CHAPTER XI

E-text prepared by Michael Gray (Lost_Gamer@comcast.net)

Transcriber's note:

The original book contained two chapters numbered XI, each with

a different title. Both appeared in the table of contents,

listed as Chapters X and XI. The real Chapter X, entitled "Mere

Speculation," was not included in the table of contents. In this

e-text the Table of Contents has been corrected to include the

real Chapter X and to reflect the fact that the book has two

Chapters numbered XI.

MARY LOUISE SOLVES A MYSTERY

by

Edith Van Dyne

Author of

"Aunt Jane's Nieces Series"

Frontispiece by Anna B. Mueller

[Illustration: frontispiece]

The Reilly & Lee Co.

Chicago

Copyright, 1917

by

The Reilly & Britton Co.

_Mary Louise Solves a Mystery_

CONTENTS

I DOCTOR AND PATIENT

II MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

III ALORA'S FATHER

IV ALORA'S NEW LIFE

V IN THE STUDIO

VI FLITTING

VII MARY LOUISE INTRUDES

VIII MARY LOUISE MEETS ALORA

IX MARY LOUISE SCENTS A MYSTERY

X MERE SPECULATION

XI ALORA SPEAKS FRANKLY

XI JASON JONES IS FRIGHTENED

XII SILVIO'S GOLD

XIII DORFIELD

XIV HOME AGAIN

XV THE PUZZLE BECOMES INTRICATE

XVI ALORA WINS HER WAY

XVII THE DISAPPEARANCE

XVIII ON THE TRAIL

XIX DECOYED

XX JANET'S TRIUMPH

XXI THE PRICE OF LIBERTY

XXII A COMPROMISE

XXIII MARY LOUISE HAS AN INTUITION

XXIV AN INTERRUPTION

XXV JASON JONES

XXVI WHAT MARY LOUISE ACCOMPLISHED

Mary Louise Solves a Mystery

CHAPTER I

DOCTOR AND PATIENT

A little girl sat shivering in a corner of a reception room in the

fashionable Hotel Voltaire. It was one of a suite of rooms occupied by

Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones, widely known for her wealth and beauty,

and this girl--a little thing of eleven--was the only child of Mrs.

Antoinette Seaver Jones, and was named Alora.

It was not cold that made her shiver, for across the handsomely

furnished room an open window gratefully admitted the summer sunshine

and the summer breeze. Near the window, where the draught came coolest,

a middle-aged woman in a sober dress sat reading. Alora did not look at

this person but kept her gaze fixed anxiously upon the doorway that led

to the corridor, and the spasmodic shudders that at times shook her

little body seemed due to nervous fear.

The room was so still that every tick of the Dresden clock could be

distinctly heard. When Miss Gorham, Alora's governess, turned a page of

her book, the rustle was appallingly audible. And the clock ticked on,

and Miss Gorham turned page after page, and still the child sat bowed

upon her chair and eagerly eyed the passageway.

It seemed ages before the outer door of the suite finally opened and a

man moved softly down the passage and paused at the entrance of the

reception room. The man was white-haired, dignified and distinguished

in appearance. Hat in hand, he stood as if undecided while Alora

bounded from her seat and came to him, her eyes, big and pleading,

reading his face with dramatic intentness.

"Well, well, my dear; what is it?" he said in a kindly voice.

"May I see my mamma now, Doctor?" she asked.

He shook his head, turning to the table to place his hat and gloves

upon it.

"Not just yet, little one," he gently replied, and noting her

quick-drawn breath of disappointment he added: "Why, I haven't seen

her myself, this morning."

"Why do you keep me from her, Doctor Anstruther? Don't you know it's--

it's wicked, and cruel?"--a sob in her voice.

The old physician looked down upon the child pityingly.

"Mamma is ill--very ill, you know--and to disturb her might--it might--

well, it might make her worse," he explained lamely.

"I won't disturb her. There's a nurse in there, all the time. Why

should I disturb my mamma more than a nurse?" asked Alora pleadingly.

He evaded the question. The big eyes disconcerted him.

"When I have seen your mother," said he, "I may let you go to her for a

few minutes. But you must be very quiet, so as not to excite her. We

must avoid anything of an exciting nature. You understand that, don't

you, Lory?"

She studied his face gravely. When he held out a hand to her she clung

to it desperately and a shudder again shook her from head to foot.

"Tell me, Doctor Anstruther," in low, passionate tones, "is my mother

dying?"

He gave an involuntary start.

"Who put that notion into your head, Lory?"

"Miss Gorham."

He frowned and glanced reprovingly at the governess, who had lowered

her book to her lap and was regarding the scene with stolid unconcern.

"You mustn't mind such idle gossip, my dear. I am the doctor, you know,

and I am doing all that can be done to save your mother's life. Don't

worry until I tell you to, Lory; and now let me go to see my patient."

He withdrew his hand from her clasp and turned into the passage again.

The girl listened to his footsteps as he approached her mother's

bedchamber, paused a moment, and then softly opened the door and

entered. Silence again pervaded the reception room. The clock resumed

its loud ticking. Miss Gorham raised her book. Alora went back to her

chair, trembling.

The front bedchamber was bright and cheery, a big room fitted with

every modern luxury. The doctor blinked his eyes as he entered from the

dim passage, for here was sunlight and fresh air in plenty. Beside the

bed stood a huge vase of roses, their delicate fragrance scenting the

atmosphere. Upon the bed, beneath a costly lace coverlid, lay a woman

thirty-five years of age, her beautiful face still fresh and unlined,

the deep blue eyes turned calmly upon the physician.

"Welcome, Doctor Anstruther," she said. "Do you realize you have kept

me waiting?"

"I am sorry, Mrs. Jones," he replied, approaching her. "There are so

many demands upon my time that----"

"I know," a little impatiently; "but now that you are here please tell

me how I am this morning."

"How do you feel?"

"I do not suffer, but it takes more morphine to quiet the pain. Janet

has used the hypodermic four times since midnight," with a glance at

the gray-robed nurse who stood silently by the table.

The doctor nodded, thoughtfully looking down her. There was small

evidence of illness in her appearance, but he knew that her hours were

numbered and that the dread disease that had fastened upon her was

creeping on with ever increasing activity. She knew it, too, and smiled

a grim little smile as she added: "How long can I last, at this rate?"

"Do not anticipate, my dear," he answered gravely. "Let us do all that

may be done, and----"

"I must know!" she retorted. "I have certain important arrangements to

make that must not be needlessly delayed."

"I can understand that, Mrs. Jones."

"Then tell me frankly, how long have I to live?"

"Perhaps a month; possibly less; but----"

"You are not honest with me, Doctor Anstruther! What I wish to know--

what I _must_ know--is how soon this disease will be able to kill me.

If we manage to defer the end somewhat, all the better; but the fiend

must not take me unaware, before I am ready to resign my life."

He seated himself beside the bed and reflected. This was his most

interesting patient; he had attended her constantly for more than a

year and in this time had learned to admire not only her beauty of

person but her "gameness" and wholesome mentality. He knew something of

her past life and history, too, as well from her own lips as from

common gossip, for this was no ordinary woman and her achievements were

familiar to many.

She was the daughter of Captain Bob Seaver, whose remarkable career was

known to every man in the West. Captain Bob was one "forty-niners" and

had made fortunes and lost them with marvelous regularity. He had a

faculty for finding gold, but his speculations were invariably unwise,

so his constant transitions from affluence to poverty, and vice versa,

were the subject of many amusing tales, many no doubt grossly

exaggerated. And the last venture of Captain Bob Seaver, before he

died, was to buy the discredited "Ten-Spot" mine and start to develop

it.

At that time he was a widower with one motherless child--Antoinette--a

girl of eighteen who had been reared partly in mining camps and partly

at exclusive girls' schools in the East, according to her father's

varying fortunes. "Tony" Seaver, as she was generally called in those

days, combined culture and refinement with a thorough knowledge of

mining, and when her father passed away and left her absolute mistress

of the tantalizing "Ten-Spot," she set to work to make the mine a

success, directing her men in person and displaying such shrewd

judgment and intelligence, coupled with kindly consideration for her

assistants, that she became the idol of the miners, all of whom were

proud to be known as employees of Tony Seaver's "Ten-Spot" would have

died for their beautiful employer if need be.

And the "Ten-Spot" made good. In five years Tony had garnered a million

or two of well-earned dollars, and then she sold out and retired from

business. Also, to the chagrin of an army of suitors, she married an

artist named Jason Jones, whose talent, it was said, was not so great

as his luck. So far, his fame rested on his being "Tony Seaver's

husband." But Tony's hobby was art, and she had recognized real worth,

she claimed, in Jason Jones' creations. On her honeymoon she carried

her artist husband to Europe and with him studied the works of the

masters in all the art centers of the Continent. Then, enthusiastic and

eager for Jason's advancement, she returned with him to New York and

set him up in a splendid studio where he had every convenience and

incentive to work.

So much the world at large knew. It also knew that within three years

Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones separated from her husband and, with her

baby girl, returned West to live. The elaborate Jones studio was

abandoned and broken up and the "promising young artist" disappeared

from the public eye. Mrs. Jones, a thorough business woman, had

retained her fortune in her own control and personally attended to her

investments. She became noted as a liberal patron of the arts and a

generous donor to worthy charities. In spite of her youth, wealth, and

beauty, she had no desire to shine in society and lived a somewhat

secluded life in luxurious family hotels, attending with much

solicitude to the training and education of her daughter Alora.

At first she had made Denver her home, but afterward migrated from one

middle-west city to another until she came to Chicago, where she had

now lived for nearly three years, occupying the most expensive suite of

rooms at the very exclusive Hotel Voltaire.

Alora fairly worshipped her beautiful mother and although Mrs.

Antoinette Seaver Jones was considered essentially cold and unemotional

by those who knew her casually, there was no doubt she prized her child

as her dearest possession and lavished all the tenderness and love of

which she was capable upon her.

Retrospectively, Doctor Anstruther considered this historical revue of

his fair patient as he sat facing her. It seemed a most unhappy fate

that she should be cut off in the flower of her womanhood, but her case

was positively hopeless, and she knew it and had accepted the harsh

verdict without a murmur. Bravery had always been Tony Seaver's prime

characteristic. To Doctor Anstruther it seemed that she might as well

know the truth which she had demanded from his lips.

"This disease is one that accelerates toward the end," he said. "Within

the past few days we have noted its more virulent tendency. All we can

do now is to keep you from suffering until--the end."

"And that will be--when?" she demanded.

"I think I can safely give you a week but----"

"Then I must act at once," she said, as he hesitated. "I must, first of

all, make provision for Alora's future, and in this I require your

help."

"You know you may depend upon me," he said simply.

"Please telegraph at once to my husband Jason Jones, in New York."

The request startled him, for never before had she mentioned her

husband's name in his presence. But he asked, calmly enough:

"What is his address?"

"Hand me that small memorandum-book," pointing to the stand beside him.

He obeyed, and as she turned the leaves slowly she said:

"Doctor Anstruther, you have been my good and faithful friend, and you

ought to know and to understand why I am now sending for my husband,

from whom I have been estranged for many years. When I first met Jason

Jones he was a true artist and I fell in love with his art rather than

with the man. I was ambitious that he should become a great painter,

world-famous. He was very poor until he married me, and he had worked

industriously to succeed, but as soon as I introduced him to a life of

comfort--I might even add, of luxury--his ambition to work gradually

deserted him. With his future provided for, as he thought, he failed to

understand the necessity of devoting himself to his brush and palette,

but preferred a life of ease--of laziness, if you will. So we

quarreled. I tried to force him back to his work, but it was no use; my

money had ruined his career. I therefore lost patience and decided to

abandon him, hoping that when he was again thrown upon his own

resources he would earnestly resume his profession and become a master,

as I believed him competent to be. We were not divorced: we merely

separated. Finding I had withdrawn his allowance he was glad to see me

go, for my unmerciful scoldings had killed any love he may have had for

me. But he loved Lory, and her loss was his hardest trial. I may have

been as much to blame as he for our lack of harmony, but I have always

acted on my impulses.

