an Emmie properly looked after and dressed.

"My sister, Mrs. Kent, sent me. I want you to
look at my hair, and let me talk to you a little about
what I want done."

It had taken all Emmie's courage to get so far, but
Calla immediately caught her up.

"Just a minute, Mrs.--"

"Miss Weston."

"Just a minute, Miss Weston. Berry"--this to the
maid slowly crawling toward the booth with the electric
dryer--"give me that. I'll dry Mrs. Hemming's
hair myself while you fix Booth 7 for Miss Weston.
Just go in there when Berry tells you it's ready, Miss
Weston. Your friend? Make her comfortable here,
and I'll be with you in a jiffy."

She went swiftly, but she made Emmie feel quite
safe, though Emmie had yet to face Lib, who was
looking with disapproval at everything in the shop,
and especially at the transformations, the powder, lip
sticks and other preparations that filled the glass cases
in the waiting room.

"Miss Emmie, you ain't gonna--"

"Now, Lib, do I need false hair? Use your good
sense. Would I be bothered with lip sticks? I'm
going to get a good shampoo and you'd better stay
here. The booth would be too crowded. Take a
magazine and wait for me, or go back to the hotel."

"Back to the hotel!" Lib looked at her despairingly.
"Miss Emmie, it took us all our time finding
it, when you and me and Bill Sladen drove in last
night, and several of them sarcastic policemen lost
their tempers at Bill, too, before he got the right of
it. How do you think I'm going to find it--alone?"

"Take a taxicab," Miss Emmie told her cruelly,
and followed the beckoning maid, as though she did
not know that Lib would rather face the day of judgment
than hail a taxi on a New York street.

Emmie felt a little ashamed of herself, as she saw
Lib sink back in her chair and reach for a magazine,
but she could not bear Lib's eyes, or ears for that
matter, in the booth. There were a lot of things she
meant to ask this Mrs. Lilley and they would be said
much more easily without a witness.

Lib, who was not nearly as stupid as she looked,
had guessed that Miss Emmie did not want her about,
and felt a little bitter about the whole business. First,
this rushing off to the city the very night of Eli Weston's
funeral, and then the awful hotel! There was
no doubt Miss Emmie was treating her like a queen
and spending all kinds of money, but kiting off the
very next morning to this sorta place, instead of going
to a good shop and getting some decent black clothes,
was terrible!

Lib pursed up her mouth and looked about her, regarding
with interest the show cases, the opening and
shutting of the tiny elevator as it took down and
brought up the constant stream of customers. Each
was greeted by the particular assistant to whom she
belonged for an hour or so, and disappeared into a
booth. Lib turned, as the elevator door opened to
allow a lovely girl to step out. Fresh as paint, Lib
said to herself, and no need to come here. No fixing
could make her prettier.

The girl evidently did not agree with Lib. She
asked for Miss Elsie, and when that young woman
arrived and greeted her as Miss Lansing, she averred
that she was filthy and needed a wash, a curl and a
manicure at once. Her appointment, she announced,
as she pulled the smart little hat from her sleek blonde
head, was for that very minute, and she could not
wait.

The assistant, who seemed accustomed to her rapid
orders, followed her toward the booth, smiling, and
saying, "It must be something wonderful, Miss Lansing,
that makes you come here on the dot."

And then the door of the booth closed on them and
Lib could only hear a murmur, added to the other
murmurs from the other booths, which made the place
hum like a beehive, with only here and there a distinguishable
word or phrase, when some one's voice
was raised above the general pitch.

In her own booth, Emmie, having had her hair
unpinned by an attendant, had been invited to turn
the neck of her dress in, or take the dress off, and a
long piece of figured muslin, with a place hollowed
out for her neck, was thrown over her, and pinned at
the back of the neck. Her hair had been smartly
brushed and she had been left to wait for Mrs. Lilley.
Nothing had been said about prices, but Emmie felt
reckless. Cost what it might, she was going through
with it.

Calla Lilley came through the doorway, with her
infectious smile, and bent over Emmie's hair to scrutinize
her scalp. "Fine," was her verdict. "I'll wash
you first and then see what we can do with it. It's
pretty dry, and the scalp looks as though it needed a
tonic, but it's good hair, and we'll have it looking--Guess
I'll rub in the oil first."

Calla reached for a gay bottle and took a piece of
cotton from a glass case, poured the tonic into a scarlet
saucer, began dipping the cotton into it and rubbing
it into the partings of Emmie's hair. Her strong fingers,
which seemed to know what they were about so
well, had a soothing effect. "We'll have you looking
like your old self in no time."

Miss Emmie said nothing, but looking at her Calla
saw, in the mirror, tears rolling down Emmie's cheek.

"Are you feeling faint?"

"No, no," Emmie begged. "Don't notice me. I--I
have had a trying time. My father--"

"Yes, of course," Calla agreed sympathetically, with
a quick look at the obsolete and ugly black frock.
"Mrs. Kent did say, the last time she was in, that her
father had died."

"Yes," Emmie openly wiped her eyes. She could
talk to this woman. It wouldn't matter to Calla what
she said. "I had all the care of him--the nursing,
you know. It's--it's the let-down afterward, and
what you said about looking like my old self. Oh,
Mrs. Lilley, can I--could I--get back something--something
of what I used to look like?"

It was the universal cry, world-old, but it was Mrs.
Lilley's call to battle. She rose to it now.

"Why, my dear, we'll get right after this thing.
We'll get after this hair, and as to your complexion--it's
just fatigued. That's what's wrong. You're just
tired, nothing more. You come to me for the next
week or so. We'll say the next two or three weeks.
Can you do it?"

"Of course, I can, and I will. I'll stay on at the
hotel."

"Good, we'll get to work right now, and every day
you'll spend some time here. Come, brace up! I'm
going to brush your hair and then I want to cut the
ends. I'll just brush, and rub to-day and we'll try a
new style of doing it to-morrow. Dress come off?"

"Yes," said Emmie, hesitating and glancing around.

"Then off it comes. I want to get a good look at
your neck and arms, and rub your back a little."

"Berry," she called, "bring me the alcohol and salt
rub."

"How long can you stay here, Miss Weston? This
is going to take time as well as money."

"For as long as I need to." Miss Emmie hesitated,
and, conquering her father's spirit which rose up
within her, added, "I don't care what it costs."

"Give me a month," breathed Mrs. Lilley. This
was a customer after her own heart. "Give me just
a month, and I promise you won't know yourself."

The door of Booth 7 opened hurriedly and Lib put
her head in.

"Miss Emmie," she began, excited and breathless,
"this came just when you was getting your check
cashed in the lobby. The boy yelled out your name,
and I says 'Here' for you, and signed. In the excitement
of gitting the taxi and all, I just kep' it
clenched-like in my hand, and forgot to give it to
you."

Emmie took the telegram, with the little thrill of
apprehension which the sight of its yellow envelope
always gives to country-bred people. She read:

_"Tom Hastings anxious to see you regarding property.
When will you be home so that we can all three
meet? John Fair."_

Emmie let the telegram fall on the dressing table,
and stared at it.

"Well," said Lib. "Anybody dead?"

"No," said Emmie, "not yet. It's from Lawyer
Fair."

"We gotta go home?" asked Lib, with a gleam of
joy in her eyes.

All Emmie's new-found independence rose up to
oppose the thought. "No," she said as quietly as she
could, for her heart was beating tempestuously at her
own daring, "seeing that Tom Hastings took eighteen
years to get round to East Penniwell, we'll take our
time coming back."

Lib watched open-mouthed while Emmie, at Mrs.
Lilley's suggestion, wrote a return message, which
Lib was to give to Mrs. Lilley's secretary to send.

When she had finished writing, Lib's imploring
eyes were more than Emmie could stand.

"You may read it," she said, taking some money
from her purse, "before you give it to the secretary,
with this."

Lib took the yellow form in her hand and read:

_"Stay indefinite. Will notify you in time so that
you can advise Mr. Hastings."_

Resolutely Lib turned on her mistress. They were
alone. Calla had gone out of the booth to respond
to a telephone call.

"Miss Emmie, that won't do. It'll be read over the
'foam at East Penniwell, you know."

"Well?" questioned Emmie, defiantly.

"Well," returned Lib, "do you want to make 'em
think that Tom Hastings _did_ give you the go-by? Git
a little suttelty into it, Miss Emmie, for the sake of
women."

Emmie looked at her quickly. "Lib, I believe
you're right."

"Miss Emmie, never lower yer flag."

Emmie thought for a moment and then wrote:

_"Business here important. Notify you when we are
ready to return. You can then inform Hastings.
Emmietta Weston."_

"Better," said Lib judicially. "Not all it might be,
but still a lot better. It'll keep 'em guessing what the
important business is, anyway."




4


The fundamental difference between the sexes is
never more clearly shown than when a castle in Spain
collapses. The man says: "What's past is past. Let's
start anew." But the woman invariably pokes among
the ruins, to see if there's any good building material
left.

So Tom Hastings, having read the telegram offered
him by Mr. Fair, put it on the desk and leaned back
in his chair, gazing with a dissatisfied air at the lawyer
and the office, while he turned over in his mind a new
method of attack.

It was a quaint office, a one-story addition tacked
onto the dignified old Fair house. It made a big, comfortable
room with two windows. A stove, open
bookcases with law books, none of them very new,
about the walls, a large table-topped desk, a desk chair,
a typewriter on which Mr. Fair himself sometimes
tapped out a document, several comfortable wooden
armchairs, and a wooden settee completed the furniture--save
for three portraits of county judges, a
calendar and, inevitably, a brass spittoon.

"What does that telegram mean?" Tom asked
finally, having arranged his plan.

John Fair's eyebrows climbed, and his eyes twinkled.
"Miss Emmie's inherited some of her father's
business sense, I guess. Leastways, that's what it
means to me."

He glanced at the other man with a look that
showed little of the curiosity that was rampant within
him. He was just as much in the dark as to what
Emmie Weston and this man had said to each other
as the rest of the community, and he wanted to know
quite as badly. John Fair's legal training had made
him conceal the curiosity that helped make him one
of the best lawyers in his county. He might have been
one of the best known in his state, had not his wife
died leaving him with an only child, a son, who was
badly crippled. To shield his boy, to keep him in the
country and among friends, had anchored John Fair
to East Penniwell for life. The struggle to make
enough money to leave his son well cared for, should
he die first, had made Fair the cleverest lawyer in
the county.

He remembered Tom Hastings eighteen years ago,
when Tom had been Eli Weston's ward. He looked
at him now, while Tom gazed out of the window, his
fingers playing with the telegram, and wondered just
what Tom had been doing those eighteen years. The
result before him was a man of forty, well built, who
had not apparently abused his health and strength,
who stood straight and was not in the least flabby.
"Fine looking," was Fair's summing up. Tom was
also exceedingly prosperous. He was shrewd, too--every
move he had made in this brickyard game proved
that; but here Fair chuckled to himself. It might be
that old Eli's daughter, with Fair as her lawyer, would
prove Tom's equal when it came to a deal.

The thought struck Fair that Tom had not been
used to being balked by any woman, and that he would
not take kindly to any change in his plans, be the cause
a woman or a man.

Tom turned from the window. "Can I reach Miss
Weston in town?"

John Fair shook his head. "'Fraid not. She
doesn't want her address known. She wants to be
left alone to rest for a while. Emmie had a long siege
of nursing her father and she needs a rest."

Though he spoke calmly, Tom's question had enlightened
him on one point. The fellow did not know
where Emmie was.

Tom considered a moment. "Is she the only one
concerned? How about that aunt of hers? Has the
aunt no interest in the property?"

John Fair's jaw dropped. "My Guy!" he exclaimed,
relapsing into a common expression in that
part of the country. "Don't you know that Emmie's
aunt died seventeen years ago?"

"No," Tom replied, "I didn't," and knew at that
moment, with a blinding flash of illumination, just
what he had done.

"Oh the devil!" he said to himself. "The woman'll
never forgive me for thinking she was her aunt." His
next thought was that she would queer the deal.

He spoke quickly, before Fair, who was busy putting
two and two together, could see the situation
clearly:

"Is there any way of getting an answer about this
land before Tuesday?"

Fair shook his head. "I don't know of any, except
to write again to Emmie, telling her the matter is
urgent, and see if she'll either write or see you."

Tom leaned back in the chair and surveyed Fair
with a moody eye. "Couldn't she give you a power
of attorney and let you act for her now?"

Fair smiled. "She could, but would she? She's a
woman and she's Eli Weston's girl. 'Tisn't likely on
either ground that she'll give up much authority to
any one."

The two men sat silent on that, thinking. Tom
stared straight before him out of the window, where
he could see a corner of those green fields, with the
deep red earth that he coveted beneath the green. Fair
gazed at Tom. This was the most interesting human
problem that had come his way in some months.

"Well," Tom rose slowly, "it looks as though I
must go further in my search."

"Doubt if you'll fare so well," said Fair shortly.

Tom smiled. "Good earth here, and no mistake,
but there are other sections of the country, Fair, besides
East Penniwell, that would make equally good
brick."

"Maybe," admitted Fair slowly, for he hated to see
profits slipping between his fingers. "You can try, of
course, and meanwhile I'll see what I can do with Miss
Weston."

"Yes, do," but Tom said it without much hope in
his voice, "and if she comes down here, let me know.
Surely, as an old friend, she'll be willing to talk it
over."

"Ought to, ought to; but women are women, Hastings.
She may not want the place messed up that way,
and a brick plant sure does mess things up."

As though such sentimental reasons were utterly
foolish, Tom said shortly, "The plant would be two
miles out, and wouldn't change things near East
Penniwell or the Weston house." With that, he
swung himself out of the office and into his car, and
the car went up the New York road at tremendous
speed.

Tom was furious. By his own blunder, it was just
possible he had placed this splendid land outside of
the company's grasp forever. "Damn women!" he
muttered.

Left to himself, John Fair leaned back in his chair,
and thought hard. Here was a pretty puzzle for a
man to solve! Emmie Weston had for years been
considered the town's greatest romance, because her
father had driven young Tom Hastings from the
house and town. Now Eli was dead and Tom Hastings
had come back, but interested only, it seemed, in
acquiring some of the Weston land for a brickyard.
Emmie Weston had fled the town and remained away,
refusing to return, even when the man who implored
her to see him was Tom Hastings.

Fair shook his head and took up his pipe. The
puzzle was beyond him yet, but he would telephone
and see if Emmie didn't want to sell the fields. They
were two miles and more up the road, right away from
the village and off toward the creek. It wouldn't hurt
the town's looks if they planted a brickyard there, and
when one considered that for more years than Fair
liked to remember forty dollars an acre had been the
highest price for farming land near East Penniwell,
and one hundred dollars a lot in the village, Tom's
offer of three hundred an acre, first bid, seemed to him
a miracle. If he offered three hundred, there was
every chance they could get more. It could make
Emmie an even richer woman than she was, if she
listened to Fair and sold it; but if she didn't want to,
she still had enough.

Fair sighed, but it was not entirely with envy. He
sighed for Emmie, the girl he once knew, who had
turned into a faded woman. If Eli had only let the
girl have some of the money while she was young!

    *    *    *    *    *

From her fifteenth story hotel-window, Emmie
Weston looked down on a crowded street, not knowing
that she was looking on Tom Hastings, who, with
wrath in his heart, was hurrying home. He must send
out scouts looking for other fields, in case he should
be permanently blocked from the East Penniwell
proposition by this woman. Without Emmie's consent
he could do nothing in East Penniwell. She either
owned the land he wanted outright, or had mortgages
on it.

Tom had made an exhaustive search that day, and
this was the result. He was hurrying back now to
the city, resolved to think out his problem. He
meant to evolve some plan to approach this woman
that would wipe out, if it were possible to wipe out,
the fatal beginning he had made.

"I did think she was the aunt," he assured himself,
"and Lord knows she looked it! I wonder if there's
any way to make a woman forget a thing like that?"

He turned his car over to his chauffeur, who was
waiting for him at the entrance to the apartment
house. Tom went up to the roof of the building.
There he entered an apartment that seemed to be on
the top of the world, and from which the view of the
city and harbor was famous. Its beauty and its luxury
were lost on Tom to-day, though it had both in no
small degree, having been built especially for a Western
millionaire, who had loaned it to Tom, before
going on a European trip.

"I'll have to get another woman in on this to help
me out," said Tom to himself, and went rapidly over
his feminine acquaintances. In this great Eastern
city, where he himself had been domiciled only a few
months, the list was not as great as he meant it to be.
He thought of Lee Lansing. She was a clever girl;
she might help him out.

At her window, Emmie was thinking of the same
woman, only she did not know her name was Lee
Lansing. She was speculating on the woman who
interested Tom Hastings now.

Lib called shrilly, "Miss Emmie, you're wanted on
long distance 'foam. I think it's Lawyer Fair."

Emmie turned from her window and went to the
telephone, wondering what had happened. Lib, moving
about the room, pretending to be occupied in
hanging up Emmie's clothes, tried to patch up, from
what she heard, the substance of the conversation.

"Yes, I hear you," Emmie said. "Yes, I remember
Father bought Ben Harris' eighty acres and there's
a heavy mortgage on Jim Cortright's ninety acres.
Oh, you think it a good offer? H'mm, we can do
better. Oh, I see. Well, then of course we can get
more. Let Tom Hastings alone for two or three
days and then call him up and say I want to know
what he offers. And, oh, John, did he say anything--about
anything else? Yes, I know that isn't very
definite, but _did_ he? No--all right, go ahead. Don't
promise anything. I'm not sure yet whether I'll sell.
I may open the house presently. I'll let you know in
time. Good-bye."

Lib could wait no longer. "Miss Emmie, you going
back?"

Emmie shook her head. "Not yet." But she was
evidently troubled and as evidently did not wish Lib's
advice.

"You'd best stay home this afternoon, Lib," Emmie
said finally, "to answer the telephone in case Tom
Hastings finds out where I am. If he does, I am out,
and you don't know when I'll be back."

"Yes'm, Miss Emmie," Lib answered, evidently not
at all satisfied but as evidently aware that just now
she would get nothing more.

Emmie, her mind in a curious maze, went to Calla
Lilley. She admitted to herself that she was afraid
to go back to East Penniwell. Tom Hastings seemed
bent on making life harder than it need be. It was
not enough that he should have come back, as he had,
but to be so callous, so lost to common decency as to
persist in hanging about East Penniwell! If she went
back now, the village would know the truth--that not
only had Tom Hastings _not come back to her_, but that
he had apparently no earthly idea of doing so. He
had forgotten all about her.

Now that she admitted it freely to herself, Emmie
breathed more easily. The present gossip that she had
sent him away would not hold if Tom hung around
the village looking for brick land. Truly, Emmie
thought, she had cause to hate the sight of bricks.
She had equal cause, she reminded herself, to hate her
own silly self. What was it really to her that Tom
Hastings had come back as he had? What did it
matter to her? Her heart was not broken.

It was now possible for her to leave East Penniwell
and Tom Hastings far behind her and seek fresh fields
and new faces. But Emmie, like most women, was
conservative and with but one idea, when it came to
what she wanted of life. She wanted Tom Hastings,
changed or unchanged, good, bad, or indifferent, _to
want her_. She wanted her village to admire her.
When Emmie was thoroughly honest with herself she
admitted that she had more money and, when she
chose to use it, wider knowledge of the world than
the majority of East Penniwell's inhabitants. She
also admitted that she did not care what East Penniwell
thought about her, as long as her conscience was
clear, _except as to this affair with Tom Hastings_. It
was really, in the country idiom, "very small potatoes"
to feel, to act as she did, as she was doing now.

Emmie admitted all this, but also acknowledged
sadly that she could not help it. She had received a
cruel hurt, because Tom had come back. He had
shattered her dream. It was what she had dreamed
about Tom and herself that had kept her soul alive,
through all the dreary years that lay behind her,
through all the long years of her father's iron rule,
while her youth had faded from her. It was Tom's
return that had shattered her dream.

Emmie shivered as she took the elevator. She
gazed in the mirror as the car went up and saw that
Calla was living up to her promise. Already Emmie's
hair began to look "alive," burnished and soft; already
her weathered complexion was beginning to look
smoother and clearer, and all this by exercise and massage,
without the use of cosmetics, of which Calla did
not approve for Emmie, if she could get results without
them.

Emmie's wardrobe also was undergoing a complete
and pleasing transformation. Calla, after one or two
shrewd questions, gathered that Mrs. Kent neither
knew nor suspected that her sister was in town and
surmised that the country mouse wished to appear as
thoroughly sophisticated as her city sister, when she
made herself known. Learning this, Calla had guided
Emmie in her choice of milliners and modistes. Now,
Emmie was beginning to dress as well as other carefully
groomed women--better than most. All her
starved sense of beauty and color was blossoming
forth, for Emmie, like many daughters of Puritans,
had a love and a sense of color that made her clothes
delightful to the eye.

Calla was well satisfied with the progress of her
client. Each visit to Booth 7 was a fresh revelation
to her of undeveloped beauties, as far as Emmietta's
skin and hair were concerned. Calla was experimenting
just now with styles of hairdressing. She felt
that this rejuvenated Emmietta could "carry off" a
new and effective style and she was bent on evoking it.

Calla received Emmie very quietly this time. There
was, Emmie noticed, no announcement of her arrival.
She was shown into her booth by the silent but efficient
Berry, and Calla appeared without delay. She
put Emmietta's hair, after it had been vigorously
brushed and rubbed with tonic, into "curlers," gave
her a new magazine to read and then, before she left
the booth, to allow the curlers to do their work, leaned
over and said:

"Does your sister, Mrs. Kent, know you're in
town?"

Emmie shook her head.

Calla's eyes twinkled. "I thought not. You want
to spring it on her later?"

Again Emmie nodded.

"Well, keep perfectly quiet and you're safe. She's
in Booth 4, but she's going in a minute. I've given
orders you're not to be mentioned."

When Calla closed the door, Emmie heard May's
voice:

"You don't mean to tell me you _liked_ that play?"

"Non, not exact what you call likeed," came the
attendant's voice, with a strong French accent, "but
awfullee amuse."

"I thought it very, very vulgar," May said virtuously.

"Oh, yes, eet ees vulgaire, _bot_ the vulgaire he often
amuse."

"I can't bear _the_ slightest vulgarity," May solemnly
declared. "Mercy, look at my hair, before I put on
my hat! Don't you think it's a little _too red_? Of
course, I've got a sister with naturally reddish hair,
but--look, isn't there just a little bit of gray showing
through there? Oh, dear, I'd never go to all this
trouble myself, but my husband just can't stand gray
hair."

"Oh, these hoosband! What a trouble he make!"

"I wouldn't care if it went all white at once, you
know, but this pepper and salty hair, you just can't
do anything with."

Through the attendant's running comment, principally
composed of soothing sounds, May continued to
talk. Emmie could visualize her at the glass, peering
anxiously at her image.

"We haf here a lofely French dye," the attendant
began.

May gave a little scream. "Dye! Oh, the idea!
Don't speak to me about dyes! No indeed, no dyes
for me! All I want, or need, is a little henna rinse.
With a little _more_ henna in it, next time remember,
Mademoiselle Ren. But no _dye_. A rinse is not a
dye, you know."

"Oh, non, non, a ranee is--well, he is rancece, that
is all he is."

"Precisely. Oh, Mademoiselle Ren, you have me
down for next Tuesday, a facial--and aren't my eyebrows
thick, a little? I hate plucked eyebrows, but
thick eyebrows don't suit my face at all. It needs thin
eyebrows to give it expression. My husband hates
thick eyebrows."

The eyebrows lasted all the way down the corridor,
as a topic of conversation, or rather as a monologue.

Emmie heard the elevator door slam and drew a
breath of relief. Her head was too full of thoughts
to admit anyone else's ideas entering it through the
medium of the printed word. She dropped the magazine,
closed her eyes, and leaned back in the chair.

She could hear plainly now the voices in the other
booths, and in Booth 6 especially. Calla was talking.
The woman was evidently an old customer, someone
whom Calla knew and liked. They talked for a while
about face and hair treatments, how tired the woman
was, and how much it rested her to come there. All
of it amused Emmie. She was beginning to understand
that these women came to Calla for rest, counting
on Calla's strength, her soothing hands and voice
quite as much, if not more, than her toilet preparations.

Emmie looked at herself, and tried to keep a frown
from marring the face which Calla declared, and
truly, was "smoothing itself out" every day.

Then she heard the woman in Booth 6 say:

"My husband wants me to go abroad this year, and
of course, if we go, the place must be closed. And
what will my Two Grenadiers do then?"

"They will miss you, won't they?"

"It isn't missing me," the other woman answered
with a little sigh, "it's missing their summer together
out in the country. I would give them the use of the
gardener's cottage, but that won't do. The Second
Grenadier isn't very strong just now, and can't have
everything to do. They need looking after, and they
will not permit me to look after them. If I were there
I could do it and they wouldn't notice it. They are
such dear fellows. I hate to go abroad and leave
them." She laughed. "But equally I would hate to
have my husband go without me. It's a puzzle and
so far I don't see the solution."

Calla evidently suggested something, which Emmie
didn't get, because just then the customer in Booth 5
told some exquisitely merry jest and the sound of
laughter drowned everything else.

Then: "You see, the First Grenadier has lost his
job. The architects he was with have gone out of
business."

Calla's voice was full of sympathy.

"Oh, positively not!" The other voice again.
"They are as proud as Lucifer himself. Oh, well, I'll
think of something yet. I just won't go abroad unless
my Two Grenadiers are comfortable."

Suddenly Emmie sat bolt upright and gazed at herself
in the mirror excitedly. She had had a vision
of what she might do. Well, it was worth trying.
Nothing would so distract the village from gossiping
about one man as the appearance of one or two other
men. She determined to test it.

When Calla came in to remove the curlers, she said
nothing further about May Kent, though her shrewd
eyes took in the very silent Emmie who waited for
her. Emmie listened to Calla's enthusiastic comments
about her hair and the way it curled and the new
coiffure she was about to try, and said merely "yes"
and "no," as the case required. Finally she interrupted
Calla in the middle of a hair rhapsody with:

"I'm wondering whether you could help me with
another problem, as well as you have with my clothes."

Calla laughed. "Put your troubles right down on
the dressing table, Miss Weston, along with your hairpins.
That's what we're here for--mental and physical
comfort."

Emmie smiled. "It's not such a terrible trouble.
Possibly it would be a joy to some people. You see,
I've a nice old house in the country. I want it modernized,
without being spoiled, and I want an architect
who understands, so that my house won't be pulled
about to make it look like something he imagines it
ought to look like and not what it is. You understand
my trouble, don't you, Mrs. Lilley? I could go to a
firm of merely good or merely well-known architects,
but how would I know what they would do with it?"

Calla's brows were drawn together in concentration.

"If I could get some one who was really clever,
really good, and yet not too fashionable, so that he
would be willing to come down and stay awhile in
the house, I could put him up and Lib would look
after him wonderfully. He could study out his plan,
and how to use the workmen down there, so that my
town would reap the benefit of the money I mean to
spend. You see, my main difficulty--to find some one
with time enough, and talent enough to do this."

Calla's face had cleared. "You wait just one minute,"
she answered, with suppressed excitement in her
air and voice, "until I speak to a customer here of
mine. She's just about going, and I want to catch
her. I think--but wait till I speak to her." In the
doorway of the booth she paused again. "If this man
had a--a friend, an assistant he always travels about
with, what then?"

"That would be quite all right," Emmie assured
her. "There's room for more than one guest." She
emphasized the guest, purposely, and felt that Calla
got her meaning. Then she leaned back and closed
her eyes. She could hear the low conversation, sinking
almost to a whisper, between Calla and the woman
in the next booth.

Emmie waited, unconsciously praying that what she
hoped for might be true. It was a great scheme, and
if it worked--that is, if these men were what the
woman's estimate of them would lead one to believe--Emmietta
thought she saw her chance to go home with
honor. Her problem was complicated. She loved
East Penniwell, and her own home, but to return to
them was impossible just now, with Tom Hastings
bent on showing the whole town that he had no
thought of Emmie Weston or of anything but brickyards.

Emmie's face burned. She saw how impossible life
in East Penniwell would be for her if East Penniwell
knew this. That Tom had come and she had gone,
she knew had excited the town. Just so long as nobody
really knew what had happened, they could put
any complexion they chose upon their meeting.
Emmie meant they never should know.

It was her own fault, she admitted, as she cooled
her burning cheeks with her cold hands. She had let
the real world go for a dream. That was understandable,
but she had also let the whole world know
her dream. That was the dreadful mistake she had
made. Tom Hastings had killed the dream. This
was a stabbing pain that she could bear, if she bore it
alone. To have the whole town know, and eventually,
to have Tom himself told it--as a joke--would be a
crown of shame and pain that she did not intend to
wear publicly.

While she waited for Calla, Emmie analyzed herself,
for though she had led a secluded life she had
read and thought. She realized now that she had
thrown away substance for shadow, and that her
father had known it. Emmie shivered. It must have
been because Eli Weston had guessed what was in
store for her some day, if Tom Hastings ever came
back, that he had so often regarded her with shrewd
and cynical glances: that he had refrained from mentioning
Tom Hastings' name: that he had frequently
discussed with her his financial schemes. He had
given her the benefit of his biting analysis of human
nature, as he saw it, and all the time he had known
she had a blind side, and had been laughing at her.
Or did she do him an injustice? Had he been sorry
for her? Whichever it was, it was painful to remember
and Emmie writhed.

There was only one way in which she could face
her village again, and face it she meant to. She dared
not run away now on the trip to Europe which she
had so often promised herself, and had never expected
to be able to take. Her father had been so careful of
his purse, and so tough of frame and heart, that she
had never been able to envisage either his softening
to the extent of giving her money to go away, or of his
dying and leaving it to her. Even now the trip must
wait, for Emmie's fighting blood was up.

She admitted to herself that she cared immensely
about public opinion, as it was represented by East
Penniwell. Cared for it enough, at least, to fight it out
with Tom Hastings. He should not leave her facing
the pitying eyes of her neighbors, while he made desolate
her lands with his brickmaking. Bricks she might
possibly permit him to make, if in the long run it was
good for the place and her neighbors, but it would not
be immediately. Meanwhile, she would plan and plot
to throw dust in the eyes of East Penniwell, until
either Tom Hastings was routed from the field, his
brickyard scheme wrecked, or she left him in the midst
of his bricks, and went to Europe for her trip, banners
flying.

Calla came back into Booth 7, her face radiant with
the sense of a good deed done.

"Miss Weston, I've got it fixed for you. I've got
the very man, I'm sure, and Mrs. Montgomery's going
to call him up on the telephone to-night and send
him to see you at the hotel to-morrow. Then you
can decide for yourself."

Emmie gasped. Things were moving faster than
her country mind had expected or hoped.

"Is he--is he a young man?" she asked.

"Young enough," said Calla, regarding her coiffure
building, her head on one side. "No baby boy, or
lounge lizard, is being sent you, Miss Weston--don't
you fret. Mrs. Montgomery knows a man when she
sees him. She's married to one of the best, and both
she and her husband think an awful lot of these men."

She inserted another hairpin and said with a
pleased little murmur of satisfaction:

"Miss Weston, it seems like an act of God, like a
miracle, your asking for just such a man this morning."

"It will be a miracle, an act of Providence, for me,"
and Emmie smiled at her improved image in the glass,
"if he is--I mean they are--the men I need."




5


To court obscurity is to invite detection.

Emmie Weston looked up fearfully. Lib was at
the telephone, and from the tone of her "What say?"
Emmie feared the worst. It was one thing to feel
brave and courageous under Calla Lilley's encouragement.
It was quite a different thing to brave Lib
Candy's cold and searching eye--if that should be
Tom Hastings on the telephone.

"Miss Emmie, they say there's a feller down stairs,
name of Landon. Says he's an a'pintment with you.
Shall I send him packin'? Some book agent likely,
or one of them brokers with oil stock or Florida lands."

"No Lib. Say I'll come down to the mezzanine
floor at once."

While Lib, scowling, delivered this message in
her own terms, Emmietta, after a quick glance at the
mirror, hastily closed the door behind her and went
toward the elevator.

In the twilight atmosphere of the mezzanine floor,
Bob Landon walked nervously up and down, wondering
why people chose to stay in so vast and busy a
caravansary and, having landed therein, how they
conducted the business of their lives.

It's a small city under one roof, he thought to himself,
looking down on the great lobby, thronged with
people. A long line of guests waited at the room
clerk's desk to register. The elevators were moving
up and down continually, distributing people all
through the twenty odd stories of the hotel. As he
watched, an elevator stopped at the mezzanine floor
and a bronze-haired woman left it and stood looking
about her.

"Must be my client," Bob Landon thought, and
went toward her.

"Must be the architect," Emmie thought as he approached.
"Much, much better than I dared hope."

After his, "Is this Miss Weston?" and her, "This
must be Mr. Landon," they moved toward the settees,
chairs and small tables, which furnished the mezzanine.
Emmie wondered how she could make her proposal
sound cool and business-like, as it must to this
man. She must not show any anxiety about his acceptance,
though on it depended the success of her
plan.

They found a vacant settee and Emmie watched
him draw a chair toward her, while she made up her
mind. She decided he was handsome, and that he
was over thirty.

Emmie opened her purse and took from it a kodak
picture of the Weston house. "That's the place."
She watched him as he looked at it.

"It's a lovely old house."

Emmie smiled. "That's why I am anxious to have
someone who will understand and care about it, as
though--well as though the house had feelings of its
own which we were bound to respect. I want all
sorts of things done to it, bathrooms, a new and better
heating system, and I hope you will uncover fireplaces
that have long been boarded up. But when all this
is done, it must still be my dear old home, or--well,
it just shan't be touched at all."

Bob Landon smiled. "You can trust me to feel
and defend its original charm, but I'll have to see
it, and go over it thoroughly, Miss Weston, before I
can form any idea of what there is to do, how it is
to be done, and how much it will cost you."

Emmie looked at him hesitatingly. "I--I wanted
to ask you about that. I will be detained here in
town for some time. I don't know just how long, but
I want this work done, or at least commenced, immediately
I am satisfied with the plans. Could you
go down to East Penniwell and stay there for as long
as need be--to make plans? After they are made, I
should like you to stay there and superintend the work--as
my guest of course. Is it impossible, that is, are
you too busy just now, to consider such an engagement?"

Emmie looked at him anxiously. He must not--this
nice, proud man--dream that she knew anything
about his circumstances.

But Bob Landon had his own pride--the pride
that shames the devil by telling the truth, and is
not abashed by poverty. "I have no other job, at
present, Miss Weston," he said gravely, wondering
if to tell this woman the exact truth, might cheapen
him in her eyes, even lose him the job--and there
was Bunny to be considered.

"You see," he continued levelly, "I have just lost
my job, which was an indoor one, through the failure
of my firm. I haven't enough money to set up in
business here in New York by myself. Your offer,
Miss Weston, is very acceptable to me, save for one
thing. I can't go alone."

He hesitated, and then seeing Emmie's big eyes
fixed on him, laughed.

"Oh, I don't mean I want to bring a wife and
seven small children. I have a crippled friend who
lives with me, and I can't very well leave him alone.
That doesn't mean he is a weight or a burden. He's
a wonder at doing for himself, but we've always
stuck together through war and peace. He's a clever
chap, too, knows all about periods and furniture. He
was a corking decorator before trouble struck him.
We used to work together."

"But I should want you to have him with you,"
Emmie said so earnestly that the man smiled. This
was a new sort of client. "And there may be work
for him, too. Anyway, the house is large, and--and
empty. I shall be glad to have some one there besides
myself, some one to talk to about the house,
who will understand how I feel about it."

Landon wondered how a woman with money
enough to suggest the job she had offered him could
have lived so out of the world that she should have
such pleasant manners and demand so little.

"We couldn't think of troubling you, if there's an
inn, or hotel," Landon began.

But Emmie interrupted him eagerly. "You must
believe me, Mr. Landon, when I tell you that there is
plenty of room. The house seems terribly empty, since
my father's death. I would like you to live there for
awhile anyway, and study it thoroughly. You and
your friend will be far more comfortable at Weston
House than you could possibly be at the Crossroads
Inn, but you can look the Inn over, too, and make your
own arrangements with the landlord, if you want to
stay there, when the house is torn up by workmen.
But do go down this week-end. Lib Candy will take
care of you and Asher Turkle will meet your train."

Landon still demurred a little, but it sounded tremendously
attractive, and it would be a godsend to
Bunny to get out of town. He could only thank Miss
Weston and say that he would be ready on Friday to
meet Miss Candy at the train.

"Your friend's injury, is it incurable?" Emmie
asked with softened voice.

"Oh, quite. It's not a deformity. He simply cannot
use one foot. He will always have to use a cane
or a crutch. Just now he uses two," Landon told her.
His face grew dark, as though the very mention of his
friend's injury roused a passion of angry pity.

"In East Penniwell," Emmie told him gently, "we
are proud of our soldiers."

Landon gave her a wary look and a little bow that
silenced her completely.

"Thinks I want to ask him things, I suppose,"
Emmie thought. "How much he must have been
bothered by some people to act like that with me."

As a matter of fact Emmie did not realize that her
country upbringing had made her manner friendly
to a degree that bewildered the average New Yorker.
Landon's look was unconscious, but it served his purpose.
Emmie came back to business.

"Shall I give you a 'down payment,' as we say in
the country, to bind our bargain and cover your first
traveling expenses?" asked Emmie Weston, in something
that closely resembled Eli Weston's business
voice.

Landon saw what he had done, but was not sorry.
He wanted no muddling sentiment about war, or
Bunny, from any woman, be she client or not. His
first impulse was to refuse the money, then: "Just as
you like," he said, indifferently, remembering that if
he had money he would think nothing of her offer. It
was his present financial position that made him so
sensitive.

Emmie had taken out her check book and unscrewed
her fountain pen. "Will two hundred and fifty do?"

"Oh, more than enough," Landon told her, hastily.
"I may not do at all for the job, Miss Weston. We
may not agree about what is to be done, I mean."

"Well, I'll chance that," and Emmie wrote the
check.

It was the first one she had drawn in her new
check book. Of course, Landon could not know that
Emmietta had arrived at her present age without having
had a check book of her own, and that it was
mildly exciting. She wished she might tell him, but
it would probably bring another of "those looks" upon
her, and Emmie decided she had better not.

There was silence as she slowly made it out and
signed it. Landon, who had been scribbling a form
of receipt on the hotel letterhead, handed it to her.

"Will you," he asked formally, "will you want
any references as security?"

"Oh, no. The person who recommended you to
me is security enough for--anything."

They shook hands, and then Landon said, "I'll go
to East Penniwell on Friday. When will you be down,
Miss Weston?"

"I'm not quite sure," Emmie told him, "but Miss
Candy will tell you."

"How am I to know _her_, when I see her?"

"Oh, that's so. You don't know Lib. Well, I will
go with her to the railroad station and see that you
are properly introduced."

They both smiled but Emmie, knowing Lib, felt
she had the best of the joke.

They walked to the elevator, and as Miss Weston
went up to the fifteenth floor, Bob Landon took the
stairs to the first floor, bounding down them two at
a time, a very good imitation of a man hurrying for
his train. It was all he could do to keep from running
along the street and shouting for pure joy.
Money in his pocket, and a chance to take Bunny out
of town!

In Patchen Place, on the lower floor of an old
house that had been remodeled with the least possible
expense, Bunny Wells sat in the sunshine, waiting for
Bob to get back before he opened a can of baked beans
for their luncheon. He had almost made up his mind
that Bob was not coming back until night.

