He walked over and stood at her elbow, waiting. Shirley paid him no

attention while she finished the long business letter before her, and

she would not have turned then if her brother had not said quietly, "A

caller is waiting to see you, Miss Townsend."

Then she glanced up, and rose, pulling a glove finger from the

forefinger of her right hand before she let the visitor take it. "I

still seem to give this finger a bit of extra work," she said smiling.

Brant said a complimentary thing or two in recognition of her

businesslike command of the typewriter, and then proceeded to put his

case.

As she knew, a November house party was in progress at the Hildreth's

country place, eighteen miles out. He and Marian had come in on an

errand, and were going back. A particularly jolly evening was in

prospect. Somebody had suggested that the Hilles bring Shirley back

with them, just for the evening. They felt she owed them that much,

after so resolutely declining the original invitation for the entire

week. Would she not go? It was a rare evening for early November, the

air mild, the moon magnificent, the roads like a floor.

The Hildreths wanted her to stay the night; but Brant would rise with

the lark and bring her back to town before breakfast, that she might not

miss so much as a semicolon of her day's work. Or--as Shirley continued

to look doubtful--he urged that, if she preferred, he would actually get

her back to-night. Some of the married people would drive in with them

for the sake of the run in the moonlight. Please!

"Go, Shirley, and have a fine time," said her brother.

She was only human--and a girl--after all, and after many weeks of close

and serious work the prospect of the little spin of an hour's duration,

with the "jolly evening," appealed to her. Smiling at Brant's last

proposition, Shirley yielded.

"I shall have to go to the house first," she said, setting the cover on

her machine and putting away her work. The clock already indicated the

end of the working-day in the Townsend office.

"Of course. We 'll take you right up in a jiffy." And Brant led the

way to the elevator, his soul filled with satisfaction.

The green car was shortly _chug-chugging_ in front of the Townsend

house, while Shirley ran up to exchange her office clothes for the

pretty dull red silk frock which seemed to her to fit the November

evening.

A sense of exhilaration took possession of her as she pulled on her long

driving-coat, and pinned in place the close hat and swathing gray veil

which made her ready for the swift drive in the autumn air. To be

really a working girl, and yet not to be shut out from an occasional

taste of this sort of pleasure--it was certainly a pleasant combination.

And Shirley had accomplished one of the best day's works that she had

yet done, and felt as if she had earned whatever of jollity the evening

might have in store for her.

"Well, I'm certainly thankful to see you acting like one of us again, if

only for a few hours," asserted "Marie Anne," as they whirled away.

"Shirley Townsend in a blue serge at four o'clock in the afternoon is an

extraordinary sight. Now you look like yourself again. What have you

got on? That Indian-red silk? When you like a thing you like it

forever, don't you? I wonder how many times you came down to dinner

last winter at Miss Cockburn's in that red silk!"

"Don't be brutal, Marian!" called her brother, over his shoulder. "As

if it made any difference what she wears as long as she comes with us!

Besides, I haven't seen the red silk."

But Shirley was only smiling at Marian's comments on her attire. She

had not summered and wintered Miss Hille as a room-mate for two years in

the English school not to have become inured to her style of intimate

criticism. Besides, she knew perfectly that that Indian-red silk frock

had been her friend's envy for the first six weeks of its existence, on

account of its beauty and the way it became Shirley's colouring.

It does not take long for a motor-car of high horse-power driven by a

young man with the usual dash of daring in his composition to cover

eighteen miles of smooth roadway, and it was not yet six o'clock when

the car shot up to the entrance of the Hildreth's country place. Half a

dozen young people, returning from the golf links, hurried up to welcome

Shirley Townsend back to the ranks of the pleasure-seekers, and she was

borne into the house on a little wave of good-fellowship and merriment

which she could not help decidedly enjoying.

"It's a shame to think of that girl throwing herself away on the sort of

fad she 's taken up!" growled Somers Hildreth to Brant Hille, as the two

came in, after dressing for dinner, to find Shirley Townsend the centre

of a gay group before the great fireplace, which was the heart of the

country house.

"I wonder what fault Marian had to find with that dress," Brant was

thinking, as he caught its gleam in the firelight and saw the sparkling

eyes and warm-tinted cheeks above it. "If she is n't by long odds the

finest girl in that crowd I 'll go without my dinner." But aloud he

responded, calmly, "It does n't seem to have dulled her charms. She

never looked more as if she found things worth while, did she?"

"That's reaction," declared the other young man. "Shut any girl up in a

cage, and she'll stretch her wings when she gets out. It will tell on

her after a while, though, if she keeps it up. But she won't. That

goes without saying."

"Don't you fool yourself!" muttered Brant, adopting Murray Townsend's

view of the matter.

Shirley, indeed, did not look like a girl who was accustomed to adopt

courses, only to abandon them when weary. Whatever her views of the

"things worth while," she certainly enjoyed that evening. Those who had

sent for her congratulated themselves on their foresight.

Without making herself in any way a conspicuous figure, or appearing to

take the lead, Shirley's very presence seemed somehow to bring about

that result most desirable to a hostess, the making things "go." The

young people had been together for five successive evenings, and had

about exhausted their resources and those of their entertainers in the

way of diversion. But with Shirley Townsend's softly brilliant eyes

looking on, her spirited mouth curving into mischief or merriment, her

appreciative comments spurring them, the young men of the party at least

found themselves stimulated to their best achievement, and exerted

themselves to bring the response of her pleasure.

As for the girls, they all liked her, although not without here and

there a touch of envy at the success of a style so free from affectation

that nobody could accuse its possessor of not being genuine.

"You can't say you 're not having a good time," urged Hille, cornering

Shirley as the evening went on.

"There 's no reason why I should want to say it. I 'm having a

delightful time."