"I'll give Jason Jones the credit for not whimpering," she resumed

thoughtfully, after a brief pause, "nor has he ever since appealed to

me for money. I don't know how well he has succeeded, for we do not

correspond, but I have never heard his name mentioned in the art

circles I have frequented. He remained in New York, I believe, and so I

chose to keep away from New York. A year or two ago, however, I met a

man who had known Jason Jones and who gave me his address. Here it is:

1744 East Sixty-seventh street. Will you make a copy of it, Doctor?"

He nodded.

"What shall I say in the telegram?" he asked, writing the address in

his notebook.

"Tell him I am dying and seek a reconciliation before I pass away. Beg

him to come to me at once."

Dr. Anstruther jotted down the instructions underneath the address.

"You must understand," she continued, "that Jason Jones is an honorable

man and in many ways a high-minded gentleman. I have lived with him as

his wife and I know that he is well fitted to care for our child and to

rear her properly. I have left my entire fortune to Alora, but I have

made Jason my sole executor, and he is to have control, under certain

restrictions, of all the income until Alora is eighteen. I think he

will be glad to accept the responsibility, both on Alora's account and

for the money."

"Doubtless, if he has not been a success as an artist since your

separation," remarked the doctor, drily.

"The man I spoke of said Jason was living in quite modest

circumstances. He said that although he had succeeded in selling a few

paintings they had brought rather insignificant sums--which surprised

me, as I know they must have possessed a degree of merit. However, I

may be mistaken in thinking his talent exceptional. Anyhow, my

experiment in leaving him to his own devices seems not to have resulted

as I had hoped, and I now am willing he should handle Alora's income

and live comfortably while he is educating her. She will probably

provide for her father when she comes of age, but I have not included

such a request in my will and I have endeavored, in case he proves

inclined to neglect her, to require the court to appoint another

guardian. That is, of course, merely a precaution, for I know his

nature is gentle and kind, and he adores--or at least he used to adore

children."

The doctor sat, notebook in hand, musing. The matter-of-fact,

businesslike way in which she referred to her marital relations and her

assumed unconcern over her own dreadful fate impressed the good man as

extraordinary. But he was relieved to know that little Alora, of whom

he had grown quite fond, was to have the guardianship of a parent, and

glad that the character of Jason Jones was above reproach. The man's

failure to succeed as an artist, while it might have been a source of

chagrin to his art-loving wife, did not lower him to any extent in Dr.

Anstruther's opinion.

"I suppose Alora does not remember her father?" he presently remarked.

"She was about two years old when we separated."

"And you say your will is already drawn?"

"Judge Bernsted, my lawyer, has attended to it. It is now in his

possession, properly signed and witnessed."

"If Bernsted drew the will, it is doubtless legal and in accordance

with your wishes. But who witnessed it?"

"My nurse, Janet."

He glanced at the motionless figure of the attendant, who had remained

so inert at her post by the window that he had quite forgotten her

presence. She was a young woman, perhaps thirty years of age, and not

unprepossessing in appearance, in spite of her modest uniform.

Janet's one peculiarity was her downcast eyes. They were good eyes,

bright and intelligent, but she kept them veiled by their long lashes

and drooping lids. Dr. Anstruther attached no significance to this

trait, doubtless a habit of modest reserve acquired in her profession.

He had himself recommended the woman to Mrs. Jones, having frequently

employed her on other cases and found her deft, skillful and thoroughly

reliable. Janet Orme's signature to the will he regarded as

satisfactory, since Judge Bernsted had accepted it.

A moan from his patient suddenly aroused the doctor. Her face was

beginning to twitch spasmodically with pain. In an instant Janet was at

her side, hypodermic needle in hand, and the opiate was soon

administered.

"Send the telegram," muttered Mrs. Jones, still breathing hard; "and,

as you go out, Doctor, send Alora to me. I shall have relief in a few

moments."

"To be sure," he said, rising. "Lory has been begging to see you, and

I'll attend to the telegram at once."

CHAPTER II

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

The child crept softly to her mother's bedside, but once there she

impulsively threw her arms about "Mamma Tone's" neck and embraced her

so tightly that the sick woman was obliged to tear the little arms

away. She did this tenderly, though, and holding the trembling hands in

her own kissed both of Lory's cheeks before she said:

"I've news for you, dear."

"Are you better, mamma?" asked Lory.

"Of course not," was the calm reply. "You mustn't expect mamma ever to

get well, my darling. But that shouldn't worry you--not too much, you

know. One of the queer things about life is that it has an end, sooner

or later, and in mamma's case it comes to an end a little sooner than

you and I might wish it to."

"Oh, Mamma Tone!" An agonized cry, with the small hands clasped tightly

over her throbbing heart. But Tony Seaver did not flinch.

"The news I have will surprise you, Lory dear. Your father, who loved

you devotedly when you were a baby, but whom you have never known till

now, is coming here to see us."

Alora's eyes grew big with wonder, but other thoughts drove even this

strange news from her mind.

"I can't let you go, Mamma Tone," she wailed, sobbing; "I can't let you

die and leave me all alone!"

The woman's breast heaved. She was silent a moment and then said

quietly:

"Even kings and queens, sweetheart, have no command over life and

death. When it is too late to help it, we realize we have been born;

when it is too late to help it, we realize we must die. But why

complain, when it is the fate of all humanity? To be true to our

Creator, who directs all things, we must bow to His will without

protest. You will love your father, Lory, because he will love you; and

he is a good man, and kindly, so I believe he will make your life as

happy as I could have done."

"I don't want him; I want _you,_ Mamma--I want _you!"_

The mother sighed wearily and the alert nurse advanced and said to the

child in grave, cold tones:

"You must control yourself, Miss Alora, if you wish to remain."

The threat quieted the little girl at once.

"I'll be good, Mamma Tone," she whispered softly. "Talk to me, and tell

me what I must do."

So the dying woman talked to her, not of herself, but of Alora's

father, and of how she would like her child to conduct herself while

she grew in womanhood. She spoke of her will, and told Lory what it

meant to her and how she had safe-guarded her interests as well as she

was able. To this Lory listened intently and, although she still

trembled at times, she had Tony Seaver's blood in her veins and could

be brave in spite of the terrors that faced her. Dimly she realized

that her mother was suffering through the knowledge of their inevitable

parting, even as Alora was suffering, and felt she could comfort that

beloved mother more by controlling her grief bravely than by giving way

to it in her mother's presence.

Meantime, Dr. Anstruther had returned to his office and had written and

dispatched the following telegram:

"Jason Jones,

1744 East 67th St.,

New York City.

"Your wife is dying at the Hotel Voltaire and wishes reconciliation

before she passes away. Come quickly, as any delay may prove dangerous.

Notify me by wire when to expect you.

Edward Anstruther, M. D."

He left orders that the answer be delivered to him at his office or

residence, as soon as received, but the day and the night passed

without a word from Jason Jones. Dr. Anstruther telephoned the

telegraph office and was assured his message had been delivered to the

party in New York, as otherwise they would be notified to that effect.

Knowing Mrs. Jones' dangerous condition, the good doctor was worried,

but the following morning brought the delayed answer:

"If necessary for me to come, you must send money for expenses."

It was signed "Jason Jones" and its tone and its demand annoyed Dr.

Anstruther exceedingly.

"Confound the fellow!" he exclaimed. "Any decent man would have

borrowed the money, or even pawned his watch and jewelry, to get to a

dying wife who calls for him. Either Mrs. Jones is mistaken in her

husband's kindly character or--well, he may have changed since last she

knew him."

He did not hesitate, however, to go to the office and send money by

telegraph to Jason Jones, furnishing the required sum from his own

pocket rather than allow Antoinette to see her husband's telegram. He

even sent more than was necessary, muttering to himself: "The poor

devil may have some bills to settle before he can get away, and in any

event she must not be disappointed because her impecunious husband

lacks a few dollars. I fancy the poor artist will be amazed to find

himself suddenly raised from poverty to affluence, for little Lory's

income will be enormous and he will have seven years, at least, to

enjoy it unrestrained. I hope," he added thoughtfully, as he drove back

to his office, "that Mrs. Jones has made no error in her judgment of

this man, for it is considerable power to place in anyone's hands and

Alora is such a dear that I want her properly taken care of."

When he made his next visit to his patient he said in answer to her

questioning look:

"Mr. Jones will be here to-morrow, I think. He will notify me of his

arrival and I will be here to meet him. I believe it will be advisable

for me to see him first, you know, in order to--eh--eh--to post him a

bit," he added, meaningly.

"Yes," she replied, "I fear it will be something of a shock to Jason.

Even though we have practically been strangers for years, he is sure to

be grieved and sympathetic. But do not bore him with particulars,

Doctor. Send him to me as soon as you have prepared him for the

interview."

CHAPTER III

ALORA'S FATHER

A man slouched into the lofty foyer of the Hotel Voltaire and paused

uncertainly, as if awed by the splendor of the place. A boy in uniform

hastened to relieve him of his hand baggage, which consisted of a

"roll-me-up" or "carryall" of brown canvas, strapped around the middle,

such as one often sees in traveling on the Continent. It seemed a much

used and abused affair and painted upon the ends were the dimmed

initials: "J. J."

This man was plainly dressed. His clothing was of the cheap, ready-made

variety, worn nearly to shabbiness and matched by a gray flannel shirt

with a flowing black tie, knotted at the throat, and a soft gray hat

that was a bit weatherstained. His shoes were shabby and unshined. His

whole appearance was out of keeping with the palatial hotel he had

entered.

Without relinquishing his baggage to the boy he asked sharply:

"Is Dr. Anstruther here?"

But now Dr. Anstruther, who had been impatiently waiting, espied the

arrival and after a glance at the initials on the traveling-roll said

in hesitating tones:

"Mr. Jason Jones?"

"Yes. You must be the doctor who telegraphed me."

"I am Doctor Anstruther."

"All right. Where's my wife?"

There was no especial anxiety in his tones, which were slow and

distinct and a trifle sharp. He seemed ill at ease and looked around

the foyer again, as if fearing he had entered the wrong place.

"I will lead you to her presently," replied the physician gravely; "but

first, sir, I must acquaint you with her condition, which is serious. I

have engaged a room for you here and if you will please register we

will go there together and talk undisturbed."

"All right," said Jason Jones. He registered at the desk and then

turned and announced: "I'm ready. Go ahead."

Those present in the foyer cast curious glances at the stranger as he

passed them and followed Dr. Anstruther to the elevator. The boy

accompanied them, now carrying the roll of baggage. The grandeur of the

room they entered, which was convenient to the suite of Mrs. Jones,

seemed to astonish the artist, although it was as simply furnished as

any the great hotel contained. However, he made no remark but removed

his hat, seated himself, and looked inquiringly at the physician.

"Mrs. Jones," began Dr. Anstruther, "is really dying. I cannot say how

long she may survive, but it is a matter of days--perhaps hours. Her

greatest anxiety at present is to be reconciled with you, whom she has

not seen or even communicated with for years."

"Did she say that?"

"Yes."

"And she wants to be reconciled?"

"She does."

"Rather a queer notion, that," remarked Mr. Jones, musingly.

"Very natural, I think, under the circumstances," stiffly replied the

doctor. "She has every confidence in you and admires your character

exceedingly, although it was her desire that you live apart."