Sitting there, broad-shouldered and erect, Bunny
looked like an athlete. There was, however, an effect
of delicacy about his handsome, strongly modeled
face--that look of suffering patiently borne, which
makes a man's face so heart-breakingly appealing.

When Bunny rose, the look was explained, for he
reached for the crutches that leaned against his chair
and swung himself toward the two-burner gas stove
on which he prepared the mid-day meal.

The door opened and Bob, gay, excited, shouting--utterly
unlike the grave young architect who had been
talking to Emmie Weston--came in. He turned off
the gas, swung Bunny away from the stove and toward
the window with one arm, and flourished before him
a roll of bills.

"Look at that my gentle Peter Rabat," which was
Bunny's real name--Peter Rabat Wells.

Bunny looked, and tried to grab, but expert as he
was with his delicate long hands, Bob had him at
his mercy, holding the bills, just out of reach.

"Is it real?"

Bob nodded.

"Whom did you hold up?" Bunny asked, with a
quick scowl. He hated to have Bob borrow, especially
as he knew it was mainly for him. His devilish
pension was small, and his wants were many.

"No hold up. Just sheer, damned luck. Somebody,
I don't know who, but I suspect it was Mrs.
Montgomery, bless her, mentioned me to a nice
woman with a peach of an old house on her hands."

Bunny broke into a string of curses.

"I say, Bunny," Bob ventured at last, when he
could make himself heard, "it's true. We go on
Friday to see the house. In proof whereof I show
you the picture postal of the house, which I did
not give back to the lady."

He held it out to Bunny.

Bunny wouldn't look at it.

"I'm afraid to look. Something will happen. It
won't come true."

"Oh, I say, Bunny," Bob was genuinely distressed,
"was it as bad as all that?"

Bunny cursed again.

Bob took him by the shoulders, determinedly:
"Comb that mop, and come out. We'll dine largely
and well. No more beans, hateful veg., reminiscent
of army life."

"I have always liked them," said Bunny, in the
same softly modulated voice in which he had sworn.
"I have always liked beans. I was all for them during
the war and now I'm for Peace with Beans."

"We'll dine at Louis' Place," Bob told him with
authority, "and I'll tell you there all about East Penniwell
and the William Penn-Quaker-Pennsylvania
dream of a house. To that house we're going, to live
the life of Riley, while we bring the dream up-to-date."

    *    *    *    *    *

While Bunny brushed his hair, Emmietta came out
of Booth 7 and met her sister May, face to face.

It was probable that Calla thought by this time, so
great was the improvement, that Emmie had taken her
sister into her confidence. This, however, was far
from being either Emmietta's intention or the truth.

The sisters stood looking at each other for a minute
that seemed long to Emmie, before May gasped:
"Emmie!"

"Yes," said Emmie composedly, though her heart
gave an extra beat of mingled excitement and terror.
One never knew just how May would take things, or
rather one knew only too well that May would take
nothing quietly.

"I had no idea," May began, the signs of coming
storm showing in eyes and brow, "that you were here."

"Let's go into your booth, May, and talk it over.
I didn't want you to know until I had finished my
shopping," Emmie added, as May led the way. "I
wanted to have something decent to wear and to get
a little rest before I came to see you."

"Well!" May finally breathed, rather taken aback
by so matter of fact tone, "I must say you have--"

"Yes, I do look better in more ways than one.
Don't you think so, May?"

"Where--" began May.

"At The Commodore. Lib Candy is with me,"
Emmie said hurriedly, thinking it was best to switch
May from any supposed grievance by rapidly supplying
her with all necessary information. "I came directly
to Mrs. Lilley and put myself in her hands.
She's been giving me massage and hair treatment."

This had the desired effect. May bent forward and
looked at Emmie searchingly.

Emmie knew it was to see whether she had been
using dye and cosmetics and faced it. Anything, even
such unfounded suspicions, were welcome if they held
May's attention. She was bound to grow tearful if
she thought Emmie was neglecting her.

"And my clothes, too," Emmie added. "Don't
you think they are an improvement?"

May's attention was again claimed. She looked
over Emmie's apparel. Black, but not too densely,
grimly black, touches of white at the throat and
sleeves. Undoubtedly it set off Emmie's much improved
complexion. Why, she looked years younger
and--May had to admit it--decidedly good-looking.
It was difficult to recognize in this Emmie the downtrodden,
homely drudge that May had seen at the
funeral. May's lips tightened. Not for worlds would
she tell Emmie this.

But Emmie had already shrewdly guessed. May's
eyes had always betrayed her to Emmie. May's
greedy eyes would never drink in her appearance to
this extent if Emmie was not far more attractive
than May cared to see.

"You must have been spending money," May's
small mean mouth, so like the late Eli's, opened far
enough to say.

"Oh yes, but to advantage, don't you think, May?
I can come to see you now without blushing, or causing
you to blush, for your country sister."

"I never--" May began.

"Of course not. You were too considerate of my
feelings, May, yet I must have been a trial to see, and
it would have been unbearable--if I had gone to you
as I came from the country."

May was tremendously annoyed, but also not a
little intrigued. There was no excuse for tears. May
was meant to feel that, and felt it, and there was no
way of getting at this Emmie, in this public place
where May could not successfully stage a scene.
Emmie was not to escape utterly, but she was not to
be antagonized.

May realized that she must keep a tight rein on her
private prejudices and feelings as far as Emmie was
concerned, for a little while. There was too much
at stake to allow Emmie to withdraw herself. There
was Weston to be considered. His aunt was a
wealthy woman, and there was no one save Weston
to whom Emmietta would naturally and legitimately
leave her money. A horrid fear seized May, as she
looked on this blooming, well-dressed Emmie. Suppose
she got "notions" about men. May felt it incumbent
upon her to do her best to keep Emmie "out of
mischief."

"You'll come up to the house for dinner, won't
you, Emmie?" she said, in that silky tone that Emmie
had long ago learned to fear. It foretold May's campaign
for something she wanted. "Both Weston and
my husband will want to see you."

"I have an engagement for to-morrow," Emmie
said quickly, her embarrassment at the thought of
meeting people making her voice stern and abrupt.

May frowned. Whom on earth did Emmie know
in New York? A man? "Well, Wednesday at 7:30."

Her glance at Emmie so plainly questioned whether
Emmie had anything decent to wear that Emmie had
hard work to keep from outlining her present wardrobe,
or at least saying, "I have a dinner dress." But
she knew that was precisely what May wanted to
know, so perversely kept from saying it.

"Just ourselves, possibly one or two friends," May
said. "I'd like you to know some of my friends,
Emmie, since you are in town--for how long?"

"I don't know." Emmie said. It had come. May
would try to interfere. May offering to entertain
Emmie! To introduce her to her friends! May
wanting to know for how long she was in town!
Truly money has a marvelously softening power upon
certain individuals.

"Well, you'll come Wednesday, anyway."

May's manner of taking anything she wanted for
granted had always irritated Emmie. Dearly would
she love to refuse, but discretion urged her to say
"Yes," and to murmur that she had to keep another
appointment, as May's white robed attendant came in
to take down May's hair. Emmie gave May a sisterly
kiss and was gone before May could ask any more
questions.

Emmie breathed freedom with the air, when she
reached Madison Avenue and walked toward her hotel.
Why need May be so formidable? Emmie reminded
herself that she was not accountable to May for her
money or her actions. She did not feel quite so
care free as she neared Forty Second Street. Lib
was waiting for her, and she had yet to explain to
Lib Candy that Lib must return to East Penniwell
without her, and entertain Mr. Robert Landon and
his companion.

Lib received the news anything but graciously. She
pursed her thin lips, looked at Emmie with steely eyes
and waited.

Emmie came to the end of her sentence, and began
again. "You might put Mr. Landon in the south
room and his friend in the room next to him."

"Both of 'em could git in the south room and save
work. It's as big as three of these that we're paying
a ransom for."

Glad of any excuse to keep Lib from asking her
questions, Emmie said with authority, "Both rooms
ready, Lib, and then let them decide for themselves.
But both rooms ready."

There was a painful silence, and then Lib said:

"When you coming down yourself, Miss Emmie?"

"I don't know," Emmie said. "As soon as I finish
my treatments at Mrs. Lilley's--and a little business
I have to do."

Lib coughed.

"I'm visiting my sister, May, on Wednesday."

Lib coughed again.

Emmie hesitated. "Don't tell Asher, or East Penniwell,
anything about these two men," she said, "except
that they are--just two friends of mine."

Lib nodded.

Emmie made a desperate effort. "Of course, I'm
awfully sorry to have you go, Lib, but I can't think
of the house without you there to look after it."

Lib sniffed. "'Course the house needs me, Miss
Emmie. I can see that."

"I shall feel so much more comfortable about it,"
Emmie added softly.

Lib looked at her again, meditating. Finally she
said, slowly, "Miss Emmie, how'm I gonna know these
men?"

"I'm going with you to the station," Emmie said
patiently. It was the third time she had told Lib
this.

Lib sniffed again. "Miss Emmie, what am I to
keep East Penniwell going on, if Tom Hastings comes
down before you do?"

Emmie's eyes twinkled, but she used Lib's own
tactics. "I leave it to you."

For the first time, Lib smiled. "Miss Emmie, you
are a smart one. Can't get any change outter you,
can I?"

Emmie looked at her. After all, clamped lips or
no, there was nobody like Lib. She understood.
Sometimes she understood too much, but still and all
she was Lib, who had stood by her for long years.

Lib waited, complacently, smoothing down the new
dress she was wearing.

"Want I should keep up as much style as possible,
I suppose, Miss Emmie?"

Emmie nodded, smiling.

"Well, might as well git some use outter the dress
you bought me. Asher'll open his eyes some."

Again they exchanged significant smiles.

"Lib, get in young Andy's second daughter to do
the dishes and help with the housework. Remember
you're the housekeeper now."

Lib frowned. "Don't know as I want anything
so young, flighty and white as young Andy's second
daughter round me. She'll be wasting my time leaning
against the door jamb gossiping with Asher." Lib
thought a moment, gazing past Emmie out of the
window. "I guess I'd better git Zebra's granddaughter,
Morphy Ballins. She's a good cleaner."

"Suit yourself," said Emmie, who saw Lib's point,
when she remembered Asher's frankness of conversation
and proneness for the neighborhood of anything
in petticoats, under twenty.

"Yes, I guess Zebra's Morphy would just about do,"
Lib said. "Of course, there'll be a sight of dusting
after her to count on, but she's as near a good worker
as any I've known, white or black."

"Then that's settled," Emmie murmured.

"Miss Emmie," Lib began absentmindedly, "would
you--if you was me--wear my new blue, or my
new red hat, or the black with the pink roses? My
land! I never had so many new ones to oncet in my
life. I'd feel dredful if two of them wasn't yours
that you give me. They're new to me. As woman to
woman, Miss Emmie, which one do you think would
kinda stagger Asher the most?"

"The red."

Lib beamed at her. "Red it is then," she said,
"and red it should be too," she added, looking severely
at her mistress, "seeing that East Penniwell ought to
get some kinda danger signal, for what you are up
to, Miss Emmie--that you ain't telling me--and mind
you that I ain't asking--is likely to shake up East
Penniwell worsen a earthquake."

    *    *    *    *    *

Emmie, standing with Lib in the Pennsylvania station
and waiting with that faint stir of excitement that
a railway station always gave her with its groups of
travelers hurrying from ticket office to train, had a
sinking of the heart as the hands of the clock stole
nearer and nearer the hour of departure to East Penniwell,
and no Bob Landon came toward her.

Lib, who had the country woman's impatience to
be on board train long ahead of time in order not
to miss it, began fidgeting.

"Put not your trust in architects or any other man
for that matter," she said, glancing at the new wrist
watch which Miss Emmie had presented her with, and
then at the station clock, to see if they agreed. "It's
likely he just talked up to you, Miss Emmie, for the
sake of the down payment and never had any intention
of hiring himself out in a little country town like
East Penniwell. He'll never come in time now. If
he doesn't come, do I go right along? Do I?"

"Oh yes, I suppose so," Emmie said, worn out with
the task of keeping Lib from asking every porter and
trainman that passed where the train was, and if it
was ready to go yet.

Bob Landon's tall figure came toward them. He
was walking very slowly, for beside him was Bunny.

Emmie saw Bob's eyes full of solicitude fixed on his
companion. He was carefully keeping himself between
Bunny and careless, hurrying travelers. A
colored porter guarded Bunny's other crutch.

Impulsively Emmie moved toward them. Bunny
saw her and smiled. If this was Bob's lady, they
were surely in luck.

"Why, Bob she's lovely!" he said. "Why didn't
you tell me she was so good-looking?"

"Is she? I never noticed anything except her
money. Look out Bunny! What floundering idiots
some men are!" he exclaimed, as he elbowed between
Bunny and a harassed immigrant father with five
dirty, confused children and a bewildered wife, carrying
a baby.

But Emmie had seen Bunny's approving eyes, and
all her diffidence had disappeared. She went eagerly
toward them. She could have laughed aloud with
relief and thankfulness. She saw Lib's eyes contract
as she watched the men.

"That them?"

Emmie nodded.

Lib looked at her with admiration. "I'll say for
you, Miss Emmie, you're a good picker. Two classy-looking
fellers, even if one of 'em's lame."

Miss Emmie did not respond. She was wondering
what had made Bob's companion lame. There was
no apparent deformity or shortening of leg or foot.
She had little time for speculation. She must introduce
Lib Candy, and watch Bob introduce her to
Bunny.

Introductions over, they made their way to the
train gate, Bob shouldering his way ahead to make
a safe path for Bunny.

Lib clutched Emmie's arm. "If he gets a notion
to act kinda interested in you, Miss Emmie, don't
shake him off, because East Penniwell would kinda
believe a woman'd give Tom Hastings the go-by for
_him_. Your plan's clear to me now--and it's a good
one."

Before the amazed Emmietta could speak Lib had
followed Bob and Bunny through the gate.




6


We eat to live, but we dine, or are dined, to pay our
social debts. Never was this more apparent than at
May Kent's table, for she followed the rule of cutlet
for cutlet ruthlessly.

May Kent was an excellent housekeeper. Her
rooms were attractive, her servants well trained and
her food good, though there was never more than
just enough, not quite enough some people thought.
May's best friends had formed the habit of taking a
glass of milk, or a cocktail and a sandwich before going
to May's dinners, if their appetites were rude.
Many a man and wife came home, after a dinner at
the Kent's, and rummaged through the ice box, before
going to bed.

May Kent had inherited so much of the frugality of
her father that, while she rigidly observed the rule
of cutlet for cutlet, it was a very small cutlet, under
all its trimmings, that one got at her dinner table.

Emmie's heart sank as she passed along the hall
of May's apartment. The hall ran directly through
the middle of the apartment. On one side was the
dining room, on the other side the drawing room and
the library.

As Emmie glanced toward the drawing room door,
she had a glimpse of her brother-in-law and Weston
talking to a very lovely young person, and May to another
man. Emmie did not see the man plainly, yet
her heart sank even lower. Was it possible that she
was growing morbid, or was she right and the man
Tom Hastings? It did not seem that May could have
done such a thing! May must remember something
about the past, although she had married and left
East Penniwell before Tom's departure. Was it a
devilish little scheme on May's part to bring them together
under her roof, to see with her own eyes what
the dangers of the situation were?

Emmie thoughtfully looked in the mirror and flung
back her head. May must never know what an ordeal
it was for Emmie to face new people. May should
see just exactly as much as Emmie chose to let her see,
and no more. Emmie's evening dress was exceedingly
becoming, and fortified by that fact Emmie's
head was again high, as she went toward the drawing
room.

As a matter of fact, May had met Tom Hastings
some weeks ago and had greeted him with small
friendliness, until she learned, from his attitude, that
he had apparently forgotten everything about Emmie
and was only interested in brickyards. Then May had
laughed. Not only was Emmie's romance shattered,
but Tom was apparently unconscious that there had
been any romance. It was rich--to a mean woman--and
May was essentially mean. She rejoiced in a
purely unsisterly manner, calculating shrewdly all the
while that if Emmie was flicked, while the wound was
raw, at exactly the right moment, she would naturally
cut Tom out of her plans as far as matrimony was
concerned.

Though she pretended, even to herself, to be deeply
sorry for Emmie, in her heart May could not help a
little feeling of scorn. Surely now Emmie would
realize that romance was not for her, and settle down
to middle-age, with Weston as her sole heir.

Weston liked his aunt. It needed only a little prodding
now to make him play the dutiful nephew. The
dinner to-night was to show Emmie, herself, Tom's
admiration for Lee Lansing and Weston's handicap.
Surely, Emmie could not fail to back her own flesh
and blood!

Emmie, forewarned and forearmed by that glimpse
of Tom and her knowledge of May's character, came
calmly into the drawing room. Her first glance told
her that it was Tom. Could this be the girl May had
spoken of--the girl Weston liked?

As she walked across the room, with a smile, to
greet her brother-in-law and Weston, Emmie's mind
was rapidly sorting over these facts, and wondering if
Tom was the middle-aged lover who May had hinted
was making Weston's life difficult.

If he was, May's scheme was sufficiently clear. It
was a mean and unsisterly trick, and yet May might
do--just that. She had deliberately brought Emmie
face to face with her young rival. What luck that
Emmie had been prepared for "something," before
she came into the room! May would never know, nor
should Tom, just how it made her feel. Emmie turned
to greet the girl.

Lee Lansing, who always gave the effect of ignoring
her own beauty, even while she used it ruthlessly,
looked with interest upon Emmie. She had heard
Weston's indignant description of his poor little old
aunt, whom his miserly grandfather had so used and
suppressed. This woman did not look so awfully held
down, nor in the least repressed. She was obviously
good-looking, and her dress was in the very latest
mode, even if it was black.

Involuntarily Emmie smiled, as she stretched out
her hand. What a pretty girl! And how very modern,
from her bobbed locks to the ultra short dress that
draped her slim, youthful figure. No wonder Weston
had lost his head. No wonder Tom was fascinated!
Yet Tom was not young, but that, thought Emmie
bitterly, never stopped a man.

Dinner was announced immediately, so that Emmie
had time for no more than to indicate her pleasure at
seeing Tom Hastings there. She had, for the moment,
Tom's entire attention. He was hastily revising his
program. He had come to this dinner in order to
enlist Lee Lansing's aid. He had meant to ask Lee to
help him reach this woman, whom he had mistaken
for her own aunt. Now he saw that would never do.
He could not even indirectly mention that particular
mistake to another woman. How could he have been
so blind as to make it?

Emmie sat beside him, outwardly composed, inwardly
a prey to half a dozen different emotions at
once, and praying that she would have sense enough to
keep them entirely to herself or, here at May's beautifully
appointed table, she might meet her Waterloo.
Tom Hastings would undoubtedly try to influence her
to look favorably upon his scheme for buying her land.
She must keep him from speaking of that before May,
if she could. May was so avid, if one spoke of money.
It sickened Emmie to see her father's least attractive
look reproduced on May's smooth face. May was
busy spreading nets for her feet, Emmie knew, and if
she was not careful May would trap her.

Resolutely Emmie put behind her all thought of
how strange it was to sit beside Tom Hastings, after
all these years, and feel not only utterly different from
any and all of the ways she had imagined she would
feel, but actually be watching out warily for pitfalls
and for gins. Her hand trembled a little as she lifted
her fork to taste the lobster cocktail which the waitress
placed before her.

And then Tom spoke: "I couldn't find out where
you were in this town."

"I didn't want anyone to know for awhile. I
wanted to rest. As a matter of fact I didn't even
tell May. We stumbled upon each other by chance."

Tom glanced at her quickly.

Emmie bore the glance serenely, sure that Calla
Lilley's efforts would be justified. She had made the
delightful discovery that though Tom Hastings sat
beside her she could eat with enjoyment. The years
brought their compensation. There had been a day
when mere proximity to Tom Hastings destroyed her
appetite utterly, and set her heart beating at such a
rate that she could neither eat nor talk.

She looked up from her lobster now and glanced
quickly across the table, where the vivacious Lee was
engrossing the attention of both father and son.

"Isn't she a charmingly pretty girl?" exclaimed the
generous Emmie.

"Very," said Tom enthusiastically, "and so clever,
such a lot of temperament. She sings, you know, and
designs and rides and skates and dances. It's wonderful
what girls do nowadays."

Emmie assented, while her mind went back to
the days when she had been Lee's age, and she
glanced at the man beside her, wondering if the least
flash of memory came to him of by-gone days, of
pretty girls, and one in particular, the young Emmietta
Weston, who seemed now as great a stranger, as lost to
Emmie Weston, herself, as to Tom Hastings. Apparently
Tom never gave by-gone times or girls a thought,
for he leaned across the table to answer some laughing
remark of Lee's.

Emmie looked up to find Weston regarding her
with solemn but friendly eyes. He caught her glance
and leaned toward her.

"My hat, Aunt Emmie, you've taken my advice with
a vengeance! You look twenty years younger."

"It was good advice, Weston, if it has that effect."

"Surest thing you know. Only keep sweet, Aunt
Emmie. Don't go any further."

"Weston!" Emmie laughed. "What on earth do
you mean?"

"What I say," Weston said darkly and without
glancing at his mother. "Get busy with diet and fresh
air and new clothes but leave the rouge and dye pots
to those older--" he lifted his voice and glanced at
Lee, who apparently did not hear him--"or younger.
Go on your own, Aunt Emmie, your own looks and
spirits--you've got 'em--and let the rest go."

Emmie's laughter made Tom turn toward her. He
was conscious that she should receive a little more
attention if he wished to carry through, successfully,
a certain scheme.

"Are you going back to East Penniwell soon?" he
asked.

Conversation seemed to cease for the moment.
Everybody listened as though all their plans hung on
Emmie's answer.

"I don't know," Emmie deliberated, "but I think
it will have to be soon. Lib went down yesterday to
open the house and look after two friends of mine,
who went with her. I must, at least, go down to see
if they are comfortable and content."

Emmie could see May's plucked eyebrows travel upward.
A question was forming on May's lips. Weston
saw it too and, with a quick glance at his father, as
though fearing an outburst from his mother, leaned
toward Emmie.

"But I say, Aunt Emmie, you must be glad to
have some one in that big house."

"I am," Emmie smiled back at the boy. "It's a
big place for just one woman."

Lee Lansing turned to her. "Is yours the lovely old
Pennsylvania house Wes raves about? The house
at--"

"East Penniwell," supplied Emmie and gave a
pleased glance at her nephew. "I'm so glad you care
about it, Weston."

Weston laughed. "Who could help it. It's an old
beauty, Aunt Emmie."

"I'm going to have it remodeled."

"Oh, Emmie!" gasped May.

"Aunt Emmie!" Weston spoke in quite a different
tone, but looked equally distressed. "Don't spoil it.
It's perfect as it is."

"Outside," admitted Emmie cheerfuly, "but not inside.
It wants a lot done to it. Trust me, Weston,
I won't spoil it."

"Got a good man?" Weston inquired.

"The best," Emmie said steadily and then added
daringly, "come down with me and meet him, Weston,
when I go to talk over the plans." Emmie's heart
had warmed to the boy, her own kin, who had liked
the old house. It was wonderful to have some one
care.

"I dote on old houses," Lee Lansing announced.
She smiled winningly at Emmie.

Dazzled, Emmie ventured: "Would you come too?"

"Like a shot. I'm sick of this old city anyway, just
now. I'm dying to get away."

"Yes, you are!" Weston jibed. "A little dance-cat
like you! Why, you'd get tired of country life in
five hours--no jazz, no theatres--"

"Of course," Lee said, selecting an olive, "I didn't
say permanently sick of the town. I like the old place
fairly well and my dancing days are not over yet. But
just for a ride down, dear Wes. To give the old place
the once-over, and back the same day. I'd like it."

Emmie saw the hungry, smoldering light in the
boy's eyes, as they dwelt on the delicately painted face
and the cropped golden head.

"Then come down, my dear," she urged impulsively.
"Come down for the day and look it over and if you
like it come down again, and for as long as you
please."

"Aunt Emmie," Wes broke in a little hurriedly, his
voice sharp and eager, "why can't I drive you down?"

Tom Hastings saw his chance. "I say, Wes, let me.
My car will hold us all and I have to go there on business
anyway. What do you say Miss Weston--or is
it Emmie as it used to be?"

"To-morrow," said Emmie, triumph in her heart.
"To-morrow, Tom."

All East Penniwell would see her coming home in
Tom Hastings' car.

May's voice, sharp and edgy, broke in on this
pleasant planning. "You were going to meet Holly
Bannister, and buy some new furnishings for your
rooms at Princeton, Weston."

"Plenty of time for that," Weston told her, reddening.
He had seen Tom smile across the table at
Lee. Why must his mother always parade the fact
that he was still a student, before this heavy business
man?

"Princeton's very near," Emmie said, instinctively
coming to the rescue. "If Weston wants to go
there--"

May interrupted with: "Holly doesn't live in Princeton
yet." Her voice was heavily sarcastic, insinuating
that Emmie was too rustic, too old maidish, to know
much about college men, or terms.

"Well, Aunt Emmie doesn't know Holly," Weston
declared, defending this aunt who was so quick to
aid him. "It's a matter of no importance, anyway.
We won't need the new things if I should decide not to
go back this fall."

It was a threat that never failed to make his mother
wince in public and rail in private. May winced now,
and Emmie was sorry for her. She saw May look
appealingly at Lee, and Lee deliberately turn to Tom,
without returning the look.

Weston glanced at his aunt, and met her sympathetic eyes.

"Can we all come, Aunt Emmie? Sure it's all
right?"

"Absolutely," Emmie told him delightedly. "Weston,
I can't tell you how pleased I am that you are interested
in the house."

"It's a grand old house." Weston's eyes strayed
toward Lee. They were rising now, leaving the
dining table. He bent toward his aunt and whispered
swiftly, "Cinch it up, Aunt Emmie, now, so that it
can't be changed. Lee's slippery. I'm keen to have
her down there." The boy's eyes rested on his kinswoman
with an appeal she could not resist. "The
telephone's in the hall. Let's fix it up with Lib Candy
now, before mother thinks up any more objections."

Emmie would have done much more for him than
that. It gave her a distinctly warm and friendly feeling
to be able to do anything for one who, in some
degree, belonged to her.

True to type, after leading her to the telephone and
giving the instructions to the long distance operator,
Weston drifted off to the library to detach Lee from
Tom. He left Emmie waiting for the number, but
Emmie did not mind. She leaned her head against
the back of the telephone chair, which was so like May
in being solid mahogany, ornate and uncomfortable.
Emmie looked through the open library door. Lee,
May, her husband, and Weston. How odd it was to be
with them and odder still to be in this house with
Tom!

The telephone bell rang sharply. Emmie answered
it. It was difficult to hear the operator. Emmie, complaining
of this, asked for a better connection. She
was aware of the interchange of opinion between the
New York and the East Penniwell operators. She
heard the East Penniwell operator say wearily: "Can't
do any better. Every time that number is called the
whole line takes off the receivers and listens."

Emmie forgot herself and giggled. Then she heard
Lib Candy's voice, "My good Gravy, Miss Emmie!
That you? Anything wrong?"

Miss Emmie assured her all was well and began
to explain. She could hear Lib's gasp of astonishment
as she said:

"I'm motoring down to-morrow, Lib, with Miss
Lansing, Weston and Tom Hastings. Just for the
day. Can you have a specially nice luncheon ready by
one-thirty?"

"My Land of Love! Yes," came Lib's excited
voice, "I'd do more'n that, Miss Emmie, to have you--and--and
Tom Hastings under the same roof.
G'by!"

Lib hung up before Emmie could take her to task.

Emmie rose, thinking guiltily to herself that, as
she had planned, the news would be all over East
Penniwell in a few minutes. She was still smiling
to herself as she went toward the library door.

Tom Hastings was standing there looking at her.
For the twentieth time that night he asked himself
how he could ever have taken this radiant woman for
poor old Aunt Em.

Emmie looked up at him.

"What's the joke?" Tom asked.

Emmie laughed. "The joke is on you, Mr. Thomas
Hastings," she said, "but rest easy, I'll never tell it."

She went past him into the room. Tom followed
her, puzzled.

Did she mean that confounded Aunt Em business,
or was there something else? He followed Emmie with
his eyes, he listened to her conversation with Lee
and Weston, seeking to solve the puzzle. He wondered
why he didn't come out into the open and ask
her if she bore malice about his "Aunt Em" slip, but
she gave him no opportunity. Neither would she
talk business with him. Adroitly, she put him off.
"When we are in East Penniwell, not before," she
said, and all the time there was a twinkle in her eyes
that kept him guessing.

If Emmie had been one of the most guileful of
women, she could not have intrigued Tom more successfully.
A joke "on" him, which she would not
tell! He was determined to be her shadow until he
learned what it was!




7


Pity the man who wounds a woman's vanity. The
bill for damages which she will insist on collecting
will be far greater than if he had run over her with
his motor.

Sweetly, but very firmly, Emmie refused the seat
of honor beside the driver in Tom's car. Not so
easily would he get a chance to wipe out his initial
mistake, or that speech with her about his brickyards,
which she had skillfully avoided the night of May's
dinner and since.

Without a single twinge, Emmie watched Lee climb
into the front seat, and saw Tom's appreciative eyes,
as the lovely young thing settled down beside him.

On the rear seat Weston Kent was a prey to
jealousy. His gentle aunt had deliberately sacrificed
him in order to carry out her own schemes. She
glanced now at her good-looking kinsman and wondered
at herself. Then she hardened her heart. Weston
was young, plenty of time for him to chop and
change, and wring his heart's desire out of life.
Emmie had wasted so much time that she had absolutely
none to lose. She sighed, and glanced at Lee.
A jealous fear, beyond anything Weston felt, reached
out to clutch her. Resolutely she turned her eyes away
from the front seat and brought her mind to bear upon
East Penniwell and the problem that awaited her there.

East Penniwell was already agog over the reappearance
of Lib Candy, "dressed up to the minute."
Then there were the two strange men who had come
with Lib and taken up their abode in the Weston
house. The party wire had not rested. It had been
especially active after Miss Emmie's telephone message
to Lib.

Lib, moving about the house with her mouth set in
grim amusement, listened to the rings thoughtfully
until the whole eighteen were accounted for.

Asher Turkle took every opportunity to listen in,
and report:

"Miss Mink and Miss Annie Mink surmise we're
taking in boarders."

Lib said nothing.

"Are we?"

"What do you think?"

Asher retired again to the telephone, only partially
defeated, to return later with:

"Mrs. John Smith says it's plain to her that Miss
Emmie's entertaining some society folk that she met
in New York."

"Well?"

"Mrs. Adam Misener says that she thinks they are
Tom Hastings' brick men. What say?"

"Nothing," said Lib. "Form your own opinions,
and bring me up some coal for the kitchen range."

Asher trotted away obediently, but shaking his
head. The Lib Candy, from New York, was scarcely
the Lib Candy who had left East Penniwell so reluctantly.
Was this the woman who had served Eli
Weston so meekly all those years? Look at the clothes
she had come back in, and her new way of doing her
hair! More than that, she was changing her dress
every afternoon, and every afternoon she went out
for a walk or a call!

Much as Asher would like to set Lib in her place,
and give her a piece of his mind, he felt that discretion
was the better part of valor, until Miss Emmie
came home. It might be that Lib and Miss Emmie
had come to some agreement about money, which was
why the woman was so contrary.

Asher sighed, but not from the weight of the scuttle.
It was rather from the weight of suspicion that
held him down. Home was scarcely home to Asher
with these two strange men in the house. Lib had
given him no explanation, merely said, "Miss Emmie
said these gentlemen are to have the best in the house,
and in East Penniwell."

Despite every opportunity, Lib had declined to explain
further, or to divulge her instructions. Asher
could put but one construction on this attitude. One
of the men was "after" Miss Emmie, or Miss Emmie
was "after" one of them. Disinterested friendship
between male and female is not believed in, or countenanced,
by men of Asher's type and caliber.

The two men were all right, themselves. Asher
would have liked nothing better than a long intimate
conversation with them, which would result in his
saying nothing of importance while they made plain
to him their purpose in East Penniwell. But Lib did
her best to keep them apart. Never, even in Eli's
days, had Asher had to trot about so. Everything he
had done, during Lib's absence, was apparently wrong,
and either had to be done all over again or changed
in some way. Moreover, Lib, and the visitor who
wasn't lame--Mr. Landon--were all over the house,
tapping, measuring, while Mr. Landon asked questions
and put down figures on paper.

A horrid fear pursued Asher. These two females,
Miss Emmie and Lib, were going to sell the house!
Asher's heart shrank. He hated change and especially
he hated the unknown, or, as he put it, "the onknowable."
Why couldn't Lib explain and consult
with him? What had he done to be suddenly shut
out in this way?

He puzzled over it and finally triumphantly came
to the conclusion that Lib was trying to force his
hand. Well, two people could play at that game. An
"asking" was what the woman wanted. It was what
they all wanted, to get a man completely in their
power. Well then, a proposal was something she
should not have until Miss Emmie came home. Miss
Emmie had some sense.

Asher was the only unhappy man in the house.
Bob and Bunny were entranced. The house was as
treasure-trove to Bob. He went singing and whistling
about it, as he planned. The longer Miss Emmie
stayed away the more the house seemed his own,
and he could dream over plans to keep its character
intact, yet have everything in it that a modern man
or woman could desire. He wanted nothing else. He
was indifferent as to Emmie's return. All he wanted
was the house.

But Bunny, like Asher, longed for Emmie's return,
and not merely that Bob might propose that the handling
of the interior decorating be given to Bunny.
He wanted to do it and could, easily, with Bob's help.
It was Emmie, herself, Bunny was anxious to see.
He longed to thank this woman, who had made life
bloom again for Bob. Emmie's face had charmed
him and Emmie's house had still further intrigued
him. He went about it trying to fit the woman he
had seen in the railroad station to this environment.
He treasured all he heard of her, as he walked about
her town, as he read her books, looked at her pictures,
and out of her windows. He waited to see Emmie
again with an intensity of interest that surprised him.

The first intimation of Emmie's approach was her
long distance message from New York. Lib had at
once called upon Asher and Zebra's granddaughter,
Morphinia Ballins, whom she was breaking in to wash
dishes and wait on table, for aid. Asher had shaken
his head over the news. He gave the information, in
solemn tones that presaged the worst, to Bob and
Bunny, as Lib began operations.

Bob, who had been blissfully replanning the library,
was driven forth, by Morphy. "'Scuse me, Mr.
Landon, but could you kinda keep outen from under
ma' feet? Wif Miss Libby so rambunctious this
morning, ain't nuthin' a'tall suit her, lessen I sweep
right blam fru the house."

Bob immediately proposed a walk to Bunny and
together they went down East Penniwell's main street
at a pace suited to Bunny's power of locomotion.

    *    *    *    *    *

It had been a pleasant ride down to East Penniwell
for Lee Lansing, driven by one suitor and conscious
that another was jealously watching her. Pleasant
also, but puzzling for Tom Hastings, who wondered
what the devil that Weston woman was up to,
calmly relinquishing him to the girl, and quietly pleasant
but uncommunicative. Not once had he been able
to get the proposed brickyard into the conversation,
even in the way of a mild pleasantry. And now he
could never explain taking her for her Aunt Em.
Positively the woman grew handsomer and younger
each minute, and he had not yet discovered the joke
that was "on" him.

As for Emmie, it was a revelation to her, this ride.
Here she was, actually in Tom Hastings' motor, Tom
on the front seat, with a pretty girl, and yet Emmie
knew the girl was not getting Tom's entire attention.
It was so pleasant that Emmie hoped it was true.
Meantime, she would not gratify Tom's curiosity as to
the brickyard property, and that would give her time.
Time for what? Emmie refused to answer that question
to herself. She only admitted that she was beginning
a tremendous campaign to save her self respect
and keep the village's good opinion. It was essential
that she keep Tom waiting, and guessing.

Emmie was beginning to know and like Weston
Kent far better than she had supposed she would ever
like any one belonging to her sister May.

Weston thought his aunt a great improvement on
his preconceived idea of his mother's sister. Actually
she had some life in her, and some ideas! She was
utterly unlike mother. He only hoped Aunt Emmie
would not spoil the house. He felt it his duty to see
that she did not. Meanwhile, it was a bore that Lee
was letting herself go, as usual, with that middle-aged
duffer, Hastings, who had been, if he understood
his mother correctly, at one time his Aunt Emmie's
property. Well, why on earth didn't Aunt
Emmie clamp on a wedding ring, anchor him down
to middle-aged matrimony and so keep him in his
place, instead of letting him run about with girls?

Weston was more than usually blue. There had
been a terrific scene at home, when he had hinted that
he might not return to Princeton this fall. The matter
was still unsettled, but he was coming down to
East Penniwell again soon and intended to do as he
pleased. It depended entirely on Lee whether Princeton
ever saw him again. He modestly admitted to
himself that the football team might miss him, but a
man's career was, after all, a man's own concern.

East Penniwell saw them approach and stop at the
Weston gate. Miss Annie Mink was at her window
and Sister was out in the garden. They hurried
toward each other and collided in the doorway.

"Sister, has Miss Emmie dyed?" gasped Miss
Annie, holding her hand against her bruised head.

"Died! No indeed! She's as lively as you could
wish to see, and it's Tom Hastings' automobile!"

"I meant her hair," said Miss Annie, for once impatient
with Sister. "It seemed extra _bright_ to me."

They looked at each other doubtfully and Miss
Annie slowly shook her head. "Sister," she announced
in a thrilling whisper, "we're going to see doings about
this place that'll surprise us."

The street saw Miss Emmie helped out of the motor
by her own nephew, which was quite as it should be.
But Tom Hastings parked the car and helped out as
pretty a girl as had been in East Penniwell for some
time. Now what did that mean?

"Is it possible," gasped Mrs. Adam Misener, peering
out of the window of the general store, "that Tom
Hastings' been married whilst he was away hid off in
the West?" There were doubtful shakes of the head.
Tom's marriage would surely have been known, her
audience argued.

Mrs. Smith rallied them with a new theory: "Then
it's the boy's fy-nancy, and that must be it, otherwise
Emmie wouldn't look--My land, _look_ at Emmie! Did
j'ever see such a change?" Space at the window was
pushed and elbowed for. "Do you suppose she's been
done-up, enameled and such like? I've heard you can
do it, if you have the price."

But Mrs. Misener, indignant at being kept waiting
to find out whether Mrs. Peter Tosh wanted two and
a half or four pounds of granulated sugar, broke in:

"Here, you girls leave off picking on Miss Emmietta.
My land, just the relief of getting quit of
Eli Weston and having a nickel to spend on yourself
would perk up any woman."

"To say nuthin' of Tom Hastings coming back,"
snickered the only man in the shop.

Mrs. Philemon Arrowsmith had the last word.
"Yes, Tom Hastings has come back, but how has he
come back?" And darkly, "What for?"

Emmietta felt faintly reluctant to enter her home.
She wondered whether it was because she had changed
so in her brief freedom, her brief visit to New York,
that she feared the old house would reach out feelers
to drag her back into the old grooves. No, that was
impossible! Then she knew that she had somehow
expected to see Bob Landon, and especially his friend,
in the doorway.

They were not in sight and it was not until just
before luncheon was announced to the hungry motorists
that the two friends came toward the great dining
room, which Lib had scrubbed and polished and decorated
with flowers for Miss Emmie's home coming.

Bunny stood by the doorway, smiling, but Bob came
forward with outstretched hand to Emmie. Emmie
realized for the first time how distinguished he looked,
also that he was a little older than she had thought--younger
than Tom, of course, but distinctly older than
Weston. She was so engrossed in her greeting to
him, and in the endeavor not to show too much
consideration for Bunny, that she did not see the look
that passed between Lee Lansing and Bob.