"I thought it was part of your code, from now on, to enjoy nothing but

hard labour."

Her laugh rang out softly.

"You did n't believe anything of the sort. If all work and no play make

Jack a dull boy, what would they do to Jill? She would be unendurable."

"She would. But anybody would have taken alarm at sight of you to-day,

over your typewriter. You looked as if you were nothing short of carried

away with it. You did n't so much as notice I was in the room."

"I 'm not supposed to notice people who come into Murray's office. I

learned that at once, by watching Miss Henley. While I 'm there I 'm to

be merely an intelligent machine."

"'Machine' doesn't strike me as exactly the word--in your case. As for

the 'intelligence'--I suppose Townsend & Company are very exacting. Do

you suppose they 'd take me on the force?"

"You!" It seemed to amuse her very much.

Brant looked nettled. He had asked the question in sport, but he did

not like to be taken that way. "Look here, am I such a joke as that?"

"The notion of your working for anybody, even for yourself, is very

interesting."

"You think I 'm not capable?"

"I think the mere thought of going to an office every morning at nine

o'clock would be too much for you."

"You must have a pretty poor opinion of me."

"Not at all. But you have never needed to work, never expect to need to

work, and have never shown the first sign of intending to work. Why

shouldn't the idea of your working seem strange?"

"I might have said the same of you a few months ago." Brant was getting

red.

"So you might. But I 'm a girl."

"Does my being a man--I'm twenty-four--make it a foregone conclusion

that I should roll up my sleeves and tackle a shovel and pick, whether I

need the money or not?"

Shirley surveyed him. "No, I don't think it does--_with you_."

The red which had begun to show above Brant's collar now spread toward

his ears, extended his forehead, and finally suffused his entire face.

He broke out hotly: "Look here, you used not to be sharp-tongued like

that. If your taking up this sort of thing is going to make you not mind

how you cut your friends, it 's my opinion you 'd be better at your

embroidery."

Shirley bit her lip with a mischievous desire to say something which

would make the angry gleam in his eyes light up still more vividly. She

and Brant had played together and quarreled and made up since their

nursery days, and this retort, which she would have resented from

anybody else, merely delighted her from Brant.

She liked to wake him up, and considered that hurting his feelings on

the score of his idleness was both salutary and justifiable. Ever since

she had returned she had been feeling more and more annoyed with him for

seeming to settle down so unconcernedly to a life of absolute ease and

the spending of his share of the estate left him by a father who had

toiled a lifetime to get his property together.

But she did not intend to be led into a serious argument with him now

and here, nor did she wish to make him like her less on account of her

new method of employing her time. She liked him for many good points,

and she was rather wiser than most girls in perceiving when she had said

enough. So after an instant's silence, she asked, with a bright glance,

disarming because unexpected, "Shall we call it even?"

"Did my shot about the embroidery hit?" Brant exulted.

"Hard. It doesn't matter that I don't know how to embroider."

"Not in the least. Yes, I 'll call it even, though I got the worst of

it. I was mad enough to bite something a minute ago, but you always did

have a way of making a chap double up his fists, and then open them

again, feeling foolish. Oh, here comes Mrs. Hildreth. You don't want to

go back to-night, do you?"

"I 'll wait till morning. But we must be off early. I would n't miss

being on time for a week's salary."

"Before breakfast?"

"Of course--if they'll let us. We'll have breakfast at home; the early

morning run will make us hungry."

"It certainly will. See here, we don't have to get anybody up to go in

with us, do we?"

Shirley looked doubtful. "I 'm afraid we do."

"Then I 'd rather take you in to-night," said Brant, promptly. "We 'll

fill up the car with chaperons, and you can sit in front with me. They

'll be tickled to go, in this moonlight. I 'll ask Mrs. Hildreth and

Miss Armitage; they 'll discuss dressmakers all the way in and leave us

in peace."

Shirley let him arrange it, personally much preferring to reach home

that night and get up at the usual hour in the morning, with an interval

between her pleasure-making and her work. The hour was not late, and

Brant professed to be able to make incredibly quick time, so he had no

difficulty in arranging his party.

There were many sallies at Shirley's expense as her friends saw her

depart. Her devotion to business was considered a caprice, likely at

any time to give way to more rational behaviour, and she was assured of

an enthusiastic welcome back to the company of sane beings when her

"craze" should be over. She went away smiling at the thought of how

little they understood her, and with a sense of having at hand resources

of contentment at which they could not even guess.

With an empty road ahead, and the moonlight making all things clear,

Brant sent his car humming. In the rush of air caused by their flight,

all four travellers stopped talking, and it was upon a silence hitherto

disturbed only by the muffled mechanism of the car that the startling

_bang_ of an exploding tire woke the echoes.

"Confound the luck!" burst from the young man in the driver's seat, as

he brought the machine to a standstill. "That means stop and repair

right here. We can't run her in on her rim. We 're not half way."

Shirley looked about her. Ten rods away, its big barns looming against

the sky, its white house showing clearly in the moonlight, lay the farm

of Mr. Elihu Bell, the grandfather of her friends. Although it was

after eleven o'clock, there were lights showing in windows which she

knew belonged to the front room of the farm-house.

"Shall you need help?" she asked, as Brant threw open the box which held

his repair kit. "The noise has brought somebody to the door over there.

It 's the Bell farm--my sister Jane's grandfather, you know."

"Is it? Then we'll pull over there into the yard, and you people can go

inside, since they seem to be up. It may take me quite a while to get

out of this scrape. I 'm not much of a mechanic, and I 've been lucky

enough not to puncture many tires."

He got in again, and ran the car slowly over to the open gate of the

Bell place. As he turned in, the two figures which had been standing in

the doorway came out and crossed the yard.