The man's stolid countenance relaxed in a grin--a somewhat scornful and

unbelieving expression--but he did not speak. He was not a very tall

man; he was thin of figure and hardened of muscle; his head was bald in

front, giving him the appearance of a high forehead, and the hair at

the back and around the ears was beginning to gray. His eyes were light

blue; his nose was shapely and his jaws prominent and tightly set in

repose. His age was about forty.

"Mrs. Jones," continued the doctor, "knows that you are due to arrive

at this time and is eagerly counting the minutes; not that you are so

dear to her," he asserted in retaliation for the sneer upon his

hearer's lips, "but because she has important business matters to

arrange with you before she passes away."

"Business matters?"

"So she has told me. I believe," he said, after a brief period of

hesitation, during which he considered how best to handle this peculiar

artist, "that I will allow you to see your wife at once, that you may

learn her plans from her own lips."

Indeed, he had already decided that Jason Jones must have changed

materially, and for the worse, since Antoinette Seaver had known him.

Perhaps, when she had talked with the man, she would revise her opinion

of him and make other disposition of her finances and the guardianship

of her child. In that case it would not be well for him to give her

husband any inkling of her present plans. Having reached this

conclusion, Dr. Anstruther rose abruptly and said: "Come with me,

please."

Jason Jones made no demur. Without remark he followed his conductor

into the hallway and to the entrance to the suite occupied by his wife.

The governess had been instructed to take Alora out for a ride; there

was no one in the little reception room. Here, however, the doctor

halted, and pointing to the door at the further end of the passage he

said:

"That is your wife's sick chamber. Please enter quietly and remember

the danger of exciting Mrs. Jones unduly. Be gentle, and--considerate."

Jason Jones nodded. A moment he regarded the door with curious

intentness, savoring of reluctance. Then he slowly advanced, opened it

and went in, closing the door softly behind him.

Dr. Anstruther seated himself in the reception room. The artist puzzled

him greatly, although he prided himself--through long professional

experience--on being able to read human nature with some accuracy. This

summons to his dying-wife ought to seem the most natural thing in the

world to Jason Jones, yet the man appeared dazed and even bewildered by

the event, and while he had once lived in luxurious surroundings his

later experiences must have been so wholly different that the splendor

of his wife's mode of living quite embarrassed him. Yes, the contrast

was sharp, it must be admitted; the man had formerly shared Tony

Seaver's immense wealth; he had enjoyed the handsomest studio in New

York; and then--back to poverty, to drudgery, to a struggle for mere

food and clothing! Years of hardship were likely to have had a decided

effect upon the character of a man who was doubtless weak in the

beginning; it would make him hard, and bitter, and----

A shrill scream startled him. It came from the sick chamber and was

echoed by another cry--hoarse and terrified--in a man's voice.

Dr. Anstruther sprang to his feet and hurried into the patient's

bedchamber.

"The woman's dead, Doctor," cried Jason Jones, standing in the middle

of the room. "She's dead!"

The physician hastened to the bedside, where Janet Orme, the nurse, was

bending over the still form. Pushing her away, Dr. Anstruther made a

hurried examination.

It was true; the woman was dead. At the very moment of reunion with the

husband from whom she had so long been parted, she had passed on to

another life, leaving reconciliation in abeyance.

Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones lay beneath her lace covered with features

contorted, mouth half open and eyes staring wildly. A paroxysm of pain

had carried her off, the good doctor well knew; the pain, and the

excitement of the moment. Very tenderly he bent down and closed the

eyes and pressed the lips together. He smoothed the lines from the

cheeks, so that the face became more natural in appearance. Then, with

a sigh--for he had become fond of this brave, beautiful patient--he

turned away to find Jason Jones and the nurse Janet confronting one

another in tense attitudes. The man stared wonderingly into the nurse's

face; Janet, her eyes now unveiled, returned the stare with an

expression that Dr. Anstruther could not fathom.

They seemed to feel the doctor's observation, for Janet turned her back

abruptly, while the man swung around and tiptoed hastily from the room.

Dr. Anstruther looked at the nurse reflectively.

"Who was it that screamed? Was it you, or Mrs. Jones?" he asked.

She hesitated a moment.

"It was I," she replied. "I saw her face and knew that--that the end

had come."

It was a lie, and the nurse knew that the shrewd doctor recognized it

as a lie. But he made no comment and with a last regretful look toward

the bed he followed Jason Jones out.

CHAPTER IV

ALORA'S NEW LIFE

Time sears all heart wounds. The scars remain, perhaps, but as the

clock ticks on the ache is stilled and the soreness finally passes

away.

At first Alora was heart-broken over her mother's loss. She lived in a

sort of stupor for weeks after the funeral. Her father's presence she

accepted without comment or emotion, for it had been arranged by "Mamma

Tone." She did not consider, in those first weeks, whether she cared

for her newly found father or not. Her mother's statement that he was a

"good man" and would love Alora dearly was taken by the child as a

matter of fact, while her mother's injunction to love him and confide

in him in her stead was for the present ignored.

Indeed, during those first weeks Lory had no fault to find with her new

protector, for she saw little of him. Jason Jones retained his room at

the hotel and allowed Alora and her governess to inhabit the handsome

suite her mother had occupied, although they were much too small for

the big apartments. However, Lory would have felt uncomfortable, just

then, in any other place. Her mother's chamber was closed and the

curtains drawn, but every night before she retired to her own little

room the child would steal in, in the dark, and feel her way to the

empty bed and kiss the pillow on which her dear mother's head had

rested. Miss Gorham, the governess, was aware of these evening

excursions, but offered no objection. Indeed, the woman objected to

nothing that did not interfere with her own personal comfort and

convenience. Under the eyes of Mrs. Jones she had been prim and

dutiful, but there was no one to chide her now, however neglectful she

chose to be, and it was true that during these days the little girl

required no particular care. Alora resumed her morning studies with

meekness a week after her mother had been laid away, and in the

afternoons she rode or walked with Miss Gorham or received the callers

who came to "console poor Antoinette Seaver Jones' child."

Despite her haughty reserve, Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones had

accumulated a wide circle of acquaintances--if not friends--who

sincerely mourned her untimely death and would have been glad to

befriend her little girl were such services needed. But it was known

that Alora's father had now appeared to guard her welfare and there was

"so much money in the Jones family" that no financial aid was required;

therefore, these acquaintances could only call to see Alora and profess

their friendship.

The child listened gravely to their stilted praises of her mother and

accepted their platitudes in good faith. It was indeed comforting to

hear so many nice things said of her loved one.

Her father was never present on these occasions. He was by no means a

sociable man. Sometimes he came in for a few minutes, in the morning,

and sat down and stared at the girl in a way half curious and half

speculative, and said little, and presently went away as quietly as he

had come.

The nurse, Janet Orme, left on the day that Mrs. Jones died, and Alora

had almost forgotten the young woman when one afternoon she came to see

her. Janet no longer wore her nurse's uniform but was dressed in

ultra-fashionable apparel and to the child's amusement affected the

manners of a lady. She talked more with Miss Gorham than with the little

girl and was keen to know what arrangements had been made for their

future. Miss Gorham admitted that she had no idea of Mr. Jones'

intentions. Of course they could not remain long in this elaborate

suite; a smaller one would be more satisfactory in every way; but Mr.

Jones had not as yet mentioned the subject.

A few days afterward, during one of their walks, Alora was surprised to

see her father and nurse Janet riding past in a hired automobile. The

two seemed engaged in earnest conversation and neither noticed Alora or

her governess. Miss Gorham snorted rather disdainfully but without

remark, and Lory was not especially interested in the matter.

Meantime, letters of administration had been issued to Jason Jones and

the control of his wife's--now Alora's--property legally placed in his

hands. Judge Bernsted attended to all the necessary details and, while

he did not admire the artist and secretly believed he was unfitted for

the task of handling so much money, he loyally insisted that the dead

woman's wishes be obeyed to the letter.

Dr. Anstruther had called on the attorney and had ventured to state his

misgivings concerning Jason Jones, pleading that Alora was likely to

suffer through the man's indifference and lack of culture, but Judge

Bernsted declared it was not his duty to criticise character but to see

that the wishes of his clients were obeyed. In this case doubtless the

man's wife knew him more intimately than anyone else and if she trusted

him, aware as she must be of his faults and virtues, it would be

presumptuous for anyone to try to break her will or otherwise interfere

with her carefully planned arrangements.

But Jason Jones was improving, in a way. He had bought new clothes and

a supply of linen, and although he did not wear them with the ease of

one accustomed to modish dress they certainly improved his appearance.

He was quiet and unassuming; he made no friends and few acquaintances;

he never mentioned himself or his personal history and never referred

to his wife except when forced to do so by some of "her meddling

friends"--well meaning people who sought his acquaintance to condole

with him or perhaps to attempt to "cultivate" him for Antoinette Seaver

Jones' sake. But these found him so unresponsive that they soon left

him alone.

The legal business, even though it progressed smoothly, required time

for consummation, so it was somewhat more than three months before all

the details were complete. Alora, a sad-faced child with no especial

interest in life, kept no track of time and plodded along in her

morning-studies and took her afternoon drives or walks in a perfunctory

manner that rendered Miss Gorham's duties light indeed. But all this

ended suddenly, and Jason Jones ended it.

He came to the rooms one morning and said to the governess in his

abrupt way: "Pack up."

"What do you mean, sir?" was the startled query.

"Just what I say. Get the child's things and your own ready to move out

of this place by Saturday. Also pack the personal belongings of Mrs.

Jones. Put them in separate trunks and boxes, so I can have them

stored. Do you understand me?"

"I--I shall need assistance," gasped the bewildered Miss Gorham.

"Then get a maid--or a porter--or both--to help you."

Alora was present and listened with awakening interest. A change of any

sort would be pleasant, she reflected.

"Where are we going?" she asked, as her father turned away.

It was the one question Miss Gorham wanted to ask, too, but Mr. Jones

left the room without reply.

Three days was little enough time to gather up and pack the

accumulation of years. The governess knew there were many big trunks in

the storeroom of the hotel belonging to Mrs. Jones, and these she

ordered brought up to the rooms. Then she procured two maids, told them

what and how to pack, and composedly resumed her reading.

"I am no menial," she told Alora, with a lofty air of superiority;

"these persons will do their work properly, I'm sure."

On Saturday morning Mr. Jones appeared again.

"Is everything ready?" he demanded.

"Ask Susan and Jane," replied Miss Gorham.

Susan and Jane declared everything was packed, even to the suit cases

and traveling satchels.

"But where are we going?" inquired the governess.

"You are going wherever you please," said Jason Jones. "I do not

require your services longer."

"You're going to discharge me?" she said, startled.

"You are already discharged."

"But who will look after poor Lory? Who will attend to her education,

and to--to--her comforts?"

"I will. Here is your money. I have paid you a week in advance, in lieu

of notice."

"A week? Pooh! I'm hired by the year," asserted the woman defiantly.

"Have you a written contract?"

"No; a verbal contract is just as good."

"It won't hold in law. Take your traps and go--at once."

The governess looked at him. He was absolutely calm and determined.

Instinctively she knew that any protest would be unavailing.

Alora regarded the dismissal of her governess with as much unconcern as

her father displayed. Miss Gorham had been her companion for years, but

had never won the smallest corner of the girl's heart. Although she was

not aware of the fact, the woman's constant presence and lack of

interest in her had become oppressive. The child's first sensation, on

realizing their future separation, was one of distinct relief.

When Miss Gorham had gone, seeming to begrudge the terse "good-bye" she

gave her pupil, the girl's father quietly said: "Come, Alora," and

walked away.

She followed him to a waiting taxicab, in which had been heaped her

hand luggage and his own, and they drove away from the grand hotel

where she had lived in luxury for so long, and where so many indelible

memories had been impressed upon her childish mind, with as little ado

as if they had been transient guests.