It was only a glance but it was a glance that
might mean a great many things. Yet Lee allowed
Emmie to go through her form of introduction--"Miss
Lansing, Mr. Landon and Mr. Wells"--without
interruption.

Under cover of their finding their places at the
luncheon table, Bunny heard Lee hiss to Bob, "How
did you manage this?" and heard him say in a low
tone, which sounded dull and lifeless after the suppressed
fury of her voice, "Business, which I never
expected would include--you."

The luncheon party was gay, with a gayety due
mostly to Bunny, who, once seated, could hold his
own with any man, for looks and conversation, and
proceeded to do so. Miss Emmie was plainly delighted,
as she listened to his description of her oldest
friends and neighbors, and when she didn't know
whom he meant, he sketched them for her on the back
of an envelope, with a few authoritative lines.

Bunny was deeply interested in Zebra, but Asher
Turkle he loved. He blessed the day on which he had
met Asher. It had made life and East Penniwell far
more interesting to him, since Asher had taken the
trouble to bestow on Bunny bits of his own original
philosophy and his theory of the conduct of life.

"Wait until I give you his opinion of women, Miss
Emmie," Bunny said. "Even expurgated, you'll tremble,
after you've heard it. Every day that man comes
in with wood for the open fire he talks to me and tells
me how he sees through the sex. Nothing in their
dreadful lives is hidden from him."

"Except what Miss Lib Candy's intentions are,"
Bob cut in dryly, "and those are so deeply hidden that
Asher's getting thin trying to figure them out."

The talk switched to the house and its attractions
whenever Lib or Morphy came into the room, which
was as often as they could contrive.

Bob was tremendously enthusiastic about the house.
He had found all manner of hidden beauties, and
things that even Miss Emmie had forgotten the house
contained.

Interested, Weston forgot to scowl at Lee for Lee's
obvious monopoly of Tom Hastings. Gradually Lee
joined the discussion. Tom listened, studying the
group. While Bob talked, Bunny made delightful explanatory
sketches.

Tom looked again at Emmie as she bent over the
sketches with Bunny and wondered. The woman
fairly bloomed! She looked years younger. She was
good-looking and these men had not been slow to
notice it. Why, they were both so absorbed with
Emmietta Weston that they were not, incredible as it
seemed to Tom, paying the least attention to Lee
Lansing.

He looked at the men again narrowly, and saw
something that Emmie had missed. Though Bob
Landon was so grave, and so thoughtful, he was several
years younger than Bunny. It was Bunny Wells'
lameness, and Bob's anxious thought for him that
gave Bob Landon his elder brother air.

Tom looked at Emmie again, and saw easily why
these men could be so interested. To them she was
what she seemed, a lovely woman who looked fresh
and interested and charming. Neither of them would
have made his mistake. The thought of his error
reminded him of his business. Tom frowned a little,
and tapped a finger on the table, abstractedly.

Emmie looked up. "All this I'm afraid bores Mr.
Hastings, though it fascinates me."

"Not in the least," Tom said penitently and hastily.
"It is only that I--I have some business to transact
while I am here, and the time is short, since we go
back to town in a few hours. I wonder, Miss Weston--Emmie--could
I have a word with you about that
business soon?"

For one brief moment Tom thought Emmietta was
about to refuse point blank. Then she said, slowly,
and reluctantly:

"At your own risk. I'm not in the mood to talk
business yet. I don't think I want to sell."

Tom looked, as he felt, tremendously disappointed.
He started to rise from his chair, and then, being a
good business man, made due allowances for both the
sex and the mood of his opponent. He had made one
mistake with this woman. He must not make another.

"I'll take the risk," he told her, smiling, "and I
think you'll change your mind, when you hear my
offer."

But Emmie shook her head. Not so easily would
he get his way with her.

"I think I won't sell, Mr. Hastings, so why waste
your time?"

Tom, more amazed and more angry than he cared
to show before this company, aware as he was of Lee's
expectant and Weston's curious eyes, refused to take
Emmie seriously.

"I won't take that refusal as your answer, Emmie,"
he managed to say with a smile. "I'll wait until
I can see you alone."

Emmietta, who had been playing for just this,
shook her head with the proper amount of indecision.

Only to tight-lipped Lib, industriously placing ash
trays where they would do most good, was it apparent
that Miss Emmie was "giving that there Tom Hastings
his first come-uppance."




8


Sentiment and business mix as oil and water. Only
fools, or women, try to mix them.

There was nothing sentimental in Tom Hastings'
desire to see Emmietta alone, yet, when Weston and
Bunny went together to look at the library fireplace
and were followed at a respectful distance by Lee and
Bob Landon, Tom and Emmietta were alone in the
front room.

Emmie looked toward Tom expectantly. Surely
now he would begin that long-delayed explanation to
which she felt she was entitled. Nothing of the kind
came from Tom. Without hesitation and without
any attempt to soften his approach, he turned to her
as he closed the door between them and the others.

"And now, Miss Weston, about the brickyard property
I want to buy."

Emmie could not believe that she heard him aright.
She did not reply.

"Fair's explained it, hasn't he?" He glanced carelessly
out of the window. "The ground I want is at
least two and a half miles away. The brickyards will
give employment to some of the people here, pay them
well and increase the value of property."

Emmie laughed.

Tom looked at her inquiringly.

"I don't care about increasing property value. I
don't want East Penniwell to change," Emmie said.

Tom shrugged his shoulders. "Everything changes,
so why not East Penniwell? Especially if it is for
the good of everybody concerned."

Emmie walked toward the other window and
looked out. There was an odd expression on her face,
Tom thought, but when she turned again and looked
toward Tom, her glance was serene and she regarded
him with a smile that Tom somehow found disconcerting,
in spite of its apparent friendliness.

"I'm not entirely convinced that it _is_ for the good
of everybody concerned. When I am, I'll sell the
property."

"Yes, but time's a big factor in this scheme."

"It is in almost every scheme, isn't it?" Emmie
replied indifferently.

"Time," said Tom a little sententiously, for he was
greatly annoyed, "often makes changes necessary--"

"That's why we will take a little longer time to
decide in this particular instance if the changes are
necessary." Emmie was unmoved by Tom's annoyance.

"But when?"

"When I have come to a decision about the property,
Mr. Fair will notify you."

"Yes, but Miss Weston--Emmie, as I used to call
you."

"Oh," said Emmie, "you have again remembered
that."

"Of course I have remembered that, and a great
deal more."

"When you remember enough," Emmie said quietly,
"you will probably know why I can't answer you now."

She waited a moment expectantly, then moved
toward the door in a decided manner. Tom felt the
mounting red of exasperation in his face.

"I don't understand you at all," he blurted out.
"There's nothing in the past, as I look back, that
should make you take that particular attitude or hold
up a business deal--for nothing at all."

There was silence in the room for a moment, a
silence that weighed upon them both, and then Emmie
Weston said in a very small but very clear voice,
"Then you'll have to let it go at that, Tom Hastings--that
I am holding you up for nothing at all." Her
voice had so curious a quality of feeling as she said
the last words that Tom, if he had not been looking
at her and knew her eyes were quite dry, might have
thought she was holding back tears. There were
none.

Exasperated, he knew this was not in the least the
manner in which he could "manage" this woman.
Why on earth was she continually putting him in the
wrong? Was it still his mistake about Aunt Em?
Women were incomprehensible! She had been acting
all day as though she had forgotten about that, and
had led him to believe she had.

He began again, with what seemed to him great
forbearance, for Tom had none of the acquired patience
of a married man. He was used to getting what
he wanted, and found women quick to grant him
favors. "Emmie Weston, don't you feel in the least
inclined to do me a favor as an old friend? Doesn't
the fact that we were once pretty good friends make
you understand that I'll do my best for the old town
and for you, and that it would be an opportunity for us
to see each other much oftener, and you would have
a say in the development of the whole scheme?"

The man was fatuous. He was unbearable. Emmie
took a little time to master her indignation before
she said quietly:

"I'm sorry, Tom, but it doesn't appeal."

And then Tom Hastings made a great mistake.

"Oh, come, Emmie Weston. There are a lot of
reasons why you should listen to me. What earthly
reason is there against it, leaving sentiment for East
Penniwell out?"

There was another deadly pause, and then Emmie
said coldly:

"But that's just where you make your mistake,
Tom. In dealing with a woman, you should never
leave sentiment entirely out, for though women are
often quite practical, custom and training have made
them deadly sentimental."

"Deadly's the word. There's no sentiment in business."

Emmie laughed. "Then until I clear my mind of
sentiment, we cannot talk business."

Tom was not to be put off in this way. "Can't you
tell me what is on your mind?" He asked it as gently
as he could. "And let me try to remove any unjust
prejudice you may have against the brick business?"

He smiled at her in rather a pleasant way. Tom's
smile had always been a great asset. Emmie remembered
that smile. She had remembered it for many
years, while the man who smiled had calmly forgotten
her. That was a thing not to be lightly forgiven.
Besides, to accept his proposition was to give
him what he wanted, and let his office in New York
swallow him, while strangers came here to do the
work. To refuse outright, was to have him go forever.
There was only one way to bring and keep Tom
Hastings in her life--and East Penniwell.

Emmie rose. "Sorry, but I can't, as I told you before,
talk about it just now. My mind's not entirely
made up."

"Then before you make it up," said Tom quickly,
with the manner that had made him, ten years ago, the
best salesman his company had ever had, "won't you
come with me, while I point out to you just what
ground I want, where the buildings would be, and
where the excavations would be made?"

Emmie diplomatically hesitated.

"Won't you come now," Tom asked, edging her
toward the door. "We have just about time to do it,
before we start on the return trip."

A ride alone with Tom over the road they used to
tramp together! It would be a wonderful treat for
East Penniwell. But Emmie was not to have that
ride alone. Lee Lansing came into the room, followed
by Weston and Bob Landon, and none of them looked
particularly happy.

"Mother just telephoned. I forgot I had a dinner
dance on to-night," Lee said, coming directly toward
Tom, but smiling at Emmie. "Won't we have to be
starting soon?"

"You coming back with us to-night, Aunt Emmie?"
asked Weston anxiously. Emmie felt the boy's
thought. He didn't want Lee to go back alone with
Tom. Well, neither did Emmie.

"Yes," Emmie replied quickly, "after Mr. Landon
and I ride out to look at the ground Mr. Hastings
wants to buy. I want Mr. Landon's advice about the
proposed brickyard."

It was a distinct surprise to Bob, but he took it
quietly, smiling at Emmie, while Tom regarded them
both, puzzled.

Lee softly touched Tom's arm and asked, "Can't
we come along--Wes and I?"

"Surely," Tom smiled back.

Emmie didn't like that smile, so she turned and
regarded Bob and Weston.

"Will it bore you, Weston?"

"Oh, not at all, Aunt Emmie. Still I think I'll stay
here and smoke with Mr. Wells."

"Bunny's in the library," Bob told him, with a look
of gratitude. Bob appreciated fellows that "got"
Bunny at first glance.

"Would he rather come with us?" Emmie asked.

"Oh, I think not. Rather hard on Bunny getting
in and out of motors."

Lee shivered. Tom looked down at her compassionately,
but Bob's glance was cold. "Bunny only
motors when he has to, unless he's driving. He drives
like the wind," Landon concluded.

"I'll tell him where you all are," Weston announced
and went toward the door, pausing to pat his aunt's
arm as she looked at him anxiously. He thought he
knew what was troubling her and said smiling,
"Landon's got the right idea, Aunty. Your house will
be a thing of beauty, when he gets through with it."

Emmie smiled. The dear boy! Reassuring her
about her house, when here she was throwing Lee into
the dangerous company of his rival, Tom Hastings.
But Emmie's blood was up. Tom Hastings, charm
he never so wisely, should dance to Emmie's music--not
his own.

In the library Weston Kent offered the contents of
his cigarette case to Bunny Wells, and then went to
the window and miserably watched Lee Lansing climb
into the front seat beside Tom Hastings.

He was not left long alone in his misery. Bunny,
guessing easily the boy's state of mind, began asking
questions about the house, and presently was learning
all that Weston knew or had heard. From the house
to Emmie was an easy transition, and while Tom rode
with Emmie, Bunny came to know her far better than
Tom, as he added all that Emmie's nephew said to
what the village and Asher already had told him. He
was finding Emmie Weston an exceedingly and increasingly
interesting study.

It had been evident, even to jealous Weston, that
Tom hesitated and looked toward Emmie when they
took their places in the car. With Emmie close at
hand, Tom could point out just what farms he wished
to purchase.

Emmie, promptly climbing into the seat she had
occupied on her way down, only this time with Bob
Landon as a companion, quite upset Tom's plans.

Lee, beside Tom, seemed to him rather feverishly
gay. Why couldn't she let him concentrate on his
business and Emmietta? If he had to listen to this
sort of stuff all the way up, he would not be able to
arrange in his mind just what was wrong in his handling
of Emmietta. Their interview had terminated
badly for him. It puzzled Tom. He was used to getting
his own way with men, and women too. Moreover,
though this he did not admit to himself, Tom
was not used to paying much attention to any woman
over thirty. "Young" and "pretty" were the two
qualifications Tom required of any woman to whom
he gave his valuable time and attention.

At first glance, Emmie had been neither. He recognized
now that she was "a darned good-looking
woman," but she was not a girl, and Tom, forgetting
how it placed him, was beginning to prefer girls.
Their little youthful foibles he could allow for, and
think amusing, charming sometimes, if they did not
interfere with his own ideas. But a grown woman
ought to have left foibles behind. Common sense was
what Tom expected from all superfluous females, who
were no longer girls.

Tom noticed that Bob Landon concentrated his
attention on Emmietta, which surprised him, at first,
as Landon looked like the kind of man who had an
eye for a pretty girl. However, it would be to
Landon's advantage, of course, to pay a good deal of
attention to Emmie, since the job of making over the
old Weston house would be a fat plum for any young
man. Eli must have left Emmie fairly well off, too.

As they drew near the first farm on his list, Tom
slowed the machine and turned to catch Emmie's eye.
She was listening with such interest to Bob Landon's
remarks on early Pennsylvania architecture that Tom
found himself ignored. Involuntarily he wondered
whether Emmie was attracted not only by the architect,
but by the man. He saw Lee Lansing follow his
glance and turn away. He would ask her later on if
the same thought had occurred to her. Meanwhile,
he stopped the car in front of the picturesque old
Pickens house and invited Emmie to get out and let
him show her where he proposed to put his office, and
plan the branch line from the railway.

Emmie got out reluctantly, but Lee followed with
alacrity, and so glued herself to Emmietta that Tom
was forced to accept Bob Landon as his companion
and make most of his remarks to him. Emmie
seemed content, and made no move to alter the situation.
Indeed, she evidently thought it was quite as it
should be. Tom grew a little impatient.

"Unless Mr. Landon's your manager, Emmie," he
finally protested, "it is of very little use for me to
explain to him just what we intend to do here."

"You may treat Mr. Landon as my manager, Tom.
Though Mr. Landon hasn't formally accepted the
position, I am in hopes that he will decide to remain
in East Penniwell." Emmie said this easily, and with
an eye, calm but compelling, fixed on Bob.

Bob Landon, completely surprised, saw that Miss
Weston expected him to back her up, and said:

"We haven't come to any definite agreement yet,
Mr. Hastings, but that won't prevent me considering
everything you say as it affects Miss Weston's interests."

Tom intimated that this was satisfactory, and thereafter
directed all his remarks to Bob Landon, leaving
Emmie and Lee to wander about and discuss in an
entirely feminine manner whether or not the brickyard
as proposed would "spoil the whole place."

Emmie, being quicker-witted in things sentimental,
less self-absorbed than Tom, noted that Lee was dispirited
and wondered why. Was the child bothering
her head to that extent about Tom? Emmie, while
deciding that Tom should pay a large price if he came
as close toward town as the Pickens place, regarded
Tom with a critical eye. After all, what, beyond his
money, could make a girl crazy about Tom Hastings?
Especially a girl who could contrast him with Bob
Landon and even her dear, though boyish, nephew,
Weston.

A glance at Tom put Emmie in her place. She was
still vulnerable. Whatever it was about Tom that had
made the youthful Emmietta's heart beat faster, he
had it still. She could not remain aloof and cold, and
in fact could not easily carry out the program she was
determinedly mapping out for herself--and him.
Nevertheless, she sharply called herself to order. The
time for sentiment was past. Tom had no use for
sentiment, therefore she, Emmietta, must cast it aside,
but she would need more than her red fields, if she
would catch and hold the attention of this man.

Emmie glanced at the girl beside her. She would
need this girl, and down here too, if she was to carry
out her campaign successfully. She turned to Lee
eagerly. "Are you getting so tired of this, and us,
that you won't come again? We could have the
loveliest week-ends here, while the house is being remodeled,
if only you would come down."

Bob and Tom Hastings had come back from the
part of the farm where Tom had pointed out to Bob
that the branch line would run. They stood waiting
by the car. It seemed to Emmie that for a person who
had only just met the girl, Mr. Landon seemed to
hang on Lee's reply rather strangely. Lee Lansing
looked at him and took a little time to reply. When
she did, she gladdened Emmie's heart. "Miss Weston,
I'd love to. It would be a way of getting away from
things--a rest from rushing about."

"My dear," Emmie said contritely, "I forgot how
many claims you have on your time. It is so quiet
and simple here that it's bound to be dull for you."

"Oh, no," Lee protested, and again Emmie had a
fleeting feeling that Lee's eyes strayed to Bob Landon's
face, "it wouldn't be dull. I really love this
quaint country. It has its own charm."

"I know it has for me," Emmie assented. "I shall
always want to come back to East Penniwell, no matter
how far I stray. That's why I want to have the
house made livable. But it's different with you."

"That's why I shall come, whenever you ask me,"
Lee retorted, with a little touch of defiance in her tone,
"just because it's--different."

Tom Hastings looked at the two women, thinking
how this plan of theirs for coming down week-ends
might fit in with his own plans.

"I speak for the job of chauffeur," he called jestingly,
but wholly in earnest. "Come, Emmie, you
must admit I did well on the trial trip. Surely you
will give me the job."

Emmie looked at him, her eyes sparkling.

"That depends on two things, Tom. Weston wants
to drive us too, you know. Then we would demand
that you regard the week-ends as pleasure--not business--and
you will be obliged to think and speak of
something other than brickyards."

Tom laughed, though he felt provoked. Emmie
was a sharp one. "Can't change my nature entirely,
Emmie," he said cheerfully enough. "I'm an American
business man and brickyards are nearly my whole
life, so you must expect me to break out into song
about them once in so often, unless," he smiled, "you'll
make up your mind right now to let me have the land
and then I'll be so busy organizing I won't have time
to talk."

Emmie shook her head. "I am not to be hurried,
and besides, really, Tom, you ought to take a good
look at the country before you begin to cut it up into
brickyards."

As he helped her into the machine, Tom looked at
Bob Landon for sympathy. That young man's eyes
were fixed on the landscape with an expression that
startled Tom. "Why, the fellow's all against it," he
thought. "I wonder why? By George, I'll _have to_
come down. This man may have a scheme of his own
for the land and is cutting me out with Emmie."

When they reached the house, Bunny and Weston
were waiting for them. Weston was impatient to be
off. "It's getting late," he announced warningly, and
then as his aunt went inside for a last word with Lib,
he cornered Lee. "Ride back with me, Lee," he
begged. "Let old Tom and Auntie reminisce on the
front seat."

Lee looked at him distantly as though, he thought,
she had not seen him until that moment. "All right.
I promised Tom, but who cares? We're coming down
next week-end. That is, your aunt says we may if
you will come too." She looked at him a little warily.

"Do you want me to?" he asked directly.

Lee noted Bob Landon's eyes fixed upon them. She
smiled at Weston. "I want to come down," she said.
"Doesn't that tell you anything?"

Weston looked at her rapturously. "We'll come
down every week-end, if you say so."

Bob Landon moved impatiently and Bunny swung
himself over toward him, his shoulder touching Bob's.
Bob started. Tom watched the two carelessly. What
was it these two didn't like about the week-end plan?
Bob Landon didn't like it, he was sure; it had taken
Bunny's presence to make him keep from betraying
his objection to it.

Tom took a second glance at Bunny Wells. By
George, he was a stunning looking fellow! It was a
shame he was lame! He glanced at them again, and
made up his mind that the week-end plan would go
through. He must get Emmie committed to the brickyard
program before that fellow Landon got round
her with some artistic rubbish about brickyards spoiling
the outlook. As for Wells, it might be as well that
they were coming down often. The fellow was evidently
"nuts" about Emmie Weston--or her money.

Tom was surprised at himself for having that
thought, for, after all, Bunny Wells was obviously not
that kind, and Emmie, herself, was excuse for any
man's taking an interest in her, without her money.
If it wasn't for Lee, he might cut in himself and upset
their plans. He laughed softly. He had an idea he
could do it, too. He could use the fact that he was an
old friend, too. Oh, yes, Tom knew how he could
work it--if he wanted to.

Lib Candy, on hearing of the proposed week-ends,
did not keep her objections to herself. She listened
to Miss Emmie, explaining her plan, without a word
but with a further upward curve to her right eyebrow,
which was higher than the left already. Lib's question-mark
eyebrow lent charm to her countenance and
weight to her objections.

"Well, Miss Emmie, these here week-ends ain't
nothing in my life. Asher and me and Morphy can
look after the lot of you without calling in anybody
else."

Emmie started to voice her thanks, for since her
sojourn in the city she had realized that seldom, in
this day of difficult domestic servants, was such willingness
as Lib's to be found, but Lib anticipated her.
She forgot her usual indifferent pose as she leaned
toward her mistress.

"Miss Emmie, you are carrying it off something
grand. East Penniwell won't know how to draw its
breath when it sees you a bidding farewell to two
grand men on your own steps and a riding off with
Tom Hastings. Cloud-a-Witnesses, but you do credit
to us females! I set such store by what you've done
and are doing that I've kept Asher Turkle jumping
so that he's all adrift. Thanks to your brave example,
I'm holding my own. The day you get Tom Hastings
where you want him, I'll let Asher Turkle up
from under m'heel, but not before."

Emmietta Weston's horrified protest at this treatment
was wholly ignored by Lib, and cut short by the
entrance of Asher Turkle himself.

"Good Gravy, Miss Emmie!" he began, in his usual
booming voice, but catching sight of Lib his tone sunk
a little. "Hull kit and biling of 'em's on the piazza
just r'aring to go and it looks to me as though Mr.
Bunny's took a kinder hankerin' after Miss Lee. He
looks at her kinda sorrowful, and she's always kinda
turning back and gooping at him. His good looks and
his--ahem--deformity's likely to raise hopes in more'n
one female heart. You'd better tell Miss Lee to lay
off him. She's got her full share of males adangling.
Mr. Bob and me'll kinda shove the others out of his
path down here."

Emmie, more disturbed than she cared to own, for
in a less crude way she, too, thought Lee had her "full
share," nodded to Lib and started to go, but Asher
added cheerfully, as he followed her:

"Every soul in East Penniwell that's got nothing
better to do is at their windows, excepting the Miss
Minkses, and they are out in the back garden behind
the hedge for a better view of your going."

Asher was mistaken, the Misses Mink were not behind
the hedge. They were on the back piazza pretending
to have tea, for they had discovered that from
the back piazza they could sweep Emmie's front entrance
from every side. They were _pretending_ to have
tea, because things were so exciting that they could
not possibly risk missing anything by stopping to
drink tea.

Miss Annie had already burned her mouth by a
startled gulp when Susan called out: "Oh, Sister,
they're leaving!"

Heads on one side, with the expression of sentimental
parrots, the Misses Mink took in the spectacle,
and although the fact that Emmie left behind her the
two gentlemen, who had been causing the curiosity of
the village to rise to boiling point for the last week,
puzzled some, the Misses Mink were content. It was
lovely that Emmietta and Tom were together, but it
was only justice that some one should be left behind
to make life less monotonous for the Misses Mink.

At the general store there was trouble, for Mr.
Misener's youngest, pressed into service by his hurried
mother, was annoyed by customers who couldn't
order for looking out the window.

"Guy, Mom! Couldn't you kinda throw a fit or
somepin' that could get 'em away. I wanta get to go
and play ball this afternoon."

His mother paid no attention to him. Mrs. Luella
Van Campen Letts had just shouted, "They're off,
leaving them two men behind!"

With a sigh, most of the women left the window
and the late afternoon rush at the general store began.

"Sister," said Miss Annie solemnly, "I'll just take
a few of these cup cakes over to that interesting, delicate
gentleman." Miss Annie was too truly refined
to say lame. "I'll ask Lib Candy why Emmietta goes
off this way, without seeing any of her old friends."

"It would be a Christian act," said Miss Susan.
"Lib hasn't baked this week yet." She watched with
interest as Miss Annie wrapped up the cakes in a fine
old napkin. "I'd give a good deal," she added, "to
know what those two men are saying now."

As a matter of fact, she would have been little the
wiser, for Bunny Wells had looked at Bob Landon and
asked, "What are you going to do?"

And Bob had answered, "Nothing."

"I mean," said Bunny gently, braving Bob's hostile
look, "how much are you going to tell--Miss
Weston?"

"Nothing," Bob had repeated, and Bunny had
sighed as he said: "I think you make a great mistake."




9


The longest way back is never the shortest way
home, after thirty.

The ride back to New York from East Penniwell
had been an odd one for Emmie. She laughed next
morning, as she leaned back on her pillows, looked
out on the opalescent sky of early day, and thought
about the return. She stretched herself luxuriously.
She had not yet gotten used to the feeling that the
day, the city, the world was hers, untrammeled by
orders or penny-wise rules. She would have breakfast
in her room presently, and then dress to meet
Lee Lansing. The girl seemed to have taken a sudden
fancy for Emmie's society. They were going to a
concert together and then to tea at The Plaza, where
Weston was to meet them and take Lee home. Afterward
Tom would call for Emmie at the hotel. They
were going to dine at Tom's apartment--just Emmie,
Tom, Weston and Lee at dinner, but afterwards others
to dance and supper. It sounded rather formidable
to Emmie. It would be embarrassing to meet all these
people, and yet delightful, for Tom was very attentive,
anxious to make everything easy and pleasant for her.
Emmie smiled. It was what she wanted--and yet?

Emmie slipped on her dressing gown and slippers
and went to the window. Only early rising country
visitors and the occasional New Yorker know how
beautiful their city looks at five _A.M._ A lovely thing,
a dream city, still shrouded in the mist of early morning.
An enchanted city, with a Maxfield Parrish or
an Edmund Dulac background. Emmie looked, drank
it in and then sighed for East Penniwell. After all,
there is nothing like the peace of the country, and no
country is more peaceful than that old-fashioned
friendly country of William Penn's choice. Emmie
sighed and stretched herself again. She would have
a little taste of this life. She would see with her own
eyes how Tom lived, and the circle he moved in, and
then she would go back to East Penniwell and--her
mouth hardened a little--she would take Tom back
with her.

Emmie was playing a difficult game. She could not
understand Tom's moves. Not once had he said anything
to her about old times, except in the most casual
way. She shrugged her shoulders impatiently, went
back to bed, took up a book and then frowned and
put it down. She must try to get another hour or so
of sleep, or else she would not be fresh to-night and
ready for everything they did, able to stand the contrast
with Lee.

Emmie picked up a mirror. Yes, she was looking
fairly well--a great deal better than when she had first
come to town and to Calla. She didn't look her age
by several years, and yet she was not young--like Lee.
Then Emmie remembered how Bunny Wells had
watched her, not Lee, and laughed aloud. Of course,
she was not a girl like Lee, but she had a lot of years
before her, and she meant to pack them full. After
all, would she give up her own life for Lee's? No,
Emmie would not.

Sinking down again into bed and the softness of
the pillow, her hand under her cheek, Emmie wondered
at human nature. She wanted to have some of the
things other people had. Oh, yes, but she wanted to
have them and be herself. There was no one's life
that she would readily take over wholly, and discard
her own. In fact, she preferred to be Emmie Weston.
She dropped off to sleep before she had puzzled it out.

    *    *    *    *    *

New York at night, from the roof of an apartment--the
most splendid sight, one to make a stranger
gasp! Beneath you the streets like dark caverns in
which the jewels of lights sparkled, and electric signs
flashed out; the sky above; the great towers of buildings,
twenty or more stories high, whose many windowed,
irregular facades reflected the beautiful moonlight.
Underneath, the noise and rush of the city, the
streets crowded darkly with motor cars, with taxicabs
and pedestrians hurrying home or to the theatre.
Wonderful New York at night; breadth of vision,
mirror of life. Never approached by any other city,
no matter how lovely that city might be.

Tom Hastings' apartment, designed to look like an
old Spanish-American or Mexican house, stood well
within the outer walls of the apartment house, so that
all around it was a broad, tiled space terminating in
a high brick wall, for safety's sake. Flowers and
plants were placed at intervals, and at the rear of the
house itself was a court, built like a California patio,
with wicker chairs, _chaise longues_, and tables. It invited
one to sit and look at the stars. In winter it was
enclosed with glass, but now it stood open to the wind
and sun, the breeze and moonlight.

It was a wonderful setting, and Tom, who had
hitherto accepted it as just Lou's place (Lou being
the owner and friend who had loaned it to him),
when he saw Emmie and Lee Lansing framed against
the luminous blue of the night, moving about in the
rooms and in the courtyard, realized that Lou was
more than just wealthy--he was clever. The house
suited women amazingly, or was it that the women
suited the house?

Lee looked unbelievably lovely. Her pale gold hair
shone, her blue eyes looked deeper than usual, and
the girl herself seemed quieter, less restless than Tom
remembered her. She certainly was a stunning-looking
creature.

Tom acknowledged to himself, however, that Emmie
Weston was "no slouch." Who would have believed
that the woman he had thought was old Aunt
Em could blossom out like this? Tom was so anxious
to find out just why he could have been such an ass as
to think of her as her aunt, that he stared at Emmie
entranced. It must have been the light, he decided.

Tom looked at Emmie again critically, and Emmie
caught him at it, and blushed. Tom was annoyed
at himself, but amused. Emmie Weston blushing like
a girl because he stared at her! Emmie, provoked,
turned swiftly from him to find that Lee Lansing,
looking like some lovely golden goddess, in her dress,
shoes and stockings of gold color, was staring out into
the night with the expression of a little lost soul.

Emmie forgot Tom, who had turned to offer Weston
a cigarette, and impulsively put an arm about the
girl. The moment she had done this Emmie felt horribly
self-conscious. Her country upbringing had made
her friendly, a trifle expansive to those whom she considered
her friends, and frequently in the city she had
blushed to find herself forgetting that city acquaintances
were not East Penniwell friends.

Lee did not draw back with that little chilly air that
made Emmie wish she had cut off her arm instead of
putting it around her; neither did she hold herself so
stiffly that the arm fell away without having to be
removed. On the contrary, she leaned toward Emmie.
Emmie had had no female companions for years,
except Lib, and Lib was about as yielding as a cast-iron
fence. It gave her an odd, and by no means
unpleasant, sensation to have the lovely Lee lean
toward her, and drop her head gently, for a moment,
against Emmie's shoulder.

"Oh, Miss Emmie," Lee said softly, "I am tired of
everything. When do we go down to East Penniwell
again?"

"This week-end," Emmie decided instantly, touched
by the weariness in the young voice, and the dark
shadows under the young eyes. "If we can persuade
Weston and Tom."

"Lovely," Lee murmured softly, and then as the
Japanese boy announced dinner, Emmie added impulsively,
"Why can't you stay down there with me for
a while--and get rested?"

Lee started and looked at her oddly. "Do you
mean that?" she asked. "Now, while the architect is
working on the house?"

"What does that matter?" Emmie urged. "Mr.
Landon will only be doing one or two rooms at a time.
The house is large. There is plenty of room. It
would be a sort of picnic, if you think you'd like that?"

Lee looked at her rather strangely, Emmie thought.
"I'd jump at the chance, Miss Emmie."

"Jump at what chance?" asked Weston, as they
took their places at the table. "What is that aunt of
mine promising you, Lee? Beware of her. She has
a way of getting around you for her own purposes if
you give her the least foothold."

"Now, Wes," began Emmie mildly, "what have I
ever done to make you say a thing like that?"

"Got round me so completely," Weston told her
with a boyish grin, "that instead of going ahead and
doing a thing, I find myself thinking I'd better call
you up or go down to your hotel to talk it over with
you."

Emmie's face was beautiful to see. "Oh, Weston,
how lovely! If it's true."

"You see," Weston indicated to Lee, "that's the
way she gets round you, by utterly denying any intention
of doing it."

Lee looked absently across the table, her eyes
dreamy. "Well, I don't mind her getting round me,
if it means that I am to go and stay at East Penniwell
for a while."

"What!" exclaimed Weston and his voice had
something like fear in it. To have lovely Lee suddenly
spirited away made New York seem deserted and
dreary. "Oh, I say, Aunt Emmie, you can't take Lee
away like that!"

"But you are going to drive down there with us,"
Emmie said, persuasively. "You and Tom. And you
can come down as often as you like and when you go
to Princeton you can still come down for week-ends."

Tom looked at her appreciatively. Nice little
woman she was, making things easy all around. He
had been inclined to be angry at the time she was
taking to decide about the brickyard, but a talk with
his directors last night, about the land and its value,
had enabled him to show them how well worth waiting
for this East Penniwell property would be. He now
had their cordial consent to making a smooth proposition
to the woman who owned the land, and taking
time to do it. The prospects at East Penniwell were
far better than any other place in the eastern territory,
both as to quantity, quality, and price. They had
advised him to do his best to get the land and wished
him good luck.

Tom's mouth tightened a little as he looked at Emmie.
She might dodge all she liked, but in the end
he would get what he wanted. He could play the
waiting game as well, and better, than she could. He
meant to have the East Penniwell land and Emmie
Weston should not prevent it.

Being a diplomatic person, and never dreaming that
he was doing precisely what Emmie wanted him to,
Tom realized that if he was to get the land soon the
easiest and best way was to go down to East Penniwell
and make a fuss over Emmie, until he had her
thinking she wanted to give him the land.

"Drive you down this week-end, with pleasure."
He smiled, mentally making note that he must cancel
several rather important social engagements to do it.

"I'm afraid," Emmie said, without looking at him,
and Tom noted without the slightest humility in her
tone no matter what her words indicated, "I'm afraid
we will be taking you away from some very gay and
amusing affairs. East Penniwell, as you know, can
be dull."

"Not to me," Lee said unexpectedly. "I think I
must have been looking for East Penniwell for a long
time, looking but not believing there was such a place--such
a beautiful place."

Weston Kent looked at her keenly and then looked
away. His eyes first went to Tom Hastings and then
to his Aunt Emmie. "Well, you have certainly got
the East Penniwell germ, Lee."

Lee glanced at him quickly. "How could you know
about it for so long, and never tell me, Wes?"

Wes grinned. "It wasn't the same thing in grandfather's
time. Grandfather was, to say the least, a
conservative soul. Wasn't he, Aunt Emmie?"

Tom looked up and smiled, and his smile had a
hint of hardness behind it. "A hard man, your grandfather
was," he said briefly. "And I should know.
Wasn't he my guardian?"

"Have you remembered that at last?" Emmie asked,
and gave him a clear, cold look that somehow set Tom
Hastings' blood tingling.

"Eli gave me cause never to forget it," he replied.

Emmietta's face was enigmatic as she said, "So I
understood."

It was in Tom Hastings' mind to ask her what she
meant by that speech, but he forgot to answer it because
Lee Lansing said suddenly, "Miss Emmie, who
recommended Mr. Landon to you?"

"A Mrs. Montgomery, one of Calla Lilley's clients,
and a delightful person. I shall never cease to be
grateful to her. Don't you like him, Weston?"

"Oh, a fine fellow," Weston agreed with enthusiasm,
as he made a mental note to tell his mother that
Aunt Emmie knew _the_ Mrs. Montgomery. It would
make a difference. "A rattling good architect, if all
I hear is true."

"Pity about his friend," Tom said carelessly.
"What crippled him, I wonder? Is he an aftermath
of the war?"

Lee's fork trembled in her hand, and she laid it
down so deliberately that Weston noticed it.

"I don't know, Tom," Emmie said, "just how he
was hurt, but I remember Mr. Landon said the foot
was injured after the war. They were in the army
together, and Mr. Wells was wounded badly but was
just recovering, getting in shape to take up his business
again, when he was injured. It seemed to upset Mr.
Landon so to talk of it that I never asked any questions."

"Whatever it was," Tom announced, "it was a
shame--handicapped a fine, athletic fellow."

But Emmie looked up at Lee's sensitive face, and
thoughtfully changed the subject. Presently Tom was
asking if they would like to dance on the roof after
dinner, when the others came. He had had the smooth
tiles waxed for the occasion. Ito, the Japanese boy,
would start and watch the victrola for a while, and
the radio would be turned on whenever they were
ready.

When the other guests arrived, and Tom went out
to greet them, they followed. As she heard the laughter
and voices of these strange people she must meet,
Emmie shivered. She felt a sudden nostalgia overcome
her. East Penniwell and the old house, she
wanted them. She could close her eyes and see the
lovely old sitting-room, with the lamplight mellowing
the shadows in the far corner, and near the fireplace
Bob Landon and Bunny Wells would be sitting, smoking,
reading, with the firelight on their faces. What
was it Bunny Wells thought of as he leaned forward
and looked at the fire? What woman? Was it Lee?

Lee felt Weston's arm press hers, and draw her
back. He whispered, "I say, Lee, don't overwork this
East Penniwell charm business. I happen to know it's
something else taking you down."

Lee stood quite still for a minute, then, "Oh, you
do?" she said, in the lightest and easiest tones. "How
do you account for the charm then, if it isn't East
Penniwell itself?"

"It's a man down there," declared Weston, and the
boy's voice was hard and savage. "I saw you with
him, and I want you to answer me two questions."

Lee tried to withdraw her hand, but Weston still
held it. "Lee, how long have you known Bob Landon,
and what's between you?"

Lee gave him a white, still stare for a second, then
gave a hard little laugh.

"You are absurd. You are dreaming, Weston.
What do you know about it?"

But Weston still kept his hand on her arm, and she
could not release herself.

"I have nothing to tell you, Weston," she said with
dignity. "You are simply absurd."

"Oh, not so much so as you think," Weston told her
coolly. "You see, I've seen you together."




10


A quarrel may be the shortest cut to an understanding,
if one is young enough to enjoy quarreling. It all
depends on what one quarrels about.

Emmie, wondering if it was that kind of quarrel,
turned toward Lee and Weston. Instantly Lee
grasped Weston's arm. "Dance with me. Don't let
your aunt ask questions."

Weston swung her out on the tiled floor of the
court. Ito had started the victrola at Weston's request.

"Soon come ladio; soon come orclestla," Ito protested
in his gentle Japanese squeak.

Lee and Weston were the only couple dancing.
Emmie watched them with pleased eyes. It looked
unreal--like some beautiful picture--this court with
the open sky above it, the tiled floor, the lanterns hanging
from the outer pillars, and the long lighted windows
leading to the rooms. Some newly arrived
guests stood in the doorway, exclaiming with pleasure,
as they watched Lee and Weston circle around the
court. One by one other couples joined them, until
only Tom and Emmie were left standing side by side.

Emmie gave a little excited laugh as Tom turned
to her. "Oh, Tom, what a picture! It's the most
beautiful thing I've seen."

Tom gave her a pleased smile. By Jove, Emmie
looked well and one had none of that tiresome feeling
of being expected to dance or she'd ask you herself,
that so many women of her age gave you nowadays.