Shirley recognized them both, one tall and slim, with the slight stoop

and characteristic walk of age; the other also tall, but

broad-shouldered and erect. She wondered what Peter Bell could be doing

out here, calling on his grandfather at this late hour, and then

remembered that Peter's time was so full by day that he must needs make

his visits by night. She thought of the mortgage he had spoken of, and

surmised that the visit, prolonged past the hour when farmhouses are

usually dark and silent, was on business.

"Well, well!" called the kindly voice of the old man. "Broke down, have

you? Anything we can do? Your lights are brighter than any we can

furnish you."

Peter came close. "Will the ladies come into the house?" he asked. He

could not see who they were.

Mrs. Hildreth and Miss Armitage accepted the offer, for the November air

was not so mild as it had been during the day, and they had no great

confidence in Brant's ability to repair his own machine.

Peter offered a helping hand. When the older ladies were out, he turned

to the girl on the front seat. She sprang down, and stood still before

him. She had pulled her gray veil closely about her face, and she spoke

in a muffled whisper: "Guess who I am."

[Illustration: "SHE SPRANG DOWN, AND STOOD STILL BEFORE HIM"]

Peter glanced toward Brant, who had now come around into the glare from

his own headlights. Peter knew Brant, as anyone must who was included

in the entertaining done in the Townsend house. But it had always been

many leagues farther to Gay Street from the Hille home on the north side

of Worthington Square than from that of Murray and Shirley Townsend on

the south side.

"I'm afraid I can't guess," admitted Peter, who thought he knew that

Shirley was at home that night, having noted a light in her window when,

at nine o'clock, he had mounted his bicycle to make the trip to

Grandfather Bell's. Her figure in the long coat and shrouding veil was

not familiar to him, and the whisper had conveyed no note of Shirley's

real tones.

"Then you shall never know," the sepulchral whisper assured him, and he

found some difficulty in holding his hand from the desire forcibly to

remove the provoking veil. The possibility that it was his sister Jane

caused him to estimate sharply the height of the figure before him.

It was a little too tall for Jane, and Peter was about to hazard a guess

that it was one of the least formidable of the girls of Shirley's set

whom he occasionally met at her home, when Brant Hille called out,

annoyance sounding in his voice:

"You 'd better go in with the others, Shirley--this is going to take

time. I 've got to put on a new tire--worse luck!"

Peter's fingers grasped the veil and gently pulled it aside from the

laughing face beneath, "No wonder you wanted to hide!" he jeered, under

his breath. "A working-girl like you, off on midnight larks like this,

with to-morrow ahead."

But there was a distinct hint of pleasure in his voice at the discovery

of her here, thrown upon his hospitality. He led her away to the house,

within whose open door the other ladies had disappeared.

"Grandmother has gone to bed long ago," he said, as they came up on the

porch, "and I don't think I 'll disturb her. She 's deaf and won't

hear, and she needs her sleep. But I can get you all something hot to

drink, and something to eat, too, if there 's much delay."

Shirley presented him to Mrs. Hildreth and Miss Armitage, who were

already making themselves at home in the low-ceiled, pleasant

living-room which lay all across the front of the farm-house. A dying

fire reddened the hearth, which Peter soon revived into a blaze. Then

he went in search of refreshments. Thereafter, returning to the scene

of the breakdown, he rendered Brant valuable assistance, proving handier

at the process of replacing the injured tire than Brant himself. When

they finally had done the work, and Brant pulled out his watch with a

hand black with dirt and grease, he gave an exclamation of dismay.

"One A.M., by all that's unfortunate! Better let me take you back to

Longacre, Shirley, and get you home comfortably in the morning. What

difference does it make if you do miss part of a day?"

"Leave her here," said Mr. Elihu Bell. "We 'll take care of her

to-night, and I 'll drive in with her in the morning, bright and early.

That's the best way out, and you people can go back and go to bed.

Grandma 'll be mightily pleased to wake up in the morning and find the

little girl here."

Feeling it the simplest solution of a situation which was involving

somebody's sacrifice, whatever she did, Shirley accepted the offer.

Brant did not feel altogether pleased over driving away and leaving her

standing on the porch beside Peter, but he was decidedly weary with his

exercise, and sleepy after two brimming glasses of milk, and he resigned

his charge with one murmured speech: "Shows what a fool thing it is for

a girl like you to play at holding down a business position. You can't

be either one thing or the other with any comfort, and it even gets your

friends into trouble."

This surly farewell was punished by the girl's gay rejoinder:

"I suppose it was the weight of your cares that was too much for the

car! I 'm sorry, and I 'll promise not to run away from my work

again--with you."

When the car was off, Peter promptly brought round his bicycle. "This

is n't quite so imposing a conveyance as Hille's automobile," he said,

standing at the foot of the steps and looking up at Shirley, "and I

can't invite anybody to share it with me and ride home. But it's very

convenient for these little runs out to the farm, and I 'm glad I

happened to be here to-night. Somehow, just the sight of you, without

any chance to talk, does me good."

"If that is true, I should think you might take advantage of living so

near just a bit oftener than you do. Do you know how long it is since

you 've been over?"

"It seems six months to me," said Peter, smiling.

"It is six weeks. Are you so busy all your evenings?"

"Pretty busy. And I spend what little spare time I can make with

father."

"Of course," she agreed, gently. "But I think you need a little more

change of scene than you get."

"I 'd like it. But I can't be bothering a girl like you with

entertaining an old chap like me."

"An old chap!" mused Shirley. "Is that the way you feel?"

"I was feeling forty, at least--till the tire blew up. Then I came down

to thirty. When I found the girl under the veil, I dropped off several

years more. But when I looked at that boy Hille I became a patriarch

again."

"I wish he could hear you call him a boy! Suppose I give you a special

invitation, and run the risk of your bothering me, will you accept it?"

"In a hurry!"