When the cab drew up at a railway station, Alora asked:

"Are we leaving town, then, father?"

"Yes," he replied; "I am returning to New York."

She felt a slight sinking of the heart, just then, but it was followed

by a sense of elation. The old life, in which her adored mother had

played so prominent a part, was being abandoned forever, and this

troubled her, she knew not why.

But since Mamma Tone had gone away the old life had lost its charm and

become dull and stupid. Lory was not sure she could be happier

elsewhere, but her crushed and dispirited nature responded to the

suggestion of change. It was interesting to have something different to

look forward to.

The man beside her was no more congenial than Gorham had been, but he

was her father; he was the guardian selected by her dead mother, and in

obeying his wishes she might find her future life more grateful than

had been the dreadful dreary months since Mamma Tone had left her.

Somehow, Jason Jones seemed uneasy in the presence of his daughter.

During the journey to New York he rode most of the time in the smoking

compartment, only appearing to take Alora to the diner for her meals.

The child was equally uncomfortable in her father's society and was

well pleased to be left so much alone.

So, with very little questioning or conversation on either side, father

and daughter came to their destination and Alora found herself

deposited in a small suite of rooms on the third floor of a grimy and

dingy house in East Sixty-seventh Street--one of a long row of similar

houses that were neither residences nor business establishments, but

hovered between the two. There were several little tin signs nailed

beside the entrance and Lory noticed that one of these read: "Jason

Jones. Studio. 3rd Floor." It was an old sign, scarcely legible, while

others beside it seemed bright and new, and when the girl had climbed

laboriously up the three flights and the artist had unlocked the door

at the head of the stairs, with a key which he took from his pocket,

she found everything about the rooms she entered as old and faded as

the sign on the door.

CHAPTER V

IN THE STUDIO

The fact that it was beginning to grow dark prevented Alora from

observing all the tawdriness of her new home and what she saw inspired

her more with curiosity than dismay. The little girl had been reared

from babyhood in an atmosphere of luxury; through environment she had

become an aristocrat from the top of her head to the tips of her toes;

this introduction to shabbiness was unique, nor could she yet

understand that such surroundings were familiar to many who battle for

existence in a big city. The very fact that her father's humble flat

was "different" made it far more interesting to the child than new

apartments such as she had been accustomed to. Therefore she had no

thought, at this time, of protest. Her own little room contained a

small iron bed, one straight chair with a wooden bottom and a

broken-legged dresser over which hung a cracked mirror. The small rag

rug was worn threadbare.

While she stood in the doorway of this room, solemnly regarding it, her

father said over her shoulder:

"You won't need both those big trunks here, I'm sure. I'll store them

somewhere in the studio. Covered with drapes, they won't be noticed. I

can't imagine what that woman packed them with."

"My dresses," replied Alora. "Even then, I left a lot at the Voltaire,

for the maids to sell or give away. Mamma used to send them to the

Salvation Army."

"Two trunks of dresses ought to last for a good many years," he

remarked in a reflective tone.

"Oh, no indeed," said Lory. "Miss Gorham was about to engage a

dressmaker for me when--when--you said we'd go away. I'm growing fast,

you know, and I was to have a dozen or fifteen summer frocks made, and

a lot of lingerie."

"Then we moved just in time to save that expense," he declared, setting

his stern jaws together. "There's been a terrible waste of money

through that woman Gorham. We're well rid of her."

He turned away to the studio and the child followed him there. He

turned on the electric lights, which were not very bright, and Alora

took a look at the workroom and thought it seemed more comfortable than

the other rooms of the flat.

Her father began dusting and arranging half a dozen paintings of

various sizes, mounted on stretchers. None was finished; some were

scarcely begun. Lory tried to see what they represented. Perhaps she

had inherited from her mother a bit of artistic instinct; if so, it was

that which prompted her to shrug her small shoulders slightly and then

turn away to the window.

In the dimly lighted street outside a man drove up with the baggage.

Mr. Jones had purchased for himself in Chicago a new trunk--a small and

inexpensive one--and there were two big trunks and a suitcase belonging

to Alora. After these had been carried up and placed in the studio--the

only room that would hold them--her father said:

"We will go out now and get some dinner. You won't need your coat, for

the restaurant is just around the corner."

Alora marveled at the restaurant even more than at the studio

furnishings. It looked a hundred years old and the atmosphere still

retained the fumes of much ancient cookery. The linen was coarse, the

plating worn from the forks and spoons through constant use, the dishes

thick and clumsy and well nicked. Alora was hungry and she ate what her

father ordered for her, although she decided it did not taste very

nice.

When they sat down a man from behind the counter approached them and

bending low said in a quiet tone:

"You know, Jones, it's to be a cash deal from now on."

"Of course," replied Alora's father, with a slight frown. "Also I'll

pay you the old account, if you'll make out the bill."

The man smiled, patted Alora's head--a liberty she indignantly

resented--and went back to his desk.

During the meal and, indeed, ever since their arrival in New York,

Jason Jones cast frequent puzzled glances into the face of his little

daughter, who until now had accepted her changed conditions with

evident indifference. But as they ate together in silence her small

features grew grave and thoughtful and her father shrank from meeting

the inquiring glances of her big eyes. Yet even now she made no

complaint. Neither did she ask questions. Her look was expectant,

however, and that was what embarrassed him.

After the dinner they went back to the dingy studio, where the man

lighted a pipe and sat opposite his small daughter, puffing uneasily.

They were both reserved; there was an indefinable barrier between them

which each was beginning to recognize. Presently Alora asked to go to

bed and he sent her to her room with a nod of relief.

Next morning they had breakfast at the same stuffy little restaurant

and afterward Alora unpacked some things from her trunks and put them

in the drawers of the broken-legged dresser. It seemed odd to have no

maid to wait upon her, but she was glad to have something to do. As she

passed to and from the studio she noticed that her father had resumed

work on a picture that represented two cows eating a broken pumpkin

that lay in a cornfield. He worked slowly and never seemed satisfied

with what he did, as if lacking confidence in his ability. Lory decided

he couldn't be blamed for that.

The child plodded drearily along in her new life for a full week. Then

she began to grow restless, for the place was hateful and repulsive to

her. But now an incident occurred that gave her new cause for wonder.

One day the door opened and a woman walked into the studio. It was

Janet Orme, her mother's former nurse, but what a new and astonishing

Janet it was! Her silken gown was very "fashionable," somewhat too

modish for good taste, for it was elaborately trimmed and embroidered.

She wore considerable jewelry, including diamonds; her shoes were

elegant and her hose daintily clocked; her hat must have been a French

milliner's choicest creation. If good clothes could make Janet Orme a

lady, there was no question of her social standing, yet even little

Alora felt that Janet was out of her element--that she fell short, in

some vague way, of being what she was ambitious to appear.

"So," said the nurse, glancing around the room with frank disdain,

"this is where you hang out, Jason, is it?"

Alora's father confronted the woman with a menacing frown.

"What do you mean by coming here?" he demanded.

"I had two reasons," she answered carelessly, seating herself in the

only easy chair the room contained. "In the first place, I wanted to

see how a rich man lives."

"Well, you see, don't you?" a muttering growl.

"I certainly do, and I realize you are quite comfortable and ought to

be happy here, Jason--you and the millionaire heiress, your daughter

Alora."

As she spoke she turned to glance sharply at the child, who met her

look with disconcerting gravity. Alora's eyes expressed wonder, tinged

with a haughty tolerance of an inferior that struck home to Janet and

made her flush angrily.

"Your sneers," said Jason Jones, still frowning but now speaking with

composure, "must indicate that you have graduated from servitude. I

cannot admit that my mode of living is any of your business, Janet. In

these retired but respectable rooms I have worked and been contented

for years, until----"

"Until you came into your money and found you didn't have to worry over

your next meal," she interjected. "Well, that ought to make you still

more content. And that reminds me of the second object of my visit. I

want some money."

"So soon?"

"Don't try to crawfish; it was agreed you should give me a check

whenever I asked for it. I want it now, and for the full amount--every

single penny of it!"

He stared at her fixedly, seeming fearful and uncertain how to answer.

"I cannot spare it all today."

"Humbug!" she snapped. "You can and will spare it. I must have the

money, or----"

Her significant pause caused him to wriggle in his seat.

"You're a miserly coward," she declared. "I'm not robbing you; you will

have an abundance for your needs. Why do you quarrel with Dame Fortune?

Don't you realize you can pay your rent now and eat three square meals

a day, and not have to work and slave for them? You can smoke a good

cigar after your dinner, instead of that eternal pipe, and go to a

picture show whenever the mood strikes you. Why, man, you're

independent for the first time in your life, and the finances are as

sure as shooting for a good seven years to come."

He glanced uneasily at Alora.

"Owing to my dead wife's generosity," he muttered.

Janet laughed.

"Of course," said she; "and, if you play your cards skillfuly, when

Alora comes of age she will provide for you an income for the rest of

your life. You're in luck. And why? Just because you are Jason Jones

and long ago married Antoinette Seaver and her millions and are now

reaping your reward! So, for decency's sake, don't grumble about

writing me that check."

All this was frankly said in the presence of Alora Jones, the heiress,

of whose person and fortune, her father, Jason Jones, was now sole

guardian. It was not strange that the man seemed annoyed and ill at

ease. His scowl grew darker and his eyes glinted in an ugly way as he

replied, after a brief pause:

"You seem to have forgotten Alora's requirements and my duty to her."

"Pooh, a child! But we've allowed liberally for her keep, I'm sure. She

can't keep servants and three dressmakers, it's true, but a simple life

is best for her. She'll grow up a more sensible and competent woman by

waiting on herself and living; as most girls do. At her age I didn't

have shoes or stockings. Alora has been spoiled, and a bit of worldly

experience will do her good."

"She's going to be very rich, when she comes into her fortune," said

Alora's father, "and then----"

"And then she can do as she likes with her money. Just now her income

is too big for her needs, and the best thing you can do for her is to

teach her economy--a virtue you seem to possess, whether by nature or

training, in a high degree. But I didn't come here to argue. Give me

that check."

He walked over to his little desk, sat down and drew a check book from

his pocket.

Alora, although she had listened intently to the astonishing

conversation, did not quite comprehend what it meant. Janet's harsh

statement bewildered her as much as did her father's subject

subservience to the woman. All she realized was that Janet Orme, her

dead mother's nurse, wanted money--Alora's money--and her father was

reluctant to give it to her but dared not refuse. Money was an abstract

quantity to the eleven year old child; she had never handled it

personally and knew nothing of its value. If her father owed Janet some

of her money, perhaps it was for wages, or services rendered her

mother, and Alora was annoyed that he haggled about it, even though the

woman evidently demanded more than was just. There was plenty of money,

she believed, and it was undignified to argue with a servant.

Jason Jones wrote the check and, rising, handed it to Janet.

"There," said he, "that squares our account. It is what I agreed to

give you, but I did not think you would demand it so soon. To pay it

just now leaves me in an embarrassing position."

"I don't believe it," she rejoined. "You're cutting coupons every month

or so, and you may thank your stars I don't demand a statement of your

income. But I know you, Jason Jones, and you can't hoodwink me, try as

you may. You hid yourself in this hole and thought I wouldn't know

where to find you, but you'll soon learn that you can't escape my eagle

eye. So take your medicine like a man, and thank your lucky stars that

you're no longer a struggling, starving, unrecognized artist. Good-bye

until I call again."

"You're not to call again!" he objected.

"Well, we'll see. Just for the present I'm in no mood to quarrel with

you, and you'd better not quarrel with _me,_ Jason Jones. Good-bye."