"Let's join them," said Tom. Then as he saw Emmie
hesitated, "Dance, of course, don't you?"

Emmie laughed. "I haven't for seventeen years or
so, Tom, but I've been taking lessons recently. Try
me out first behind the palms and pillars." She indicated
the outer edge of the court. "Then if I'm too
bad, why, I can sit and watch and no harm done."

"Nonsense!"

They were out on the floor with the others.

A phrase of her father's, used at mealtimes, when
his overcareful thought for the size of the household
bills resulted in a rehashing of everything until the
last leathery bit of meat had been used, came to Emmie's
mind. "Devoid of all flavor," her father used
to say, as he pushed his plate away, and devoid of all
flavor to Emmie was the dance with Tom Hastings,
which ought to have thrilled her, and did not. Tom's
arm around her, her head--Emmie being shorter than
Tom--practically against his shoulder, and yet, devoid
of all flavor to Emmie, since Tom did not appear to
remember.

"Who said you couldn't dance?" Tom asked her.

The music stopped. Weston's voice was heard demanding
his favorite music from the polite Ito, who
was trying to explain that this mechanical music was
only temporary. "Orclestla coming soon!"

"Why, Emmie, you are a wonder!" cried Tom.

"Thank you, Tom. I haven't the slightest doubt
my success is due to my partner, but it's great fun."

Tom looked at her curiously, as the six jazz performers
comprising Ito's "orclestla" came in and took
their places at the open window, shepherded by the
grave Ito.

The music began again. Tom and Emmie threaded
their way among the dancers. Emmie's cheeks were
flushed, her eyes shone.

"I say, Emmie," Tom bent his handsome head with
only the faintest tinge of gray in his hair, nearer hers,
"I have an odd feeling--a faint recollection of dancing
in the moonlight with you somewhere in East Penniwell."

"Faint recollection is good, Tom." Emmie laughed
softly, then she added, "On the Hatton's piazza.
Don't you remember, up on Highland road. Their
house looked down on a lovely valley. They had Japanese
lanterns on the piazza and we danced out of the
living room--"

"Oh, yes," Tom laughed. "That must be it. I
seemed to remember the way your face looked in the
lantern light."

Emmie turned her head away. She could have
struck him. "Seem to remember" her! Why, that
was the night he had--

Tom led her toward the doorway, danced out with
her, through the entrance hall, and caught up a Spanish
shawl that lay across a chair. "This is yours, I
remember," he said and hurried Emmie through the
entrance to the tiled walk outside, between the house
and the edge of the roof.

Tom put the shawl about her, and looked down at
her still face.

"By all that's holy, Emmie, it's all coming back
to me! I kissed you in that long ago moonlight.
Don't deny it," and he broke into a great laugh,
"I did."

Again Emmie could have struck him.

"I don't remember," she lied firmly.

Tom leaned toward her.

"I can make you remember." Emmie's hand came
too quickly between his lips and her mouth.

"No," she said breathlessly and her eyes had a
shy look. Like a girl's, Tom thought and drew back.
"Sorry."

It was Emmie who laughed now. "Oh, that's quite
all right, Tom. You see, I am a little old-fashioned
about kissing, and besides--"

Tom waited. "Besides what?"

"It would have spoiled the memory."

"Then you do remember!" Tom laughed, all his
good humor restored. "Great flirt you were those
days, Emmie."

A strong and very primitive desire to push him over
the low brick wall that protected the outer edge,
against which he was leaning, his back to it, his smiling
face turned to her, came over Emmietta Weston.
She was startled by the strength of this primitive
female desire to get finally rid of an annoying male.
She shuddered and moved away, thinking for the first
time how true it was that over each prison door should
be placed, "Here, but for the Grace of God, go I."

Tom followed her. "Oh, come, Emmie, it's cooler
here. Let's stay, unless you are daft about dancing."

Emmie shook her head. "I like it, but my liking
is within bounds. I'm not eighteen any longer, and
my head is heavier than my heels. But you, Tom?"

Tom looked at her and smiled. "As long as it's
you, I don't mind telling you that while I can dance
fairly well--"

"Oh, more than that, Tom; very well indeed."

"Still and all," Tom continued, "I do it just to
prove I can, and not to drop out or lag behind the
procession. Frankly, I don't care much what I do, so
long as it's in pleasant company."

"Tom, what a fraud you are!"

"Fraud!" Tom looked at her amazed.

"Pretending you remember about East Penniwell,
when you have forgotten all about it, pretending to be
pleased with my society, when all you want is to get
hold of my land and make a brickyard."

Tom roared with laughter. "But you're quite
wrong, Emmie," he said when he had finished his
laugh.

Emmie, who had laughed too, now leaned against
the wall, looking at him with eyes that were bright,
not with laughter as he thought, but with wrath. He
could laugh at it, but she was in deadly earnest.

"No, on my word, that isn't true! Do you know
that for the first time since I've been East, I've had
a sort of home feeling in these rooms? You know
it's really because I'm beginning to look on you as an
old friend and to remember that I did know you pretty
well once in East Penniwell. Old friends are pretty
handy things to have, after all Aren't they, Emmie?"

"It depends, Tom," Emmie said slowly. "It depends
on what kind of friends you have--and are.
Here's Lee."

Lee came toward them. Emmie watched her.
Without feeling, would be the best way to describe
the mood Emmie was in.

"Here you are, Tom Hastings! It isn't fair to
carry Miss Emmie off this way, and did you or did
you not ask me to dance with you?"

Weston had followed the girl out slowly, a cloud
on his young face. He came toward his aunt without
speaking, and leaned against the wall beside her. Lee
avoided looking at him. She took a cigarette from
the case Tom had taken out and offered to her, and
allowed him to light it. She looked toward Weston.
He had refused Tom's cigarette and was selecting one
from his own case. Emmie had shaken her head.

"I can't, Tom. I haven't acquired the habit."

Lee slowly blew a smoke ring. "I suppose I might
be better without it," she said, "but it's wonderfully
soothing to fretted nerves."

"What's been fretting your nerves, Lee?" Tom
asked.

She waved her cigarette toward the silent Weston.
"I don't know what's the matter with Weston to-night,
Miss Emmie. I brought him out to you because he's
quite impossible."

Emmie looked with affection at the tall boy beside
her. "I can't have that, Lee. Wes is a nice boy.
You must have done or said something irritating."

Lee smiled at Tom. "Isn't it aggravating the way
a woman will always side with a man? All right,
Miss Emmie, my dear, I'll leave you with your agreeable
nephew, and see how you like it."

She put out a hand to the older woman as she went
by and touched Emmie's arm, lightly as though begging
forgiveness.

Emmie's glance followed them as they went through
the entrance into the court. She said nothing for a
moment to the boy beside her, but watched the dancing
figures swing past the lighted window. Then she
turned to Weston, with a sigh. "What's the matter,
Wes?"

"Nothing."

The very tone of the boy's voice told her something
was very wrong indeed. She sighed again and, turning,
put an arm through his.

"Tell me, Weston. I'm safe."

"Oh, Aunt Emmie. It's Lee."

"Yes, Lee's lovely."

Weston groaned. "Not always. To-night she's a
little devil. Won't give a fellow one comfortable
minute. If only I knew whether she was serious about
Tom."

"About Tom!" Emmie echoed, and incredibly to
herself she realized that she felt depressed. Was it
so apparent, or was it only Weston's jealous eye that
saw it?

"Yes, you can see how he acts and I can't tell
whether she's playing with him, or means business.
Tom Hastings' worth a lot."

"Somehow, I didn't think Lee would care for that."

"All women care, Aunt Emmie, for money. Some
of them more and some of them less, but they care
whether they give it up or not."

Emmie smiled to herself in the dark at his world-weary
tone.

"But Tom's a lot older," she ventured.

"Yes," Weston agreed, "old enough to have a wife
and family of his own. Lord, how I hate oid bachelors!
Always butting in on their juniors and crabbing
the game. Make girls expect more than a fellow
of their own age is rightfully entitled to offer them.
They spend the best years of their life grubstaking
themselves, and a young fellow has got all that in
front of him yet." Weston smoked moodily. "Of
course, if a girl wants money and an old man, why
she'll take Tom."

Emmie felt a little resentful at the tone in which
he damned her contemporary as old. Though reason
told her this was only a first affair with Weston,
that Lee was not to blame, yet Emmie's heart ached
for the boy. "Puppy love" may be transient, often
best that it should be so, but it sometimes hurts the
puppy badly, and he is never quite the same gay little
dog afterward.

Weston, regardless of anyone's feelings, continued
his lament:

"But what's the game with Landon? Tell me that.

He isn't old, and he doesn't look worth much, so why
is Lee setting her teeth in him?"

"Weston!" Emmie turned on the boy, completely
surprised. "Surely you are mistaken. Why, Lee had
never met him before she came down last week-end
and she hasn't had time--"

"Time!" Weston groaned. "How much time does
a girl like Lee need to play havoc with a man's life?
Leave it to Lee. She can do murder and get away
with it in less time than any other girl I know of."

"But, Weston, don't be ridiculous about Mr.
Landon."

"I tell you she's got him bound and tied to her saddle,"
Weston argued. He was not jesting, Emmie
could see that. His face looked tortured. Emmie
turned away.

"I saw them look at each other," Weston continued.
"They knew each other before they met at your house,
Aunt Emmie. He may be through with her, but Lee
isn't through with him. Why else do you think she
made all that grandstand play for another invitation
down to East Penniwell? It isn't love for the good
old place. Don't you believe that! Lee has an axe
to grind in East Penniwell or she wouldn't cast her
shadow there again for anybody--not even you, Aunt
Emmie. I know. I know Lee!"

Weston's voice had risen a little in his earnestness,
and Emmie put her hand on his arm to silence him.
A man had just come out of the elevator and was
standing now in the open door of the entrance. They
could see him distinctly. It was Bob Landon.

"Speak of the devil," Emmie said softly.

Weston's eyes identified Landon and he turned to
his aunt. "Speaking of the devil, what brings him
here? You?"

Emmie shook her head. "I don't know. I didn't
send for him," she added lightly, "but I am surely
very glad to see him."

Even as she said it, Emmie had a swift feeling that
she had rather it had been Bunny Wells. Odd, she
thought, as Bob Landon came out of the doorway
and turned toward them, how strong an impression
Bunny Wells' personality made on one, in so short a
time. He was, in a way, far more vital, and much
handsomer than the man coming.

Bob Landon, she noted, was dressed as the other
men. Then he had not come there unexpectedly. He
had known. The light fell upon Emmie's face with
its curious, wide open eyes.

Bob Landon saw her and came forward.

"Miss Weston!"

"Mr. Landon, I was frightened at first when I
saw you. I thought something might be wrong with
East Penniwell--or Mr. Wells?"

Bob shook his head.

"Everything going splendidly," he said, "and
Bunny in the best of spirits. He simply loves East
Penniwell, Miss Emmie. I'll never be able to pry
him loose."

"I hope not," Emmie murmured, conscious of Weston's
critical gaze and hoping Bob Landon did not
see it.

"I came up to town to talk to a dealer in wrought
iron, and met Mr. Hastings at the club. He asked
me to come up." Bob Landon glanced about him.
"Lovely, isn't it? I'm glad I came."

"Yes," said Emmie, as Weston after a silent greeting
held out his cigarette case. "It's lovely and modern
and queer and unhomelike--"

Bob Landon laughed, and finished her sentence for
her, "And not in the least like East Penniwell."

"No, it's not."

"Odd about East Penniwell, isn't it, Miss Emmie?
Simple old place, but it pulls you back."

Emmie nodded. "I hope it will pull you very
hard, Mr. Landon. I am in earnest about your acting
as my manager."

Bob looked at her, hesitated, and then said to Weston,
"Wonderful aunt you have, Weston. She doesn't
let much grass grow under her feet."

Weston looked at his aunt protectingly. "I guess
so much grew for a lot of years that Aunt Emmie
feels no more is needed."

"Right," said Emmie and patted Weston's arm. A
wilder strain of music came from the windows. "Wes,
dear boy, I want to talk business with Mr. Landon.
Don't let us keep you out here--and bore you."

"All right," Weston threw away his cigarette and
turned toward the court, "only, when are you going
to dance with me?"

"Next dance," Emmie said, "provided you haven't
forgotten all about it, dancing with some pretty girl."

"No fear," Weston glanced sidewise at Bob Landon,
"there's only one girl here to-night, and she's
favoring Tom Hastings with most of her dances. Best
get through with business early, Landon, if you want
to dance with her."

"I'm not dancing," Bob called to him, as Weston
went toward the court.

Landon turned to Miss Emmie. "You don't mean
that?" she said.

Bob nodded. "Yes, I do. I hate the sound of the
stuff," he said, as the music began again. "Bunny
used to dance like a breeze, and loved it," he added, as
though to explain himself to Emmie.

"Is nothing to be done for him?" she asked.
"I--"

"Nothing," Bob said shortly. "It's kind of you to
offer, but if there had been anything I would have
had it done, if I had to work day and night paving
hell to get the money."

Miss Emmie believed him.

"It's merely a matter of Bunny's growing stronger
now. Of course he'll always be lame, but if he grows
stronger he will be able to discard one crutch."

Miss Emmie sighed.

Bob leaned against the wall and looked at her.
"At that, Bunny doesn't feel the way I do about it."

"No, I suppose not."

"He accepts it, since there's no getting round it,"
Bob said, "but I--I resent it. It was all so unnecessary."
He broke off abruptly, for Tom and Lee
came through the doorway and toward Miss Emmie.

"It's your dance, Weston," Lee called. "Pity I
have to come and collect you," she added gaily, and
went up to the dark figure beside Miss Emmie, with
its back to the light.

At the touch of her hand, Bob turned. It seemed
to Emmie it was ages before Lee spoke. They stood
looking at each other, and Emmie felt Lee was
trembling.

Then Lee said, "What are _you_ doing here--Mr.
Landon?"

Emmie felt that Lee had just saved herself from
saying "Bob."

Bob Landon moved away, so that Lee's hand fell
from his coat-sleeve.

To Emmie's amazement, Bob was looking at the
girl with positive dislike.

"Business," he said briefly. "The only thing that
could make me leave East Penniwell--and Bunny
Wells."

Emmie, although Tom was asking her to dance
again, could see Lee shiver, and then rally.

"It has a great fascination, hasn't it," Lee said, with
unnecessary clearness. "I'm coming down--to stay."

Involuntarily Bob moved. Emmie could see his
face in the moonlight. It was white with fear.




11


A lone man is the legitimate prey of the female
of his species.

Bunny Wells sat in the sunshine, a drawing pad on
his lap, puzzling over a scheme for decorating the
library, and between-whiles he looked out on East
Penniwell.

All East Penniwell that passed by the house looked
at him and for the most part returned his smile. They
could hardly help themselves, Bunny turned such a
genial face toward them.

Miss Annie Mink was quite unsettled by the smile
he gave her. She hurried home to Sister and confided
to her that her first impulse had been "to go
right up the steps and sit down and cheer him up a
bit."

The only thing that held her back, as she assured
Sister, was that it was Lib Candy's washing day and
Lib was out in the kitchen and it seemed "a little
bold," Miss Annie thought, "to go right into a room
where a strange man was alone." Sister agreed with
her that it was best not.

"Tongues will wag, Sister, and you are an unmarried
girl."

Miss Annie Mink sighed. "An old maid, some
people would say," she replied, with a toss of her head.

"Not thoughtful people, Sister Annie," Sister hastened
to assure her. "Only thoughtless people would
speak of you so. Why, Sister Annie, you are no
older than I am! No, I think you did quite right.
Later this afternoon, when Lib Candy has finished
her ironing, we might both run in for a few minutes.
I could engage Lib, while you spoke to the gentleman."

Annie sighed. "There isn't a girl, nowadays, who
would hesitate for a moment. I saw Betty Langly all
alone in Bill Blossom's shop."

"Sister Annie!"

"Yes, not a soul in that plumber's shop for more
than three-quarters of an hour--except Betty and
Bill."

"Are you sure, Sister Annie?"

"I made it my business to be sure, Sister. I looked
in when I went into the post office and then coming
out of the post office I crossed the street and looked
in again, and after I had finished at the store passed
that way again, and she was still with him. I called
that old Mrs. Holmes' attention to it. You know what
a gossip she is, snaps you up on everything. I just
hinted, mildly, that if Betty's mother knew where
Betty spent her time! Well, she wormed it out of
me and then crossed the road herself and looked in.
They were still at it. Still there."

"Mercy! What did old Mrs. Holmes do?"

Miss Annie looked embarrassed. "Well, Sister, it's
terrible how little tact a real busybody has. She went
right along and told the next person she met. I'm
sure, for I saw her speaking to Mrs. Seth Lamby, and
Mrs. Lamby went right up and peeked in the window
too. Sister, it's dreadful how some people set scandal
in motion."

"It is indeed, Sister Annie. One can't be too careful."

Lib Candy and Asher Turkle met on the triangular
patch of bleaching green at the kitchen side of the
house. Lib, carrying a basket of clothes ready to be
hung up, surveyed Asher with a cool eye as he came
striding toward her, hands in pocket.

Lib had on one of her new work aprons and a
wonderful boudoir cap, bought in New York by Miss
Emmie for its proper use. It was now diverted, as
Emmie had known it would be, to the use and custom
of East Penniwell. In East Penniwell, your
respectable and most "fussy" matrons and maids put
on a boudoir cap in the morning, and felt fully
equipped to do both housekeeping and shopping, secure
that it was all that could be asked in the way of
style and comfort. Some had even gone so far
as to wear them out in the family Ford, but Lib
frowned on this. Lib wore her cap with just pride.
There was none like it in East Penniwell. It was of
blonde net, with pink ribbons, and a generous frill of
lace. Lib was secure in feeling that it made her
look distinguished. It certainly took Asher's eye. He
stopped and stared.

"My Great Jehosophat! Lib, there's no end to your
Style. Sence you came back from New York, East
Penniwell's never knowed what get-up you'd appear
in, but that one's a hummer!"

"Nobody's asking you your opinion, Asher Turkle."
But Lib was pleased.

"No," returned Asher, "I'm a vulenteering it, and
a hummer she is, Lib. Why, here, I'll put up the
clothes rope!"

It was unheard of, but Lib, though astonished, submitted
with a grim face. "Men, men," she thought
to herself, "ain't it awful how a bit of ribbon will
fetch them!"

"Put it up strong, Asher," was all she said, but this
was to Asher so encouraging that he went to work
with a lumbering alacrity that was as astonishing to
the Misses Mink as it was to Lib.

"Asher Turkle's putting up Lib Candy's clothes
line, Sister," Miss Annie called. "It looks like intentions
on his part!"

"He's kept off and on-ing with poor Lib for long
enough," Sister remarked, "and Lib's felt it."

"Any woman would," declared Miss Annie stoutly.
"Lib's put on a good deal of style since she came back
from New York." She glanced at Sister.

Sister nodded.

"Do you think it possible," Miss Annie asked, her
cheeks reddening with excitement, "that Miss Emmie
has settled something on Lib Candy, and Asher knows
it?"

"It might be," Sister replied. "Poor Lib, after
years of waiting for that philandering, great creature
to settle down and stop smirking at every girl and
woman that passes, to be made the object of a mercenary
marriage!"

"It might be true, Sister. It might well be from
his actions," agreed Miss Annie. "We must surely
call on Lib this afternoon."

Bunny Wells watched Lib and Asher, but not having
known them for years he did not perceive all that
lay behind the simple putting up of a woman's clothes
rope. He thought Asher an amusing old beggar, and
hoped he would come and talk to him.

His wish was presently gratified, for having fastened
the clothes rope, it was of course beneath Asher's
dignity to hang up clothes. That was too distinctly
woman's work for any able-bodied man. He presently
slouched into the living room, and asked Bunny
if there was anything he wanted "fetched."

"I'm going down this afternoon for Mr. Landon,
and so be if there's anything you have set your mind
on, let me hear it."

Bunny shook his head. "Nothing, Asher, except
Mr. Landon. You bring him back with the mail.
That's all I ask."

"Yeah," Asher said, trying to twitch a straw out
of the hearth broom, which having been made at an
"art" shop and presented to Emmie for Christmas
by Miss Annie Mink, would not, of course, twitch
out as Asher expected. "Yeah, being a reasonable
male creature, naturally you don't ask for much. If
you were a woman now and I had put that simple
question, By Peanuts! I'd had a list of half a dozen
things by now."

"Lib know you are going?" Bunny asked him.

"Sure not," Asher grinned. "I don't tell her until
just before I go. I know what's what." His face
became overcast with gloom. "That woman, Mr.
Wells, you ain't no idea how she's carrying on."

"Carrying on? Lib! Asher are you quite crazy.
Lib's the quietest and most wonderful person I ever
knew, when it comes to running a house."

"Yeah," Asher said again, "about the house, but
how about a man? She's got me near wore out and
pretty near run off my feet."

"What's the trouble?"

"New York's the trouble," Asher said determinedly.
"New York notions, she's got. She used to
be a clean enough woman. Now she's onberable. Why,
she won't," he glanced down at his stained blue overalls,
"she won't even hear of me meeting Mr. Landon
in these here! I says to her, 'What's the use of fussing,
I'll only get some more ile or somepin' on my
pants if I slips these here off, and besides it takes time,
and everybody knows me and me pants, so what's the
use?' But would she listen to me? She says, 'Think
a little about Miss Emmie, and don't shame her and
me by drawing up at the station thataway'." Asher
shook his head and felt his cheeks. "Even made me
shave, she did."

"Well, you look a lot better, Asher," Bunny was
forced to admit.

"Mebbe," said Asher, darkly. "Mebbe, but what's
looks, compared with a man feeling his soul is his
own, and he can stick his hand in his overall pocket and
survey the world with freedom. I tell you looks
ain't anything compared to that."

He sighed, succeeding in getting a straw from the
broom and began cleaning his pipe. "Females," he
continued, as he bent over his task, "is beyond everything
curious. They glorify in a man's strength and
will, and then tries to pull 'em down by their tricks."
He looked at Bunny again, darkly.

"You are an afflicted person," he said, with that
dreadful country directness that Bunny had learned
to expect, and not to wince at. "It ain't to be expected
that you should be pursued and follered as a
man of my strength and abilities, but even so you
have your dangers. You ain't safe, Mr. Wells, though
you may think ye are. Why," he added earnestly,
"crippled though ye be, there's women in this town
that has an eye on you."

Bunny was genuinely astonished. "Heavens, Asher,
you are touched!"

"Sound and in my usual mind," declared Asher.
"And though there's surely more strong and kinda
athaletic men round 'bout, still you have not escaped
the female eye. Why even Miss Emmie, with all she's
got on her hands, kinda notices you. I am warning
you because you being tied down, as you might say,
is a more easy mark for them desprit females than
what I or Mr. Landon might be."

"I don't see that," Bunny began, prepared to take
a back seat in such a contest, with two such rivals.

But Asher would not listen to him. "Mark my
words. We, on the approach of danger, can git up
and git. But you are kinda held, you might say."
He breathed uneasily, for even his self-absorbed mind
realized that he must not continually allude to Bunny's
lameness. He leaned toward Bunny, and whispered
so loudly that Bunny glanced nervously at the door
of the library, "Miss Annie Mink'll be over this afternoon."

"Well?" asked Bunny, and added, "I don't know
the lady."

"You will, you will. She's bent on _that_. She'n
Sister's been eyeing this house far too long for them
not to be ready with their plan. I have kept 'em off
hitherto," he said grandly. "Me and Mr. Landon
has kept them off with a kinda pleasant 'Good day
and fare-you-well' combined, and kinda mumbling
about how busy we was. But Mr. Bob ain't here
to protect you, and I'm a going to fetch him, and
that'll leave you alone for some time. If I could get
out of going for Mr. Bob," he announced so earnestly
that Bunny believed him, "you bet I would, but somebody's
gotta fetch him, and I'm the only male creature
able to handle the car."

He suddenly rose and leaned over Bunny eagerly.
"Heard any word yet, that you can pass on to me,
about Miss Emmie's buying a new car?"

Bunny shook his head.

"Well, it's about time she did," Asher told him,
"but a woman will always go on spending on clothes
and other useless things and keep a man that's fit to
drive a Buick, or something, running an old Ford. I've
been taking lessons too, for I aim to drive well, one
of these days."

Bunny intimated that he didn't doubt it.

"I spend," said Asher, "every spare moment I
kin call my own, and some that ain't so-called, at
the garage kinda mastering the science of driving
something else beside this here old coffee-grinder I'm
going to fetch Mr. Bob in."

"Good idea," Bunny agreed carelessly.

"I ain't sure that it is. It gets me a kinda reputation
for loose living and fastness, as it were, and at
that, women is so fickle, Miss Emmie might up and
git her another Poor Man's Packard."

There seemed nothing to say, so Bunny simply
looked his sympathy, and then out of the window.

"Lib's coming," he warned Asher.

Asher rose wearily. "And she'll be for routing
me out if I don't get of my own accord, but you
mark my word, don't give way to anything this afternoon.
You will be tempted all right, as much as
Miss Annie kin temp'."

"What's the matter with Miss Annie?" Bunny
asked, smiling. "Nice woman and nice looking."

"She looks above me," Asher informed Bunny,
simply and without rancor. "But that ain't why I'm
kinda set against her. No, I'm a fair man. I don't
try to slam innocent females, when they are innocent,
but these here shilly-shally airs sure annoy me. Here's
Miss Annie trots over here with the intention of
kinda winning you--fascinating you any way. She'll
come over and set with you while her sister kinda
tackles Lib, and so keeps her engaged and silences such
speech as people might git off. So far so good, but
will she carry it through? No," he roared, pounding
his fist on the delicate looking tip-table near Bunny.
"She'll have you there, cornered like, all trembling
and waiting the shot that'll leave you helpless and
in her power and will she fire it? No! She'll get
excited trying to get some fact out of you about your
past life, or Mr. Bob's, or what Miss Emmie's doing
up in New York, or what you know about Tom Hastings
and Miss Emmie, and the precious moment'll
go by. You'll kinda recover yourself and she won't
get her hook in so deep but what you can kinda
wiggle off, and hand it back to her, withouten her
being able to land ye. And mark my words, once
the moment is gone, it can only, maybe once in a
lifetime, be recovered. And then," he warned, drawing
himself up, "only be a man. A woman's last
chanct is lost, when she misses that there moment."

"Is that so?" demanded Lib in the doorway. "And
at that it may be a God's blessing to the woman,
Asher, that there furnace ain't cleared out, nor is the
fireplace in the front room looking anywhere near
like what Miss Emmie and me expects it to be. Wood
is wanted for this here fireplace, for though a
mild day, Mr. Bunny might kinda feel the edge of
the air with the window open like he has it."

Asher stumped out, closing and opening his mouth
spasmodically like a fish, as he thought of a snappy retort
too late to make it.

"If it doesn't bother you any Lib--Miss Candy, I
should say--" began Bunny.

"No you shouldn't. Lib I am, and pleased to be so
to you. In this here community, what With the
Quakers and all, we ain't so much at Mistering and
Missusing, and especially not Missing as some. Lib's
good enough for me."

"Thank you. Well then, Lib, I'd like to keep the
window open."

"Sure, do anything you have a mind to," and Lib
actually smiled at him. "Only don't keep that big
lunkhead, Asher, in here achawing the rag when he
oughta be working."

"Aren't you a little hard on Asher?"

"Me? Me hard on Asher! No, I don't think
so, Mr. Wells. I don't reely, and if you knew all
the facts you'd wonder I stayed my hand and tongue
as much as I do."

Lib, the grotesquely gay boudoir cap bringing out
every line on her strongly marked face, stopped and
looked bitterly past Bunny, and out of the window
for a moment.

"He was warning me against the plots and plans
that he thinks are being made against me by the
ladies in the lovely old brick house," Bunny said, embarrassed
at the situation he found himself in.

Poor Bunny was so often used as a confidant and
safety valve, and by so many people, that he knew
the signs. He began to be afraid that the strong and
efficient Lib might feel herself called upon to tell him
more than he wanted to hear.

But Lib did not so easily give way. She turned a
wary eye on him. "At that Asher ain't so far out.
Nothing'll stop 'em, Mr. Wells. It ain't any use to
try, but you can count and call on me for help if
needed."

"Thank you, Lib," and Bunny smiled. "It seems
ridiculous, doesn't it? If it is true, why I think I
can defend myself."

"Women," said Lib, darkly, "that ain't got much
else to do but think about other people, is pretty
sly. Smart as men are, Mr. Wells, women can be
pretty dangerous."

They could, Bunny thought bitterly to himself, as
Lib, catching sight of Asher about to empty the ashes
in a direct line with her clean clothes, called shrilly
and went out of the room hurriedly.

Bunny looked down at his crippled foot and thought
that he owed that to a woman, but because it was not
in Bunny's nature to dwell long on what couldn't be
helped, he was once more his equable and kindly self
when Asher drove away to the station. Asher made
so many mysterious nods and gestures toward the
window, where Bunny had established himself, that
the bewildered Bunny could only guess at their meaning,
until he noted the approach of Miss Annie and
her sister.

All the street saw them going to the Weston house,
and they were conscious that all the street did, but
bore themselves with a beautiful meekness that was a
treat to see. They also had, for the day, robed themselves
in their second-best calling costumes. The very
best were always kept for "an occasion," and while to
visit "an interesting invalid," as Miss Annie always
classified Bunny, was an event, it was not quite "an
occasion."

Sister, after the first few words, fluttered out to
the kitchen and Lib, babbling softly about a recipe for
some lemon cookies that she wished to borrow.

Miss Annie sank gracefully into the chair near
Bunny and congratulated him on his window.

"Knowing dear Emmie as long as I have," said
Miss Annie with a little titter, "positively since childhood's
hours, you might say, possibly longer than you
have--" Miss Annie's ears twitched under the load
of curled hair she had dropped over them, and she
waited to see if Bunny would take the hint and
tell her how long he had known Miss Emmie. The
village wanted to know.

"Possibly," said the wary Bunny.

"Knowing dear Emmie as I do," Miss Annie began
again, not disconcerted at all, "I have wondered if
she was coming back here soon?"

"Soon, I believe."

"Oh, I feared, when your friend Mr. Landon went
up to meet her--"

"Not to meet her," Bunny corrected patiently, "to
meet a hardware dealer."

"Oh! Then dear Emmie _is_ going to start remodelling
the house?"

"Very soon." Bunny could give her that much.

"Oh! In one way that makes me a little sad, because
when the house is finished you will go, and that
nice Mr. Landon will go, of course."

"I'm not so sure." Bunny was thinking of a
scheme of his own.

Miss Annie's face shone. Evidently she would
make a rich haul this time. In her pursuit of the
facts that would enable her to catalogue the household
at Weston's she forgot all else. "But Mr. Bob Landon,
doubtless, wants to go home to his family," she intimated
with sly carelessness.

The wary Bunny looked at her. "I don't think so.
I am Bob's family."

Miss Annie grew a little excited. This poor creature
was so easy. "And Mr. Tom? Poor Tom Hastings.
Do these--ahem--alterations mean--" she tittered a
little nervously. Bunny's steady glance was embarrassing.
"Mean we shall soon see him back here?" It
was a rather lame finish.

Bunny still looked at her as though he didn't comprehend,
and then suddenly his face lighted up. "Oh,
the alterations won't keep him away. He's coming
this week-end, I think."

Miss Annie had not received all she wanted, but
still this was something everybody didn't know. Tom
Hastings was coming back.

"We're all so excited," she said, leaning forward.
"You know we all saw the beginning of the romance,
years ago, when they were but children--but children,
and now! Oh, Mr. Wells, you can't know how the
town looks forward to seeing Miss Emmie's romance
completed."

"They must," Bunny gravely agreed, struggling
with the information Miss Annie had just given him.
Miss Emmie and Tom Hastings involved in a
romance! Great Scott!

"And we all feel so sure--"

"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure," Bunny said, unable
to keep from upsetting the complacency of this female
question mark.

"You don't mean--" she fluttered.

Then Bunny, with malice, took a hand in the
game. "With a woman you can never tell. Once let
them feel their power--"

"Do you mean?" Miss Annie asked excitedly, "Oh,
she couldn't turn him away now! After waiting all
these years."

"I don't mean anything," Bunny asserted, aghast
at this revelation. Poor Miss Emmie's pitiful romance!
That lovely creature waiting for an old
love to offer her his warmed-over affections, while
all the village looked on approvingly. What a fate
for Emmie Weston! Tom Hastings! Why, she was
meat for his masters! And at that--and here Bunny's
eyes darkened--was Tom Hastings playing up as he
should? Well, whether he was or not, Bunny determined
to give the town something to talk about, and
if Tom wasn't playing up as he should, it would at
least keep the town guessing a little.

"Miss Annie," he began leaning toward her, "I
don't really know anything."

"Of course not."

"But," said Bunny firmly. He had it now--that
was what was the matter with Miss Emmie, she was
fighting for her pride here in this lovely old nest of
gossips. "But you can't count too much on a woman,
who, after years of waiting, suddenly has not only
money but men in her power."

"Men!" gasped Miss Annie. "Oh, Mr. Bunny!
Emmie has blossomed out since her father's death,
but _men_!"

"More than one man has noted that blossoming
out," announced Bunny cryptically. Then abruptly he
felt ashamed of himself, for the effect was marked
upon his caller. Forgotten were all her matrimonial
designs upon this man. Her pitcher of gossip was
full--overflowing. She wished to rush out to Sister
and give her, and the other interested parties, a drink
from the well of knowledge. She and she alone
could tell them--for had she not seen Mr. Wells' expression
when she mentioned Tom Hastings--that Mr.
Landon was down here "after" Miss Emmie? Had
she not received a decided hint to that effect from
Mr. Landon's best friend? What else had he meant
by "more than one man?"

But not yet would Bunny let her go.

"By the way, Miss Annie, you might help me.
Do you know where I can pick up old furniture,
cheaply, about here?"

Miss Annie came back from the rearranging of the
gossip she had gathered.

"There's a sale out at Bumperville, Saturday. There
might be something there."

"Good!" said Bunny. "I'll ask Asher to drive me
out. Would you like to go too?" he asked politely.

Miss Annie looked at him in such a bewildered
manner that again he felt ashamed of himself, although
the impulse had been a friendly one.

"I--I must ask Sister," poor Miss Annie stammered,
trying not to look frightened. It was the first
time in fifteen years that a man had asked her to
go--anywhere!




12


Clothes may break, as well as make a man.

Waiting at the East Penniwell station, Asher put
his hand up restively to his neck, and finally brought
away his "made" bow tie. "The danged thing don't
set well," he explained to the taxi-driver nearest him
on the station platform. "It kinda presses on to me
gold-plated collar button and so on to me throat. Being
a large and athaletic man, I need room for me
breathing."

"So?" said Banbury True, regarding with interest
the projecting brassy-looking object that stood out
about half an inch from Asher's neck.

Banbury was a man of few words, but his "so"
was so pregnant with meaning that Asher was a little
perturbed.

"Say what's on your mind, Banbury," he urged
testily. "If so be as you have anything on it."

The emphasis being on the wrong word, in Banbury's
opinion, he stared hard at Asher, then at the
gold-plated collar button, and cleared his throat.
Asher grew palpably nervous.

"Say on, Banbury. I won't hurt ye man, whether
it be a thing welcome to me or something I'd rather
not know. I'm a big man, but I won't use that there
gigantic strength to crush a feeble worm like you."

The feeble worm regarded him. "Ye think too
much about yourself, Asher, and always did. It's
been a kinda curse of your life, too. If ye'd occasionally
given some of your thoughts to other people,
you'd gotten on faster."

"What say?" demanded the disturbed Asher.

Banbury True lit his evil smelling "Penniwell
Puff," as a certain coarse creation of tobacco not unlike
an old "Pittsburg stogie" was called, and took
his eyes from Asher. "If ye wasn't so full of your
own strength and glory, you'd see that you don't do
Miss Emmie any credit."

"What!" roared Asher. "Here you, Banbury, what
you saying?"

"God's truth." Banbury turned his fearless eye on
the towering Asher. "If it wasn't for her downright
kindness to you, on account of your working
so many years with the old man, Miss Emmie could
easy get a younger and a better looking feller to
drive her car. A reg'lar driver, with a uniform, a
good cap, his collar and tie on, and not looking like
a country mule."

Asher made a step forward but the valiant Banbury
did not retreat. "Come on and hit me. I'm
only two sizes smaller, and you asked for it. Miss
Emmie'll have to bail you out of the county jail and
Mr. Landon'll ride home in my car."

"Sweet Serpents!" Asher drew back the enormous
hands that had been reaching out for Banbury and put
one of them in his pocket, to grope for the "made"
bow tie. "I ain't even meaning to touch you, Banbury,
knowing that a blow from me would probably
injure you for life. I'm going to put on this tie, because
I hear the train acoming." He paused, as he
struggled with it, to look at Banbury directly. "But
that ain't the end of it for you, Banbury."

"Nope," said Banbury cheerfully, "I don't reckon
so, but if it is, don't you worry. I'm making you a
present of it."

Asher still kept his eye on him and shook his head.
"Seems to me, Banbury True, for a little feller, you
are awful venturesome."

"That's the way with us small fellers," Banbury
called back. "We ain't got the monopoly, of course,
for if Napoleon was five feet two and a half, why
Washington was a big feller. But at that we little
fellers manage to get away with quite a passel of the
world's gole medals, quite a little passel."

"But in the eyes of the females," Asher began.

"Even there," said Banbury, "we ain't so small
as some. When it comes down to that, I'm married
on me third, and you ain't even begun yet."

"What's that got to do with it?" yelled Asher, still
struggling with his bow tie.

"I dunno," Banbury called back. "Ask Lib Candy."

The train was coming in so that the others waiting
on the platform could not hear the mouth-filling oath.
Asher, as he swore, jerked his bow tie into its place.
He tore down the platform in the wake of the wiry
little Banbury, who was looking for customers.

Under cover of the noise of arrival, Banbury turned
fearlessly toward Asher. Asher, his curiosity greater
than his rage, leaned to him.

"Asher, if ye know, which of them two men, the
lame one or the other, is Miss Emmie playing off
agin' Tom?"

Asher straightened up, triumph in his eye.

"You that's been married on three, and knows so
much about women, otter sense it withouten calling on
a bacheller to solve the problem for ye."

But he went on down the platform considerably disturbed.
He would have to alter his viewpoint, if this
hint of Banbury's was worth anything.

"Onknowable!" he muttered. "Onknowable the
whole lot of 'em! Even Miss Emmie!"

Bob Landon stepped off the train alone, nodded
briefly to Asher, handed him, to Asher's surprise, a
bag to carry, and followed Asher to the waiting machine
with a preoccupied air. Asher, inwardly regretting
the returned bow tie, since there had been no
females aboard, waited for a word, and then as it was
not forthcoming supplied it himself.

"Well, Mr. Bob Landon, I'm glad to have you back
to help."

Bob looked up at him puzzled. "Help?"

"Yeah," Asher answered, "to help keep Mr. Wells
outta the clutches of designing females."

"Designing females! Bunny Wells!" Bob turned
an alert and smiling face toward Asher. "Come off,
Asher! Surely Lib--"

"Leaving Lib Candy outen this," said Asher dryly,
"still there's enough to sicken any man."

"Oh, surely not Morphinia!"

"I'm talking about females," Asher roared indignantly,
as he extracted his machine from the traffic.
It was a busy night at the East Penniwell. There
were eight cars at the station. "Morphinia ain't in this
class. Besides while I am for freedom and liberty to
all, I ain't for mix-ups. Let black stay black and white
ditto and things will git evened up, somehow. How,
I don't know, so don't ask me to explain the will o'
God. It can't be explained and is best left lay."