"Your first spare evening then?"

"You tempt me to cut everything and come to-morrow night. No--I 'll

wait a decent interval, to let you get caught up after this midnight

dissipation. May I come early?"

"The earlier the better."

"And you won't invite anybody else to help make it jolly for me? The

last time I ventured over you had a roomful."

"I 'll invite nobody. Come, Peter Bell--do you know I 'm being much

nicer to you than I ordinarily am to anybody? I let mother and Olive do

the inviting, and I just look demure, as if I did n't care."

"You do care, then, this time?"

"It's time you were off, is n't it?" and she retreated, laughing, to the

open door.

Peter looked back at her, an alluring figure, with the lamplight falling

over the dull red silk of her frock, and wished he need not go at all.

But Grandfather Bell's tall form appeared just behind Shirley's. This

was an unheard-of hour for Grandfather Bell. So, with a friendly good

night and a warm feeling at his heart, Peter bestrode his wheel and was

off down the moonlit road toward home.

CHAPTER VII

CHRISTMAS GREENS

"Jane, I've the most charming plan in my head for Christmas week you

ever heard of."

"Have you, Shirley dear? And are you going to tell it to me?"

"I am, indeed. Listen. Let's take cook and Norah, and go--all of us,

your houseful and ours--and spend part of holiday week at Grasslands."

"Shirley! You take my breath away! Could we do it? Would n't it be

fun if we could?"

"I don't see a thing in the way. When I stayed overnight, in November,

your Grandmother Bell said she wished she could get her family together

once more at Christmas there, instead of going in to have dinner in Gay

Street, as they 've been doing since your family went to live in town.

She said she 'd like to have us all if she were younger again, but she

has no 'help,' and thought it would be a pity to ask us, and then have

your mother and Nan do the work. I 've thought about it ever so many

times since, but this idea has only just popped into my head."

"I should think it could be done," mused Jane. "There are rooms and

rooms at the farm, and little open wood-stoves in every one. You and I

could go out the day before, and get everything aired and ready."

"What if you and Mrs. Bell and Nan and I went, without telling any of

the men? I 'm to have Christmas week for my first vacation, you know.

Then when they came home in the evening, have a bouncing big sleigh

ready to carry them off to the farm, and a jolly supper waiting? Then a

tree that night, and Christmas next day, with coasting and skating and

snowballing, if the weather is right?"

"You artful child!" exclaimed Jane. "It would do us all heaps of

good--especially father and mother. Father looks to me so worn and

tired. Have you noticed it?"

Shirley nodded. She had indeed noticed it, and a deep-laid plot, having

for its beneficiary Mr. Joseph Bell, was at the back of the planning.

But she did not intend that anybody should find that out. So she agreed

lightly that Jane's father needed a holiday, as did all the others.

"If we can't get any of them to take more than Christmas day, we can at

least bring them out there every night and back every morning," she

said. "We 'll give them such good things to eat they won't mind the

drive. With Grandfather Bell's big horses, all jingly with

sleigh-bells, they certainly won't. Oh, will you go and speak to Cook

now? I simply can't wait to get things under way."

"Do you mean to surprise Grandmother Bell, too?"

"Yes, if your grandfather agrees, as I 'm sure he will. If we told her

she 'd tire herself all out, doing wholly unnecessary things.

Everything in the house is always in apple-pie order, but she would n't

think so."

"You 're quite right, I think. I 'll go and talk with Cook"--and Jane

hurried away, looking as girlishly eager as Shirley herself.

She had small doubt of Cook. If Mrs. Murray Townsend had a friend in

the house, it was Bridget. Mrs. Harrison Townsend had never considered

Bridget a particularly amiable person, but Jane had won her completely

by treating her always with consideration, and by showing the interest

in her affairs, which is appreciated most by those who expect it least.

"Sure, then, we 'll go, Mrs. Murray, and take it as a holiday," agreed

Cook, when her young mistress had explained her plans. "And we 'll take

some of the fixings with us they 'll not be havin' at the farm."

During the week that intervened before Christmas, Shirley's head was so

full of her schemes that for the first time since her initiation into

office work she had considerable difficulty in keeping her mind upon her

tasks. Christmas fell upon a Tuesday that year, fortunately for her

plans, so after Saturday noon she was free to give her mind to the

pleasures in prospect. Mrs. Bell and Nancy had agreed enthusiastically

to every detail of the arrangements, and Grandfather Bell, when

cautiously consulted over the telephone and urged to keep it all a

secret from his wife, had responded as joyously as a boy that the party

might occupy every nook and corner of the house and have things all

their own way, if they would only come.

It proved necessary to let somebody into the plan at the last, in order

that the men, returning to their homes on Monday evening, should be

directed what to do. Rufus was selected for this office, an appointment

which tickled him so that it was with difficulty he kept from bursting

out with his secret. At night he was first at home, and as the others

one by one arrived, he haled them to their rooms, bade them make

themselves ready in short order, and surreptitiously packed away several

travelling bags in the recesses of Grandfather Bell's capacious

market-wagon, now on runners and fitted with seats.

"What on earth does it all mean?" asked Murray, taking his seat in the

sleigh in which the energetic Rufus had stowed the male members of his

own family, amidst a storm of questions and surmises, accompanied by

much good humoured raillery at his own quite evident excitement.

"It means that you 're kidnapped, and may never see home again,"

responded Rufus, tucking a hot soapstone under his father's feet, for

the night was sharp, and Shirley's orders imperative. "Warm, daddy?

Want an extra rug over you? I 've enough here to wrap up a party of

elephants."

"I'm very comfortable," Mr. Bell replied. His shoulder rested against

Peter's, and Peter's arm lay along the low back of the seat behind him.