She tucked the check into her purse and ambled out of the room after a

supercilious nod to Alora, who failed to return the salutation. Jason

Jones stood in his place, still frowning, until Janet's high-heeled

shoes had clattered down the two flights of stairs. Alora went to the

window and looking down saw that a handsome automobile stood before the

house, with a chauffeur and footman in livery. Janet entered this

automobile and was driven away.

Alora turned to look at her father. He was filing his pipe and scowling

more darkly than ever.

CHAPTER VI

FLITTING

Once more they moved suddenly, and the second flitting came about in

this way:

Alora stood beside the easel one morning, watching her father work on

his picture. Not that she was especially interested in him or the

picture, but there was nothing else for her to do. She stood with her

slim legs apart, her hands clasped behind her, staring rather vacantly,

when he looked up and noted her presence.

"Well, what do you think of it?" he asked rather sharply.

"Of the picture?" said Lory.

"Of course."

"I don't like it," she asserted, with childish frankness.

"Eh? You don't like it? Why not, girl?"

"Well," she replied, her eyes narrowing critically, "that cow's horn

isn't on straight--the red cow's left horn. And it's the same size, all

the way up."

He laid down his palette and brush and gazed at his picture for a long

time. The scowl came on his face again. Usually his face was stolid and

expressionless, but Alora had begun to observe that whenever anything

irritated or disturbed him he scowled, and the measure of the scowl

indicated to what extent he was annoyed. When he scowled at his own

unfinished picture Lory decided he was honest enough to agree with her

criticism of it.

Finally the artist took a claspknife from his pocket, opened the blade

and deliberately slashed the picture from top to bottom, this way and

that, until it was a mere mass of shreds. Then he kicked the stretcher

into a corner and brought out another picture, which he placed on the

easel.

"Well, how about that?" he asked, looking hard at it himself.

Alora was somewhat frightened at having caused the destruction of the

cow picture. So she hesitated before replying: "I--I'd rather not say."

"How funny!" he said musingly, "but until now I never realized how

stiff and unreal the daub is. Shall I finish it, Alora?"

"I think so, sir," she answered.

Again the knife slashed through the canvas and the remains joined the

scrap-heap in the corner.

Jason Jones was not scowling any more. Instead, there was a hint of a

humorous expression on his usually dull features. Only pausing to light

his pipe, he brought out one after another of his canvases and after a

critical look destroyed each and every one.

Lory was perplexed at the mad act, for although her judgment told her

they were not worth keeping, she realized that her father must have

passed many laborious hours on them. But now that it had dawned on him

how utterly inartistic his work was, in humiliation and disgust he had

wiped it out of existence. With this thought in mind, the girl was

honestly sorry him.

But Jason Jones did not seem sorry. When the last ruined canvas had

been contemptuously flung into the corner he turned to the child and

said to her in a voice so cheerful that it positively startled her:

"Get your hat and let's take a walk. An artist's studio is no place for

us, Lory. Doesn't it seem deadly dull in here? And outside the sun is

shining!"

The rest of the day he behaved much like a human being. He took the

girl to the park to see the zoo, and bought her popcorn and peanuts--a

wild extravagance, for him. Later in the day they went to a picture

show and finally entered a down-town restaurant, quite different from

and altogether better than the one where they had always before eaten,

and enjoyed a really good dinner. When they left the restaurant he was

still in the restless and reckless mood that had dominated him and

said:

"Suppose we go to a theatre? Won't you like that better than you would

returning to our poky rooms?"

"Yes, indeed," responded Alora.

They had seats in the gallery, but could see very well. Just before the

curtain rose Alora noticed a party being seated in one of the boxes.

The lady nearest the rail, dressed in an elaborate evening gown, was

Janet Orme. There was another lady with her, conspicuous for blonde

hair and much jewelry, and the two gentlemen who accompanied them kept

in the background, as if not too proud of their company.

Alora glanced at her father's face and saw the scowl there, for he,

too, had noted the box-party. But neither of the two made any remark

and soon the child was fully absorbed in the play.

As they left the theatre Janet's party was entering an automobile,

laughing and chatting gaily. Both father and daughter silently watched

them depart, and then they took a street car and went home.

"Get to bed, girl," said Jason Jones, when they had mounted the stairs.

"I'll smoke another pipe, I guess."

When she came out of her room next morning she heard her father

stirring in the studio. She went to him and was surprised to find him

packing his trunk, which he had drawn into the middle of the room.

"Now that you're up," said he in quite a cheerful tone, "we'll go to

breakfast, and then I'll help you pack your own duds. Only one trunk,

though, girl, for the other must go into storage and you may see it

again, some time, and you may not."

"Are we going away?" she inquired, hoping it might be true.

"We are. We're going a long way, my girl. Do you care?"

"Of course," said she, amazed at the question, for he had never

considered her in the least. "I'm glad. I don't like your studio."

He laughed, and the laugh shocked her. She could not remember ever to

have heard Jason Jones laugh before.

"I don't like the place, either, girl, and that's why I'm leaving it.

For good, this time. I was a fool to return here. In trying to

economise, I proved extravagant."

Alora did not reply to that. She was eager to begin packing and hurried

through her breakfast. All the things she might need on a journey she

put into one trunk. She was not quite sure what she ought to take, and

her father was still more ignorant concerning a little girl's wardrobe,

but finally both trunks were packed and locked and then Mr. Jones

called a wagon and carted away the extra trunk of Alora's and several

boxes of his own to be deposited in a storage warehouse.

She sat in the bare studio and waited for his return. The monotony of

the past weeks, which had grown oppressive, was about to end and for

this she was very grateful. For from a life of luxury the child had

been dumped into a gloomy studio in the heart of a big, bustling city

that was all unknown to her and where she had not a single friend or

acquaintance. Her only companion had been a strange man who happened to

be her father but displayed no affection for her, no spark of interest

in her happiness or even comforts. For the first time in her life she

lacked a maid to dress her and keep her clothes in order; there was no

one to attend to her education, no one to amuse her, no one with whom

to counsel in any difficulty. She had been somewhat afraid of her

peculiar father and her natural reserve, derived from her mother, had

deepened in his society. Yesterday and this morning he had seemed more

human, more companionable, yet Alora felt that it was due to a selfish

elation and recognized a gulf between them that might never be bridged.

Her father differed utterly from her mother in breeding, in

intelligence, in sympathy. He was not of the same world; even the child

could realize that. And yet, he was her father--all she had left to

depend upon, to cling to. She wondered if he really possessed the good

qualities her mother had attributed to him. If so, when she knew him

better, she might learn to like him.

He was gone a long time, it seemed, but as soon as he returned the

remaining baggage was loaded on the wagon and sent away and then they

left the flat and boarded a street car for down town. On lower Broadway

Mr. Jones entered a bank and seemed to transact considerable business.

Lory saw him receive several papers and a lot of money. Then they went

to a steamship office near by, where her father purchased tickets.

Afterward they had lunch, and Jason Jones was still in high spirits and

seemed more eager and excited than Alora had ever before known him.

"We're going across the big water--to Europe," he told her at luncheon,

"so if there is anything you positively need for the trip, tell me what

it is and I'll buy it. No frivolities, though," qualifying his

generosity, "but just stern necessities. And you must think quick, for

our boat leaves at four o'clock and we've no time to waste."

But Alora shook her head. Once she had been taken by her mother to

London, Paris and Rome, but all her wants had been attended to and it

was so long ago--four or five years--that that voyage was now but a dim

remembrance.

No one noticed them when they went aboard. There was no one to see them

off or to wish them "bon voyage." It saddened the child to hear the

fervent good-byes of others, for it emphasized her own loneliness.

Yes, quite friendless was little Alora. She was going to a foreign land

with no companion but a strange and uncongenial man whom fate had

imposed upon her in the guise of a parent. As they steamed out to sea

and Alora sat on deck and watched the receding shores of America, she

turned to her father with the first question she had ventured to ask:

"Where are we going? To London?"

"Not now," he replied. "This ship is bound for the port of Naples. I

didn't pick Naples, you know, but took the first ship sailing to-day.

Having made up my mind to travel, I couldn't wait," he added, with a

chuckle of glee. "You're not particular as to where we go, are you?"

"No," said Alora.

"That's lucky," he rejoined, "for it wouldn't have made any difference,

anyhow."

CHAPTER VII

MARY LOUISE INTRUDES

It was four years later when on a sunny afternoon in April a carriage

broke down on the Amalfi Road, between Positano and Sorrento, in Italy.

A wheel crumpled up and the driver stopped his horses and explained to

his passengers in a jumble of mixed Italian and English that he could

go no farther. The passengers, an old gentleman of distinguished

appearance and a young girl as fresh and lovely as a breath of spring,

clambered out of the rickety vehicle and after examining the wheel

admitted that their driver spoke truly. On one side the road was a

steep descent to the sea; opposite, the hillside was masked by a

trellis thick with grapevines. The road curved around the mountain, so

there was no other vista.

"Here's a nice fix, Gran'pa Jim!" exclaimed the girl, with an amused

laugh. "Where are we and what's going to become of us?"

"That is somewhat of a complicated problem, Mary Louise, and I can't

guess it offhand, without due reflection," replied "Gran'pa Jim," whom

others called Colonel Hathaway. "I imagine, however, that we are about

three miles from Positano and five or six from Sorrento, and it's a

stiff walk, for old legs or young, in either direction. Besides,

there's our luggage, which I am loth to abandon and disinclined to

carry."

The driver interposed.

"Give-a me the moment, Signore--perhaps the hour--an' I return to

Positano for more carriage-wheel--some other. My Cousin L'uigi, he

leeve in Positano, an' L'uigi have a-many carriage-wheel in he's shed.

I sure, Signore, I getta the wheel."

"That is a sensible idea," said the old gentleman. "Make haste, my man,

and we will wait here."

The driver unhitched his horses from the vehicle and after strapping a

blanket on one of them for a saddle mounted it and departed.

"I take-a the two horse," he explained, "for one to ride-a me, an' one

for to ride-a the wheel."

They watched him amble away down the road and Mary Louise shook her

head and remarked:

"He will never make it in an hour, at that rate, Gran'pa Jim, and in

two hours the sun will have set and it will be dinner time. Already I

feel the pangs of hunger."

"Those who travel in Italy," said her grandfather, "should be prepared

to accept any happening in a spirit of resignation. A moment ago we

were jogging merrily along toward a good hotel and a savory dinner, but

now----"

"This entire carriage seems ready to fall apart," declared the girl,

standing in the road and viewing the ancient vehicle critically; "so

it's a wonder something didn't break sooner. Now, if we could get to

the other side of that trellis, Gran'pa Jim, we might find a shady spot

to rest while our charioteer is searching for a new wheel."

"There must be a gate, somewhere about," he answered, eyeing the

vine-clad barrier. "Come, Mary Louise, let us investigate."

A hundred yards down the road they came to some rude stone steps and a

wicket. The old gentleman lifted the wooden latch and found the gate

unlocked. Followed by Mary Louise, he entered the vineyard and

discovered a narrow, well-beaten path leading up the hillside.

"Perhaps there is a house near by," said the girl. "Shall we go on,

Gran'pa Jim?"

"Why not, my dear? These Italians are hospitable folk and we may get a

cake and a cup of goat's milk to stay our appetite."

So they climbed the hill, following the little path, and presently came

upon a laborer who was very deliberately but methodically cultivating

the vines with a V-shaped hoe. Seeing the strangers the man

straightened up and, leaning upon his hoe, eyed them with evident

suspicion.

"Good afternoon," said the old gentleman in Italian--one of the few

phrases in the language he had mastered.

"Oh, I speak the English, Signore," replied the man, doffing his hat.

"I am Silvio Allegheri, you must know, and I live in America some

time."

"Why, this is like meeting an old friend!" exclaimed Mary Louise,

winning the fellow instantly with her smile. "But why did you leave

America, Silvio?"