"Well, you'd better explain, Asher, very carefully,
what you're talking about. I am still a pilgrim and
a stranger here."

"Miss Annie Mink's after him," Asher announced
in his beautifully direct way. "Using all her tactics
and female wiles, she is, too!"

Bob did not look alarmed. "Well, no harm in that.
It will only amuse Mr. Wells."

"Mr. Wells ain't any fool," Asher agreed moodily,
"skinning" past the grocer's wagon and just escaping
Sam Carter's truck. "He'll scent the danger, I hope,
soon enough to save himself. I gave him a warning
before I lef, but him being so kinda held down, as you
might say, leaves him a mite helpless at times. That's
why I am glad you're back. I can't take all the responsibility
alone. For if Miss Annie once gets down to
brass tacks, he'll be a goner unless we stand by."

"But," Bob began and was silenced by Asher's
sweep as he took the curve into their own street.

"Looka there," Asher shouted at him, as he rattled
the car toward the house.

Bob's eyes followed Asher's. Miss Annie and
Sister were just leaving the Weston gate, but Miss
Annie turned and ran back to Bunny Wells' window.

Bunny leaned out and shook hands with her. Miss
Annie was triumphantly making her way toward Sister
when Asher, regaining control, shot the machine toward
the house. "My Guy!" groaned Asher. "We
may be too late. It's started."

Unable to contain himself, Bob burst into a hearty
laugh.

Asher looked at him distantly. "Laff!" he groaned.
"Don't I wish Miss Emmie had come out with you!
She'd know it was no laughing matter."

Bob, having finished his laugh, spoke: "Miss Emmie
is coming out to-morrow, but I doubt if you will
get any help out of Miss Emmie, Asher. She has
bigger fish to fry."

Asher looked at him. "And at that you might be
right," he said. "Has she hooked him?"

"Hooked? Who?"

"Him," said Asher. "Him she's been breaking her
heart about for eighteen years, though God knows
if I was a woman with money of my own, Tom Hastings
ain't the man I'd pick."

"Tom Hastings!" exclaimed the astonished Bob,
and then seeing where he had put himself declined
to go any further. "Oh, that's something I know
nothing about, except that Tom Hastings is coming
down this week-end."

"Then he's a goner."

Asher brought the machine up to the Weston
house with a nourish. He felt vastly proud of himself.
He had, with delicacy, "put Mr. Bob wise" to
what he would be spoiling if he interfered with Miss
Emmie's romance. He alighted, intending to run the
car around to the back door when Bob Landon had
gotten out. Asher meant to give Lib the news at
once. He was prevented by the fact that Lib herself
appeared in the doorway, and that Mr. Landon
seemed to expect him to carry his bag in. Asher
was about to remark casually, "You take the bag,
Mr. Bob, and I'll unload the groceries I got in the
back seat there, all be meself," which was Asher's
idea of how the thing could be done neatly, when
Lib, who had been watching him closely, called out:
"Bring Mr. Bob's bag in this way, Asher, and take
them groceries around the back."

Muttering that "Females is the onknowablest things
on this oncertain earth," Asher followed Bob Landon
into the house. He had no chance to give Lib the
news, for Bob told her himself, with the additional
item that Miss Lansing was coming down with Miss
Emmie.

"Well, the more the merrier," Lib said cheerfully.
"This here house has stood quiet so long that it does
a body good to cook for a family. Shall I shove
dinner along for you, Mr. Bob? Feeling pecky?"

Bob looked bewildered a moment and then said.
"Oh, no thank you, Lib, the usual time. I had luncheon
on the train. But it's nice to be included in the
family," he added, "and I appreciate it." He put a
box of candy in the flattered Lib's hand. "This is
for you and this smaller one for Morphinia."

He went into the sitting room to find Bunny, followed
by Lib's curious, flat giggle and her joyful statement
that, "If you keep this up, Mr. Bob, me and
Morphy won't have a tooth left in our jaws."

Asher, bringing in the groceries, was present at the
opening of the boxes. Morphy's squeal and Lib's
grim pleasure annoyed him. He refused indignantly
any part of the spoil. Eating candy was a "kinda
unmanly thing to do. I'm grown-up."

"Maybe so," allowed Lib.

"It ain't a good reason to refuse candy," retorted
Morphy, her own mouth full. "Grandmaw says a
growed man what likes sweets has got some of his
innersense left yet, and ain't so clouded be sin and
drink that he can't ralish 'em."

"What! I'll show ye!" The indignant Asher put
a huge fist into Lib's box and withdrew it full. Lib,
with a cry, rescued her box, and Morphy, seeing him
approach with equally reckless designs on her own,
flew out of the back door and into the woodshed
where her "Grandpaw," Zebra Ballins, was cutting
logs of wood into fireplace and stove lengths. Here
Morphy took refuge, and shared her sweets with Zebra
until such time as Lib, lifting up her voice, called
Morphy in to pare vegetables and help get the supper.

As Morphy ran toward the house with her precious
box, Asher came from the kitchen, moodily munching
a chocolate. He sat down heavily on an empty box
and watched Zebra attack a stubborn log.

"Well, Zebra, we're in a pretty bad way." He
shook his head.

Zebra looked up, his little bright eyes snapping.
"Hey? Ain't nothing happened Miss Emmie, is
there?"

"No, nothing rightly 'happened' yet," Asher began.

"Miss Emmie all right, then we all right," Zebra
affirmed, "perwided we sits tight and says nothing."

"Zebra," Asher said solemnly, "what's your idea of
the situation between Miss Emmie and Tom Hastings?"

"Who--me? I ain't got any at all," Zebra replied
cheerfully. "You folks know more'n I do. I'm out
doors, youse is indoors. Moreover, any inflammation
we gets about Miss Emmie, you folks gets the insides
of it and we gets the outsides. I seen Miss Emmie
traveling with that Tom Hastings, last time she drove
here. Well sir, Tom Hastings he look entirely flummoxed
in his mine. That's what he looks, while Miss
Emmie she's sorta studying him. And she's taking her
time to study him.

"Seems like Miss Emmie's mine is saying to her,
'Look here Emmietta Weston' (that's Miss Emmie's
mine talking to and about Miss Emmie, y'onstand, so
she's gotta right to using Christian and front name).
Well Miss Emmie's mine say to Miss Emmie, 'How
you know, gal he's kinda fellah you like to be loving
with now? He's been away long time,' Miss Emmie's
mine say to her. 'Heah he is now, and maybe he ain't
been making love to some other woman? Oh, no!'
You know how woman's mines revolving round that
subject all a time, Ashuh?"

Asher nodded gloomily.

"Then Miss Emmie's mine says, 'Miss Emmie you
got a heap of money now, chile. You gotta control
of all what your pop he kep' away from you. You
kin splurge, chile, you can even git 'nother man,
younger and better looking than this Tom Hastings if
you tries. Tom Hastings a mighty nice gentlemum.'
Miss Emmie's mine says to her, 'but he ain't only bug
in potato patch, no sir, he ain't. You study him,
chile, you study him.' An Miss Emmie says to Miss
Emmie's mine, 'You talk too much. Leave me lone.
I'm studying Tom Hastings, I'm studying.' That,"
said Zebra, finishing up and starting to saw again,
"is how I dopes it out, Ashuh. That's the way."

Asher said nothing for a moment or two, finished
three rather messed up chocolates he had been holding
together in his right hand, and finally jerked out:

"Mebbe, mebbe. That's what they're saying round
town, Zebra?"

Zebra laughed. "Pretty much, pretty much, that
what they saying. Of course, it don't suit some.
Nothing ever suits all white folks at the same time.
These ha'd boiled and kinda onreasonable ones want
to think for themselves. Now, nobody ever thinks all
alone by themselves. Do they, Ashuh? Ain't it so?
Somebody's always pushing from inside or outside
with dark sayings that interferes with the working of
a person's mine.

"Why, if I sits down at night to kinda figger out
things I have hearn during the day, does I git the
chanct to make up my mine? No, never. I says a
word to Inja, ma' wife, thinking to keep her sorta
engaged in her mine and cease to trouble me. But
that one word leads to another. First thing I knows
she's got the whole problem before me, and starts solving
of it, withouten any 'pologies. She steals the
thoughts right outen my mine and revolves 'em round
in hern. And then gives me the thoughts in her mine
long before my mine is ready to take 'em up. It's
awful aggravating, Ashuh. But this m'rring and
givin' in m'rriage is the most aggravatingest thing that
the Lord ever put in the Bible. You bein' a single
gentlemum and free--"

"Free!" Asher's tone made mock of the word.
"Free! Zebra Ballins, there ain't any free men! Every
mother's son of us is tied up by some woman, somehow.
Them that's married is struggling to get out
of the trap, and the women won't let them, and them
that ain't married, the women is struggling to put
'em in. Look at me, a strong, athaletic man, and can
I call myself free, what with Miss Emmie keeping
me on the jump and telling me nothing, and Lib, here,
so nightly sence that New York trip that I can't do a
thing with her. Yet, if I so much as pass the time of
day with any of the girls in the choir or Sunday
School, she looks at me like milk in a thunderstorm."

Zebra nodded. "Women can be oncommonly sour
at time, but when they sweeten up, Ashuh, they sure
is sweet."

Asher looked at him glumly and shook his head.
"Maybe, maybe, but seems to me I've struck all the
sour ones."

"Asher, Ash-ur Turkle," Lib's voice came clanging
across the bleaching green. "Where are you loafing
now? Git a move on! Miss Emmie just telefoamed
that she's changed her mind, and she and Miss Lee's
coming down on the late train to-night. Ashur!"

"Suffering Cats, woman!" roared Asher. "I hear
ye, and I'm coming soon as I git through with what
I'm doing." He winked slowly at Zebra, who smiled
a toothy smile, in spite of the fact that he was a grandfather.

Asher stretched himself leisurely. "So Miss Lee's
coming and Mr. Tom ain't. I have a kinda feeling,
Zebra, that we gits a little nearer the truth this
week-end."

"Mebbe," Zebra agreed. "Mebbe, but she ain't
sayed Mr. Tom wasn't coming, yet."

"No," said Asher, struck with that aspect. "She
ain't."

"More'n likely he is," surmised Zebra. "Ain't it
possible that them two women has to rush down here
just to lure him on?"

"It's possible," Asher admitted. "Anything's possible
with women."

Again Lib's shrill summons came to them.

"Coming," bellowed Asher. He turned and said
to Zebra with such solemnity that the old darky still
sat back idle, saw in hand, and pondered long after
Asher had gone to the house:

"It's as you say, possible, Zebra Ballins, but there's
one thing you've forgot to remember. Women is
fickle, and there's two men down here already. And
Mr. Bob and Mr. Bunny remains on the ground kinda
permanent."

In the living room Bob Landon was facing Bunny
Wells. He did not want to face Bunny or to answer
his questions, but Bunny was quietly determined he
should.

"If Lee Lansing comes here to stay, what are you
going to do?"

"Why should I do--anything?" Bob finally asked
him defiantly.

Bunny looked at him keenly. "Because you're an
honorable man, Bob, no matter what you pretend.
It's not fair to Miss Emmie," he finished.

Bob looked at him with distinct hostility. "I can't
see where it's my affair," he declared doggedly, "and
I don't intend to make it mine."

"Then I will," Bunny told him, with a face that
was no longer kind and friendly, but drawn and
hard. "I'll give you a few days leeway, Bob--time to
make you see where you're going, and then if it's still
none of your business, I'll make it mine."

"Is that a threat?"

"Threat or promise, whichever you choose to make
it, but it's God's truth, and I mean it."




13


A female in flight is not always a routed female.
Witness the queen bee.

Emmie was flying to East Penniwell in hot haste.
Even as years ago Washington, closely pursued, fled
from New York to entrench himself on the other side
of the Delaware, and await the coming of the enemy,
so Emmie fled to her stronghold at East Penniwell.
Emmie meant to fight fair, if she could, but also she
was determined to use every weapon she could lay
her hands on. Lee Lansing was one weapon.

In New York, Tom Hastings had the advantage,
but in East Penniwell there were many things Emmie
might do. She might even turn defeat to her own
purposes there, for East Penniwell believed only what
it saw.

She leaned toward the window, as the sleepy little
branch road wound about the lovely valleys of her
native county, and wondered just what she would do
next.

For Tom was coming down to East Penniwell, but
not to ask Emmie to marry him, and Emmie knew this
very certainly now. He was coming down to be
everything that was friendly with Emmie, and to try
and persuade her to sell him the ground for his
brickyard. But it was to be Lee Lansing, sooner or
later, and if Lee had stayed on in New York he
would have written Emmie, or at least delayed his
visit.

Emmie would not have that. She would have Tom
down now. Now, before Bob Landon and Bunny
Wells had to leave Weston House, and that would be
soon, for presently it was agreed that the living rooms
must be overhauled. The plaster was to come down in
the dining room, and reveal the old rafters it had
hidden for so long. Fireplaces were to be opened and
a heating system introduced, and instead of the primitive
old water tank in the carriage house, the water
system was to be the latest in electric automatic pumping
devices, with a tank in the cellar.

Presently the Inn would have to house Emmie and
her guests, while the work went on. But before that
Emmie must work or fight out her own salvation
or the Inn would be impossible for Emmie. She
would have to go away from East Penniwell. Emmie
didn't want to leave East Penniwell. Making over an
old house, with the help of two such men as Bob Landon
and Bunny Wells, was a fascinating occupation
for any woman. Emmietta meant to continue it.
Afterward, when the house was as it should be, there
might come travel, but now nothing would induce her
to go off to parts unknown. When she left East Penniwell,
she meant to leave it with flags flying, if she had
to pretend to give Tom his bride with her own hands.

She turned to look at Lee Lansing, who was seated
beside her, opening and glancing at some letters that
had been given her just as she left the house.

Emmie wondered if the girl suspected what she
had been thinking. It was impossible, of course, but
her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp exclamation
from Lee.

"Of all the stupid kids!" Emmie looked at her inquiringly.
Lee was slowly tearing a note into small
pieces. She turned on the older woman a calculating
look.

"How much influence have you with Weston, Miss
Emmie?"

Emmie laughed. "None that I know of. Why?"

Lee flushed a little. "His parents have absolutely
none, and anyway they will blame me. You see," she
hesitated a moment, and then went on in the frank,
almost boyishly embarrassed way that was part of her
charm, "Weston has it rather badly just now. I give
you my word, Miss Emmie, it isn't my fault."

Emmie smiled. "Of course not, but Wes has every
excuse."

The girl squeezed her arm. "You are the best they
turn out," she told her, briefly and solemnly. "The
very best--no 'cat stuff' in your make-up. Well, Wes
says he'll stick this year out at Princeton if I'll promise
to announce my engagement to him, and I won't, so
he's not going back this week. He means it. He says
he can't study with me on his mind," she added
hastily, seeing Emmie's alarmed look. "There's probably
a grain of truth in that. If I will promise, Wes
will go back all right, and without a murmur. He's
coming down with Tom Hastings, and says if you
won't take him in he's going to try the Inn, and--there
you are!"

Emmie gave an impatient exclamation. "Of course,
I'll take him in," she said. "No Inn for Weston,
while he's in East Penniwell. But the boy--is it
quite hopeless, my dear?"

"Completely."

Emmie felt Lee meant it. It must mean--Tom.

"I like Wes," Lee continued, "but I am not engaging
myself to anyone."

Emmie thought over this for a moment. "We'll
have to try to make him see reason."

Lee nodded. "It won't be easy, but at least I want
you to know I'm honest about it. It will _never_ be
Weston, Miss Emmie."

"No dear, I can see that," Emmie acknowledged,
but she frowned a little as Lee resumed her reading.

The frown, though ever so slight, suddenly made
Emmie unable to concentrate. She remembered the
instructions given her by Miss Beatrice, Calla's first
assistant:

"Never frown, always keep a half smile on your
lips, and your mouth pursed a little as though you
were about to be kissed."

Emmie giggled aloud as she relaxed her frown, and
Lee looked at her inquiringly.

"What's so funny? Mean of you to keep it to
yourself. Let me laugh too. Heaven knows I need
to laugh."

Emmie related the "looking as though you were
about to be kissed," instructions.

Lee, highly amused, insisted on practicing. She
surveyed the rosy cupid's bow slightly pursed up, which
was her own mouth, in her little hand mirror, and
said, "It will be rather hard on whoever meets us at
the station, if we both get off looking as though we
want to be kissed."

"Asher!" exclaimed Emmie, stifling a laugh in
order to preserve the proper expression. "And Asher
is so susceptible."

"That big log, susceptible?"

"Ah, my dear," Emmie told her, "we know so little
of each other, don't we? You see Asher as a log and
yet I haven't the slightest doubt that Asher and Zebra
analyze us and our affairs down to the very mainspring
of our actions. For Asher is, as he would tell
you, 'a discerning man, capable of reading the female
mind,' as well as 'a terrible, athaletic, strong man."

"Heavens!" Lee exclaimed. "Does he really
trouble to analyze the feminine mind? He looks far,
far above it."

Emmie shook her head. "Asher has had more than
one affair. He's a very dashing man--at church socials.
Only his long and uninterrupted courtship of
Lib saves Asher. Very few women would want to
dispute a man with Lib Candy."

"Lib! Lib and Asher!" Lee's laughter was low,
but hearty. "Miss Emmie, that's a scream. Those two
Old Things!"

Emmie smiled. "Lots of settled grown-ups have
surprisingly youthful hearts, Lee, as you will learn
one of these days. Fate hasn't been very kind to
Lib. Asher and Lib meant to be married when they
first came to work for my father. They thought he
would give them a chance. But he took the one
sure way of keeping them apart. It was better
for his own purpose. He wanted Lib as a
housekeeper, so he never gave Asher the chance that
he had carefully never promised Asher--for father
never went back on his word. But he had allowed
Asher to infer that a tenant house, and the position
of farmer, would come to him after a few years'
service. Then Asher and Lib would have married.
But they waited past the real moment and now--"

Lee looked at her inquiringly.

"And now Asher isn't so eager."

"And Lib?" the girl asked.

"Oh, Lib cares, or thinks she does, which is the
same thing," Emmie admitted ruefully, diagnosing her
own case as she described Lib's.

"But you could--" began the girl warmly and then
stopped. "Oh, I beg pardon, Miss Emmie."

"Not at all," Emmie said tranquilly. "Of course
I could, and I will when I see what Lib really wants."

Lee looked at her a moment shrewdly, and then
smiled. "On the side of the lady?" she said teasingly.
"A pure feminist--"

"No," said Emmie, "on the side of the weakest.
Just woman."

Lee patted her arm. "I'll never understand why
you have never married."

"Tell you some day," said Emmie quickly, "but
there's no time now. Here's East Penniwell--and
Asher."

"Scotland!" Lee reached for her travelling bag.
"I can't keep my mouth pursed, for Asher."

"Put your bag firmly down at his feet," advised
Emmie. "And don't pick it up again. Put it right
on his feet if necessary."

Then at Lee's surprised look, Emmie explained herself.
"Asher thinks it beneath his masculine dignity
to carry anything, if he can help it. He is quite capable
of allowing us to lug our own bags, sustaining us,
meanwhile with pleasant and profitable conversation,
if we would let him."

Then seeing Lee's slim eyebrows travel upward,
Emmie added, "It's the country, my dear, and the
combination of independence, a slow-moving mind
and a great but real contempt for anyone who can
be 'put upon' by his women folks."

"Oh yes," Emmie answered the eyebrows again,
"I pay Asher wages, but that's the way he regards
me, and probably the way he would describe both
of us, if asked. He is probably in a great taking because
he has had to come down to meet us. He's so
inherently lazy, I am sure he has vainly tried to
switch his duty to either Mr. Landon or Mr. Wells."

"I hope not," Lee said so heartily that Emmie
looked at her, as they waited for the train to come to
a complete stop.

"Don't you like them--either of them?" she asked
softly.

"Oh, yes," answered Lee quickly, but without much
conviction, "but I'd rather be met by Asher."

Asher was there, but Emmie saw at once he was
not in his usual form. By placing her bag and motioning
to Lee to put hers down so that to move he
must step over or on them, Emmie succeeded in having
him pick them up, without having to order him to do
so, but that was all.

His "How-do, Miss Emmie, How-do, Miss Lansing,"
was preoccupied. Emmie felt nervously that
there was something he wanted to ask but was not
quite ready to risk it. She hoped if it concerned Tom
Hastings he would not ask it while Lee was with her.

He took up the bags, after stubbing his toes against
them, and walked with them toward the flivver. He
threw open the door for the two ladies, but refrained
from assisting them in. When they were safely settled,
still in the same wide-eyed trance, he put in the
bags and climbed in himself. With his hand on the
self-starter, he turned to Emmie. "Miss Emmie, I
wouldn't think of blighting your first minute at home
if I could help it, but things is serious."

Miss Emmie's eyes looked frightened. "What is it,
Asher? What's happened? Is Lib ill?"

"Lib's herself," Asher told her coldly. "This ain't
any family calamity that's overtaken us. At least the
female concerned isn't of our household. It's kinda
bad-looking, though, Miss Emmie, and I'm glad you're
back. Miss Annie Mink's gotten her clutches on Mr.
Wells. They're going riding after antics to-morrow
morning."

"What?" Miss Emmie gave Lee's hand a warning
squeeze lest she laugh and spoil it all.

But Lee was in search of information. "Antics?"
she questioned, mystified. "I don't think I ever heard
of them."

"Mebbe not," Asher answered, as patiently as he
could. "Mebbe not, you being young and flighty, old
ancient things mebbe don't attract. But there's money
in 'em, Miss Lee. Doc Slavin, that usta keep the Inn,
always kinda hee-hawed at antics just as you do, Miss
Lee, and yet come a time when he bought an old ancient
chair that had been lying in Ben Amtler's barn
sence his grandmother's vandoo. Well, be Guess and
be Gracious! He was just carrying it acrost the
street for his wife to rest the washboiler on, when
one of these here city men that's got an eye for these
here antics, happens to be passing by in his motor car
and seen the ancient thing. By Guy! he paid the Doc
twenty dollars over and above the dollar Doc had
paid Ben!"

"Ben was fit to hit somebody or smash somepin'
when he hearn of it. Sence then every family in this
here town has set store of their old ancient things
something wonderful. You can't git a single antic at a
vandoo--"

"Oh, _what_ is a vandoo?" Lee interrupted.

Asher turned on her a look of pity. "Seems to me,
Miss Lee, for one that's kinda up to date and knowing,
you ain't got any too much word-play. Things that
anybody down here would know kinda stumps ye."

"Yes," admitted Lee, meekly, "they do, Asher.
You see, I haven't had your advantages. I've only
lived in cities."

"Yes, be Guy, that's right," agreed Asher, "and a
pity it is that a young, kinda 'greeable and bright
female such as you be should be so dumb about things,
just on account of lack of country upbringing. A
vandoo, Miss Lee, is a sale, a kinda gathering together
of a body's things, old and new antics and just ordinary
gear, and selling them off to the neighbors for
as much as you can bamboozle 'em into paying. It's a
good way of getting more'n you would if you called
in the junkman and asked him, face to face, what the
damn clutter is worth. By doing that the truth would
be arrived at far too soon to suit human nature.
Nobody wants to hear the truth, specially about anything
they have to sell. So things are arranged on
the lawn, in the house, and on the porch as jumbled
up as may be, so that the good has a chance of rubbing
against the bad. The women kinda git into a frenzy
of buying. They will pay a good five cents for an old
cracked dish they'd heave outa their own kitchens, if
it was theirs. But knowing somebody else cracked it
gives it a kinda glow in their eyes, and they takes and
bids for it."

"Now, Asher," Miss Emmie began, trying to stop
the flow of his eloquence and give Lee a chance to
laugh, "the women are not alone in their craze for
sales."

"Chuck it up at me," Asher groaned. "Chuck it
up at me, Miss Emmie, that my re-gard for kinda
getting the best of anything there is for Weston House
has led me into betraying an interest in things that
ain't interesting to me, myself. Yeah, men do go to
sales, Miss Lee, but only to get some needcessity for
the house or the barn. They ain't led off be old ancient
antics in the shape of moth-eaten bed kivers or
old andirons. Be George and Jesse! You won't believe
it, Miss Lee, but two years ago I seen an artist
give five good dollars for an old candlestick and a
glass bottle that Levi Throop's' grandmother had
more'n once throwed out inter the shed. Levi just
scrabbled it up and put it with the odds and ends inter
a waste basket. Well, come along another fellow, with
jest as little sense as this here artist, and they bid
again one another till they run them articles inter five
dollars."

"Ah," said Lee exhausted, "I know what antics are
now, Asher."

"In course you do. You knowed all along, I suspect.
Just wanted to get a rise outta a country fellow.
Well, you'll get your come-uppance from Mr.
Landon for such. There's a man that seems all
wrapped up in the country. Defends it, he does, for
everything."

Asher stole a sly look at Miss Emmie, to see if she
showed any "feelings," but Miss Emmie was thinking
her own thoughts and paying very little heed to Asher.

"I'm kinda partial to Mr. Wells on account of his
having that rabbitty name for one thing, and never
resenting it nor nothing," ran on Asher. "And for
another thing, on account of his being lame, and kinda
thrusting it behind him, as it were. Yet, I'll always
say for Mr. Landon that there Miss Annie Mink and
her Sister mighta planned all their plans to their best
ability, mighta set their snares again and again, and
they wouldn'ta gotten Mr. Landon. There's a man
that kin treat females as they should be treated--leave
them flat and still kinda admiring him for so
doing."

"Oh, you think so?" Lee's voice had an edge.

"Think!" chuckled Asher. "I seen him do it. It
was masterful."

He drew up to the house with a flourish. "And yet
when I warned him of Mr. Bunny's danger, he
wouldn't lift his foot to save him. 'Let them go,' he
says. 'Let any misguided female go with Bunny Wells'
hunting antics, if she wants to. That's all the good
it will do her. He'll never see anything but the antics.'
But Mr. Bob don't know the Minks. He don't know
the Minks--especially Miss Annie."

Asher had been holding the door open, it was true,
but he had also been blocking their exit until he had
finished his lament. He now helped the two women
out rather awkwardly. Indeed, Lee felt as though she
had been projected out of the machine by a big flat
hand the size of a dinner plate, and sent flying toward
the porch. It was all so sudden that she could not
stop herself.

It was Bob Landon, hurrying to greet Miss Emmie
and help with the bags, who inadvertently stopped her.

It seemed to Miss Emmie that Mr. Landon was not
in his usual form at setting females in their place.
He seemed to be more than usually embarrassed at
finding Lee Lansing in his arms. He held her there
for the moment of confusion, in the soft dusk. Miss
Emmie noted how the two stared at each other, intently
for a moment, before moving suddenly apart,
with Bob's abrupt "I beg pardon."

Miss Emmie concluded she must have been romancing
in thinking she had seen something very like
entreaty in Lee Lansing's eyes. It had been Bob, not
Lee, who sprang away.

"Little flirt," Miss Emmie thought. "Isn't Lee content
with Tom and Weston?"

Bob Landon flung himself on what he thought was
Miss Emmie's luggage and started to the house, leaving
the other bags to Asher. Miss Emmie followed
Bob in.

Lee was against the wall, opposite the old newel
post, and was looking intently at Bob Landon, who,
face averted, was carrying the bags up the stairs.
Emmie was sure that Lee's hand had been outstretched,
and was suddenly withdrawn at her entrance,
and that her lips had formed the words, "Wait,
Bob."

Yet when Emmie entered, Lee came to her, put her
arm within Emmie's, her face serene.

"I don't wonder you love this place. Even to me,
it seems like coming home." She glanced up at the
landing where Bob Landon stood, and lowered her
eyelashes, but Bob didn't look at her. He called over
the bannister, "Both in your room, Miss Emmie?"

"Oh no, just the black one," Emmie said. "The
brown one is Lee's. She has the long room next mine.
And thank you so much, Mr. Landon, but why don't
you let Asher struggle with them?"

"Asher's quite worn out," Bob told her solemnly,
as he leaned over the rail. "What with the Mink
affair, and helping Lib with the clothes line to-day, as
well as going twice to the station, he's all in."

"Goodness!" Emmie exclaimed. "He has had a
day! I'll be careful how I use him."

Bob nodded and went on into her room with the
black bag.

Lee, in her turn, had been slightly surprised at the
tone of complete understanding between these two.
She went up the stairs ahead of Emmie, and was in
her room before Bob, who had just brought in the bag,
could escape.

Lee stood against the door. They looked at each
other. On Bob's side it was a long, hard, cold look
that fully bore out Asher's description of his ability
to put females in their place.

But on Lee's, there was none of that sweet feminine
appeal that Asher had pictured being relegated to its
proper place. She looked at Bob stormily, her back
to the door.

"Bob Landon, you've got to give me a few
minutes."

"Not now," said Bob coolly, even rudely, and he
put out a strong hand that propelled her a sufficient
distance from the door, to enable him to pass her.

"Any other time, and any other place, but not in
Miss Emmie's house, nor where Miss Emmie might
hear."

The door closed softly behind him and Lee Lansing
threw herself on the bed and lay there, her face
hidden.




14


The man who wrote that silence is golden had a
secret to keep. To those about him, his golden silence
must have seemed a leaden lump.

Bunny Wells waylaid his friend Bob Landon in the
hall the next morning. Bob tried to slide past and out
of the doorway, but Bunny put out a hand and touched
Bob lightly on the arm.

To refuse Bunny anything was beyond Landon.
He paused unwillingly.

"Bob, I'm going out with Miss Annie Mink."

"No news; Asher has proclaimed that to all and
sundry."

Bunny went on gravely: "Asher having made me
and others fully aware of the danger I am running,
in exposing myself in this careless way to the wily
Mink sisters,--for of course Annie refused to go
without Sister,--I want to make my verbal last will
and testament.

"Bob," and his voice changed into so earnest a tone
that Bob could not ignore it, "if you ever thought
anything of me at all, give Lee a chance--to explain."

Bob gave a quick, anxious look around.

Bunny saw it and shook his head. "Both Lee and
Miss Emmie have gone down to the hotel to order ice
cream for to-morrow's dinner. You are perfectly
safe."

Bob looked relieved. "In that case, I'll tell you
something. Lee gets no chance at all, if I can help it.
If I'm cornered so that I can't run, or scream, I'll
listen to her, but not otherwise. I want no explanations
from her. You may be as forgiving as you like."

"It seems to me," Bunny interrupted, "that as the
injured party--"

Bob's face changed into a mask. "If you please,
Bunny, we won't go into that."

"You aren't human, Bob," Bunny began, then
stopped as he saw Bob's face. "That is, you aren't
human to anybody but me. I wish you'd extend the
right hand of fellowship a little further. I feel both
guilty and a little embarrassed in the role of the only
human being you can tolerate."

"It's worse than that, Bunny," Bob managed to
say. "You are the only human being I believe in."

He went out abruptly, leaving Bunny, leaning
against the newel post, regarding him with eyes that
were a little misty. Bunny winked them rapidly, as
he limped his way out of the side door, where he
might watch the approach of the Mink sisters. All
he could see at first, however, was Asher struggling
with the car. The self-starter was practically useless
this morning, but Asher, who always managed to make
a lot of noise about anything he did, grimly kept at it.

On their own steps the Mink sisters were posted,
undecided whether to wait there with dignity, or to
join Mr. Wells on the Weston steps, to watch at close
range Asher's struggles.

Miss Annie, for the fourteenth time in the last five
minutes, came down one step.

The car's stuttering attempts to talk back to Asher
sent Miss Annie up the step again.

"Oh, dear Sister," she said nervously, "if one only
knew the best thing to do."

"Do the kind thing," advised Sister sepulchrally.
Her bunion hurt, and she had on her best patent
leathers. Annie looked hopelessly undecided.

"Oh, dear! There's that lovely, stylish Miss Lee
Lansing talking to Mr. Wells now. I think, Sister,
we lose a good deal by dignity."

"Maybe," agreed Sister, who had no desire to move,
"but we lose more by thrusting ourselves in before
the arranged hour."

Through the din of the car's refusal to start, Lee's
voice came to Bunny: "Oh, Bunny, how can you expose
yourself so recklessly to danger?"

"The car or the Minks?"

"Both."

"Lee," said Bunny gravely, "I can't make Bob listen
to reason."

"I know. You are awfully kind, Bunny. No one
should be as kind. I'll have to take my chance with
Bob. Only, something must be settled before the end
of my visit."

Bunny patted her hand sympathetically.

"Don't," Lee whispered. "Don't you be too kind
to me, Bunny. I can't stand it."

"Damn kindness, Lee. You know I'd give my
other foot to get you out of this."

"Oh, Bunny! Hush! Here comes Miss Emmie!"

"Mr. Wells," Emmie called, as she came toward
him, "what have you done? Never has the village
been so stirred up. Are your intentions Minkward
perfectly honourable?"

"Surest thing you know," asserted Bunny. "Miss
Emmie, this is a choice field you have planted me in,
and I want to make use of it. Those two twittering
dears know where some of the treasures I want are,
and I'm going with them because if they are along
people will be so blinded by the fact that the Mink
girls have caught a man that I'll get the things
cheaper."

"How base and low!" Miss Emmie exclaimed. "I
was looking upon you as a high and lofty influence,
and here you are only seeking 'antics.'"

"Miss Emmie, 'antics' are the breath of my life.
I am thinking of embarking in the antic business,
here in East Penniwell."

Both women exclaimed in surprise.

Bunny looked into the two kind faces so near him,
so eager and so interested. "What nice women you
are," he said approvingly. "I'm counting on both of
you to prove I am right in my opinion, and help me
out. You see, East Penniwell's a small place, but it's
right on the highway between New York and Philadelphia,
and it's a main travelled road. If I could
make a shop out of the old deserted carriage factory
and smithy, with a new red sign and plenty of good
old Pennsylvania 'antics' all fixed up and highly priced,
I think I could calculate on making quite a decent sum.
I could make a living and not be so heavy a burden
on good old Bob."

He avoided Lee's eyes.

Miss Emmie was entranced at the idea.

"Lee! We could help him paint it, and fix it up
with curtains."

"So we could," Lee declared enthusiastically,
"orange curtains. Would you have a tea room,
Bunny?"

Bunny shook his head. "No, but I'd try to get the
Inn to cover that. I'd recommend the Inn to my customers."

"Bunny Wells," Lee exclaimed, "it's an enormously
good idea! But you'd have to live here."

"Any objection to me as a neighbor, Miss Emmie?"

"It would be wonderful!"

"Then you'll help me find out who owns the little
old carriage factory and blacksmith shop?"

"Yes--I--if I can," said Miss Emmie, smiling in
a way that made Lee suspicious. "We'll find out about
it to-morrow."

"If I can't rent that," Bunny declared valiantly,
"I'll find something else."

"Or build," suggested Lee.

"No," both Bunny and Miss Emmie said together,
"that would be the very last thing to do."

"You see, I want an old, and original building,"
Bunny explained. "The old smithy, or an old mill,
would be half the battle. Such a building would
catch and hold the eye of the traveling public."

"We'll see," Miss Emmie said serenely.

Bunny looked at them both and drew a little nearer,
for Asher was emerging, grim, sweating but triumphant
from his struggle with the machine. "If you
want to really and truly qualify as angels, take pity
and ride out to the sale and rescue me from the
Minks."

Lee and Emmie exchanged glances.

"Ah, weakening!" jeered Miss Emmie.

"Wouldn't you?" asked Bunny. "Even with a
strong, athaletic man like Asher along, I'm afraid."

Miss Emmie, with a side glance at the two Minks
still undecidedly going up and down the top step,
turned to him.

"You don't deserve it, of course, but since you have
really told us your guilty secret and leaned upon us
for help and advice--You have, haven't you?"

"What?" asked Bunny. "Oh, leaned on you for
help and advice? Surely. I'm unable to stand without
you."

"And you will listen to some of our suggestions
about the shop?"

"I'll listen," promised Bunny conservatively.

"Well, then Lee and I will come, in my new car."

"What! Asher's dream come true?"

Miss Emmie shook her head violently. "On pain
of our leaving you in the lurch, don't tell him. Mr.
Landon is in the secret, and he'll drive it up there
as his, or as a try-out. We haven't decided what
the lying tale is to be yet--until I am sure I like the
car. I really must be satisfied myself, before Asher
is called in. He would have thrown cold water on
the fiery chariot of Elijah, if he had been asked to
drive it."

Bunny looked at her, like a small boy full of
mischief. "If you'll really come, I'll tell you something
splendid. I intend to ask the Misses Mink to
supper."

"Do you?" Lee looked at him admiringly. "You
are a sport, Bunny, a real, dead game sport."

"If you came along and joined us," Bunny assured
Lee, though he looked at Emmie, in a manner that
was so extremely flattering that modest Emmie
thought she must be mistaken, "_that_, together with
what Asher calls my 'deformity', may save me. It is
true there are two Minks, and I am the least conceited
of men, but I am a little afraid that--"

But what he was afraid of they never knew, for
Asher's car dashed up to them, nearly running over
Emmie and Lee, who scrambled hastily to safety.

"Say your fare-you-wells, and say 'em quick,"
shouted Asher. "Get you into this here excited and
nervous female of a car, and get into the back seat
where you'll have to set with Miss Annie, being as
you brought this here party on yourself. Sister Mink'll
set with me, and I'll try to drive straight and true,
if so be this here thing'll drive so, and may God have
mercy on us all."

Bunny, a little awed, swung himself into the back
seat. Miss Emmie, handing him the carriage robe,
said, "We'll join you later, at the sale, before the
supper."

They watched the Minks embark, Emmie clutching
Lee's hand so that they might not laugh aloud.

With considerable hesitation Miss Annie, after
twice offering the seat beside Bunny to Sister, and
Sister twice and with ceremony refusing it, coyly
seated herself. Asher, fully aware that Lib was
watching him critically from the back kitchen window,
gallantly helped Sister to her half of the front seat.
Sister being a timid and somewhat forgetful person,
this was not accomplished easily. Twice she seated
herself and twice Asher began work on the self
starter, only to have to stop and help Sister out
again, and watch while she ran after and captured
Satan, the cat, and put him in the "glassed-in porch,"
as the tiny solarium was always designated.

Finally Lee broke from Emmie, and rather hastily
ran into the house, threw herself in one of the big
chairs in the living room and laughed unrestrainedly.
She had heard Asher's ear-splitting roar:

"Choose between Miss Annie and that there cat,
can't ye! This here machine's r'aring to go, and I'm
not the man to hold her here eating up gasoline for
any blinking old moth-eaten tomcat."

With a moan, Sister planted herself down beside
Asher.

"She's off!" Asher roared, and the start was punctuated
by Sister's scream. She clutched Asher by
the shoulder.

"Hands off!" Asher yelled. "Hands off of me,
woman! I'm the driver of this here wildcat and she
takes all me time. There's nothing left for other
females. I'm a two-handed driver, I'll have you
know from the start."

Sister drew herself proudly away, much offended,
straightened her hat and bestowed a polite nod and
wave of the hand on Miss Emmie, who had remained
to wave farewell. Miss Annie very dignifiedly saluted
with her "show" handkerchief.

The village retired from its windows, satisfied that
there was no more to be seen just now, and the car
careened around the corner and out of sight.

Bob Landon at the garage, looking over Miss Emmie's
new car, saw Asher pass and flung up a hand in
greeting. Bunny nodded solemnly, but Asher, taking
it as a signal to stop, drew up at the garage and
yelled, "Come on, Mr. Bob, the more ye crowd the
rear seat the better the old girl'll ride. Not meaning
you, Miss Annie," he added, "but alluding to this
here petrified female of a car that I'm steering."