Mr. Bell always felt a comfortable sense of support and protection when

Peter was near--and Peter generally was near in these days. The elder

man well understood why, and appreciated the devotion which showed

itself in acts rather than in words.

"I've only one objection to make," declared Ross, as the sleigh moved

briskly off, driven by Grandfather Bell's next neighbour, a man who did

odd jobs for him when needed, and worked for him steadily during the

summers. "I 'm hungry as a bear, and don't want to go more than fifty

miles to supper."

"It would pay you to go a hundred, judging by my observations," asserted

Rufus, from among the fur robes at Ross's feet. "And we 'll be there in

a jiffy. Don't these boys go, though? They must get fed plenty of

oats."

"They certainly do," agreed the driver. "Elihu Bell is n't the man to

starve his horses, let alone humans."

"That's encouraging," and Murray, who also boasted a vigorous appetite,

fell to conjecturing, after the manner of hungry man, what supper at the

farm would be like. He knew nothing of the arrangements that had been

made, and felt rather doubtful whether anything could take the place of

the dinner of Jane's planning he had expected to find at home.

The ten miles were covered in a little more than an hour, for the

sleighing was good, and the driver anxious to show what his horses could

do. As they turned in at the gate and drew up at the side porch, they

saw that the old house was aglow from top to bottom with lights in every

window. At the jingle of their bells the door flew hospitably open,

although no one was in sight, and only the roaring fire in the wide

fireplace opposite the door seemed on hand to give them a welcome.

"It looks Christmas-sy enough in there, does n't it?" said Ross,

catching sight of holly branches and ropes of ground-pine adorning the

chimney-piece, and holly wreaths tied with scarlet ribbons in the

windows.

"Well, well!" ejaculated Mr. Joseph Bell, slowly, as Peter gently pushed

him ahead into the room, and his eyes fell upon a tree, its top touching

the low ceiling, its branches twinkling with candles and loaded with

packages. He blinked with astonishment, and sat abruptly down in the

first chair that offered, looking as pleased as a boy.

"Where are they all?" and Rufus, putting his hands to his mouth, gave a

ringing hail.

"Merry Christmas!" responded a chorus of gay voices, and a curtain fell

aside. Grandmother Bell, her rosy old face beaming, advanced with

outstretched hand, her husband close behind her. In the background

appeared Mrs. Joseph Bell, Jane, Shirley and Nancy, all in white

dresses, with holly berries gleaming in their hair.

"This is the best surprise ever heard of!" cried Peter, stooping to kiss

Grandmother Bell's soft, wrinkled cheek, and then turning to wring his

grandfather's hand. "This beats Christmas in town all to nothing."

"It _is_ jolly!" and Murray saluted the old lady in his turn, for he was

a favourite with her, not only because he was Jane's husband, but

because, from the first, he had taken pains to be very good to her. He

smiled at Jane as he stood straight again, thinking she had never looked

prettier than she did to-night. But Murray was apt to think that,

wherever he first caught sight of her after a day's absence.

"I 've been trying all day," said Ross, as he greeted the old people,

"to make myself realise this was Christmas eve. But from this hour all

difficulty leaves me. I smell Christmas in the air."

"It's the pumpkin pies, and mince, and doughnuts, and plum pudding you

smell," laughed Nancy.

"The greens smell sweet and Christmas-sy, too," said Shirley. "We had

such fun gathering them this morning. It seemed a pity to do it by

ourselves."

"If I 'd known of it, I should have blown out through the factory roof

and landed over in grandfather's woods!" declared Peter, coming up to

shake hands. "Woods in winter! And to-morrow's a holiday! Are we to

stay? I thought I fell over a grip as I got out of the sleigh."

"Indeed you are--for four days."

"Four days! I only wish I could!"

"You can--evenings and nights and mornings."

"Do you mean it? Are we invited?"

"We are."

"Who thought this magnificent scheme up?" demanded Peter. "Ah, you 're

blushing! I might have----"

"I 've been out in the cold air more than half the day," and Shirley

covered one brilliant cheek with her hand. "Are n't you hungry?"

"Famishing!"

"We 're to have supper right away. Your grandmother calls it supper,

and Cook calls it dinner."

"Cook!"

"She 's here."

"Well, of all the----"

But Peter had to be hurried away by his sister Nancy to his room--his

old room upstairs under the eaves, where he found his hand-bag awaiting

him, and a brisk fire snapping in the old box stove. For the time

being, he felt he could let himself forget that the old roof was

encumbered by a heavy mortgage, due in six weeks now, and held by a man

who had long coveted that farm. It was Christmas.

The meal spread in the long, low dining-room, to which a merry company

presently sat down, was a delicious one. Grandmother Bell's old

blue-and-white Canton plates and cups had never been more delectably

filled, nor had her antique silver forks and spoons clinked to a

livelier measure than the talk and laughter which went round as the

supper proceeded.

"Does it seem like home here?" Shirley asked Mr. Joseph Bell.

"Home?" said he, with a glance from the old prints upon the walls to the

antique side table below, with its turned-up leaf. "It's the only place

in the world that will ever really seem like home to me. It 's just a

makeshift, living in the city, to people who were brought up on a place

like this. You see, though I went away from here when I was a young

man, and lived a long time in the city, working up in the paper factory,

we came back here again and stayed five years, while the children were

little, on account of a breakdown in my health. Then when I grew strong

again, we moved back and settled in Gay Street. But the farm is

home--always will be. My wife feels the same way, though she was a city

girl. She 'd like to live here now as much as ever."

"I don't wonder. It's one of the pleasantest farm-houses I ever saw."

And Shirley smiled across the table at Peter as she spoke, meeting his

eyes as he glanced from his father's face to hers, well pleased to see

the elder man looking as if heartily enjoying himself.

"The tree is only to look at this evening," announced Jane, when they

were all back in the living-room. "Nothing is to be taken off it till

to-morrow evening."