"Because I have make my fortune there," was the solemn reply. "It is

easy to make the fortune in America, Signorina. I am chef in the

restaurant in Sandusky--you know Sandusky?--most excellent! In a few

years I save much money, then I return here an' purchase an estate. My

estate is three miles across the hill, yonder, and there is a road to

it which is not much used. However, it is a fine estate, an' I am rent

it to my cousin for five hundred lira a year. Such good business habit

I learn in America."

"Why don't you live on your estate yourself?" inquired the girl.

"It is not yet the time," answered the man, with a shake of his head.

"I am but fifty-two years alive, and while I am still so young I shall

work for others, and save the money my estate brings me. When I get old

and can no longer work for the others, then I will go to my estate an'

be happy."

"Very sensible," commented the old gentleman. "And whom do you work for

now?"

"The student Americano, Signore; the one who has rented this valuable

estate. I am the Signore Student's valet, his gardener, and at times

his chef. I grease his automobile, which is a very small chug-chug, but

respectable, and I clean his shoes--when I can catch him with them off.

I am valuable to him and for three years he has paid me fair wages."

"Is this a big estate?" asked Mary Louise.

"Enormous, Signorina. It comprises three acres!"

"And where is the house?"

"Just over the hill, yonder, Signore.

"Does the student Americano live here all alone?"

"With his daughter, who is the Signorina Alora."

"Oh; there is a daughter, then? And you say they are Americans?"

"Surely, Signorina. Who else would pay the great price for this estate

for three years? The land pays nothing back--a few oranges; some

grapes, when they are cared for; a handful of almonds and olives. And

there is a servant besides myself, my niece Leona, who is housemaid and

assists the young lady."

"This sounds promising," said Mary Louise, turning to her grandfather.

"Suppose we go up to the house? Are the people at home, Silvio?--the

Signore Student and his daughter?"

The man reflected, leaning on his hoe.

"I think they are both at the mansion, Signorina, although the student

Americano may not yet have returned from Sorrento. The road to the

mansion is beyond the hill, on the other side of the estate, so I am

not sure the Signore Student has returned. But you will find the

Signorina Alora there, if you decide to venture on. But perhaps you are

the friends of my employer and his daughter?"

"What is his name?" asked Colonel Hathaway.

"It is Jones. The American saying is Mister Jason Jones, but here he is

only called the Signore Student Americano."

"Why?" asked Mary Louise.

"Because his occupation is reading. He does nothing else. Always there

is a book in his hand and always he is thinking of the things he reads.

He does not often speak, even to his daughter; he does not have friends

who visit him. If you should call at the mansion, then you will be the

first people who have done so for three years."

There was something in this report--in the manner of the man as well as

his words--that caused the strangers to hesitate. The description of

"the Student" led them to suspect he was a recluse who might not

welcome them cordially, but Mary Louise reflected that there was a

daughter and decided that any American girl shut up on this three-acre

"estate" for three years would be glad to meet another American girl.

So she said abruptly:

"Come on, Gran'pa Jim. Let's call. It is possible that Americans will

have something better in the larder than cakes and goat's milk."

The hilltop was reached sooner than they expected, and in a little vale

was the old mansion--a really attractive vine-clad villa that might

have stood a century or so. It was not very big, but there were

numerous outbuildings which rendered the size of the house proper

unimportant. As Mary Louise and her grandfather drew nearer they

discovered a charming flower garden, carefully tended, and were not

surprised to find a young girl bending over a rosebush.

CHAPTER VIII

MARY LOUISE MEETS ALORA

The two stood motionless a moment, looking at the girl, and Mary Louise

marked the graceful figure and attractive features with real delight.

The Signorina Alora, as the man had called her, was nearly her own

age--fifteen, Mary Louise judged her to be--and her golden hair and fair

complexion proclaimed her an American. But now the girl's quick ears

had detected presence, and she looked up with a startled expression,

half fearful and half shy, and turned as if to fly. But in the next

moment she had collected herself and advanced with hesitating steps to

meet them.

"Pardon our intrusion," said Colonel Hathaway, raising his hat. "Our

carriage broke down on the Amalfi road, a little while ago, and our

driver has gone to Positano for a new wheel. Meantime we were exploring

our surroundings and stumbled upon the path leading to this spot.

Forgive the trespass, if you will, and allow me to present my

granddaughter, Mary Louise Burrows. I am Colonel James Hathaway, of New

York, although we usually reside at a little town called Dorfield."

The girl's bow was stiff and awkward. She blushed in an embarrassed way

as she replied:

"I am Alora Jones, sir, and am living here for a time with my father,

Jason Jones. We, also, are Americans; at least, we used to be."

"Then doubtless you are yet," responded the Colonel, with a smile. "May

we pay our respects to your father?"

"He--he is not home yet," she answered more embarrassed than before.

"He went to Sorrento for some books, this morning, and has not yet

returned. But perhaps he will be back soon," she added, seeming to

ponder the matter. "Will you not come in and--and have some

refreshment? In my father's absence I--I am glad to--welcome you."

She glanced shyly at Mary Louise, as if to implore her to forgive any

seeming lack of hospitality and accept her coldly worded invitation. No

one could look at Mary Louise without gaining confidence and the

friendly smile and warm handclasp made Alora feel instantly that here

was a girl who would prove congenial under any circumstances. Really,

it would not take them long to become friends, and poor Alora had no

girl friends whatever.

She led them into a cool and comfortable living room and called to

Leona to fetch tea and biscuits.

"We are entirely shut in, here," she explained. "It seems to me worse

than a convent, for there I would see other girls while here I see no

one but the servants--and my father," as an afterthought, "year in and

year out."

"It's a pretty place," declared Mary Louise cheerfully.

"But it's an awfully dreary place, too, and sometimes I feel that I'd

like to run away--if I knew where to go," said Alora frankly.

"You have lived here three years?" asked Colonel Hathaway.

"Yes. We left New York more than four years ago and traveled a year in

different places, always stopping at the little towns, where there is

not much to interest one. Then my father found this place and rented

it, and here we've stayed--I can't say 'lived'--ever since. I get along

pretty well in the daytime, with my flowers and the chickens to tend,

but the evenings are horribly lonely. Sometimes I feel that I shall go

mad."

Mary Louise marked her wild look and excited manner and her heart went

out in sympathy to the lonely girl. Colonel Hathaway, too, intuitively

recognized Alora's plaint as a human cry for help, and did not need to

guess the explanation. The man in the vineyard had called her father

"the Student" and said he was a reserved man and never was seen without

a book in his hand. This would mean that he was not companionable and

Alora's protest plainly indicated that her father devoted small time,

if any, to the cultivation of his daughter's society.

"I suppose," remarked the old gentleman, "that Mr. Jones is so immersed

in his studies that he forgets his daughter lacks society am

amusement."

Mary Louise caught the slight, scornful smile that for a moment curled

Alora's lips. But the girl replied very seriously:

"My father dislikes society. I believe he would be quite content to

live in this little cooped-up place forever and see no one but the

servants, to whom he seldom speaks. Also, he ignores me, and I am glad

he does. But before my mother died," her voice breaking a little, "I

was greatly loved and petted, and I can't get used to the change. I

ought not to say this to strangers, I know, but I am very lonely and

unhappy, because--because my father is so different from what my mother

was."

Mary Louise was holding her trembling hand now and stroking it

sympathetically.

"Tell us about your mother," she said softly. "Is it long since you

lost her?"

"More than four years," returned Alora. "I was her constant companion

and she taught me to love art and music and such things, for art was

her hobby. I did not know my father in those days, you see, for--for--

they did not live together. But in her last illness mamma sent for him

and made him my guardian. My mother said that my father would love me,

but she must have misjudged him."

Colonel Hathaway had listened with interest.

"Tell me your mother's name," said he.

"She was Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones, and--"

"Indeed!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Why, I knew Antoinette Seaver before

she married, and a more beautiful and cultured woman I never met. Her

father, Captain Seaver, was my friend, and I met his daughter several

times, both at his mining camp and in the city. So you see, my dear, we

must be friends."

Alora's eyes fairly glistened with delight and Mary Louise was as

pleased as she was surprised.

"Of course we're friends!" she cried, pressing the girl's hand, "and

isn't it queer we have come together in this singular manner? In a

foreign country! And just because our carriage-wheel happened to

break."

"I thought your mother married an artist," said Mary Louise's

grandfather, reflectively.

"She did. At least, she _thought_ Jason Jones was an artist," answered

Alora with bitter emphasis. "But he was, in fact, a mere dauber. He

became discouraged in his attempts to paint and soon after he took me

to New York he destroyed all his work--really, it was dreadful!--and

since then he has never touched a brush."

"That is strange," mused the Colonel. "I once saw a landscape by Jason

Jones that was considered a fine conception, skillfully executed. That

was the opinion of so good a judge as Captain Seaver himself.

Therefore, for some reason the man's genius must have forsaken him."

"I think that is true," agreed Alora, "for my mother's estimate of art

was undoubtedly correct. I have read somewhere that discouragement

sometimes destroys one's talent, though in after years, with proper

impulse, it may return with added strength. In my father's case," she

explained, "he was not able to sell his work--and no wonder. So now he

does nothing at all but read, and even that doesn't seem to amuse him

much."

The Colonel had now remembered that Antoinette Seaver Jones was a woman

of great wealth, and therefore her daughter must be an heiress. What a

shame to keep the girl hidden in this out-of-the-way place, when she

should be preparing to assume an important position in the world.

"May I ask your age, my dear?" he said.

"I am fifteen, sir," replied Alora.

"And your father is the guardian of your fortune?"

"Yes; by my mother's wish."

"I suppose you are receiving proper instruction?"

"None at all, sir. Since I have been in my father's care I have had no

instruction whatever. That isn't right, is it?"

"What isn't right?" demanded a gruff voice, and all three turned to

find Jason Jones standing in the doorway.

CHAPTER IX

MARY LOUISE SCENTS A MYSTERY

Colonel Hathaway instantly rose.

"I beg your pardon," said he. "I am Colonel James Hathaway, an

American, and this is my granddaughter, Mary Louise Burrows. Our

carriage met with an accident on the main road below and we wandered in

here while waiting for repairs and chanced to meet your daughter. You

are Mr. Jones, I believe?"

He nodded, still standing in his place and regarding his visitors with

unconcealed suspicion. Under his arm he held several books.

"Who informed you that I was living here?" he demanded.

"I was wholly unaware of the fact," said the Colonel, stiffly. "I did

not know you were in Italy. I did not know such an important person

existed, strange to say, although I can remember that an artist named

Jason Jones once married Antoinette Seaver, the daughter of my old

friend Captain Robert Seaver."

"Oh, you remember that, do you?"

"This is the first time I have had the distinguished honor of meeting

you, sir, and I trust it will be the last time."

"That's all right," said Jason Jones, more cordially. "I can't see that

it's any of my affair, either way."

"We have been making the acquaintance of Tony Seaver's daughter, Miss

Alora Jones, in your absence. But we will not intrude farther, Mr.

Jones. Come, Mary Louise."

"Oh, don't go!" pleaded Alora, catching Mary Louise's arm. And just

then Leona entered with the tea and biscuits.

"Sit down, man," said Jason Jones in a less aggressive tone. "I've no

objection to your coming here, under the circumstances, and you are our

first visitors in three years. That's often enough, but now that you

are here, make yourself at home. What's happening over in America? Have

you been there lately?"

He laid his books on a table and sat down. But after that one speech,

which he perhaps considered conciliatory, he remained glum and allowed

the others to do the talking.

Colonel Hathaway had stayed because he noted the leading look in Mary

Louise's eyes. He was himself interested in Alora and indignant over

her evident neglect. For her sake he would bear the insolence of his

host, an insolence he recognized as characteristic of the man.