Bob thanked him, but declined, avoiding Bunny's
eyes, though he slapped his shoulder in sympathy.
The car having started again, Bob turned back to his
inspection of Miss Emmie's purchase.

The garage owner, who had been looking over the
new car with him, rose to his feet, and nodded toward
the departing vehicle. "There goes the hell of a
brave man," he said solemnly.

"Asher?"

"Nope. The lame feller. Your friend. A man
that takes the Mink sisters out riding in the face of
the hull town and in the teeth of their chatter ought
to get a medal for bravery, and a pension."

Bob looked at him gravely. "He has a medal, but
don't tell him I told you."

"Blame me! I knowed there was somethin' more'n
convincin' about him. But after to-day he'd oughter
have two."

    *    *    *    *    *

The sale was at an old farm house ten miles or
more from East Penniwell, high on the ridge. Taking
its leisurely way through the household goods, as is
the way in the country, beginning with the "oddments"
and working on through the rows of furniture
standing out of doors on the grass plot, it had reached
the farm implements and the barn. Bunny, flushed
with victory, for he had, thanks to the Misses Mink's
knowledge of the countryside and the genuine age of
certain articles, secured several treasures, stood beside
these treasures, strewn in and around the car. Bunny
had just finished paying for them and arranging for
the transportation of all, save a few odds and ends,
to East Penniwell.

He looked around for his companions. Asher, he
easily distinguished by his great height, and his
shouting voice, among those at the barn, bidding
heavily a penny at a time for a box of assorted rusty
nails, old hooks and broken locks. But where were
the Minks?

Presently he saw them in the midst of a group of
women, turning over odds and ends of china, holding
themselves a little aloof as behooved a Mink, but
keenly alive to what was going on. It seemed to
Bunny that Miss Annie was giving him a slight but
beckoning nod, but he hesitated, remembering with
what dignity Miss Annie and Sister had withdrawn,
when the country auctioneer had approached certain
homely household utensils in a spirit of ribaldry.

"He grows a little coarse, dear," Sister had whispered
to Annie. "Possibly it will give the men more
freedom if we walk apart."

They had "walked apart" for some time, but now
surely Miss Annie was beckoning.

As Bunny drew nearer, Miss Annie fluttered toward
him. "Mr. Wells, there are two pairs of old salt
cellars, glass. Really good ones, such as my Quaker
ancestors brought from Philadelphia in 1830. Would
you--"

"I would. Do they know how good they are?"

"No, I think not," said Miss Annie, "though such
things are no longer picked up as easily or as cheaply
as they were. Still I felt it, under the circumstances,
unnecessary to enlighten any one. They are in a
basket of odds and ends, which will presumably be
sold as a quarter lot."

"I'll bid for them."

"No, indeed, Mr. Wells." Miss Annie declared
earnestly. "If you bid they will go up perhaps as
high as a dollar. Better let me bid."

She was gone, and Bunny stood aside to watch.
Miss Annie coyly signalled the auctioneer, and the
bidding began at five cents, only to be spiritedly raised
by a belligerent-looking Irish laundress to ten cents.
Miss Annie, despite her natural timidity, kept valiantly
on, cheeks flushed, hands trembling, until she had
reached the incredible sum of fifty cents. The
laundress, who had seen a bottle of bluing, a cake
or two of soap and some clothespins at the bottom
of the basket, stopped there, red with indignation,
but Miss Annie bid another ten cents, and flushed with
triumph received the box and turned with it to Bunny
Wells.

Bunny knew that he had everything he wanted and
could afford now, so he whistled the signal agreed
upon between him and Asher.

Asher reluctantly withdrew from the group of
wise men over against the barn and came toward
them.

Unsmilingly he took the box from Miss Annie's
hands, glanced at it contemptuously, sniffed and said,
"Seems to me, Mr. Wells, if it's housekeeping you're
aiming at, ye do the woman little compliment, by such.
Be reaching down inter yer pants pocket you coulda
fetched out enough to let her visit the five-and-ten to
the better advantage of ye both."

Aware by the silence with which this was greeted
that he'd had done his friend more harm than good
by this speech, Asher withdrew hastily to put the box
neatly away in the car.

At a safe distance he endeavored to retrieve the
situation by roaring out, over his shoulder, in their
direction, "The country's safe! Here's the rescuing
party. By Christopher and Columbus! It's Miss
Emmie riding in a new car."

He paused to contemplate the picture. A dull gleam
of discontent came into his eyes, as he noted the car.

"A man," he observed sadly to Bunny, as Miss
Annie and Sister fluttered to meet the newcomers, "a
man could look like a man riding in one of them,
even with the Minkses aboard."

Bunny stopped him. "Asher, you take too much
liberty in speaking of these good friends of mine."

Asher stared at him blankly. "Sure," he said, rather
shakenly, "and so am I their friend. But they ain't exactly
moving pictures, Mr. Wells, and a car like that'd
help us carry 'em off better. Now wouldn't it?" Then
he paused solemnly, and regarded Bunny so fixedly
that involuntarily Bunny straightened his necktie.
"Instid of bearing malice fer that there slam y' handed
me a pause back, Mr. Bunny, I'm giving you somethin'
like kind advice, as a true friend an' a brother man.
Y' show better skill handling the Mink sisters than
I give ye credit for, but when it comes to Miss Emmie--go
slow."

He bent toward Bunny, shaking a huge finger in
warning. "There's a wary female, and with cause.
Tom Hastings is a hard bird to ketch. But she's
bound an' determined to ketch him, and it won't aid
her none if you tries mixing-in and taking her off
places like this, the very day Tom's expected."

Before Bunny could recover, or accustom himself
to the Don Juan role Asher had assigned him, Asher
spoke again:

"We will now change the subjic', always you bearing
in mind that I'm looking after Miss Emmie till
she gets her own Man."




15


"A woman," Asher observed to Bunny, continuing
to keep step with him, and acting as though, the
warning delivered, relations could now be resumed
in peace and amity, "a woman never chooses a car
for its en-jine and gen-u-wine worth. No sir. Something
kinda showy and fussy for them, everytime."

His face took on a bitterness that made Bunny
feel sorry for him. "Listen to them there lady
friends of yours, yapping to Mr. Bob," he gulped.
"Cute, they calls it. My Suffering Snakes! A work
of God and man together, such as a good machine is,
hadn't ought be demeaned thataway. It's a grand
car!" He sighed. "And me with a mind to understand
her and the heart to feel fer the engine in her,
and its lovely pulling power, has probably got to go
through life driving an old coffee percolator like what
you and me just got out of.

"By This and by That, Mr. Wells, things get kinda
mixed up in this world. Miss Emmie's as fine a
woman as you will find in a day's journey but look at
her! She kin ride in that old rattler and never feel
the flush of shame on her cheek, whilst I'm one burning
blush, and feel like crying aloud to the passerby
that I ain't and never was responsible for its actions.

"But Miss Emmie, with her father's money behind
her, and her position to keep up, just acts like it was a
heavenly chariot, and until some wise man,--" he stole
a look at Bunny to see if it made any impression,--"until
some wise man lays down the law to her about
the wickedness it is for a woman, a delicate bred
woman like her, to risk her life in the old rat trap,
she won't notice it."

Bunny said nothing.

Asher sighed. "Most women is dumb to the music
of an engine. Honest, Mr. Wells," and Asher turned
the rapt face of a dreamer toward him, "is there any
sweeter music than an engine running smooth and
clean?"

They went toward the new car. Asher surveyed
it with an absorbed air. Bunny joined his two best
friends, intent to tell Miss Emmie that she was being
unconsciously very cruel to Asher. He had no opportunity
to do this, for Miss Annie fluttered toward
him, and the question of where to eat was broached.

Miss Annie and Sister, despite the fact that they
ate at least three hundred and sixty-two of the three
hundred and sixty-five days in each year in their
own little dining room, had very positive notions about
where to "eat out." They did not, however, express
these opinions positively, but by gentle insinuations.
"Wasn't the Deerpark Inn, a _little_ public!" They had
"heard Oliver's Mills was not so well patronized as it
had been because, my dear, the chicken dinner is absolutely
not good."

Come to a decision as to where they wanted to go,
they would not, or could not.

Miss Emmie, more understanding, or more sympathetic
with the ways of country people, felt that it
was the embarrassment of riches that dazzled them.
They could not decide to which of the many places,
to them hitherto names only, they wished to be led.

Bunny's serene voice broke through the clamor. "I
move that we take a little ride first. Let's cut across
country and drive over the ridge down to the river,
past the old stone quarries. There's one good country
inn up there, maybe more, and we can make up our
minds when we come to it."

The Misses Mink were delighted at the thought.
Their faces shone with relief. A ride was a ride to
them, and it would mean staying out much later, and
crowding into this already crowded day one more
rich experience to be talked over, bit by bit, for days,
months, afterward.

To add to this excitement, Miss Emmie insisted that
one of them must ride with her in the new car. After
much discussion, Miss Emmie was compelled to decide
for them, and Sister rode off in the new car with Miss
Emmie and that "rather reserved" Mr. Landon, while
Lee Lansing sat beside Asher, and Miss Annie resumed
her proud position beside "that delightful,
though lame, Mr. Wells."

The country along the ridge was truly beautiful.

"God's own," Asher announced to Lee, "and
created, Miss Lansing, 'long toward the fust of them
seven hard-working days, He put in over this old
sphere. Monday or Tuesday I should say, when
His ideas about the world was fresh and clear before
Him. To my way of thinking, that there North
Pole and them there Arctic regions was His Saturday
night job, when He was tired and longing for Heaven.
But this here bit of country can't be beat."

Lee admitted it was lovely, and sat looking at it,
dreamily, her eyes following the new car, just ahead
of them on the long smooth highway.

Presently they took a lovely winding road over the
ridge to the river, which being miles from East Penniwell,
Lee had never seen before.

The big, old country hotel, across the bridged creek,
came within sight far too soon. Lee was reluctant to
stop. "Oh let's ride along this lovely river for a
little while," she begged. "We can always come back
and get supper."

"Shows how little you know about country hotels,
my dear," Emmie called to her, for the other car
had stopped near them for consultation. "Supper
six to seven-thirty, and after that not even a fried
egg sandwich."

"We've got an hour's leeway," Lee urged. "Let's
go along the river for a mile or so, anyway, and come
back if we must."

They started on their way, not knowing that the
gods of Things that Are, had decided to be good to
them. They had gone but a little way from the hotel
when a novel sign, roughly printed on pasteboard, and
attached to the white fence around a delightfully
quaint white church, caught Asher's eye.

"Church supper, Fifty cents, six to eight," read the
sign.

Asher stopped his machine instantly and called to
Bob to stop. "By God's good Providence!" he yelled.
"We're in sight of the promised land. A church
supper! Could ye ask anything better?"

Bob stopped and backed a little to find out what was
the matter.

Asher, with a wave of his hand, indicated the sign.
"There's the reason for me stopping, and a right good
reason it is, too. If you knew the cooking up here
to Blackpool as I do, you wouldn't hesitate."

He pointed to an open field, between the church
and the nearest house, where long, rough board tables
had been put up and covered with white table cloths.
Wooden chairs had been placed near them. A cooking
stove had been set up and its long pipe went right up
toward the blue without a chimney to help it. An
improvised kitchen surrounded the stove, with a
bench holding several dishpans; dishtowels hung from
chairs, side tables were stacked with crockery, and
another long table contained roast beef, and ham, over
which a genial, handsome old farmer, gray bearded,
ruddy and hale, with a smile and an extraordinary
sharp carving knife, presided.

Asher caught sight of him, and entirely forgot his
dignity as a driver. "Yoo-hoo, Cap. May," he
shrilled. "God bless your whiskers! How's things?"

The genial Cap turned, waving his knife. "Asher!
Asher Turkle! You old son-of-a-gun, light down
and take something into you, and help yourself and
the Church both to onct. Gorry! Now that I look
at ye, you're failing, Asher. You're failing for a
piece of this here beef."

"I'm coming, Cap, and bringing with me a whole
clutter of city people, and the Minkses. You and
Aunt Lu keep an eye on them pies and cakes and
don't leave everything get et up before we get back.
We'll be there in, say half an hour. By that time
you can get some of them gormandizers shooed away
and the places cleared for us."

He turned back grinning to his passengers, wholly
unconscious of the bridling of "the Minkses," and
Lee's amused smile. He had, in his own way, made
them free of the assembly.

"Well, girls and boys," he announced, including the
two cars, "we'll take a little ride, but only a little one.
The supper's lasting from six to eight, 'tis true, but
the nearer to six we are, the better and more abundant'll
be the victuals. Aunt Lulu Zimmerman's
there, as you kin see, and a splendid woman she is.
She's Cap's sister-in-law and a widow, but dangerous
I warn ye, Mr. Wells. A heart of gold, when it comes
to setting out victuals for man and beast! She'll
scrouge more victuals to the square inch on your
plate than you have any notion of. Half an hour's
our limit for the ride. I'd say stop now, but the
tables are all full."

Miss Emmie, having been assured by Bob that he'd
like the experience, allowed Asher to feel important
and useful, without checking his enthusiasm. It
would be a good supper, Emmie knew, and she thought
it might amuse the visitors more than the Inn. Emmie's
car moved off.

Lee saw, as Asher worked at the self starter, that a
little group of newcomers were waiting their turn,
leaning on the church fence, or occupying some extra
chairs placed for them. A stout woman in white was
screaming amiable welcomes and stamping her plump
way around the furthest table. Something told Lee
that she was Aunt Lulu. The self starter worked, however,
before Aunt Lulu caught sight of Asher.

The road along the upper stretch of the river was
beautiful and the drive all too short. In vain Lee suggested
that it was too lovely to leave. Asher was
adamant.

"Say what you will," he replied, "people has to be
fed, and you can't go on scenery. Let's you and me
turn back, Miss Lee, and Mr. Bob'll follow us, while
the turning is good. For loiter on, and some of these
here scenery hounds will be the first to find fault with
us, if everything's been et up but the table cloth."

Back again at the supper grounds, they found a
crowd of motors parked on the grass and under the
great old trees on either side of the wide road above
the church. Afar, for they were compelled to leave
their cars some distance away, they could hear the
sound of merriment, the clatter of dishes either being
set on the tables, or thrust into the dishpans.

Tickets were bought at the entrance, from another
genial old soul, evidently a "late widower," from the
amount of poking in the ribs that ensued between the
ticket taker and Asher, and Asher's coyness in introducing
the ladies of what had now become _his_ party--although
Bunny paid for the tickets. Asher, in true
country fashion, bore himself as an important and
highly necessary guide for Miss Emmie's guests. He
seemed not to see the glances the timid Mink sisters
cast at him when he became particularly boisterous,
with several of the prominent deacons. Miss Emmie
more than once regretted Lib's absence. Only Lib
Candy's eye could have subdued Asher now. Emmie
did not intend to hurt him by trying.

"Here ye are, Miss Emmie! Seats for the hull lot
of us at Aunt Lulu's table. Keep a hold of them
chairs though, for Aunt Lulu's pop'lar. Aunt Lulu,
here's two dressed-up city beaux for you. She's
berryed her third, Mr. Bob, and no objections to the
fourth, have ye, Lulu?"

"No objections," said Aunt Lulu, who had preserved
five fine front teeth on upper and lower jaw,
and as she later explained, "had a couple of chewers
both sides and in the back and needed no more." If
her kindly smile had a cavernous aspect, you soon forgot
that when Aunt Lu started ministering to you.

The tables were long and the ground uneven under
the chairs. Asher and Aunt Lulu were loud and cheerful
in voice and in their habit of laying large hands
on people's shoulders and urging them to make a
little room and not "split up these here pleasant
family parties."

Emmie, who had real respect for these people,
whose sterling worth she knew, bore it cheerfully, and
was proud to see that it caused neither Lee, Bob nor
Bunny the slightest apparent discomfort, but the
Misses Mink became their mincingest as to voices and
manner, lest by chance their party might mistake the
circle and manners to which they were accustomed.

It was a difficult thing to do, especially when
Aunt Lulu was patting your shoulder with a big
fat hand and saying, "Well, well, Annie Mink, here
you are! Ain't married to either of these fine young
men are you? No? Well, here's me had three good
husbands all to myself, and you ain't had one yet.
Ain't it so?" Yet Annie managed to smile through it,
and, simpering but determined, to take her place beside
Bunny.

Bunny Wells noted the determination and remembered,
with something like fear, that she had never
left his side since starting out. It is true Sister always
hovered near them, but still Bunny knew that things
would never again be quite as they had been between
Annie Mink and himself, now that he had boldly
squired her to that sale. It was all too plain that
Asher's warnings had been those of a friend. She had
indeed marked him for her own. But Bunny was a
brave man. He thought of his purchases at the sale,
he remembered what Asher and Miss Annie called his
"ahem--deformity," and took heart.

He turned to look for Asher and see if by hook or
crook he could get that "strong athaletic" man between
him and Miss Annie, but Asher was busy instructing
Aunt Lulu, who hung largely over him, just
what they all wanted.

"Whatever ye got to eat, we'll eat for you, Aunt
Lu," Asher announced kindly, "and we're going to
keep that ol' reprobate Cap May so busy carving for us
that he'll give out before the night's over. I'm here
prepared to eat my fifty cents' worth, so bring it on."

Lee, so bent on avoiding the vacant chair next Bob
that she had collided with Miss Annie in her race for
the seat next Bunny, relinquished it gracefully and
took the chair that Asher had reserved for himself.
Asher observed this with a frown, which deepened
as Bob Landon, absorbed in seeing that Miss Emmie
was comfortable, found Lee on his left, and Asher
was forced to squire Sister Mink.

Pretty girls, a little tired from the many demands
made upon them by the crowd of guests, came to
"clear up." A very make-shift proceeding, indeed,
consisting of whisking away dishes and brushing the
crumbs into a plate with one of the paper napkins.
They then set before them such quantities of delicious
food that Lee groaned.

"How can they get so much food together at once!"
Lee exclaimed. "And can anybody eat it all?"

"Rather!" retorted Miss Emmie. "Watch the man
at the foot of the table."

He was a healthy young farm hand, who had
already blushed a deep red at seeing Lee's eyes fixed
upon him, and was now plowing through a plate
which contained roast beef, two thick slices, potatoes
mashed, browned sweet potatoes, three ears of corn,
tomatoes and lettuce, gravy, biscuits, bread, ham. He
had both milk and tea to drink. He looked again at
Lee and took courage. "Please mam, will you ask
your husband,"--he indicated Bob,--"to pass down the
butter?"

The butter, a big slab swimming in ice water, was
duly passed down by the annoyed Bob.

Emmie, who had laughed with the others at the
error, noted that Lee had turned pale, not red.

"Funny she's so angry," Emmie thought. "It's
queer how she hates Bob Landon."

Aunt Lulu and Bunny, to the great disturbance of
Miss Annie Mink, had started a violent flirtation. At
close quarters Aunt Lulu proved white haired, with a
lovely smooth pink and white complexion, straight
features, considerable avoirdupois, and a decided way
with gentlemen.

"You look all tuckered out, you do," she remarked
to Bunny solicitously. "Can't think what your lady-friends
were thinking of keeping you so long from
your victuals. Here you girls," she called to the waiting
maidens who hovered around with plates of bread,
butter, pickles and jelly, "keep away from this here
Article. I'm looking after him in a way you flighty
things would never think of doing. Him and me's
real friendly, ain't we, Boy?"

"Pals," agreed Bunny, smiling a little faintly.
Somehow the food and the flies, plus Aunt Lu, were
almost too much for him. "We're pals, and I'm coming
to call on you next week, Aunt Lu."

Aunt Lu was charmed. She emmitted a high, ear-piercing
laugh and smote Bunny lightly on the head.
"You cut-up," she crooned delightedly, "nothing slow
about you."

"I should hope not," retorted Bunny, "but I'll
have to hurry up to get anywhere near your pace,
Aunt Lu. Why, you are looking for a fourth and I
haven't had a first yet."

"Yeah Boy!" said Asher, and smote the table with
his fork, with which he had been demolishing a
saucerful of slaw. "That's the way to get at Aunt
Lu. Her house is the second hand turning to the
left, after you leave the lane there by the river, and
I'll say for Aunt Lu there's always a welcome and
a glass of cider."

"Not for you no more, Asher Turkle," shouted
Aunt Lu, jovially, "not sence I've heard that Lib
Candy is like to give you the go-by. No rejected
suitors for me. If a man can't get a woman's yes
or no in eighteen years, why my time's too short to
waste on him. I ain't got Lib's patience."

Asher's mouth fell open. His face took on a dark
hue, as he choked over the cabbage and this unwelcome
hit. Miss Emmie took pity on him.

"Why Aunt Lu Zimmerman! How can you talk
like that! Asher and Lib are the same good friends
they've always been. Asher may have something important
to tell you one of these days, when we get the
estate matters settled."

Asher's reddish-blue color slowly receded and became
normal, but Aunt Lu, though distracted, was
still of an inquiring turn of mind. Her own marriages
and courtships had always been openly discussed
by herself and others, and she saw no reason
for reticence now.

"Your old sweetheart's back, isn't he, Emmie?
Well, the Lord sends every old thing back, if you wait
long enough, and want it back bad enough. I never
could see much in Tom Hastings myself," she announced
negligently, propping a dish of gravy on the
back of Bunny's chair. "A dratted mischevious fella
he was, always cutting up. I have chased him outa
my cherry trees more times than I'd like to remember.
But you'd a better eye for worth, seemingly, than most
of us, Emmie, for I hear tell that he's just about rolling
in money."

Emmie hesitated, though to hesitate too long she
knew would be hurtful to her, here where news was
sought and distributed widely. Lee Lansing's eyes
were on her, wide in wonder. With an inward prayer
that she might satisfy Aunt Lu without telling too
much, or taking Lee too far into her confidence, she
slowly swallowed a sip of tea and answered lightly,
"Tom's done wonderfully, Aunt Lu," and her voice
was so rich in content that Lee stared. "He's made a
lot of money, and wants to make more in East Penniwell."

She had turned the trick. Aunt Lu stared at her in
genuine surprise. Forgotten were all the searching
questions she had been going to ask Emmie about
his future plans--lost in her excitement and eagerness
to learn how money could be made in East
Penniwell.

"Good Lord alive!" screamed Aunt Lu, excitedly.
"I thought your father, Emmie, was the only man
that could screw a red cent out of East Penniwell's
pockets."

"But Tom Hastings doesn't want to take it out of
East Penniwell's pocket. He wants to put money in
its pocket. He's anxious to start a brickyard here."

"Land of Moses!" Aunt Lu fairly shouted. "That's
a poor business, ain't it now, Emmie? With all these
here portable houses, and ready-to-build bungalows,
ain't brick falling back a little? You advise him to
hang on to his money, dear. 'Tain't so easy to get
that he should spend it in wile-cat schemes like bricks."

"There's chimblys gotta be built," declared Asher
loyally. "Howsomever the rest of the house is tacked
together, chimblys have got to be brick."

Aunt Lu regarded him unsatisfied. "They kin be
stone," she argued, "and in this part of the country
often is. 'Twould be just like Tom Hastings' luck if
stone chimneys come in strong, just as he got his bricks
going."

She passed the gravy to Asher. "Here, send this
down the table and you girls here get busy, and
scrabble up the dirty plates and bring on the dessert.
I wanta have a word with Emmie here concerning her
future. I'm no gypsy but I seem to see wedding
rings hovering nigh."

Bunny Wells had seen Emmie's face, and despite
Asher's warning he acted promptly. He leaned toward
Lee Lansing.

"Switch that curious old woman from the subject
of Tom Hastings by any means in your power. Hastings
is here. He's gone past for the second time, and
now he has seen us. He's coming with Weston.
Quick!"

Before the astonished Lee could respond, Aunt Lu's
eagle eye had seen Tom, who with Weston Kent was
making his way toward this table.

"Talk of the devil!" she exclaimed, setting sweet
potatoes before the already surfeited Asher, "and
you'll hear his tail aswishing through the woods.
Here's Tom Hastings, folks! My Land! Tom you've
grown a lot both ways. Style too, city style! But
I'd still like to whack ye for breaking the limbs of my
oxheart cherry tree. Come on over here, Tom. Here's
Emmie."

It seemed to Emmie as though her cup of bitterness
was full to overflowing. Must she be shown up,
here and now?

Then she saw Bunny Wells rise, and was surprised
at the intensity of the look he gave her. Before she
could analyze it Bunny had hailed Tom, and determinedly
waved him toward Emmie.

Tom came striding through the crowd, smiling a
greeting to all, and straight to Emmie. "Make room
for me, will you, Aunt Lu? I caught sight of these
people from the road and could hardly believe my
eyes." He took both Aunt Lu's hands and kissed her
smooth cheek. She gave a shriek of pretended rage.

"At his old tricks," she said, triumphantly to Emmie.
"Tom, you always was a kissing bug and you
ain't changed none. Fresh as ever, you are," and she
gave him a push toward Emmie. "Kissing me right
before Emmie Weston! Asher Turkle hump yourself
right outa that chair and let Tom sit next to Emmie,"
but before Asher could move Bob Landon, to
Bunny's disgust, rose and pressed Tom into his chair
beside Lee.

"I'm completely stuffed, Hastings," he said, and as
Lee looked up at him under her eyelashes, he looked
back at her coolly. "Fed up," he added and moved
away.

Aunt Lu was so busy thumping Asher and calling
him "Slow-poke" that Emmie, still smiling, though
with an effort she hoped would escape the others, saw
what Aunt Lu did not see, Tom secure Lee's hand,
and hold it tightly.

"I couldn't stay away," he was saying to Lee, while
Emmie hoped he did not hear Aunt Lu's whisper in
her ear.

"Emmie, no wonder Tom's still faithful. You look
fresher'n paint in your New York clothes. You look
grand!"

An arm stole round Emmie's neck. "Aunt Emmie,"
Weston said, as Aunt Lu moved away, "will you take
me in. I'm perfectly miserable," he whispered.

Emmie rose to the occasion. "Surely," she whispered
and returned his kiss. "Weston House is always
home to you, dear boy. Don't be miserable."

He sank into the chair Aunt Lu had, at last, forced
Asher to vacate. "Aunt Emmie," he asked in a low
tone, almost a whisper, as Aunt Lu engaged Tom in
conversation, "is someone making you miserable too?"

"Trying to," admitted Emmie briefly, as she
realized that Aunt Lu had been drawn away by Lee
and Tom and that Weston's presence might save the
day for her this time, "but he won't succeed."

Aunt Lu put her hand on Weston's chair.

"Come, get up, my lad; this here's Tom Hastings'
chair."

"Oh, no it's not," Emmie said cheerfully. "This
is my boy's chair, Aunt Lu. Surely you know Weston
Kent, May's son?"

"For the Sake of Peace!" Aunt Lu shrilled, placing
the roast beef she had selected with loving care for
Tom, in front of Weston. "Here's how a good
woman loses her head. There's so many fine looking
fellers in this here party of yours, Emmie, I just don't
know how to act."

Bunny Wells saw, with pain, Emmie's quick look
toward Tom Hastings and Lee, and Bob's frown in
the same direction as, Asher having risen to intercept
Aunt Lu, Bob dropped into his vacant chair between
Sister Mink and Miss Emmie. Determined, at any
cost, to switch Aunt Lu's attention from Emmie,
Bunny leaned back in his chair and caught Aunt Lu's
sleeve. "Have you deserted me, False and Fair? I'll
throw myself in the canal or the river, whichever you
say."

"My Land! You want more coffee, don't you
Lamb?" She hustled off to get it, only to meet
Asher's contemptuous look. He walked with her toward
the coffee tank, lowering his voice. "Aunt Lu,
widow or no widow, you should kinda hold yourself
more contained like. You have throwed a good few
personal words at me to-night. I don't take 'em too
seriously, thank Providence, else I'd have to slam
a plate or two again your head, a gentleman being
held back be public opinion from tussling with a
lady. I warn you, though, now and forevermore, to
leave off the subject of Lib Candy and her feelings
toward me, in public, completely. Likewise a little
tact used on Miss Emmie wouldn't hurt you none."

"My Land of Love, Asher!" the kind woman exclaimed,
totally unable to understand his position.
"Isn't you a little interfering? You and Lib's affairs,
I'll leave to yourself, but Miss Emmie's beau's come
back and Emmie's no cause for complaint."

"Maybe not," said Asher darkly, "maybe not, but
I see further than most. Yeah," he continued as
Aunt Lu stared at him open-mouthed, "I'm a strong
athaletic man, holding myself back in good control,
but if that there Mr. Bob Landon,"--and he cast a
sour look at the man who had taken his place,--"whom
I like well enough in his way, seeks be a new
car and otherwise to pry Miss Emmie's affections off'n
Tom Hastings and then play fast and loose with them,
he'll have to reckon with me."




16


A little wholesome vanity does for a woman what
a great deal of self-respect does for a man. Wound
that vanity and you take all the courage and color out
of her life.

Emmietta could not sleep, for sleep means tranquility
of mind as well as body, and Emmietta's vanity
had been deeply wounded, and her mind was far
from tranquil.

Only too clearly had Tom Hastings shown her that
it was brickyards and Lee, or Lee and brickyards that
brought him to East Penniwell. It didn't matter
which--it was certainly not Emmietta Weston, and
but for Bunny Wells' tact, that fact would have been
apparent to more than Emmie herself.

Emmie's face softened as she thought of Bunny.
What a wonderful person he was! Wonderful to look
at, too. Emmie remembered his face in the moonlight,
as he skillfully maneuvered the party so that
Emmie, Lee and Weston returned with Bob in the new
car, while Bunny and his inseparable companions,
Annie and Sister Mink, rode with Tom, leaving Asher
to rattle home alone.

Miserable as she was, Emmie had had to laugh
a little as she remembered Tom's face when the
arrangement had first been broached to him. Tom
had been game, but only too plainly had Emmie
seen that it had been his purpose to carry off Lee in
his car, and that he felt not to do so was a waste
of good moonlight.

Emmie rose and went to her window, sat down
in the moonlight and looked out. Something must
be done, and soon, or Tom would betray her to the
village.

At that Emmie laughed. What a fool she was! How
could Lee take Tom from her, since Tom had never
been hers! There in the moonlight Emmie faced her
problem, only to find that there was no problem! Only
the truth to see--and face. The attitude of Tom at the
church supper had quite surely lifted any veil of
romance she had chosen to drape about that very
commonplace and matter of fact person, Tom Hastings.
Tom wanted his brickyards. Brickyards and
Lee, if he could get both, but certainly brickyards, and
all he asked from Emmie was that she give them to
him.

And brickyards were all Emmie had to give him.
She faced that, too. After all, if she were honest, she
must admit that the one-sided romance, which she had
spun about a mythical Tom Hastings, had done for
her much more than anything else in her life. It had
lifted her out of the humdrum of village life. It
had pricked her into going out into the world. It had
saved her from being a drab, ill-dressed, frumpy looking
woman. It had kept her alive, so that she could
interest, and find interesting people like Bob Landon,
Lee, Bunny. She might well be grateful to her lost
romance for that alone.

She went, in the moonlight, to her mirror, and
looked at the pale reflection of herself.

"Even the moonlight shows, Emmie Weston," she
whispered, "that you're a lot better looking than
you were three months ago, though you are not as
young as Lee."

She went slowly across the room and got into bed,
but not unhappily. Her mind was fully made up at
last. She felt serene and at peace. Tom should have
his brickyards.

Then suddenly Emmie sat bolt upright and gasped.
She had not wanted to think about _that_. She had
hoped that was safely buried--even in her own mind.
But Lee Lansing could not be allowed to marry Tom
Hastings without knowing what only Emmie and
Tom knew.

Color came to Emmie's cheeks. How dare Tom
treat her as he was treating her? How dare he forget,
when she had kept this secret for him all these
eighteen years. Why, she held Tom Hastings in the
hollow of her hand!

But saner thoughts came, and Emmie considered
her attitude. Was it jealousy that made her think
she must tell Lee Lansing about Tom? She must be
very sure that nothing so small and mean be allowed
to enter into her attitude toward Tom and Lee. Emmie
was drawn to Lee. Somehow, for all Lee's modernness,
for all her lack of so many qualities that in
Emmie's day had been the "marks of a lady," Emmie
liked Lee. Better than she had ever imagined she
could like any girl, she liked this one, who was making
Weston miserable and was about to take Tom
away.

Emmie thought it over long and carefully and
finally came to her conclusion. She would give Tom
his brickyards, and if that was all he wanted, well and
good. Tom could walk his path unmolested, unreminded
by an Emmie whom he had relegated to the
background. But, if he wanted Lee too, then Emmie
would speak. At all costs, Lee must be protected. Her
way clear, Emmie put her hand under her cheek,
turned away from the moonlight, and composed herself
to sleep.

In his room across the hall, Tom Hastings woke
from a sound sleep, and thought of Lee. Not hotly
and passionately, as young Weston had, before he
fell into the deep sleep of youth, troubled with dreams,
yet Tom's thoughts were not too calm. He thought
how sweet Lee had looked to-night in the midst of
"that bunch", as he designated the group he had
found at the supper. He thought how Lee would
adorn the home he meant to have here in the East.
He thought several other rather broad but satisfactory
thoughts about matrimony in general, and Lee in
particular, and turned over on his pillow, and settled
himself to sleep. The girl was pretty, the girl was
clever, and the girl did not seem to find him disagreeable,
while her mother was distinctly encouraging.

Tom had arrived at the stage of maturity when he
looked upon matrimony as his just reward for remaining
single so long. He had accumulated enough
for himself and others now. His business was satisfactorily
filling his business hours. He could always
provide himself with temporary amusement, but temporary
amusement was beginning to lose its appeal.
It would be rather nice to have a fireside of one's
own, nice to stay at home once in so often, and yet not
be alone, but most engagingly companioned by some
girl, preferably Lee.

Lee, with her radiant young thoughts of life and
matrimony, would hardly have been pleased. It is
difficult for the young and passionate to understand
that this life is full of nice, agreeable people who
are seldom passionate, who may never know passion,
in its stark reality, and yet are most delightful, easy
companions, ready to simulate, when it is demanded
of them, the effect of passion. Lee, like most romantic
young persons, thought everybody had, at one time,
felt as she did.

Across the hall from Lee's room, Bob Landon
stared at the ceiling, hating Lee so heartily that his
handsome face was twisted into the resemblance of a
Japanese mask. But presently he too slept, heavily,
dreamlessly.

On the other side of the door from Bob, Bunny,
his arms above his head, thought about Emmie until
he fell asleep. Bunny's thoughts--and he laughed at
himself at he realized it--were all plans for rescuing
Emmie from the mercenary and indifferent Tom
Hastings. He laughed because the man who rescued
her was always Bunny Wells, and he was lame and
poor.

Emmie was the last to fall asleep, and New York
having undermined her good, or bad, country habit
of being first at the breakfast table, and the loss of
her night's sleep having, she feared, spoiled some of
the effects of Calla's careful treatment for the hair
and face, she bathed and returned to bed until Lib
appeared with coffee and toast.

"Everybody's down but Weston and Miss Lee and
Miss Lee's having hers in bed, same as you. Wes,
he ain't awake, yet. I hadn't the heart to pound any
harder on the door than what I did."

"Let the poor lamb sleep."

"Yeah," Lib agreed. "I thought so, too. Say,
Miss Emmie, is Mr. Tom Hastings gonna stay here
until Monday?"

"Why not?"

Lib stood, her lips pursed, smoothing the doily on
the tray, without speaking for a moment, and then
with a swift look at her mistress, said reluctantly,
"Of course, Miss Emmie, if you think it's safe. I
ain't saying anything, but between you and me East
Penniwell's getting just a bit kinda restive."

Emmie moved impatiently. Lib looked at her intelligently
and said, "Silly, of course, to modern wimmen
like me and you. We don't care much for the
speech of people, but East Penniwell ain't any too
modern, and if we are to live here, Miss Emmie, you
and me's got to show East Penniwell. Of course, in a
measure, so to speak," Lib tried to look modest, "I've
got Asher where I want him. If ever a man's had
the fear of God put into him, it's that man. But I
took a sorta vow on meself, Miss Emmie, that I'd
keep Asher on the waiting list until your affairs was
something near kinda settled."

Miss Emmie gave a little exclamation. She was
disconcerted.

Lib nodded, "Yeah, I know it was chancy, but I
got faith in you, Emmie Weston, even if things are
looking dark just at present."

She looked at Emmie for some kind of expression,
but as Emmie, who was in reality struggling to keep
her annoyance down and her memory of Lib's faithfulness
uppermost, said nothing, Lib burst into speech.

"My Good Mercies! Miss Emmie, why did you
haul that girl down here?"

Emmie looked at her in surprise. "Tom wouldn't
come without her."

"My Land! Bad as that!"

Miss Emmie helped herself to some toast.

Lib's brows drew together. "That girl's about as
safe in a house full of men as a can of kerosene and
a lighted match. Here's Wes, sick with love for her,
and Mr. Tom, well he ain't in love with anybody but
himself yet, but he's got an idea that he's after her
in his head, and then Mr. Bob. That's what I can't
forgive her for."

"Bob Landon!"

"Yeah, Miss Emmie, what's she done to him, and
where did she meet him before?"

"Lib!"

Lib nodded. "Directly I seen it. First time you
introduced them I said to myself, kinda funny they
don't say nothing like 'You again, hey?' or some such
passing remark or 'Sure I have met up with you before
haven't I?' But no, nothing--just straight
black looks at each other. And she's always stopping
Mr. Wells on the stairs and saying things to
him. He's soft as butter about her, too. Miss Emmie,
it was a black day that you brought that girl home
here with you. Believe me, she'll upset the apple-cart."

"No," said Emmie determinedly, but she took a
sip or two of hot coffee before she looked at Lib and
announced firmly, "No, she can't do me any great
harm, Lib."

"She can prevent Tom Hastings marrying you,"
declared Lib, brutally, believing that this pose of
Miss Emmie's was not to be safely borne. "My Gracious
Mercies, woman! You can't beat a girl like
that. You are wonderful improved, Miss Emmie.
You can dress with the best of 'em, and you don't look
your age, but she's an awful good-looking girl and
she's young. I hope to goodness you ain't overestimating
your powers."

Emmie withdrew into herself. She said nothing,
but calmly ate her toast and drank her coffee as though
Lib was not in the room. It was her severest way
of punishing Lib.

Lib flushed. "Miss Emmie, I may have been too
forward like, but--but I got a lot at stake, too."

Instantly Emmie repented. "Yes, I know, Lib, but
you've got to trust me, and you've got to let me do
things my own way. You can stand by to help when
I need help, and I'll need it before this is over, but
you must not ask me questions or expect me to talk.
What one talks about, Lib, one seldom does."

Lib nodded and with a last look at Emmie and a
shake of her head went out of the room.

Left to herself Emmie finished her breakfast in
silence and proceeded to make herself as beautiful
as possible. Despite the agitated night, she succeeded
very well indeed. The Emmie that presently went
down stairs and found Tom, Bob Landon and Weston
examining and discussing the new car, took East
Penniwell's breath away.

"My Land! Look at Emmie Weston!" was the signal
in more than one household for all housework to
be neglected while the feminine members hurried to
the windows.

Her gown was blue, and it was modish, and it became
Emmie well, and her hat was of the same lovely
tint, and her shoes and stockings had cost much more
than any shoes and stockings that had ever been worn
in East Penniwell before, and they looked it.

Miss Emmie surveyed her world for a moment and
smiled. Weston looked at her and thought: "Aunt
Emmie's a peach, but I hope she isn't silly enough to
think these men are after anything but her money."