"And we're to be tantalised all that while? I 'm willing to see it shorn

of its fruit any time after I 've made a quick trip to town--which will

be the first thing to-morrow morning," said Murray, with a meaning wink

at Peter, who nodded, comprehending.

Rufus grinned at his father, and a general spirit of understanding

appeared to prevail among the guests, who had been brought away to the

party without a chance to get together the parcels they had stowed in

sundry secret places.

"We 're glad you 're so clever at seeing our reasons for delay," said

Nancy, gazing up into the thick branches of the tree, her eye upon

various packages of her own, all tied in the same way, so that they were

easily recognisable. She had worked for months over her gifts, having

little money to spend, but possessing much love and ten skilful fingers.

"Meanwhile we must have something doing this evening," said Rufus.

"What shall it be?"

"How will making candy suit your zest for sport?" asked Jane.

"Bully! We haven't made candy since we grew up--not real candy. I

don't count Nan's caramels and Shirley's fudge. Let's make some real

old-fashioned molasses candy, and _pull_ it!"

"What else, at the old farm? As soon as the kitchen is clear we 'll go

out," and Jane disappeared, to hasten operations in the kitchen by tying

on an apron and wiping dishes herself with Norah. Her blithe talk,

while her fingers flew, kept both Cook and Norah smiling while they

worked, and the big farm-house kitchen was soon in spotless order.

"It does be after doin' me good to work in a place like this again,"

declared Cook, as she helped Jane measure out molasses and get the big

kettle on. "It's not that I don't like the tiles and the copper and all

the conveniences of my kitchen in the city. But when a person has been

brought up in the country, there 's always the fondness clingin' to them

for the old ways, even if they 're a bit inconvenient. See the gourd

dipper, now, Norah. Will you say that water does n't taste better out

of it than from granite ware?"

"I never saw a dipper like this before," answered Norah, who had been

born in town, and could hardly share Cook's enthusiasm for these details

of country living.

"_She_ knows what I mean," said Cook, with a nod of the head after her

young mistress, just departing. "Sure, I have n't seen such a sparkle

in the eyes of her since she came to live at the house. She 's not born

to be a great lady, just a home-keeping one. And that's the best sort,

to my mind."

Then she beckoned Norah away, and they fled up the back stairs, just as

the sounds of approaching feet warned them that the company were coming.

"Jolly! This is the stuff!" exulted Rufus, bursting first into the

kitchen. "Doesn't that smell like the real thing? Tie an apron on me

and let me take charge of the kettle. The rest of you can grease tins.

I 'll offer a prize for the whitest candy. Secure your partners for the

pulling!"

"May I have the honour?" and Peter made his best bow to Shirley as she

appeared from the pantry, her hands full of shining tins.

"Of course you may, if you 'll show me how. I never pulled candy in my

life."

"Your education has been appallingly insufficient, in spite of those two

years in England. But I used to be pretty good at it, and we 'll take

the prize if you follow directions. Please begin by taking off those

rings!" commanded Peter.

Shirley obediently slipped off several pretty rings. Then she tied on a

small and frivolous apron, at which Peter frowned.

"Do you call that absurdity of lace and ribbons an apron?" he demanded.

"What do you suppose will happen to it if you drop a hunk of candy in

the sticky stage on it? Here, I 'll get you one of grandma's--they 're

worth something." Shirley presently found herself invested in a

bountifully made apron of checked white material, with a bib and

strings, which nearly covered her from sight. "Now you're safe--and so

is the candy. The minute it's fairly cool, we 'll seize a generous

portion and get away to some cool spot with it."

It was some time before this stage in the operations was reached, and

meanwhile Peter found himself obliged to share his partner with Ross and

Rufus, who had no idea of allowing monopolies, with no other girls

present but Nancy.

The elder people, however, proved themselves nearly as good company as

the younger ones, for everybody seemed to have adopted the spirit of the

season and to be ready for as much fun-making as possible. And to the

great satisfaction of both Peter and Shirley, not the least care-free of

the company seemed Mr. Joseph Bell himself.

To Peter, especially, watching his father with an eye which took note,

as the others could not, the very evident relaxation and refreshment of

the occasion were a source of deep satisfaction. For once the son felt

that he could himself relax and dare to get out of the hour all the joy

there was in it. Happiness of this sort could not hurt, he was sure. It

could only help.

"Our panful is cool enough!" declared Peter, flourishing the

blue-and-white-checked gingham apron which veiled his long legs, as he

returned from the porch, where the candy had been cooling. "Now,

partner, hands buttered, courage good? Stand ready to take hold when I

say the word, I 'll work the lump into malleable condition. Open the

door into the wood-shed, please. We 'll do our pulling there, if it's

not too cool for you; then we 'll not get stuck."

"_Ooh-h-h!_" Shirley gave a little shriek as Peter presently, with a

deft pull of his big lump into a long, smooth skein, handed her one end

with the injunction to draw it out quickly and swing it back to him.

"But it's hot!"

"Of course it is, Miss Tender-Fingers! If we let it get comfortably

cool we could n't pull it at all. Keep hold--keep it moving. Don 't

let it stay in your fingers long enough to stick.

Pull--swing--pull--swing! Hold on! You're getting stuck! Wait a

minute!"

"I can't do anything but wait!" gasped Shirley, holding up ten fingers

hopelessly embedded in a mass of uncomfortably warm material.

"What! Can this be the expert stenographer, all balled up in a couple

of quarts of molasses? Hold still! Don't try to work out. I 'll pull

you loose. Don't let the others see. Keep away from that kitchen

door!"

But Rufus, pulling smoothly away from Jane, with the art acquired by

much practice in past years, spied out the tangled ones. His shout of

laughter brought all the others toward the wood-shed door.