Alora, in her father's presence, lost her fluent speech and no longer

dared mention personal matters to her guests. Both Mary Louise and her

grandfather tried to lead Alora and Jason Jones to speak of

themselves--of their life and future plans--but the man evaded direct

answers and the girl had suddenly become silent and reserved.

Finally, however, Mary Louise had an idea.

"We are bound for Sorrento," said she, "where we intend to stay a week

at the Hotel Vittoria. Will you let Alora come to us for ever Sunday,

as our guest? We will drive here and get her the day after to-morrow--

that's Saturday, you know--and fetch her home on Monday."

"No," said Jason Jones.

"Oh, why not, father?" pleaded the girl.

"You've no fit clothes. I don't want you hanging around Sorrento," he

replied.

"It will be a nice change for your daughter and it will give us much

pleasure to entertain her," said Mary Louise.

"It's a capital idea," declared the Colonel positively, and looking the

other man straight in the eye he added: "I am sure you will withdraw

your objections, Mr. Jones."

The man dropped his eyes, frowning. But presently he said to Alora:

"Go, if you want to. But keep out of the town. Don't leave the hotel

grounds."

"Why not?" asked his daughter in a defiant tone.

"It's not safe. I know Sorrento, and these rascally Italians would be

glad to steal you, if they had the chance, and then blackmail me a

ransom."

Mary Louise laughed.

"What a fine adventure that would be!" she exclaimed. "But we will

promise to guard Alora and keep her from the clutches of bandits. I

didn't know there were any left in Italy."

"To get rid of them you'd have to depopulate the country," said Jason

Jones. "It is no laughing matter, young woman, and--my daughter is

somewhat valuable."

CHAPTER X

MERE SPECULATION

The driver returned with the wheel. It fitted the axle but was some two

or three inches larger in diameter than the other rear wheel and,

moreover, it was flat on one side, so that when they started to

conclude their journey the motion of the carriage was something

startling--a "rock-a-bye baby ride" Mary Louise called it.

But the wheels turned and the carriage progressed and when they were

well on their way the girl said:

"What do you think of that man, Gran'pa Jim?"

"Do you mean Alora's father, Jason Jones?"

"Yes, of course."

"I am surprised at two things," said the old Colonel. "First, it is

curious that Tony Seaver, a rarely cultured woman, should have married

such a man, and again it is amazing that she should have confided her

daughter and her fortune to his care."

"Do you know," observed Mary Louise, sliding closer to him and dropping

her voice, although there was absolutely no chance of being overheard,

"I scent a mystery in that family, Gran'pa Jim!"

"That seems to be one of your regular diversions--to scent mysteries,"

he replied. "And usually, my dear, the suspicion is unwarranted. The

most commonplace people frequently impress you with the idea that they

are other than what they seem, are leading double lives, or are

endeavoring to conceal some irregularity of conduct. You've a faculty

of reading the natures and characteristics of strangers by studying

their eyes, their facial expressions and their oddities of demeanor,

which is interesting psychologically but too often----"

"You are unjust, Gran'pa!" declared Mary Louise indignantly. "Didn't

you yourself say there are two curious and surprising things about this

man Jones?"

"Not exactly. I said it was curious and astonishing that Antoinette

Seaver should have trusted so fully a man who impresses me as a churl.

His own child, little Alora, appears to dislike and even to despise

him, and----"

"There!" cried Mary Louise. "I'm vindicated. Your observations fully

justify my remark that there's a mystery in that family. Did you notice

the books he brought home and laid upon the table?"

"No," said Colonel Hathaway, rather bewildered.

"They were novels by Marie Correlli, H. G. Wells and O. Henry. A

student? Then a student of modern novels, a man who reads and reads to

keep his mind from dwelling on past history. He is a disappointed

artist, to begin with."

"That is certainly odd," rejoined the old gentleman, reflectively. "The

one picture I ever saw by Jason Jones was certainly good. I remember

that once when I was lunching with Bob Seaver--that was Antoinette's

father, you know--he told me his daughter was interested in a young

artist of exceptional talent, and he took me to a gallery to show me

what this man could do. I am not an art critic, as you are aware, my

dear, but this landscape of Jason Jones appealed to me as delightful.

Captain Bob knew art, and so did Antoinette, so it is evident that

Jones _could_ paint, but for some reason became dissatisfied with his

work and abandoned it. Perhaps his ambition was too lofty for human

skill to realize, yet nothing less would content him."

Mary Louise sat silent for a while. Then she asked:

"Did Jason Jones impress you as a man capable of a great ambition?

Would you guess him an artist who had once accomplished admirable

things?"

"Artists are always peculiar," stated her grandfather. "They must be

temperamental in order to be artists, and temperaments differ widely.

Had I not known something of Jason Jones' history I might have felt, on

making his acquaintance to-day, that he is not an ordinary man. For,

gruff and churlish though he proved, it is undeniable that he has

selected a charming and retired spot in which to live----"

"Or to hide," she interrupted.

"Or that, with considerable wealth at his command, he lives simply and

unostentatiously, enjoying nature's choice gifts and content with the

simple life he leads, with only the society of his young daughter."

"Whom he neglects and refuses to educate properly," declared the girl.

"What makes you think he is wealthy?"

"I know that Antoinette made millions, after her father died, from the

mines. By current report she retired and invested her money wisely, in

sound securities, which accords with her excellent business reputation.

Her daughter not being of age--let me see: she must have been but

eleven when her mother passed away--there would be a guardian appointed

for the heiress, and Alora told us that it was her mother's wish that

her father act as her guardian. So the conclusion is evident that Mr.

Jones has a large income at his command."

"All the more reason he should be generous, but he isn't spending much

of it," said Mary Louise.

"No; he is probably living simply in order that his daughter's fortune

may increase during the years of her minority. That is a point in his

favor, you must admit."

"Nevertheless," asserted the young girl, "I think there is something

wrong in the Jones family. It isn't due to Alora; she's a dear little

thing, wild and untamed but very lovable, I'm sure; so the fault must

lie with her boorish father. Allowing that once he was a big man,

something has mysteriously soured him and rendered his life hateful not

only to himself but to all around him."

"Look, Mary Louise; we're getting into Sorrento," said the Colonel.

"Here the road leaves the sea and crosses the plateau to the town.

You'll like Sorrento, I'm sure, for it is one of the quaintest places

in old Italy--and the hotel is really comfortable."

CHAPTER XI

ALORA SPEAKS FRANKLY

On Saturday forenoon the Colonel engaged a carriage--a substantial one,

this time--and with Mary Louise drove to Jason Jones' villa, so that

Alora might return with them in time for lunch. They did not see the

artist, who was somewhere about the grounds but kept out of view; but

Alora was ready and waiting, her cheeks flushed and her eyes alight,

and she slipped her foreign little straw satchel in the carriage and

then quickly followed it, as if eager to be off.

"Father is rather disagreeable this morning," she asserted in a sharp

voice, when they were on the highway to Sorrento. "He repented his

decision to let me go with you and almost forbade me. But I rebelled,

and----" she paused; "I have found that when I assert myself I can

usually win my way, for father is a coward at heart."

It pained Mary Louise to hear so unfilial a speech from the lips of a

young girl. Colonel Hathaway's face showed that he, too, considered it

unmannerly to criticise a parent in the presence of strangers. But both

reflected that Alora's life and environments were unenviable and that

she had lacked, in these later years at least, the careful training due

one in her station in society. So they deftly changed the subject and

led the girl to speak of Italy and its delightful scenery and romantic

history. Alora knew little of the country outside of the Sorrento

peninsula, but her appreciation of nature was artistic and innately

true and she talked well and interestingly of the surrounding country

and the quaint and amusing customs of its inhabitants.

"How long do you expect to remain here?" asked Mary Louise.

"I've no idea," was the reply. "Father seems entirely satisfied with

our quarters, for he has no ambition in life beyond eating three simple

meals a day, sleeping from nine at night until nine in the morning and

reading all the romances he is able to procure. He corresponds with no

one save his banker in America and sees no one but the servants and me.

But to me the monotony of our existence is fast becoming unbearable and

I often wonder if I can stand it for three years longer--until I'm

eighteen. Then I shall be my own mistress and entitled to handle my own

money, and you may rest assured I shall make up for lost time."

They let that remark pass, also, but later in the afternoon, when

luncheon was over and the two girls were wandering in the lovely

gardens of the Hotel Vittoria, while the Colonel indulged in an

afternoon siesta, Mary Louise led Alora to speak freely of her past

life.

"My grandfather says that your mother must have left you a good deal of

money," she remarked.

"Yes; mamma told me it was a large fortune and that I must guard it

wisely and use it generously to help others less favored," replied

Alora thoughtfully.

"And she left it all in your father's keeping?"

"Not the principal. That is all invested, and thank goodness my father

cannot touch it in any way. But the income is paid to him regularly,

and he may do as he pleases with it. I am sure mamma expected I would

have every reasonable wish gratified, and be taught every womanly

accomplishment; but I'm treated as a mere dependent. I'm almost

destitute of proper clothing--really, Mary Louise, this is the best

dress I possess!--and I've been obliged to educate myself, making a

rather poor job of it, I fear. I read the best of father's books, when

he is done with them, and note carefully the manner in which the

characters express themselves and how they conduct themselves in

society as well as in worldly contact. I do not wish to be wholly

_gauche_ when I come into my kingdom, you see, and the books are my

only salvation. I don't care much for the stories, but some of the good

writers are safe guides to follow in the matter of dialogue and

deportment. Fortunately, father's books are all in English. He doesn't

understand much Italian, although I have learned to speak the language

like a native--like our native servants, you know."

Mary Louise reflected on this confession. "I'm afraid, Alora dear, that

modern novels are not prone to teach morality, or to develop a girl's

finer intuitions," she said gravely. "I think you express yourself very

well--better than I do, indeed--but you need association with those who

can convey to you the right principles of thought and thus encourage

your mental development. Culture and refinement seem to come more from

association than from books, although there is an innate tendency in

all well-born people to acquire them spontaneously. But there! you'll

accuse me of preaching and, after all, I think you've done just

splendidly under rather trying circumstances."

"You don't know how trying they are," declared Alora, with a sigh.

"Father and I are wholly uncongenial and we fight on the slightest

provocation. This morning our trouble was over money. I wanted a little

to take with me, for my purse hasn't a _lira_ in it; but, no! not a

_centisimo_ would he give up. He insisted that if I was to be your

guest you would pay all my expenses."

"Of course," said Mary Louise. "But what does he do with all that big

income? Is he saving it for you?"

"No, indeed! he's saving it for himself. Mamma told me, the last time I

saw her before she died, that if father was good to me, and kind and

loving, I could provide for him in some way after I came into my money.

She said she would leave the manner of it to my judgment. But he isn't

kind, or loving, or good, and knows very well that when I'm of age

he'll never see another cent of my money. So now he'd hoarding my

income for future use."

"Isn't it strange that your mother should have trusted him so fully?"

asked Mary Louise.

"Yes, it does seem strange. I remember her saying that he loved luxury

and all the comfort that money will buy, and so she wanted him to have

this income to spend, because he was my father and because she felt she

had ruined his career as an artist by surrounding him with luxuries

during their early married life, and afterward had embittered him by

depriving him of them. But the man doesn't know what luxury means, Mary

Louise. His tastes are those of a peasant."

"Yet once your mother loved him, and believed in him."

"I--I think she believed in him; I'm quite sure she did."

"Then his nature must have changed. I can imagine, Alora, that when

your mother first knew him he was hard-working and ambitious. He was

talented, too, and that promised future fame. But when he married a

wealthy woman he lost his ambition, success being no longer necessary.