The look in his eyes made Emmie pause. "He
thinks I'm an old, foolish girl. Well, I think he's a
foolish, young boy, so I suppose it's even." But she
wished for a moment, with a strength that appalled her,
that there was one person in the world who would
take her for what she was, and understand. Understand
her without qualifications, was what she said to
herself, but she meant love.

Just for a moment she hesitated. The desire to
send them all away, the sudden desire to let everything
go, cease striving and sink back into her old half-dead
existence in East Penniwell, almost overcame her.
Of what use was it to strive to please these who would
not be pleased with what she brought. Then the
_something_ that is older than the world we know,
stronger than we are ourselves, the thing that makes
even the most hardened skeptic at times believe in immortality,
made her stoop to her burden again. Without
hope, without belief, promising no happiness, this
_something_ bids us go on. There was no going back
for Emmie. Her feet were set forward on the road.
To go back was death to all her desires.

"Mr. Landon, I'll look over your estimates, while
Tom and Weston show Asher the car." She turned to
the others with the spirit of mischief alive in her
eyes.

For the first time Tom had a thrill when he looked
at Emmie Weston. He thought he was seeing once
more the Emmie Weston he used to know--the Emmie
Weston of Lee's age, without Lee's sophistication.

"Asher thinks the car belongs to Mr. Landon. He
thinks he is condemned for life to drive the flivver.
Now I want you to call him, go over the car with him
when I am inside, and don't let him know until I
appear that it's mine. Let him praise it to the
limit, as he will as long as he thinks it is not mine.
If he knew I had bought it, he would find all sorts
of fault with it. When he has hopelessly committed
himself, then I'll call it mine."

She went toward the house with Bob Landon.

"By George, Weston, your aunt's stunning to-day!"
Tom said enthusiastically.

Weston flushed. "Aunt Emmie's all right, but
she's a little soft-hearted. I'd hate to see her taken
advantage of."

"Who's trying it?" Tom asked amused. "Seems
to me that Emmie Weston knows how to look after
herself."

Weston said nothing until, after whistling and signalling
to Asher at the barn, he at last made him
reluctantly realize that the signals were meant for
him. As Asher began to make his way very slowly
toward them, Weston said, "I know that's how it
seems, but Aunt Emmie's really very helpless. She
believes in everybody and everybody takes advantage.
Look at this big oaf coming toward us--skeptic,
opinionated, and conceited. Aunt Emmie treats him
as though he were pure gold, and she was afraid of
breaking him."

"I don't know. Seems to me she has just the
right way with these country people. These, my boy,
are our own people, the real Americans, proud and
conceited maybe, but faithful and honest. While their
manners lack something, when you contrast them with
trained servants, still when you consider them as
friends and helpers, as Emmie evidently does, and
know, as she knows, that they would do for her more
than any carefully trained hireling in the city, why
I think it's rather splendid the way Emmie manages.

"One thing she does that's remarkable," Tom continued,
as Weston failed to agree with him. "She
keeps them satisfied with service here, though they eat
at their own table, not ours, and they call her 'Miss
Emmie'."

"Why shouldn't they?" Weston demanded hotly.

Tom smiled. "Watch Asher and you will soon
learn. I'm an important man in my own way, Wes,
and you are your mother's son, but neither Asher
Turkle nor Zebra Ballins will 'mister' us behind our
backs, or even to our faces. They will call us Wes
and Tom."

Weston opened his mouth to speak and then closed
it, as Asher slouched toward him.

"What's the matter, young Wes?" His tone was
not conciliatory. "I have gotta tend to that there old
rattling coffee-pot Miss Emmie calls a machine, and
I gotta lot to do to it, too, and Miss Emmie won't
think much of you if you and Tom Hastings here
keeps me from me work."

Refraining carefully from looking at Weston, who
was speechless at this corroboration of Tom's statement
concerning their Christian names, Tom said,
quietly, "Miss Emmie told me to have you look over
this car carefully, Asher, and asked me to show you
how it was run."

"Show me!" groaned Asher. "My Land! I have
been negglelecting my other duties just to get the hang
of the thing. Ain't she a beaut' though, and ain't
her engine sweet?"

He bent over the car, fingering the mechanism with
loving care. Tom, with a sly wink at the silent Weston,
began leading him on to expatiate upon the different
parts. Presently they were in the car and Asher,
greatly interested, at the wheel, began his trial run.

In the dining room Bob and Emmie Weston went
carefully over the estimates. Emmie discussed with
him the advisability of beginning the work at once.
They could begin to-morrow to dine in the living
room, at the end nearest the kitchen.

The dining room plaster was to be removed. Bob
was sure that the rafters so exposed would prove to be
the original old hand hewn beams taken from the
Weston woods, when the first Weston in East Penniwell
built his house. Miss Emmie shared his belief,
and also his desire to see if behind the wall plaster
was hidden a Colonial fireplace. Bob was sure of
this.

"The chimney, the old one from the kitchen, would
take care of this room. Moreover, the stove hole
shows that they boarded it up and plastered over it to
prevent draughts along the floor. If it is, as I think,
a small fireplace, Miss Emmie, we will paint it black
and rebrick it, if the old bricks are worn."

Their fifteen minutes had become thirty, still their
enthusiasm had not waned, when Weston's whistle,
insistent and repeated, made Emmie start. She went
to the window.

"Look!"

Bob turned from his beloved plans.

Asher, his face flushed with excitement, his cap
gone, his ashen blonde hair, streaked with gray, standing
up, was driving the car toward the house. Tom,
sitting beside him, waved at Miss Emmie.

"Is that all for the morning?"

"Yes," said Bob and hesitated.

Emmie noted the hesitation, and had a feeling that
he wanted to tell her something important, but though
she waited a moment he said nothing.

"Then I'll go on to my next business interview."
She started toward the door and then came back
slowly.

"Mr. Landon," Emmie spoke rather quickly, "if I
should arrange this deal with Mr. Hastings about the
brickyard, and he should agree to employ my architect,
as construction manager and architect for his buildings,
so that I would be sure they would be--well--not
an eye-sore to East Penniwell--would you take
the job? If I can make it come about naturally and
it is worth your while?"

Bob looked at her. "And give up the house?" he
asked.

"Oh no, take it on in addition. You see I'd
like to keep you--and Mr. Wells here."

Bob flushed. "I say, Miss Emmie, you are frightfully
good. I'd jump at the chance."

Emmie clapped her hands. "Well, say nothing
and I'll see what I can do."




17


A determined woman may not be able to move
mountains herself, but she can get the man-power to
help her shove.

Emmie went down the steps in a mood to dance
down them instead of walking. It would be heavenly
if she could get Bunny Wells and Bob Landon to
stay in East Penniwell. What wouldn't it mean to
have them for neighbors when she came back home.
When she came back? She went thoughtfully over to
where the new car stood.

Weston and Tom had alighted, but Asher was still
at his post. Asher's voice was hoarse with emotion.
"My Guy, Miss Emmie, it's a peacherino of a car!
The angel Gabriel couldn't ask for any better if he
gave up his wings and came down here for a stretch."

Miss Emmie came nearer, a sweet but sly look upon
her face. She asked Asher a question or two about
the car. He bent to explain.

Against the kitchen window, Lib flattened her nose
and watched the scene. "Now what is Miss Emmie
after?" she asked Morphy. "She's gettin' round
Asher for something. Lord knows whether it's for
her good or his."

"M'm," Morphy murmured, "whatever 'tis Miss
Emmie's after, she boun' git. Ol' Asshuh, nor no man
kin stop her. Ma' old granmaw says Miss Emmietter's
a requiring woman. Yes'm, eve'y thing Miss
Emmie requires she gits."

Asher's voice rose as he sung his psalm of praise.
The most enthusiastic motor salesman could never
have said as much. Emmie listened, her hand playing
with the handle of one of the doors.

"It would be nice to have a sedan like this for
rainy weather, wouldn't it, Asher, or do you think a
touring car would be better? It would be cheaper,
you know."

"Nice! My Good Gravy! and _then_ some more,
Miss Emmie! It would be just plain Heaven to set
in this here car, the rain coming on the outside and
nothing coming in, and to hear other drivers passin'
remarks on its make and all. A little beaut' she is.
Mr. Bob, there, had good taste."

"He didn't have much to do with it," Emmie remarked
absently.

Tom, his hands in his pockets, looked at her puzzled.

"Then who did if he didn't?" roared Asher belligerently.
"It's his car, ain't it? It's a man's car,
anybody could see that. No woman woulda had the
sense to choose the likes of this car, without running
something like a red line round the body, or
putting in some kinda silly device for powderin' her
nose while it was goin' full speed. Miss Emmie, if
ever you gets so you think you can part with that there
old coffee-pot you seem to set so much store by," and
Asher groaned, "let some man go out with you and
choose your next. For God knows a woman wandering
round in them automobile salesrooms with one
of them gabby salesman telling her things is what
they ain't, and showin' her maybe white painted cars
that would take a man a day to clean up, or a pale
lemon color, now, that shows every spot instead of
a sweet steady color like this here blue."

Miss Emmie came nearer. "A woman chose this
car, Asher. At least she bought it."

Asher's face darkened. "Oh, yes," he said. "I see
what ye mean, Miss Emmie. Mr. Bob, he likely took
a woman along with him, and she gave him the high
sign that it was a good car and she's like to ride in it.
Sure she would. What woman wouldn't? It's a car
for a queen."

"You can't think of any other you'd like better?"
Emmie surveyed him gravely. "It would be your
choice, too, if you were buying a car, say for me?"

"You bet you, Miss Emmie. If I had my choice
of all the cars there is made to-day, this here would be
the one I'd lay me hand on and take."

Miss Emmie lifted smiling eyes to his. "Splendid,
Asher! Then you'll be glad to know that it isn't Mr.
Bob's car."

"Not Mr. Bob's?"

"No, it's mine. I bought it, I chose it, and you're
to drive it, Asher."

Asher gazed at her. "Honest?" he asked, and
looked over Miss Emmie's head to the men for confirmation.
They nodded.

Miss Emmie waited. She had known Asher for
years but never had she known him to accept anything
without a proviso covering future complaints. Could
it possibly be that this time she had so forestalled
him that complaints were out of the question? She
hoped but she doubted.

Asher Turkle was not to be so put upon by any
woman. Slowly he put his hand on the steering wheel
and surveyed the car. "Well, Miss Emmie, ye did
pretty well for a woman," he said, regretfully. "I'd
a chosen a leetle larger wheel, and had a rubber cover
put on it such as Harry McGibbon's got on his car.
They keep a sweaty hand from slippin'."

The car moved slowly under his hand toward the
garage. Miss Emmie dared not look at Tom yet.
Then Weston precipitated the climax.

"Well," he shouted joyfully, "you've got a car that
ought to be a credit to any driver, and a woman chose
it, and a woman bought it, Asher. You can't get back
of that."

"No," yelled Asher, his eyes on the wheel, "I can't.
But it was a man that made her, and a man that
drives her, Wes Kent, and say, you listen carefully
while I drive off. Isn't there the least tinty teenty
knock in her engine?"

He was both startled and shocked at the roar of
laughter that greeted his ears. Emmie had looked
at Tom.

Leaving Weston to deal with Asher, Tom turned
to Emmie.

"Emmie, when do I get my brickyards?"

It had come, but Emmie met the direct question
with equal directness.

"To-day, Tom, if you will satisfy John Fair that
you'll agree to my conditions. I'll see him now," and
she smiled up at Tom.

"That's very satisfactory, Emmie," Tom said
appreciatively. "Much obliged."

And though he said it gratefully, Emmie knew that
he was dismissing her from his mind until after he
had seen John Fair. She laughed softly to herself.
"Oh, Tom, dinner is at seven to-night, and as that's
very late for East Penniwell, don't forget, when you
are off with Lee."

Damn it, how did this woman manage to read
his thoughts! Tom wondered if she were jealous, as
he watched her cross the street to John Fair's office,
conscious that his feelings toward Emmie had undergone
considerable change since he first set out to
buy his brickyards. She was charming. A sympathetic
woman, good to look upon and gracious in
manner, and, moreover, she was a personage in her
own town, indeed in her county.

Tom began to remember that the name of Weston
was one held in great respect throughout the county.
Unconsciously the old land, the old people whom he
had almost forgotten, had woven a spell about him.
More and more he became conscious of the fact that
Emmie Weston and he were old friends. He began
to waver a little in his allegiance. Granted that Lee
was younger, Emmie's personality made a strong appeal
to Tom. Well, if Lee wouldn't, though that possibility
seemed remote, Emmie would.

From the vantage point of the open garage door,
Asher observed his mistress step forth and go toward
Lawyer Fair's office. Asher, recovering his composure,
had seated himself on a keg of nails, and Zebra
had suspended all operations in order that they might
discuss women in general, and the one who paid their
wages in particular.

"Miss Emmie's getting better looking every day,"
old Zebra declared, "and high-stepping. She's the
high-steppingest woman in these parts. Got plenty
to make her so, too. Gentlemen here and there waiting
on her hand and foot."

"Yeah," grumbled Asher, "and what makes them
so attentive to her? J'ever think of that? The money
what a man made and lef' her. Ever think of that?"

"'Course I has thought of that," Zebra chuckled.
"Then I have thought again. How come he make that
money? Grounding down women. Miss Emmie and
her Ma too--whilst she was living, and whilst he
was saving and laying up. Then the good Lo'd he
lay him to rest and says, 'Now, Mr. Man what thought
money was everything and women, what I made, was
nothing but you' bounden slaves, you just peer over
them clouds, man, and watch you' money being spent
by woman. I ain't sending you to Hell, Eli Weston,
I just asking you to watch that money fly, in new
cars, and fixing up house, and dresses and what not.'"
He chuckled again. "Guess old Eli wishes now he
had lef' few hundred to you and me, what serve him
well."

Asher waved his hands in despair as he went
to get the car. "Women left so well fixed think they
kin leave out a man entirely. Something's wrong."

Lawyer Fair agreed with Asher's "Something's
wrong" when he looked at Emmie as she came in.
She looked, he thought, lovely. Fair had always admired
Emmie and continued to do so. Nothing she
did seemed amiss to him, and while to his neighbors
she seemed to be spending recklessly he knew that she
was well within her income, and he liked the way she
did things.

He listened now, his eyes fixed on her animated
face, as she went over Tom's proposition, rapidly and
clearly. It was eminently business-like, and yet Fair
knew that Emmie was not satisfied. "Something's
wrong," he said to himself, "something's wrong here."

Then she told him her conditions. He whistled at
the price per acre she asked. Emmie looked at him
sharply. "Always when dealing with Tom, John Fair,
remember we are not selling farming land, we are
selling land that I am not particularly anxious to part
with, and which Tom Hastings wants for industrial
purposes. Therefore we raise it to proportionate industrial
prices, and at that it's lower than he could
get the same land nearer a city. That's the bottom
price. Get more if you can."

There spoke Eli's daughter, Fair thought. He
smiled, made his memorandum, and waited, and as
Emmie said nothing, repeated:

"Then the conditions are that the buildings front
the road, that where the brick process is liable to
render the outlook unsightly he build a wall, fence,
or plant a hedge. He must not make that part of
the highway near East Penniwell an eye-sore, and for
the buildings and his workmen's cottages you wish
Mr. Landon to be retained as architect, if he and Mr.
Hastings can come to terms."

"If they can't," Emmie interrupted, "then the deal
is not to go through, until Mr. Hastings and I have
again consulted about the buildings and the property.
I have every confidence in Mr. Landon's ideas, you see.
I am not sure of any other man. Anyway, those
are my conditions. Mr. Hastings can take them or
leave them."

Fair's heart sank a little as he listened. This wasn't
the tone of a woman who was going to marry Tom
Hastings. "Something's wrong," he said to himself
again. "Something's wrong."

"Now about the old smithy. Mr. Wells will call,
and as father let it to Brierson for ten dollars a
month--"

"But that was years ago!"

"It's ten a month still," Emmie was decided. "If
I put in a bathroom and paint it up a little, it's fifteen
a month."

Fair opened his mouth to speak, but Emmie was
quicker. "You see I like Mr. Wells. He's such an
interesting man, I want him here for East Penniwell's
sake, as well as my own. Better fifteen a month than
nothing; better a thriving shop in East Penniwell and
a good citizen like Mr. Wells, than an empty
shop and no entertaining neighbors. You like him
too, John Fair, and so does Hal." Hal was John's
boy.

Fair laughed. "You have your head screwed on,
Emmie, but this isn't business--it's pleasure."

"Of course, and one always has to pay for one's
pleasures."

Fair gave her a slightly anxious look. Did Emmie
know what she was doing to that nice fellow Wells,
he wondered.

Emmie caught the look and was annoyed at John;
then at herself. Surely she was old enough to be
friendly with a man like Bunny Wells, without being
accused of folly. Anyway, gossip would not prevent
her keeping Bunny Wells in East Penniwell, by any
means in her power. He was not only the most interesting
man she knew--but the handsomest.

"Are you going to stay down here, Emmie?"

"I don't know yet, but I will soon."

"And Tom?" asked Fair, hesitatingly.

"Tom? Oh, Tom will do as he likes." Then she
smiled suddenly. "No, Tom will do as I like, or
Tom will go."

And at that she left the subject and Fair, to Fair's
bewilderment. Nothing more to be gotten from
Emmie. He knew her of old. To question her,
when she did not want or mean to be questioned, was
to get nothing, less than nothing.

He watched Emmie as she crossed the street, saw
her meet Tom, and indicate the Fair office, saw Tom
come toward his door, as Emmie went toward the
old smithy.

Fair sighed as he turned from the window and
then smiled, as he saw that Sister Mink had been
watching too, and had hurried agitatedly toward the
glassed-in-porch to inform Miss Annie of impending
disaster. For, with Miss Emmie as a rival, though
Bunny Wells' market value, in the eyes of East Penniwell,
might increase, Miss Annie's "chances" would
decrease. He turned to his desk, and studied the memoranda
he had made of Emmie's conditions, striving
to reduce them to a strictly legal phraseology before he
offered them to Tom.

Miss Emmie had reached the smithy only to find
Asher there, his owl-like gaze fixed on Lee and Bunny.

"What ye counting on doing with this here junk
pile?" he was inquiring amiably.

"Nothing yet," Bunny told him calmly, while Lee's
eyes danced. "But the East Penniwell 'Antic' shop
is going to be planted here, and I will also display
samples of Mr. Tom Hastings' East Penniwell bricks,
when made, in the windows, for a consideration."

Asher laughed. "Oh, yeah, I kin see a joke as well
as the next man! You can't make an antic shop pay
here."

"Can't I? Wait and see."

"Miss Emmie," Bunny said eagerly as he saw her,
"there are four or five good rooms at the back, which
could be made fit for bachelor housekeeping--and
a fireplace! There is also a loft above."

"Yes," Miss Emmie agreed, smiling, "and there
is also a garden in the rear and a lovely well. You
could easily pump water into the house and transform
one of the smaller rooms into a bathroom."

"I'll have to go slowly, until I find out about the
rent."

"The owner might put in the bath for a little extra
rent," Emmie hinted. "The rent now is ten dollars
a month."

"What!" chorused Bunny and Lee.

"Oh, Miss Emmie, darling," said Lee. "Is that
true?"

Emmie nodded.

"My word!" Bunny was astonished. "Is it possible
that anyone can get anything nowadays for ten
dollars a month?"

"Of course, if the owners put in improvements,"
Emmie went on, "it would naturally be more."

"Naturally," Bunny agreed, "but such a reasonable
man would undoubtedly be reasonable about improvements.
How soon, Miss Emmie, can I have speech
with this paragon of landlords? For, at that rent,
I could hold on for about a year and give my shop
time to pay its way."

"Great!" Lee declared. "And Asher, where is
your business head not to see that right here on the
high road it will attract attention, and in the summer
time, with the wide smithy doors open, and the interior
representing an early American living room,
Henry Ford, and other lesser money-bags, will be
stopping, admiring, buying. With bright cushions,
and an attractive sign--Bunny, your fortune's made."

"Ford!" Asher gaped at them. "Henry Ford!"
He looked from Miss Emmie to the others. "Yeah,
I'm laughing, too! My Good Guy! Ford buying anything
second-hand!" He looked again at the others,
and seeing no echo of his pretended mirth, added graciously,
"At that I kin see _something_ in a good junk-shop,
with antics as a side line."

"Something? Everything!" Bunny told him.
"Strictly between ourselves, Asher, I paid a dollar
yesterday for two pairs of ancient salt cellars, which
I can easily sell for twenty dollars apiece. They are
the genuine article. Thanks to Miss Annie Mink."

"Mercy, Bunny!" Lee exclaimed, with a side glance
at Asher, who remained silent, pretending to coil up
some rusty wire. "Will it be safe?"

"What?"

"The shop, with Miss Annie so near?"

"Perfectly," Bunny assured her. "Asher has promised
to protect me. He knows the ways of women.
Everytime Miss Annie comes down the street, without
Sister, and with an eye toward spending some time
in the shop, Asher's going to break forth from the
garage. He can watch the shop from the doorway."

"Yeah," Asher asserted, with a glance at Miss Emmie,
"and I'll be along, too. It may work out to be
a little hard on you, Miss Emmie, at first, as it'll kinda
interrupt me work, but it will be safe for you, Mr.
Bunny. No man in this here town is going to see a
poor cripple put upon by an able-bodied female like
Miss Annie."

"I don't know," Miss Emmie said softly, before
Lee had quite recovered, "how the plan will work out,
but I'm sure I hear Lib calling you, Asher." She
watched him slowly lounge toward the house before
she said, "I'm glad the old smithy will make your fortune,
Mr. Wells."

"Not a fortune," Bunny corrected, "but a living,
and contentment withal. It will be worth more than
dollars to me, if I can manage my life, and reduce
Bob's over-head a little. Nobody knows all the sacrifices
that man has made for me, and I don't want
him to make any more."

Lee Lansing moved away abruptly and went to
the locked door of the smithy. She stood there a
moment fingering the old bolt, and then without turning
called, "Only see, Miss Emmie-darling, the hinges
and bolts are hand made, and that's worth money to
Bunny. When he has the place painted all these
things will stand out, and show to advantage. Can't
you see it, with a fireplace, hooked rugs, rag carpet,
orange curtains, which I am going to give him, in
the windows? Won't it be ducky? Through the
windows you will be able to see the old rafters, and
those frightfully useful shelves, that can hold his
treasures."

"I know it all," Emmie answered without moving.
"I have played there many a day, when it was a blacksmith's
shop--with Tom Hastings," she added, glancing
at Lee, but Lee did not seem to hear her.

"Go to Mr. Fair, the lawyer, now," she told Bunny,
"and he will fix up the lease for you. You might consult
him about the improvements. If you can get it
painted and fixed up a little for you, you wouldn't
mind paying fifteen dollars a month, would you?"

"Would I? Lee, you had better go with me to
see Mr. Fair, and keep me from kissing him when
he makes out the lease."

Lee was still laughing gaily, as Emmie left them
and went thoughtfully toward the house.

Asher was waiting at the gateway, an anxious look
in his eyes. He followed Miss Emmie a few steps
before he spoke.

"John Fair, he's your own lawyer, Miss Emmie?"

"Yes, but neither Mr. Wells nor Miss Lee know
that yet, Asher. Keep it to yourself."

"Miss Emmie, you can't afford to go round playing
providence to all the nist, though lame, young men
hereabouts."

"Asher, you heard me tell you Lib was calling you."

"Yeah, Miss Emmie, but that was a kinda figger
of speech, for she ain't. I ain't so dumb, neither, that
I don't understand ye. I'm versed in the ways of
wimmen, but I feel a kinda responsibility fer you.
You'll git the sharp tongues of people on ye if you
go round helping young men that's as old as you be.
Mr. Bunny's full your age."

"What!" Emmie was startled out of her determination
to put Asher in his place, by this interesting bit
of news. "I thought him much younger. You're mistaken,
Asher."

"No, Mam, Miss Emmie, he told me himself. Mr.
Bob's the younger, yit because Mr. Bunny's delicat'
he's been kind of babied, but he's full thirty-six or
seven."

"It's better to have a paying shop in East Penniwell,"
Emmie declared, "than a tumble-down empty
smithy, and wonderful to have a man like Mr. Wells
as a neighbor."

"Neighbor!" Asher echoed. Then, as he saw Miss
Emmie's face, he went toward the house, shaking his
head. "What'll Mr. Tom Hastings say about such
a neighbor?" he asked himself. "My good Peanuts!
I wish things was settled. How'm I gonna comport
myself--if I don't know which man, or if any, is
gonna be boss?"




18


From the eye of the curious servant, no mistress is
safe.

Considerably annoyed with Asher, Miss Emmie was
not pleased, when she came to the kitchen with her
dinner order, to find Lib and Asher facing each other
over the table. Asher was calmly engaged on a large
piece of pie.

"Miss Emmie," he began as she came in, "I have
been kinda overlooking the machine and it does seem
to me that it needs a little oil. If you'd taken me with
you at the time of buying, I coulda had a lot of
things done."

"Nonsense, Asher. You can't hunt a grievance
now, and bother Lib, or me, with your grouching. We
both heard you last night and this morning simply
pouring out praises whenever the car came in sight.
You thought it was Mr. Landon's car then. Now
you know it is mine and you are bound to pick faults.
Well, pick them where I can't hear them."

As Asher shifted his feet and opened his mouth,
Miss Emmie continued hurriedly, "You've got a beautiful
car to run, and I expect it to be beautifully driven.
Also, Asher, I expect a collar and tie on my driver,
and his hair brushed, likewise his clothes. Come for
me, or Mr. Landon, at the station again, with nothing
but a brass collar button holding you together, and I'll
buy a regular chauffeur's uniform and _make you
wear it_."

Asher rose, a fragment of apple pie still clinging
to his lip. He started to speak, his mouth opened
and shut, but the audacity of the woman had really
taken his breath away. Then, just as he got ready
to launch his retort, Lib laughed.

Without a word Asher strode out of the kitchen
and into the garage. There he routed out old Zebra,
who was stacking the wood he had been cutting, and
poured forth his soul on the subject of women. His
voice rose and fell in the denunciation.

Bob Landon at his window, figuring out the alterations
he meant to make in the old dining room, leaned
out to hear the choicest gems.

In the kitchen Lib and Emmie faced each other,
Lib with her apron at her mouth.

"Land sake, Miss Emmie, that was mean of me,"
she said, "but My Saints! you certainly did shut off
his cries."

"Lib, my hand is against every man to-day. Get
the best dinner you ever made in your life, for I want
them all in good humor." She glanced out of the
window and saw that Bunny and Lee were leaving
the Fair doorway.

Lib nodded. "I know what you are up to about Mr.
Bunny, and I'm with you. We gotta keep that nist
young man here and do for him a little, Miss Emmie.
He's the salt of the earth." She was about to add,
"and he's awful fond of you," but thought better
of it.

"That's why you've got to make a specially good
dinner, Lib. Because I am going to try to keep Mr.
Bob down here, too."

Lib looked at her oddly. "Miss Emmie, I overheard
something I didn't ought to, yesterday, on the
stairs. I can't state it to you, 'cept only to say that
it was Mr. Bob cussing out Miss Lee to Mr. Bunny.
Mr. Bunny seemed to be taking her part, but nothing
would do Mr. Bob. You wouldn't believe them lips
of his would let loose the words he did let loose. I
was surprised. The long and short of what I gathered,
and Lord knows it was a temptation to set and
hear more, was that if she stayed--he went."

Miss Emmie looked puzzled. "I wish I knew
why."

"My Land! So do I. Sweet'n innocent she looks,
but she's been up to something that Mr. Bob can't
forgive. Something--not very nice."

"Lib! I like the girl. Why isn't it something not
very nice that Bob Landon may have been up to himself?
Men are often very much against women to
whom they haven't been--quite fair."

"Maybe," but Lib looked doubtful. "In that case
the girl didn't ought to look like a whipped cat at
the sight of the man. Miss Lee had been up in her
bedroom bawling, just before lunch, and she never
spoke or looked at Mr. Bob at noon-time. I sure
would like to know what's going on. And," she
looked at Emmie for a moment, as though doubtful
whether or not to continue, then, "Miss Emmie do
me the favor to listen to that." She held the door
open and indicated the living room, while Emmie went
toward the door.

Emmie stood at the foot of her own stairs, and all
her bravery seemed to ebb away and leave only an
anxious woman who wished she had some one to
tell her what to do. For she could hear very plainly
that Tom and Weston were "having words," as Lib
whispered to her.

"Dear knows, Miss Emmie, what it's all about, but
it began a minute ago when Mr. Tom came back
from Lawyer Fair's, and it's been going on hot ever
since."

Emmie dismissed Lib with a gesture, and stood
there waiting. She could not hear the words but the
voices were loud and angry. She went quickly to the
doorway leading to the kitchen and called Lib again.

"Where are the others?"

"Mr. Bob's in the library. Miss Lee is still with
Mr. Bunny. My Land! Miss Emmie, you ain't gonna
let that nist Mr. Bunny live in that there old tumble-down
place?"

Emmie gave no attention. "I may have to go up
myself if that doesn't stop," she said. "Don't let
anyone in without warning me, Lib. We don't want
the sound of _that_ to get abroad."

The voices were raised again.

"Has Asher heard them?" asked Emmie.

"No, thank the good Lord! He's out in the garage.
Morphy's down to store," she added.

Miss Emmie sighed and walked again toward the
stairs, not resolutely but dispiritedly. As she mounted
the first two steps, Tom's door opened and Weston
came out rather hurriedly, his face flushed and his hair
rumpled. He paused at the sight of Emmie and came
down toward her.

"Aunt Emmie!"

"Weston, what's wrong?"

"Nothing much. I've been having--having a talk
with _your_ friend,"--and his emphasis was significant,--"Mr.
Tom Hastings."

Emmie looked at him gravely. "I hope Weston,"
she said quietly, though her heart sank, "I hope you
haven't said anything to annoy Mr. Hastings. He is
my guest."

"I remembered that." Weston sat down wearily
on the stairs, his head on his hands. "I remembered
that, or the cynical old devil would not have had a
chance--"

"A chance at what?" Emmie asked him, amazed.

"A chance at Lee," Weston groaned rather than
said. "Out of decency, remembering he was your
guest, I gave him his chance, Aunt Emmie--and I wish
I hadn't."

Emmie sat down on the stair and looked up at him,
concerned. "Weston, my dear boy! That isn't done,
is it?"

"What?" Weston stared at her. "Oh, don't be
old-fashioned, Aunt Emmie! Everything's done nowadays.
As long as you can get away with it, everything
goes."

Aunt Emmie shivered.

Weston, in spite of his misery, grinned. "Oh, it
wasn't so very bad. Don't worry. Old Tom got a
little fresh with me about whether I should go back to
Princeton or not. This old bird, Tom Hastings, tried
to dose me with a lot of old stuff! Middle-aged platitudes,
about the duty I owed to my parents to go back
and finish up and all that sort of rubbish. I never was
so disgusted in my life. I told him that even you, who
had some right, as my aunt, to air your views,
wouldn't so far forget yourself as to talk that ancient
rubbish."

"Weston!"

"Yes, actually, Aunt Emmie, he was that far back
in American history. He thought he could pull that
old cant with me!"

"Weston!" Emmie gasped again.

"That seemed to get his goat a little, and he began
to take a different tone, and then, Aunt Emmie, what
do you think I discovered? Why, the old bird _thinks
he's young_!"

"Weston, you must not say--"

"He can't hear me, Aunt Emmie, and if he did,
he heard it once before--and didn't like it very well."

"Weston, what _did_ you say?"

"Why, I told the old boy the truth. Told him to
forget what they used to teach in the dark ages when
he was young, and bring himself up to date."

Emmie moved nearer him; her eyes were narrowed.
She didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.

"And then I discovered what was the matter with
the old top. He's after Lee! Lee! That old dry-as-dust
business man, that careful old bachelor!"

Emmie's back straightened. Why, this was Tom
he was dissecting. Tom, who to her, looked young,--young
enough.

"Then I let him have it. I told him what I
thought of people who wouldn't take any hazards in
matrimony or love, when they were young, and then
tried to butt into the younger generation's game."

"Wes, you didn't!"

"Oh, yes I did! I told him it would look a lot more
his style if he was going to Princeton, where he was
trying to send me, to arrange for the entrance of a
boy of his own. I asked him what he thought a man
of my age thought of a man of his, who went chasing
after girls like Lee, young enough to be his daughter.
I asked him why he didn't pick out a nice looking,
sensible woman of his own age, like--like you."

"Oh Weston!" Emmie moaned, strickened now.
"You didn't! You couldn't!"

"But I did, Aunt Emmie. What's wrong with that,
since I finished up by telling him that you were far
too good for him and a lot younger looking."

"Weston Kent! You abominable boy. Didn't you
know--"

"Know what?"

"That Tom Hastings was once--"

"Oh, I say, Aunt Emmie, it didn't dawn on me
that he was one of your boy friends. Sacred Cats!
Why didn't you take him on, and keep him from
making a fool of himself in his old age? He's hopeless
now."

"You wretched boy!"

At last it dawned on Weston that it was not on
his side that his aunt was ranged. He looked at
her oddly and anxiously.

"Why, Aunt Emmie, you aren't defending that old
rooster, are you? If you are, let me tell you, it's
wasted breath. _He can't see himself as he is._ He
gave me the merry ha-ha! He said he would ask
Lee before the week was out, and I could be best man
at his wedding."

He sank down on the stairs a heap of misery.
"Aunt Emmie, do you think he's got a chance with
Lee? Will she listen to him?"

His aunt put her arms round him and let his
flushed young face hide itself on her comforting
shoulder, as she patted his back softly and said in
his ear, "No, he won't and she won't. Not a chance
in the world."

Weston raised his head and looked at her. "Sacred
Cats of Egypt! I believe you mean it. Got something
on him, Aunt Emmie?"

Then, as she shrank back, "Never mind, don't tell
me. Let me appear innocent. You wade in and do
your damndest to him, Aunt Emmie. I'm backing
_you_."

"Go and make yourself tidy," Emmie told him with
a steely look in her eyes. "I'll do what I think best,
you may depend on that. Go and talk to Bob Landon
and learn what we've planned to do to the house,
while you wasted time quarreling.

"Wait," Emmie clutched his arm as Weston moved
toward the door. "Was it peace or war, when you
left Tom Hastings? Can you still meet at the same
table, and under the same roof?"

"It was armed neutrality," Weston told her. "Very
much armed and very little neutrality, but still we
speak."

He went toward the door. "Aunt Emmie," and to
Emmie he seemed once more the little blonde boy,
whom May, many years ago, had brought down to
see her, and who ran to her frightened, when the
big gander chased him, "Aunt Emmie, can you do
anything?"

"I think so, Weston. I may not be able to do
anything for you, but at least Lee will know the
truth."

"That's something," Weston said, and swung out
through the door.

Emmie, greatly agitated, sat where she was for a
few moments. She could hear Tom tramping about
above her. Changing his clothes, she supposed, and
trying to control the temper that that very wild young
cub, Weston, had roused within him.

No help for Emmie, since it was Lee as well as
brickyards. She must go through with it, if she would
save Lee Lansing from making a bitter mistake, and
Tom from scandal.

She heard Tom's step on the stairs, and rose up
to block his way.




19


Between those who have been, or might be, lovers,
confession is seldom entirely honest, nor the truth
entirely confessed.

"Tom," Emmie began, faintly, and then stopped
abruptly, for though she might belittle Tom's effect
upon her in his absence, his bodily presence always
cruelly handicapped her. Tom's looks were such
as still appealed to her strongly, and Tom had only
to glance and speak in a certain way, and between
old affection and old memories Emmie was helpless.

But since this disagreeable task was hers to do
Emmie felt she must accomplish it without further
delay, and before Tom, himself, weakened her determination.

"Tom, I'm sorry that Weston--"

"Don't let that disturb you for a moment, Emmie,"
Tom begged her. The slight wrinkle of annoyance
between his brows disappeared as he smiled at her.
"I'd be foolish to let a lovesick boy's ravings disturb
me long, and--don't let them bother you." He smiled
at her cordially. "I saw Fair, Emmie, and everything's
all right. I can meet all your conditions, and I was
thinking of employing Landon anyway."

"I'm glad. But Tom," Emmie's voice grew fainter
with the effort, "I simply must see you for a moment
now, before you see Lee."

Tom looked at her, a quick, puzzled look. It
seemed to Emmie he was about to protest. Then, as
though something in her face or attitude hushed the
protest, he nodded gravely and followed Emmie.

She walked like a woman in a dream, toward the
door of the dismantled dining room, already prepared
for the workmen. As Tom entered, Emmie turned
and closed the door. It was an odd setting. All the
furniture had been moved, the paper stripped from
the walls, and stark and ugly with discolored plaster,
the room waited for the transforming hands of the
workmen, who must wreck it to make it beautiful
again.

As Emmie turned to look at Tom, she felt something
analogous between the room and the situation.
She, and Tom too, must strip the situation of all its
false and surface values before it could be built up
into something beautiful. Could that be done? Emmie
wondered, and glanced at the man beside her.
Her task was even harder than she thought, for this
was Tom, about whom she had woven a dream. She
must go through with her share of the dream, whether
it came true or not.

"Tom, you may think me a meddling, tiresome
woman." She paused a moment, and added a little
wearily, "I hope you won't, for I'm not, and I do
hate to hurt you."

Tom looked at her. His eyes contracted a little.

"Why should you hurt me?" Then seeing Emmie's
face, he continued, "I suppose I should have
been kinder to Weston, but he's got to learn--sometime--and
boys get over these things."

But Emmie interrupted him. "I'm not thinking or
talking about Weston." Then abruptly, "Tom, I've
been waiting for an explanation ever since you came
back. Now I must ask you for it. Tom, did you
ever pay father back? Because, if not, you can't
possibly marry Lee Lansing without telling her--about
that money."

"What money?" Tom looked at her blankly.

Emmie's righteous indignation rose to dispel the
feeling of nausea that had overcome her at the necessity
of reopening, uncovering this old and, to Emmie,
unsavory bit of the past. If Tom was going to play
the hypocrite, she would be merciless.

"Unless you are frank with me, I shall be forced
to tell Lee myself, and you can see where that will
put you."

"No, I can't." Tom kept his temper with difficulty.
"I'm not ordinarily a stupid man, Emmie, but I give
you my word I don't know what the devil you're
driving at."

Emmie laughed, shortly. How dare Tom try to
dodge the question,--with her!

"Nor," continued Tom, evenly but dangerously,
"what business is it of yours what I say to any
girl, or whom I marry?"

Emmie flinched as though she had been struck.

"Yet I must make it my business," she answered
stonily, and before Tom could speak, she asked:
"When you came back to East Penniwell after eighteen
years, why did you seek out my father first?"

"Because I wanted to see him on business."

"What business?"

"The same business I am here to see you about--brickyards.

"Brickyards!" Emmie echoed.

"Yes," Tom answered steadily, "brickyards."

Then the "Aunt Em" episode occurred to his mind.
He felt a little embarrassed. He took a half-step
toward her.

But Emmie, seeing his embarrassment, had interpreted
it in her own way, and spoke.

"Oh, what's the use! I don't expect you to believe
me, or think me anything more than a jealous,
middle-aged woman, but it cost me eighteen years of
drudgery and that ought to count for something, even
with you. I've paid for the right to say this."

"What?" Tom was too hypnotized by Emmie's face
and voice to again intrude his own thoughts.

"Tom Hastings, when you left this village eighteen
years ago my father told me that you had taken twenty
thousand dollars out of his safe."

There was silence between them for a full minute.
Looking at Tom, Emmie saw that he was evidently
struggling to believe that he heard aright, or that
he was still sane.

"Are you crazy?" Then, as Emmie did not speak,
"Did you believe it?"