Shirley and Peter were obliged to return to the kitchen to obtain butter

for the stuck-up fingers. They fell into a state of great merriment

over the situation, in which everybody else joined appreciatively, and

the old kitchen rafters rang with the laughter.

"Where would the stage apron be now? This is no gallery play!" jeered

Peter, rescuing one long string of brownish-yellow sweetness from the

front of Shirley's big white apron. "Want a taste? Shut your eyes and

open your mouth!"

"No, thank you. Eat it yourself."

"I will," and Peter tipped back his head.

At this interesting moment the door between dining-room and kitchen

swung open. A figure appeared upon the threshold--a figure clad in silk

and furs, topped by a Parisian bonnet. Over its shoulder showed the

heads of two others--one wearing a wonderful hat covered with fine black

ostrich-plumes, the other its own thin thatch of short, iron-gray hair.

"We have found you at last!" said the voice of Mrs. Harrison Townsend.

Behind her, Olive burst into a musical peal of laughter.

"Look at Shirley, mother! Don't you think it's about time we came home

to prevent her quite returning to childhood?"

Then Mr. Harrison Townsend, from the background:--"This is rather

stealing a march on you, good friends. But we found our own house

dark--and this is Christmas eve!"

CHAPTER VIII

PETER READS RHYMES

"Stay? Of course you'll stay!" declared Grandfather Bell to Mr. and

Mrs. Townsend. "It'll do you good after all your junketing, and we'll be

mightily pleased to have you."

It had not taken much persuasion. There certainly was a charm pervading

the old farmhouse, and the thought of resting quietly there for a few

days appealed to Mrs. Townsend. Her husband was delighted at the plan,

for he had been persuaded to join his wife abroad, and several months of

European travel had wearied him. Everything simple and homelike

attracted him now more than ever. It had been his restlessness which

had brought his party home a month before the date originally set for

their return.

If there had been a goodly number of packages upon the Christmas tree on

Christmas eve, there were more than double that number by the evening of

Christmas day. Not only had Murray and Peter made an excursion to town,

but Mrs. Townsend, mindful of many intended gifts stored away in her

trunks, had sent Olive in with the others to get them.

When the Christmas dinner was over, Rufus proposed that the clan go out

for an hour's skating on a pond not far away. "We can enjoy that tree a

lot better if we have some good brisk exercise beforehand," he asserted.

"I don't skate," said Olive, looking as if she wished she did.

"Come along with us just the same," urged Ross, "and we 'll take turns,

not exactly 'sitting out' with you, but walking up and down the shore.

Or--we'll teach you."

Olive declined to be taught, but agreed to accompany the others.

Promenading along the bank, fur-wrapped, her dark beauty made brilliant

by the frosty air which nipped her cheeks, she was a figure to compel

attention. She had never seemed more companionable than now, and both

Ross and Rufus enjoyed, with more zest than they had anticipated, the

period allotted to them for bearing her company. Murray, observing her

with brotherly penetration, found her decidedly improved, and wondered

what had happened during the months of her absence to make her so much

more appreciative of her family's society than she had been wont to be.

When Peter, in his turn, came to offer himself as partner in her exile

from the gaieties going on upon the ice, she greeted him with a smile so

radiant that he looked at her in wonder. The old friendship between the

two, begun in the earlier days of their acquaintance, and carried on

through several years, while they grew from boy and girl to man and

woman, had waned and nearly died of neglect on both sides during the

past two years. Each had become absorbed in pursuits so different that

they had little in common, and Olive, especially, had seemed to outgrow

the traits of frankness and friendliness which had made Peter like her

in spite of many obvious faults. Before she went away, he had come to

think of her as hopelessly spoiled and artificial. But now--had

something changed her point of view?

"A few years ago." said Olive, as the two paced up and down, exchanging

comments on the occurrences of the past months, "I was in a hurry to be

grown up. When I look at Jane and Shirley and Nancy, after having been

away from them for six months, I realise that their genius for remaining

girls is going to be an advantage. What a trio they are! Shouldn't you

say they were all three about sixteen?"

The three had just joined hands and skated away from Murray, Ross, and

Rufus, who had promptly started in pursuit. All three wore skirts of

ankle length, short jackets and close little caps, and none had

considered furs a necessary article of apparel for lively exercise. A

blue silk scarf about Jane's throat and a scarlet one floating to the

breeze from Shirley's furnished notes of colour to the agile, dark-clad

figures, and three health-tinted, winsome faces looked up at the two on

the bank with a gay greeting as the trio swung lightly by.

"I certainly should," agreed Peter. "I don't think Jane will ever grow

old. Nan is an infant, and will be for ten years yet, as far as

settling down to consider herself too old for pranks like that, and I 'm

glad of it. As for your sister Shirley----"

"Tell me what you think of Shirley. The child is a continual puzzle to

me; I can't make her out. This idea of working steadily at earning a

salary in the office seems to be a fixed one, though I had supposed it

only a freak. Does she look as contented as this all the time, or is it

just the relaxation of the holiday?"

"I should say it was a permanent condition of mind. She 's more

interested to-day in her work than when she began, and is growing

surprisingly expert. Murray told me yesterday she wants to tackle the

special foreign correspondence--French, you know. That means a lot of

extra labour."

Peter spoke as if he felt a personal pride in Shirley's achievements, an

attitude which Shirley's sister was quick to note.

"I felt out of patience with you when she began, for I thought her zeal

for making a working-girl of herself might be of your inspiring," said

Olive, with a quick look at him.

"Not a bit of it. I never heard of it till she had been a week at her

first studies. How should I have dared suggest such a course?"

"You and she seem to be great friends."