After a period of ease and comfort in the society of his lovely wife--

for Gran'pa says your mother was very lovely--he lost both the wife and

the luxuries he enjoyed. A big man, Alora, would have developed a new

ambition, but it seems your father was not big. His return to poverty

after your mother's desertion made him bitter and reckless; perhaps it

dulled his brain, and that is why he is no longer able to do good work.

He was utterly crushed, I imagine, and hadn't the stamina to recover

his former poise. He must have been ten years or so in this condition,

despairing and disinterested, when the wheel of fortune turned and he

was again in the possession of wealth. He had now the means to live as

he pleased. But those years had so changed him that he couldn't respond

to the new conditions. Doubtless he was glad, in a way, but he was now

content merely to exist. Doesn't that seem logical, Alora?"

Indeed, Mary Louise was delighted with her solution of the problem. It

was in keeping with her talent for deducing the truth from meagre facts

by logically putting them together and considering them as a whole. It

was seldom she erred in these deductions. But Alora seemed unimpressed

and noting her glum look Mary Louise said again: "Doesn't all this seem

logical, dear?"

"No," said Alora. "Father isn't the man to be crushed by anything. He's

shrewd enough, in his _bourgeois_ way. Once, long ago--back in New

York--a woman made him give her money; it was money, you know; and I

have often thought he ran away from America to escape her further

demands."

"Who was the woman?"

"My mother's nurse."

"Oh. Was it her wages she demanded?"

"Perhaps so. I may have misjudged father in that case. But it seemed to

me--I was a mere child then--that it must have been a larger sum than

wages would have amounted to. Yet, perhaps not. Anyhow, he left America

right afterward, and when we had wandered a year or so in various

countries we settled down here."

"Won't he have to account for all the money he has spent and given

away, when you come of age?" inquired Mary Louise.

"No. Mother distinctly told me I was to ask for no accounting whatever.

Her will says he is to handle the income as he sees fit, just as if it

were his own, so long as he provides properly for his daughter and

treats her with fatherly consideration. That's the only reason he keeps

me with him, guarding my person but neglecting the other injunctions.

If he set me adrift, as I'm sure he'd like to do, I could appeal to the

court and his income would cease and another guardian be appointed. I

believe there is something of that sort in the will, and that is why he

is so afraid of losing me. But he gives me no chance to appeal to

anyone, although I sometimes think I shall run away and leave him in

the lurch. If I could get to Chicago and tell Judge Bernsted, my

mother's lawyer, how I am treated, I believe he could make the court

set aside my father's guardianship. But I can't get ten miles away from

here, for lack of money."

"How your dear mother would grieve, if she knew her plans for your

happiness have failed!" exclaimed Mary Louise.

Alora frowned, and somehow that frown reminded Mary Louise of the

girl's father.

"My mother ought to have known my father better," she declared

sullenly. "I must not criticize her judgment, for her memory is my most

precious possession and I know she loved me devotedly. But there is one

thing in her history I can never understand."

"And that?" questioned Mary Louise curiously, as Alora paused.

"My mother was an educated woman, well-bred and refined."

"Yes; Gran'pa Jim told me that."

"Then how could she have married my father, who is not a gentleman and

never could have impressed a lady with the notion he was one?"

Mary Louise hesitated, for to admit this would send her deductions, so

carefully constructed, tumbling in ruins. But Alora ought to know the

man.

"If that is true, dear," said she, "it is the strangest part of your

story; and, of course, we can only guess the reason, for the only one

who could have explained it properly was your mother."

CHAPTER XI

JASON JONES IS FRIGHTENED

When Alora had retired to her bedroom that night Mary Louise told to

her grandfather, who was her trusted confidant, all that the unhappy

girl had related.

"Of course," she added, "Alora's explanations dispel my half formed

suspicion that there is some mystery about Jason Jones. I now see that

you were right, Gran'pa Jim, to laugh at me when I suggested such a

thing, for in truth the man is easily understood once you become

acquainted with his history. However, I now dislike him more than

ever."

"In justice to Jason Jones," remarked the old Colonel, "we must acquit

him of being a hypocrite. He doesn't attempt to mask his nature and a

stranger is bound to see him at his worst. Doubtless Antoinette Seaver

understood the man better than we are able to and sixteen years ago, or

so, when he had youth, talent and ambition, his disagreeable

characteristics were probably not so marked. As for Alora, she is

strongly prejudiced against her father and we must make due allowance

for her bitterness. The feeling probably arose through her sudden

transfer from the care of a generous and loving mother to that of an

ungracious father--a parent she had never before known. A child of

eleven is likely to form strong affections and passionate dislikes."

"Do you know," said Mary Louise, "it shocks me, this hatred of her

father. It seems so unnatural. I wish we could bring them to understand

one another better, Gran'pa Jim."

"That might prove a difficult task, my dear," he replied with a smile,

gently stroking her hair the while, "and I do not think we are

justified in undertaking it. How many times during our travels, Mary

Louise, has your impulsive and tender heart urged you to assume the

burdens of other people? You seem to pick up a trail of sorrow or

unhappiness with the eagerness of a bloodhound and I have all I can do

to call you off the scent. One small girl can't regulate the world, you

know, and in this case we are likely to see very little of Alora Jones

and her artist father. We will be nice to them during the few days we

are here, but we must soon move on or we'll never get home for your

birthday, as we have planned."

Mary Louise sighed.

"You're almost always right, Gran'pa Jim," she admitted; "but in all

our European travels I've not met so interesting a person as Alora, and

she's an American girl, which draws us still closer together. I'm going

to make her promise that when she's of age and her own mistress she

will let me know, and come to us for a visit. Wouldn't that be all

right, Gran'pa?"

He assured her it would be quite proper and that he also admired Alora

and was sorry for her.

On Sunday forenoon they went to the cathedral and in the afternoon took

a boat to the blue grottoes. In the evening there was a concert in the

hotel. All that day the two girls were arm in arm and chatting

together, developing their mutual liking, while the old Colonel trudged

along in their wake and was generally ignored in the conversation. On

Monday they planned an excursion to Capri, "For you won't mind if we

don't get you home until after dinner, will you?" asked Mary Louise.

"Not at all," said Alora. "I want to make the most of this vacation."

"Her father may mind, however," suggested the Colonel.

"I don't care whether he does or not," retorted the girl, tossing her

head. "He has no consideration for me, so why should I consider him?"

"I don't like that attitude, dear," said Mary Louise frankly. "I--I

don't wish to be snippy, you know, but you should not forget that he is

your father."

"That," replied Alora doggedly, "is merely my misfortune, and I'm not

going to allow it to ruin all my life."

On Monday morning they had scarcely finished breakfast when Jason Jones

appeared at the hotel, having driven over from the villa in his little

automobile--a tiny foreign contrivance that reminded one of a child's

cart but could cover the ground with considerable speed. They were

sitting on the big piazza when Alora's father came striding up to them

with a white, fear-struck face. In his trembling hands he held the

morning Naples newspaper and without a word of greeting he said

abruptly:

"Have you heard the news?"

Colonel Hathaway rose and bowed.

"Good morning, Mr. Jones," said he. "I do not read the local

newspapers, for my knowledge of Italian is indifferent."

"So is mine," responded the artist, "but I know enough of their lingo

to make out that Italy has entered this fool war. She's going to fight

the Austrians," he continued, his voice shaking nervously, "and do you

know what that will mean, sir?"

"I can't imagine," replied the Colonel calmly.

"It means that presently we'll have all that horde of Germans

overrunning Italy. They'll conquer this helpless land as sure as fate,

and we'll all be burned out and tortured and mutilated in the fiendish

German way!"

"My dear sir, you are frightened without warrant," declared Colonel

Hathaway. "It will take some time to conquer Italy, and I cannot

imagine the Austrians acting as you suggest."

"Back of the Austrians are the Germans, and those Prussians are worse

than wild American Indians," insisted Jones. "If they got their

clutches on my daughter it would be more horrible than death and I

don't propose to leave her in danger a single minute. I'm going to quit

this country. I've come for Alora. We must pack up and catch the first

ship from Naples for America."

There was blank silence for a moment.

"I'm not afraid," said Alora, with a laugh, "but if it means our

getting out of this tiresome place and sailing for home, I'm glad that

Italy's gone into the war."

Colonel Hathaway was grave and thoughtful. The agitation of the artist

seemed to increase with every moment.

"When does the next boat for America leave Naples?" asked Mary Louise.

"Tuesday," said Alora's father. "We've just time to pack our

possessions and leave."

"Time!" cried his daughter, "why, I can pack all my possessions in an

hour. Go home, sir, and fuss around as much as you like. I'll join you

some time this evening."

He gave her a queer look, hesitating.

"We are surely safe enough for the present," remarked the Colonel. "The

first act of war will be to send all the soldiers to the north border.

The fighting will be done in the Trentino for some time to come."

"You don't know these people," said Jones, shifting uneasily from one

foot to another. "They're all brigands by nature and many of them by

profession. As soon as the soldiers are sent north, all law and order

will cease and brigandage will be the order of the day!"

"This is absurd!" exclaimed the Colonel, testily. "You're not talking

sense."

"That's a matter of opinion, sir; but I know my own business, and I'm

going to get out of here."

"Wait a week longer," suggested Mary Louise. "We are to sail ourselves

on the boat that leaves Naples a week from Tuesday, and it will be nice

for Alora and me to travel home together."

"No; I won't wait. Get your things, Alora, and come with me at once."

"Have you made reservations on the boat?" inquired Colonel Hathaway,

refusing to be annoyed by the man's brusque words and rough demeanor.

"I'll do that at once, by telephone. That's one reason I came over.

I'll telephone the steamship office while the girl is getting ready."

"I will go with you," said the Colonel, as the artist turned away.

While Jones used the telephone booth of the hotel Colonel Hathaway

conversed with the proprietor, and afterward with the hall porter, who

was better posted and spoke better English.

"This is outrageous!" roared the artist, furiously bursting from the

booth. "To-morrow's boat is abandoned! The government requires it as a

transport. Why? Why? Why?" and he wrung his hands despairingly.

"I do not know, sir," returned the Colonel, smiling at his futile

passion.

The smile seemed to strike Jones like a blow. He stopped abruptly and

stared at the other man for a full minute--intently, suspiciously. Then

he relaxed.

"You're right," said he coldly. "It's folly to quarrel with fate. I've

booked for a week from Tuesday, Hathaway, and we must stick it out till

then. Do you take the same boat?"

"That is my intention."

"Well, there's no objection. Now I'll go get Alora."

But Alora, hearing of the postponed sailing, positively refused to

return home with him, and Mary Louise, supporting her new friend, urged

her to extend her stay with her at the hotel. Strangely enough, the

more he was opposed the more quiet and composed the artist became. He

even ceased to tremble and an odd apathy settled over him.

"The hall porter," said the Colonel, "thinks this is the safest place

in Italy. The troops have been on the border for months and their

positions are strongly fortified. There is no brigandage outside of

Sicily, where the Mafia is not yet wholly suppressed."

Jones grinned rather sheepishly.

"All right, take his word for it," said he. "And if you'll be

responsible for the girl you may keep her till we're ready to sail.

Perhaps that's the best way, after all." Then, without a word of

good-bye, he entered his little motor car and started down the

driveway.

"A strange man," said the Colonel, looking after him. "I wonder if it

really was the war that frightened him--or something else--or if he was

actually frightened at all?"

Alora laughed.

"You can't guess father, try as you may," she said. "Usually he is cold

as ice, but once in awhile he gets these wild fits, which I find rather

amusing. You can't understand that, of course, but if you were obliged

to live under the same roof with Jason Jones you would welcome his

outbursts as relief from the monotony of contemptuous silence."