Emmie stared at him, without replying for a moment,
then she said, "Father threatened to go after
you, to make it public until I--I begged him to keep
quiet about it. I said you'd pay it back."

She waited for Tom to speak. Tom stared at her,
thunderstruck.

"Finally father said that if I'd promise not to write
to you or to go near you--ever, if I'd stay with him--always,
he'd never mention it, unless--"

"God!" said Tom. "You believed it?"

Emmie drew a long breath. "I--I was sure there
was an explanation, if only you would make it."

"Make it!" Tom roared. "Are you crazy or am I?
I have nothing to say to anyone, man, woman or child,
who dares assert that I've ever taken a penny that
didn't belong to me."

After this outburst there was a dead silence.

Tom leaned against the closed door as if to shut
Emmie away from every other contact with the world,
to bar her from escape, and said, "Have you told Lee
Lansing that I stole from your father?"

"No."

"How many other persons have you told this lie
to?"

"Lie?"

"Yes. How many people have you told it to?"

"No one else."

"How long have you believed it?"

"Eighteen years."

"Did your father ever repeat this lie to anyone
else?"

"Lie?" said Emmie again.

"Yes, the damnedest lie that anyone could tell
against a man. Did your father ever tell it?"

"No. My father didn't lie." But even as she
said it she seemed to see the dead Eli's cynical face
looking at her over his paper, stealing odd glances
at her from time to time. Had he lied? "My father
never spoke of what you had done to anyone but me.
That was the bargain."

"You believed him?"

Emmie nodded. "How could I help it?"

"My God! Emmie Weston you stand there and
tell me that you believed me a thief?"

Emmie looked at him bewildered. "Tom, I don't
think I ever put it in those words. I just thought
you had been hasty--hasty and mistaken--and young,
Tom. But I knew I must make it up to father, so
that he would never tell anyone else--about the mistake
you made."

Tom's anger become deadly. If there was one crime
in the calendar that seemed to Tom more despicable,
lower, more unforgivable than any other, it was theft.
Tom came nearer; his voice softer.

"I made no mistake, Emmie Weston. I am not a
thief--but your father was. He kept back twenty
thousand of my money when I came of age. He
kept making excuses, saying that he could not get it
back, but all the time I knew, through an accident, and
John Fair, that he had used it, invested it in some
scheme of his own, and didn't want to draw it out
yet. He tried to put me off. He didn't want to
jeopardize his own money. The risk was to be mine.
But I wouldn't be put off. I wanted to go West, and
told him I had to have it, or I would go to John
Fair about it. That's what I came here for, the last
night before I went West. You remember?"

Oh yes, Emmie remembered. When would she
ever forget?

"He tried to make me wait for the money. The
old skinflint hated to part with it. He tried all sorts
of arguments. When he found that he couldn't bluff
me into waiting for the money, he opened the old
safe that used to be in the library, and showed me a
bundle of bonds which he told me equalled twenty
thousand dollars and were security for my money. He
swore he could not lose in the deal he was making,
and that I must wait. My answer was to call him a
pious old robber, which he was, and tell him I would
expose him to everybody, if he prevented me from
taking my money. I leaned over and took the bonds,
my security, and walked away with them. He knew
he couldn't touch me, the old devil, but he was furious."

Emmie neither moved nor spoke. She felt horribly
humiliated.

"The deal he put my money into actually doubled
his stake, in a month or two, and he was the gainer.
He knew even then, that he'd win, but he couldn't
bear to risk his own money. He wanted to keep mine,
handle it, and have me take all the risk. He cursed
me that night. I suppose he went back and shut his
safe--and cried over his loss."

"No, it was I who cried, that night, not father."

Then, as Tom looked at her, she straightened up.
"How am I to know that what you say is true? It
is your word against father's--and you've both tricked
me."

Tom looked at her as though he would strike her,
and then moved from the door, and flung it open.

"Come with me to John Fair's office. Do you believe
John Fair?"

"John Fair doesn't lie," Emmie admitted. "But
I want you to know this first, Tom. After father
died and you came back, I sent for John Fair and
told him that if in father's papers, or will, there was
any reference of any kind to you, I must see it first,
and then it must be destroyed."

They went through the doorway, through the living
room, and out of doors, without seeing Lee, who
ran down the stairs toward Emmie. They did not see
Lib in the kitchen doorway, staring after them. Hatless
they went out of the house, and in silence crossed
to John Fair's office.

Lee started to followed them out of the house, but
Lib detained her.

"My Land of Love! What you going to do, Miss
Lee?"

"I've got to speak to Miss Emmie," the girl said
desperately.

"Not you," Lib was determined. "There's considerable
speaking been done the last few minutes, and
judging from Miss Emmie's face, she's had enough.
Lord forgive you, for you certainly been a little blonde
trouble-breeder, Miss Lee."

Lee tore herself free, and hurried from the room.




20


In reality's clear, cold light, old dreams look thread-bare.

Tom and Emmietta faced John Fair across the scarred
library table in Fair's old office, which had both
distinction and character, despite the fact that the
furniture was old and shabby. The room, like a
person of gentle birth who had gone down in the
world, still retained faint traces of its original grace
and elegance. It was a room that unconsciously helped
John Fair's clients toward a clearer view of their
cases and themselves, for it had none of the ultra-modern,
for-revenue-only, atmosphere. It was rather
the timeworn, comfortable room of an old and satisfactory
friend, who had leisure to listen and to forget
the fretting rush of life now and then.

Tom Hastings felt its atmosphere even through the
white-heat of his anger against this woman, who had
come with him, who had accused him of the thing
that was unpardonable in Tom's code of honor.

Emmie's feelings were almost too chaotic to be
classified. If what Tom Hastings said was true, she
had been doubly foolish, all these years, and while she
could trust John Fair, it was bitter to have to trust
him.

Fair, busy drawing up the papers for the land
transfer, looked up at them expectantly. The sight
of their two set faces silenced the greeting that rose to
his lips, and he listened, apparently unmoved, to all
Emmie, at Tom's request, told him.

Tom dared not look at Emmie, so furiously blazed
his anger against her, and she, after all, a woman. He
wanted never to hear again the low-pitched voice
that, at his own request, was repeating the abominable
charge she had made against him. Then she reached
the end and there was silence.

John Fair surveyed them both, and weighed his
words.

"This is what you have believed all these years,
Emmie?" he asked quietly. "That Tom Hastings was
a--"

"Thief," finished Tom himself harshly.

Emmie did not look at Tom. She looked at John
Fair, and simply as a child, or rather as a woman
from whom all the glamor of life had been stripped,
and bare facts alone stand out, she said, "I never
put it that way, John. That's what my father said,
but not what I said to myself. I said, 'Tom Hastings
owes my father money which he can't pay just
now, but as long as I stay with father, father will
say nothing against him.' You see, when May had
left him she took some of his money, and he was
afraid I would too. I felt that Tom would come
home sometime and pay it back." She stopped abruptly.

"Then why," asked John, "did you break your
silence to-day?"

He put out a hand, as Tom moved closer, to hold
him back.

Emmie looked at John piteously, then set her face
and went on.

"I know how it will look--to--to Tom--and to
Lee, but my only thought was that since Lee was so
much younger, since Lee did not know what I did,
since Tom had come back and never moved to pay
his debt, it was my duty, as an older woman, not to
let her enter into--," Emmie hesitated,--"marriage
with this man, without knowing all about him, before
she took the risk."

"I see," John said. "I believe you, Emmie."

And still he did not look at Tom. He looked down
at the table and then up at Emmie and seemed to
have difficulty in speaking.

Finally he said slowly and deliberately, "Emmie,
your father lied to you when he told you that Tom
stole that money. Tom told the truth when he told
you that he took only what was due him by his
father's will. He told the truth when he said that
your father had taken his, Tom's money and risked
it in certain investments. I knew at the time.

"What it amounted to was that your father was
really to blame, really the thief. That the investment
paid, and paid Eli two-fold, three-fold, before Eli
was through with it, doesn't alter the facts. And
that Tom paid himself with Eli's bonds, doesn't alter
the fact that Eli used something that wasn't his to
use. Tom only took what belonged to him. Your
father tricked you. If I had known at any time during
these eighteen years, I might have saved you,
Emmie, my girl. Between the two men, you were
badly treated. I'm sorry."

There was a moment of silence; then Emmie rose
from the chair into which she had sunk, and stood
looking at the two men. Instinctively they faced her.

"John," Emmie said, "don't be sorry. Don't pity
me. I--I can't bear that."

She turned a little way toward Tom and looked at
him. Tom found some difficulty in returning her
look. There was something about her face--there
was something--

But Emmie was saying very quietly, now, "I'm
sorry, Tom. It was stupid of me to believe _that_ of you.
Maybe some time, not now, you will understand how
sorry and--forgive me."

Then before Tom could gather himself together or
either of them could move, Emmie went to the door.

"It will make no difference--about the brickyards,
Tom," she said simply, as she motioned John Fair not
to follow her.

With a quick movement, John closed the door and
kept Tom in the room. He turned on Tom a look that
made him start.

"My God! Hastings, what are you made of?
Eighteen years of a woman's life! Eighteen years of
a woman's devotion laid at your feet, and you kick it
to one side, as though it were dirt."

He sat down then, his hand across his mouth as
though to keep himself from saying more.

Tom Hastings, watching, listening to him in silence,
sank back in his chair.

The old clock, that the first Fair in America had
brought with him from England, ticked loudly and
solemnly.

Tom watched, through the window, Emmie cross
the street, before he met Fair's glance.

"I never asked her life or her devotion."

"You have made that plain," Fair told him. "Even
Emmie sees that clearly now."

"Are you quite just? Remember I was in ignorance
of the--romance she was weaving about me."

"It was her dream, man."

His voice alone told Tom that Fair had loved
Emmie Weston for a long time.

It was bitter to John Fair, that Emmie must suffer
in this way, for a man who had no idea of what he was
throwing away. A fool, who did not understand that
he was nothing--the dream, everything. It was a
dream, that she had never really expected to come true,
but it was a dear dream. She had paid for the right
to dream it with years of her life, with her youth.

Suddenly he spoke his thoughts aloud.

"_She never expected the dream to come true!_ She
never expected you to come back! But the dream
saved her self-respect, the dream made it possible for
her to live, and by and by the dream became so real
that she let other people see--oh, only the edge, the
golden edge of it. But they brought the romance
down to every day life, down to merely, 'Tom Hastings
would come back, some day, to Emmie Weston.'

"Well, you did come back. You broke through her
dream. Instead of the prince, the poor, misunderstood
prince of her dreams, Tom Hastings the matter
of fact, middle-aged business man came back,--to buy
land for a brickyard! Tom Hastings, who had taken
her father's money! The Tom Hastings who came
back was a source of chagrin, of terror to her, because
he wasn't in the least like the dream. He destroyed the
dream. Any moment he might not only tear her dream
to shreds, but expose her pitiful attempt to keep something
interesting in a drab life. He would also tell
the gapingly curious neighbors that Emmie Weston
had never had a lover called Tom Hastings, that Tom
Hastings came back for brickyards and not faded
Emmie Weston.

"So Emmie Weston fought for her dream. She
made herself over again, into something like the
woman Tom Hastings might expect to see when he
came back. She kept East Penniwell guessing. Oh,
she was clever about it. She bought new clothes, she
brought down clever young men, and into her own
house,--the girl her old lover wanted to marry."

Tom Hastings got to his feet and went toward him.

Fair rose.

"Oh well, Tom, you are as you are. I suppose the
swine were not to be blamed that they didn't know
pearls when they saw them."

"You make yourself offensively plain, Fair." Tom
said slowly. "But I don't know as I blame you. You
look at this woman with the eyes of--love."

John Fair laughed. "And your eyes are holden so
that they do not see. I'd rather see and suffer, Tom--for
Emmie will never need to look at me--than be
blind,--and lose--what you have lost."

It was Fair who spoke again, as Tom stood looking
at him silently, and before Tom moved toward the
door.

"But there's no reason why we should quarrel.
Sooner or later we'll have to take up our lives again,
and meet and talk brickyards as though this had never
been, and poor Emmie had not lost--even her dream."

"Damnation! Let me get out of this," and Tom
brushed Fair aside and hurried out and toward the
Weston place. But not the house. He went to the
garage, and in a few minutes reappeared in his motor.
Fair saw Asher hurry into the house. He saw Tom
wait a moment, at the further gate. Then, as Asher
came out with his bag, and flung it in, he saw Tom go
leaping and roaring, in his powerful motor, along the
New York Road.

Fair sighed and turned from the window.

There went the last of poor Emmie's dream!




21


The poets tell us that it is better to love and lose,
than not to love at all, but an ordinary mortal would
prefer a hard heart to a broken one. The first is so
much less painful--to oneself.

Weston sat in the old smithy, his face in his hands.
From the doorway Bunny Wells, who had been listening
to Weston's tale of Tom's presumption and his
own hopes, saw Miss Emmie come from John Fair's
house and go toward her own.

What had happened to wipe all the happiness out of
her face? How could she be so careless of what the
neighbors would say? And where was Tom Hastings?
Bunny's face darkened. Was he with Lee? If Lee
was complicating Miss Emmie's lot, why then he himself
would see that Miss Emmie knew everything. He
would begin by telling Weston.

He turned on Weston with an air of authority that
surprised that young man, curtly ordered rather than
asked him to sit down, saying that he had something
important to tell him. Weston, to his own surprise,
obeyed Bunny without question.

Emmie made her way slowly to the sanctuary she
craved--her own room. She was sure now, more
sure than she had ever been that she did not love
Tom Hastings, but this was not the way in which she
had imagined she would be freed from the web of her
dreams. She had visioned at least a grateful Tom, a
little awed at the greatness of the sacrifice she had
made for his sake. She had never imagined anything
as futile as the reality had been. Her dream was
dead, but there had been no peace in its death,--only
humiliation--a feeling of defeat,--and John Fair had
pitied her!

Emmie shivered, and then stood still. She could
hear Lee sobbing heartbrokenly in her room. Lee!
She had forgotten Lee. Emmie knocked, and at the
third unanswered knock she opened the door and
went in.

Lee was lying on her bed, her head buried in the
pillows, sobbing like a child spent with grief. She
looked up, as Emmie came in, and shrank back as
though some one had dealt her a blow.

Emmie went to her, put her arms about the girl,
and as Lee hid her face against her, said, "Lee, dear,
don't be unhappy."

Lee sobbed helplessly.

Emmie began again. "Don't cry. Tom will be
here--very soon."

As she said this, her heart gave a leap, in fear. She
had seen over Lee's head, through the window, Tom
come from John Fair's gate.

"He's coming now, Lee. Try to stop crying. I'll
have Lib tell him you'll be down in a minute."

"I don't want to see Tom," Lee protested, her
voice muffled, her face still against Emmie's shoulder.

Before she could protest further, Emmie's arms
were withdrawn from about her. Emmie ran to the
window that looked down on the garden.

She could see the garage, and was just in time to
see Tom Hastings come out of it in his car. He
slowed up at the gate in time to take his bag from
Asher, who came plunging awkwardly from the house
with it, and Tom's hat, in his hand. Asher flung bag
and hat into the car as it passed him, caught at the
bill which Tom thrust at him with one hand, while
with the other Tom took the car carefully through the
gate; then in a flash was gone, out of sight!

Even if Emmie had wanted to cry out to stop him,
there was no time. Her mouth refused to open. She
was ready to sink into the ground with guilt and dismay.
She had indeed played havoc with Lee's life,
as well as her own!

    *    *    *    *    *

Asher came heavily into Lib's kitchen and laid a
five dollar bill on the table without a word.

Lib came and looked at it, and at him.

He pointed at it, with a heavy gesture, such as an
old-fashioned tragedian might have used to point out
the fatal money that had lured his child from the
path of virtue.

"Well," said Lib finally. "I see five dollars. What
of it?"

"Woman! That ain't any ordinary money. That's
Tom Hastings' fare-you-well. He's left--lock, stock
and baggage, my girl, and your Miss Emmie's a left
lady from this hour on. Her fortune's told."

Lib's eyes snapped. "Tain't neither. Miss
Emmie's affairs ain't dependent on Tom Hastings
now."

"There ain't," Asher eyed Lib solemnly, "nothing
certain about men. There ain't," and his voice rose,
as he saw an answering gleam in Lib's eyes, "nothing
certain in this life--but death."

Lib shrank from him. Never had she known
Asher to be "that wrought up."

Asher followed, glaring at her even more terribly.
"What about that there vow you made about not
taking up with me or any other man, 'cepting on the
day Tom Hastings was laid low at Miss Emmie's
feet?"

Lib visibly faltered. "Well, what about it?" she
asked a little nervously. "His riding away ain't proof
that he ain't been laid low and rejected at her feet."

Asher scowled. "No playing, Lib. Tom Hastings
has gone. Does or doesn't that there vow hold good?"

"Asher--" began Lib, stoutly, "Tom Hastings ain't
the only man in the world--or even in East Penniwell,
fer that matter."

"Answer me square," Asher thundered. "Does
that there vow hold until Miss Emmie's married or is
it kinda cancelled now and are you free to act?"

"Oh, Asher. How can I tell, till I know certain
from Miss Emmie? And how do you know he's gone
for good?"

Asher pounded the table. "I ain't any time for
any more trifling or any more vows being set up between
me and my settlement in life. Lib Candy, you
see that there five dollar bill? It lies on the table five
seconds more."

He drew out Eli Weston's ancient timepiece, which
had never missed a minute in fifty years.

"At the end of that there five seconds, if it's still
laying there and hasn't been taken up by you for to
buy yourself somethin' nist, and to bind yourself to
come with me in the car to-morrow to the county seat
for the license, then all is over between you and me.

"Mr. Bob Landon tells me the top of the garage
is to be fixed something handsome-like, into homey
rooms for man and wife. I'm to be that man, you're
to be the wife. If not you, there's two widows in this
town that are more'n willing."

"Asher Turkle--the idea!"

Lib took up the bill.

Asher made a step toward her, wiping his mouth
with the back of his hand, but Morphy's entrance
made them both pause.

"To-morrow," Asher said darkly, "to-morrow at
three o'clock, and have Morphy, here, dish the supper.
Me and you won't git home till late."

He looked at Morphy so fixedly and solemnly that
involuntarily she shrank back nearer Lib, who was
folding the bill small between her fingers in her
nervousness. Lib managed, "Yes, Asher, just as you
say," as he went out of the doorway.

    *    *    *    *    *

Bunny Wells had seen Tom Hastings come across
the road and go to the house. Bunny's brows drew
together. He looked up at Weston, who after all was
a decent sort. He'd taken his bad news like a man.

"You see," he said. "Tom's heard it too. You'd
make a better exit Wes," he added kindly, "and incidentally
please your aunt--if you went now."

Weston nodded gloomily. He rose to his feet,
slowly, and went toward the door.

"You could hire a fairly good car from Smith. He
has one or two presentable ones," Bunny remarked
casually. "Bill Sladen could drive you to Princeton
and bring the car back. You would be in time to
settle down before Monday, and let the other fellows
know you're in the field, and--it would mean a lot to
Miss Emmie. Besides, Weston," he added, "you
don't want to be out of the big game this year, do
you?"

"No," said Weston. He rose and stretched himself.
"After all, a woman is only a woman, and the
game's--well, it's a game."

"You've got it," Bunny dragged himself to his feet.
"There's also a thing to be remembered, Weston, and
that's they, women you know, always flock to see it
played."

"Yes," and rising to heights of cynicism that he
had not believed possible half an hour ago, Weston
added, "and they always think we play it for them,
whereas," he paused to light a cigarette that Bunny
might see how steady his hand was, "whereas, when
we're playing the game, we never think of them at
all!"

"That's true," again agreed Bunny, intent only on
bolstering up the boy's courageous attitude, which he
devoutly hoped would last until he reached Princeton.

As Weston went slowly toward Smith's garage,
where questions innumerable waited him, Bunny saw
Tom Hastings tear through the gate and come toward
him on the road.

Swifter than lightning through Bunny's brain ran
the thought, "He can't leave Miss Emmie this way.
It will be town talk and Miss Emmie cares." Before
he was through formulating the idea, Bunny was out
in the road signalling with his crutch for Tom to
stop.

Emmie at the window could not see this. She had
been afraid to turn back to Lee. She did not know
how to tell her that Tom had gone. It was Lee, her
sobbing controlled at last, who finally asked, "Miss
Emmie, what's wrong?"

"I've driven Tom away!" Emmie turned toward
the girl. "My dear, what shall I do?"

"Nothing," said Lee promptly and rose. She went
toward the other women with outstretched arms.
"Nothing, and don't look as though the last day had
come, Miss Emmie-darling. It's absolutely nothing
to me whether Tom Hastings comes or goes, but--oh,
you poor dear--what does it mean to you?"

"But Lee, it's because of me--and what I said--that
Tom has gone. Oh my dear, what haven't I done
to--"

"Miss Emmie-darling, you have done nothing to
me, or my young life. But I've done a lot--myself.
This time you've got to listen to me. I--must tell
you. I'm married!"

"Married!" Emmie echoed and then her face underwent
a swift change. "To--to Tom?"

"No, I wouldn't marry Tom Hastings for all the
money there is." She paused. "Can't you guess?"

Miss Emmie shook her head helplessly. "How can
I?"

"Bob Landon."

"Bob Landon?"

"Hush! He won't have me," Lee whispered. "He
won't have anything to do with me, and I just can't
bear it, Miss Emmie. Help me!"

Emmie threw her arms about the girl. "Tell me."

Lee leaned against her.

"I'm hard and modern. You'll probably hate me,
but oh, Miss Emmie, whether you do or not I've got to
tell it to some woman."

"Tell me instantly," Miss Emmie said, controlling
a strong desire to shake her. "Of course, I'll stand
by you. I'll make him behave, too."

Lee looked up at her. "Oh, what a relief! You're
the first woman I have told."

"Doesn't your mother--"

Lee shook her head.

"Could I go to my mother and say 'I'm married
and my husband doesn't want me'? You don't know
mother. It will be bad enough when I tell her it's
Bob, and he's poor."

"What does that matter?" Emmie said impatiently.
"He won't always be poor."

"I know it," Lee said, "but mother has no imagination."

"Is it his poverty that keeps you apart?"

Lee shook her head. "It's my cowardice."

Emmie looked at her scornfully.

"Oh, not the kind you think! I was willing enough
to live with him in two rooms--or one--and do my
own dishes. But--you see--he blames me for
Bunny's lameness." Lee began to cry, much harder
than modern girls are supposed to cry.

"Stop that, Lee! You go on and tell me." Emmie
sat down in the big armchair and drew the slim girl
on her lap. "Stop crying and tell me--everything.
When did you marry him?"

"Six years ago."

"Six years ago? My Grief!"

"Don't interrupt or I can't tell you. I'm nearly
twenty-four--older than you thought. Six years ago
I was just a flapper--not quite eighteen. Full of all
sorts of ideas. Bob had been over and was late in
coming home from the war. I met him--in uniform.
You haven't any idea how stunning he looked in uniform.
I went crazy about him. He and Bunny were
chums. Bob fell in love with me, but he didn't like
the things I did."

Lee looked at Emmie. "He was right not to. They
were awfully dangerous, but when does a kid of
eighteen think of that? Bob was a lot older, of course,
and he had been abroad and all, and he'd ideas about
how a girl should behave. I didn't fit into any of them--yet
he fell in love with me. Then he thought, if
we got married, I would settle down. I promised I
would. As soon as he got a job we were to tell
mother and set up housekeeping. Neither of us
wanted a 'big wedding'. Bob thought they were 'barbarous'
anyway.

"If we'd told then, mother would have raised a
row, and--and Bob thought mother wasn't bringing
me up as she should. My father had been dead a long
time and Bob thought I needed a man's guiding hand.
We were going to live somewhere in the country, with
Bunny nearby, when they both got jobs. We had all
sorts of lovely plans, and it was so interesting to steal
off and meet Bob, and know all the time other girls
were admiring him and that I was his wife. Anytime
I liked I could put my hand on his arm and say,
'This is _my_ husband.'

"But he didn't get the job, and he hadn't much
money to spend, and--I was a fool about dancing
and going about, and there I was married--and yet
not married, and I couldn't tell anybody, because
mother would have screamed and sent for lawyers and
locked me up in some school or other, while she annulled
the marriage. She would have thrown Bob
right out, and Bob couldn't help it because he couldn't
support me yet.

"Well, of course, being a fool, and not being regularly
married and all, and always having a lot of boys
around, I couldn't help breaking out once in a while
and going to places with the crowd.

"There was one fellow in particular, with plenty of
money. He'd always liked me. I couldn't see any
reason for going about moping, when I could have a
good time with him, and no harm done."

"No harm! Lee!"

"Oh stuff! Emmie-darling, I know it now, but I
didn't then. And Bob had no money, and he was
getting gloomy about everything. He had lost a good
job by going to war, and nothing turned up. If Bob
hadn't fussed I don't think anything would have happened.

"One night,--I went to a party with this fellow,
and Bunny happened to know about it. Bob didn't.
This--this man played me a low-down trick. He took
me to a, well--rather questionable place. Fast, you'd
call it. He said we were just going to stop in there
to collect some of the crowd and go on, when I objected.
But Bunny had happened to hear where the
crowd was going, and came straight down there,--for
me. The place, he'd got word somehow, was to
be raided that night and padlocked for breaking the
Eighteenth Amendment--and other things. It's still
padlocked.

"Bunny came along in a funny little old car he had,
and insisted on my coming away with him. Well, he
made it plain to me that I'd _better_ come. I got in his
car, and we were on the road home before the raid
happened. We were speeding away at a good pace,
but nothing extraordinary, when this fellow I'd left
came racketing round the corner trying to escape, and
going ninety miles an hour. He smashed into us. Of
course, _he_ wasn't hurt. He took me out of the wreck.
His car could still run. Bunny's was smashed. And
Bunny pinned in under it.

"Miss Emmie, I wasn't myself. I had been struck
on the head. I was stunned. Honestly, I remembered
nothing. I didn't know what I was doing, or who I
was with. I only wanted to get home--to get home
and lie down. Well, the man who smashed us got me
home, and it was not until next morning, in the papers,
that I learned that Bunny had been found by the
police, hours later, and rushed to the hospital to save
his life. If he had been rescued at once, he--wouldn't
have been lame."

Miss Emmie gave a shuddering sigh and the arm
about Lee unconsciously relaxed. "How can they
tell?" she began, anxious to defend Lee from herself,
and yet even then hating her for what she had done to
Bunny Wells. And yet, Bunny didn't hate Lee!

But Lee was going on, feverishly. "Wasn't that
punishment enough,--to know that about Bunny? But
worse was to come. In his pain and anxiety about me,
Bunny told Bob who had been with him in the car. He
had been unconscious when--that fellow--took me out
of the wreck. Well, Bob came to see me and told
me Bunny would always be lame and that it was my
fault.

"He said everything was over between us. He was
most explicit. It wasn't because of my going with
that man, after he had told me not to, it wasn't because
I had gone to that place, after he had told me it wasn't
a place for a decent girl, but because I was a damned
coward. Yes--that was what he called me. He said
any girl that would think about saving her own miserable
reputation when a fellow like Bunny was hurt,
dying for all I knew, deserved a far harder fate than
that of a poor man's wife. He said his wife would need
courage--and I had none."

She clung to Emmie silently, as the past rose before
her, and she saw herself facing Bob, pale and shaken
from all she had gone through that night, and the
shock of finding out about Bunny in the morning. She
had been ready to throw herself into Bob's arms, to
sob out, against his shoulder, all her misery, to tell him
how she hated herself for going to that place, as she
had done, with a man she cared nothing for, to beg
Bob to take her to Bunny, to let her work for and
with them both, to help her--and let her help him--and
Bunny. She was frightened, shaken, weak, and
she wanted him to be strong for both of them--to
love her. And before her Bob had stood, white, raging,
wooden.

All he had said to her was hateful, and she felt she
was hateful in his eyes and there was nothing she could
do to make him believe her. She heard again his cold
hard words as he told her that all she wanted was
money and a good time. "I'll have to support Bunny
now, as well as myself, for some time to come," he
had said. "I can't provide for you. I've no money
to spend on a wife. That's a luxury beyond my
means. You'd best go ahead and annul the marriage.
It was a mistake anyway--for you. I'll do anything
in my power to help you undo it. Annul and forget
it."

As he had turned to leave her, there in her mother's
luxurious room, he had given a last ironical look at
the place--at the girl.

"I'll never claim you," he had told her, and he had
meant it.

She remembered how she had screamed aloud, as he
went toward the door and begged him to give her
another chance; told him that Bunny would believe
that she didn't know what she was doing.

Lee's eyes, tear filled, closed at the hateful vision
of how she had clung to him, at the last, voiceless,
tearless, anguished. But Bob had not believed her
then, did not now. She could still hear the door as it
closed behind him, shutting him out of her life.

She opened her eyes to see Miss Emmie, white-faced,
to cling to her crying, "Oh, Miss Emmie, you
must believe me! Bunny does. I can't bear it
unless you do too!"

"I do."

"But nothing will make Bob believe it."

"Have you--"

"No. I haven't annulled the marriage."

"Why haven't you? Why don't you?"

Lee turned on her. "I never will. He will have
to get rid of me himself, if he wants to marry anyone
else. I won't give him up."

"Why?"

"Oh, you know why! Why did you wait years for
Tom Hastings? I know Bob is one of the best men
ever made, but oh, Miss Emmie, how _dumb_ men are!
Do we have to tell them everything?"

"Does Tom know?"

"About Bob? No, of course not. Nobody knows,
except you--and Bob and Bunny."

Miss Emmie thought for a moment, her arms
about the girl. Then she rose, and patted Lee's
shoulder. "I'm going down to Bob, now."

Lee clutched at her, "Oh, no, no, you must not."

Miss Emmie heard the library door open. She
put her arms about the girl, and held her, soothing
her, as Lee frantically whispered how Bob had refused
to speak to her even here, even to-day, when Bunny
begged him, and she would not, she could not, ask
him again.

Emmie listened with only half her attention, until
she heard the creak of the old stairs. That meant
Bob had come to the last step, but one.

Then as Bob came quietly down the hall, and the
girl in her arms stiffened, Miss Emmie called, "Bob!
Bob Landon! Help me!" She clutched the indignant
Lee so tightly that she could not break away.
"In here! In Lee's room!"

She clung to Lee as the door opened, and turning
she put Lee in Bob's arms.

"Your wife has told me everything and I believe
her. Any doctor will tell you she is speaking the
truth, when she says she didn't know what she was
doing. I'm going to leave you and beg you to listen
to each other. Don't let yourselves waste years,--as
I have done."

She went out of the room before they could detain
her, and with a twisted smile Lee looked up at
Bob. "Go, if you like, I would in your place. But
the trick was hers--not mine," Lee said.




22


A good woman may be above rubies, but if she has
both rubies and virtue, how hard is the path of the
poor man!

Emmie had watched Bob and Lee go away on a
belated honeymoon, and to tell Lee's mother. Emmie
had whispered to Bob an assurance that there was going
to be plenty of work for him down here, whether
Tom Hastings employed him or not. They were coming
back to East Penniwell and Emmie.

And Weston had gone to Princeton without a
murmur, promising to come down "every week-end."

Emmie sat near the window, waiting for Bunny
Wells to come in, so that she might tell him the good
news. She was tired, spent with emotion, but neither
sorrowful nor downhearted. Emmie could see, with
a clear, unbiased vision, now that Tom had gone irrevocably
out of her life, and she did not despair.
That she had misjudged Tom was her only lasting
regret.

As to her father's trick--well, he was her father and
he was to be judged only in the light of his attitude
toward life. It was not her father whom Emmie
condemned in her final judgment, it was herself.
Blind she had been, but she was blind no longer and
so able to see that the trick would not have worked if
she had trusted Tom a little, and used her native intelligence.

To wait eighteen years for any man was a mistake,
Emmie conceded, but after all had it proved so disastrous
to her? Here she was, instead of having her
life behind her, as it might have been but for her
dream, wide awake now and with the health, looks and
money to get what she wanted.

Lee, Bob and Weston would come back to her--and
as long as Peter Rabat Wells was her neighbor
life would be full and interesting for Emmie. She
would be content with that.

Emmie looked about her. The first shadows of
the coming night had fallen across the day. The
room was softened, made lovely by the light. It
seemed almost prophetic to Emmie. That's what her
life would be from now on. Her dream might be
dead, but her life could, it would, be lovely.

    *    *    *    *    *

The same softening shadows fell across the old
smithy walls, but to Tom Hastings they did not seem
beautiful.

"It's getting late," he reminded the man who had,
much against his will, lured him in there, and shut
the door. "When will this farce be over?"

"Over now, if you like," Bunny told him cheerfully.
"Ten minutes ago I saw Lee and her husband
ride away in Miss Emmie's car."

"Lee and _her husband_!"

"Yes, and now that the village will have _that_ to
talk about, and leave Miss Emmie alone, I don't care
how soon, or how quickly you leave."

"Lee _married_?"

It was Bunny's turn to stare.

"Didn't you know it? Wasn't that why you were
tearing off when I stopped you?"

"No," said Tom, between his teeth, "and I wish
to heaven I'd run over you and left you lying where
you fell."

Bunny grinned at him. "As a helpless cripple, I
knew I had you, and that you'd have to slow down, especially
when I waved a crutch."

He looked at Tom speculatively, as though wondering
how much explanation was strictly due him, then
volunteered, "You see, I couldn't have the whole town
gossiping about how you'd run off and left Miss
Emmie, until Lee's marriage came out. Now they'll
talk about that."

He paused and looked at the glowering Tom, hesitated
and then said joyfully, "You mean to tell me
you fled because Miss Emmie slammed you down
_hard_! Glory Hallelujah! My faith in woman's restored!"

"I don't mean anything of the kind! I didn't give
her the remotest chance--"

"How cautious! But be very careful. Crow's not
nice, but crow is what you'll eat, if I find you've let
Miss Emmie down."

Tom Hastings turned on him impatiently. "Did
you stop me and bring me in here to try and talk
me round,--as John Fair tried to? It's useless. He
gave me full particulars about the wonderful romance
she'd built up out of nothing--and about me. Rubbish!
I tell you it's no use. I'll make brick here, but
that's all East Penniwell will see of me--bricks. I'm
through with the place, and," he added savagely, "the
people."

"Lee," Bunny observed quietly, as he tried to see
his way clearly, and to understand the man before
him, "was married long before she came to East Penniwell."

"What's that to do with it?" Tom asked, so fiercely
that Bunny suspected it had much to do with it, but
he hazarded, "If it wasn't Lee, what was it?"

Tom did not answer.

"If it's your last appearance, Hastings," Bunny continued
amiably, "then you owe it to Miss Emmie to
make a graceful exit."

Tom swore, very hard but not very long.

Bunny regarded him happily. "I think I'll leave you
here, while I see what's in Miss Emmie's mind regarding
you."

Tom rose to his feet and stared at him. "Are you
crazy, too? What is there about Emmietta Weston
that turns the heads of fellows like you and John
Fair?"

"John Fair!" echoed Bunny.

"Oh, he hasn't a chance," Tom assured him. "Emmie
never would look at him, or any one else, according
to Fair, while I am on the map."

"I wouldn't be too dead sure about that," Bunny
told him modestly, but, if Tom had had sense to see,
dangerously.

"Granted you have a better chance than John," Tom
sneered, "you haven't a chance beside the poor, innocent
man she hung bells on, that all the village might
know he was the man she'd handicapped by eighteen
years of silly, romantic devotion. Put yourself in
my shoes, Wells, and I bet you'd be shaking the dust
of East Penniwell from them."

"Eighteen years!" Bunny repeated softly. "Eighteen
years of waiting, and then to get you back! Good
God!"

He was through the open doorway before Tom
could quite gather what he meant, and when Tom
called after him, Bunny never turned his head, but
went steadily toward the Weston house.

Tom went toward his car thoughtfully.

    *    *    *    *    *

To Zebra Ballins, sitting on the woodpile, contemplating
life and his axe, which needed grinding, came
Bunny Wells breathlessly, holding in his hand a bill,
which he waved before the fascinated Zebra as he
spoke:

"This," said Bunny slowly and carefully, "is yours,
provided you manage to hold Tom Hastings for ten
minutes, if his car comes down the road."

"Yassuh, Mr. Bunny, 'ats a ve'y clear statement,
ve'y clear and understandable."

Bunny handed him the bill and, before his courage
ebbed, went up the steps. He had faced machine guns
with less hesitancy. He admitted to himself that he
was "scared."

With his hand on the door knob he remembered
Emmie's money, and groaned aloud. It was possible
that if he made the greatest sacrifice a poor and proud
man can make for a woman, he would be misunderstood
by everybody--except--Miss Emmie. And
even Miss Emmie might well be amazed, as well as
suspicious. When had she given him any encouragement--to--to
interfere.

"She can only throw me down hard," he assured
himself, "and that's exactly what I deserve. I've got
an appalling nerve to do it, but Miss Emmie shall
have the refusal of a man who loves the ground she
walks on better than Tom Hastings will ever love
any woman."

    *    *    *    *    *

Zebra, sitting on the steps fingering his tip, watched
Bunny go to the door, then turned to watch the Hastings
car.

Tom sat in the car, and thought. So Lee and Bob
Landon were married! The sly little devil! He hoped
Landon would keep her in order. Well, that was
_that_. He had time still, if he wanted, to tell Emmie
that he'd like to be friends,--maybe, later on, something
else.

He was saying to himself, "Funny how wild those
two men are about her, but she really cared for me all
those years; lived like a nun; bargained with her
father to save my good name." Tom's chest expanded
with pride. "Nice little woman, too, handsome, wellto-do."
He was glad now that Bunny had stopped his
headlong flight from East Penniwell. Since he'd had
time to think things over Tom meant to be very kind
to Emmie. He smiled to himself as he thought how
easy it would be to be nice to Emmie Weston.

He threw away his cigarette, and started the car.

Zebra, waiting for him, fingered his bribe.

"C'mon, Mr. Man," he said chuckling. "C'mon.
Brickya'ds is what you come after, and brickya'ds is
all you gets. And even 'em you'll have to kinda ast
off'n Miss Emmie's Man."

    *    *    *    *    *

Bunny had opened the door of the room where
Emmie was sitting alone. She looked up at him, all
her brave thoughts in her lovely eyes.

And Bunny, who had meant to carry it off gallantly,
even a little swaggeringly, for Miss Emmie's sake,
quite forgot the scene he had planned. He put his
crutches from him, and stood leaning against the door,
through which Tom must come. He met Emmie's
smile gravely, and spoke in a voice she had never
heard before.

"Miss Emmie, darling, I'm lame and poor and I've
no business to look at you, but I love you so much
I can't think of anything else. Could you--would you
try being engaged to me, or something like that--until
you learn to love me?"

He paused, and gave a little gulp, for Emmie had
risen, and her face was a wonderful thing for any
man to see. How could he guess how splendid he
looked to her?

"And," Bunny continued bravely, "if you don't
come and take me, here I am helpless, and Brickyard
Tom will knock me down and trample over me, when
he returns to tie you to his chariot wheels."

But Emmie was across the room, her dazzled eyes
meeting his, reading in them all her dreams, the best
dream of all, come true. Here was the comrade she
had longed for, ready to share--to understand! Emmie's
arms went up and about his neck. She hid her
face against his shoulder. Bunny's arms went round
her, and he dropped his cheek against her bright hair.

"Better an antic shop and love--withal--" he whispered
unsteadily, but Emmie raised her head, looked
at him, and that sentence was never finished.




[End of _The Left Lady_ by Margaret Turnbull]