"Do we? It is an honour I appreciate very much," answered Peter, with a

little touch of courtliness in his manner such as had often surprised

her in the early days of their acquaintance, and which struck her now as

decidedly interesting in a young man who spent his days in a factory,

even if he was many degrees higher in position in that factory than when

she had first known him. What his position was at present she did not

guess, nor did she know that Murray had begun to look at him as a man to

be desired in his own business, a man whose brain was undoubtedly to

make him an important factor wherever he might be.

What she did recognise was that she had met few men anywhere who had the

power to command her interest as Peter had always done, and seemed now

more capable of doing than ever before. As for his looks--she owned to

herself that she had never before realised quite how fine and resolute

and altogether manly was his whole personality.

"Speaking of contentment," said Peter, breaking the little silence which

had followed upon his last words, "don't you think it follows rather

naturally upon feeling that you are accomplishing something worth the

doing? It does n't make so much difference what it is; the point is,

that you 're doing it. If it costs effort, so much the better."

"It depends on what you think is worth the doing," said Olive. "You and

I would be apt to differ on that--as Shirley and I do."

"Not much question of that," admitted Peter, smiling. He gave her one

of his clear-sighted glances, under which she shrank a little though she

did not show it. It made her say, rather defiantly:

"Of course you think, as you always did, that I 'm the most useless

creature living, and that my ideals are about as insignificant as the

amount of actual work I do."

Their eyes met, hers black and sparkling, his gray and steady and cool.

He studied her for an instant, with a quality in his intent scrutiny

before which her eyes went down. She was used to admiration in men's

observation of her, and though that element could hardly be lacking in

Peter's, since he was human, and she a more than ordinarily charming

young woman, there was also in his regard that appearance of taking her

measure, which, quite unconsciously, he could never help exercising when

brought into contact with men or women. But his words, when they came,

were gentle.

"If you don't mind my saying so, I think you 're capable of things so

well worth while that your life might be a wonderful thing to you. You

could, if you cared to, do what you pleased with almost anybody. You

have the art, the magnetism--whatever it may be--of the born leader.

The only trouble is--you don't much mind--do you?--which way you lead."

This from Peter Bell! For a minute Olive was left speechless. Yet it

was impossible to resent his frank putting of the case, for it conveyed

something which gave her a distinct pleasure.

"I 'm not sure whether I ought to be angry with you or not," she said,

after a minute.

"Please don't be."

"When did you take up the profession of preacher?"

"To the queen?" suggested Peter, with an odd smile. "But you 're at

liberty to order my head off at any minute, you know. Or to preach

back--which would be worse."

In spite of this passage-at-arms, they were both laughing when the

others came up with the announcement that it was time to go back to the

house. But Peter's keen speech sank in; Olive did not forget it soon.

And somehow, she was more than ever sure that Peter himself was well

worth cultivating.

"I never was so excited over a Christmas tree as over this one,"

confided Nancy to Shirley, as the two dressed for the evening. The

Christmas dinner had taken place, after the country fashion, in the

middle of the afternoon. It was now six o'clock, and the evening was

before them. No supper was in order, after the tremendous banquet at

three o'clock; but Jane had provided certain light refreshments of the

decorative sort; salad and sandwiches, gay-coloured ices and bonbons,

cakes and a great bowl of fruit punch, all of which waited in a cool

spot ready for the serving by the young people themselves. Cook and

Norah had been sent into town, for a celebration of their own with

friends.

"Oh, oh! What a pretty frock!" cried Nancy, as her friend shook out a

soft silken fabric of pale gray, lighted up here and there with small

sprigs of scarlet flowers, with belt and long streamers of scarlet

velvet to match.

"Do you like it? It's my one French gown, and an inexpensive one, too,

but it looks festal, and I thought I 'd christen it to-night. Will you

wear the one I have for you? I meant to put it on the tree, but it

occurred to me you might like to wear it and keep me company," and

Shirley pulled a long box from under the valance of the high

'four-poster' bed.

"You are the dearest thing that ever lived!" cried Nancy, going down on

her knees before the box, and lifting out the frock of pale blue

veiling, with its trimmings of flowered ribbon, a girlish creation of

the sort to please young eyes.

It was a very happy pair of maids who descended the staircase together.

They were happy, however, in two quite different ways. Nancy's cup was

overflowing in the delight of her pretty finery; but it was a joy of

another sort which made Shirley's heart beat high. Under the folds of

gray with the scarlet flowers a small envelope lay hidden, over the

contents of which the girl had spent an anxious hour.

There has not been room to tell of it in this brief chronicle, but for

the last month Shirley had been having consultations with Murray over an

important subject--the matter of an investment she wished to make. She

owned not a small amount of property, in stocks and bonds, an

inheritance from her grandfather, the management of which had been put

into her hands by her father as a matter of education. Within a few

weeks a chance for profitable investment of a portion of this holding

had appealed to her, and after a spirited argument with her brother, she

had received his sanction in the course she was eager to adopt.

The legal part of the transaction had been completed two days before

Christmas, and since then Shirley had been greatly occupied in spare

moments with the composition of something which might seem to have small

connection with so prosaic a subject as the transfer of certain legal

documents from one pair of hands to another. She was not yet satisfied

with the result of her endeavours, being no poet, but the best burlesque

production of which she had been capable had been carefully copied on

her typewriter, and was now reposing where its presence considerably

quickened the heart-beats under the scarlet flowers.

At a moment when she was alone in the room Shirley slipped round behind

the tree, and extracting the envelope from its agitating position,

quickly, although with fingers which mixed themselves up a little, tied

it in an obscure place beneath a bough, where a gay golden ball nearly

hid it from view.

"Come out! Come out!" commanded Rufus, as, arriving upon the scene, he

spied her. "Absolutely not a feather's weight more allowed on that tree.

There never was a tree so bowed down with care as that one. Nor another

small boy so impatient to begin as this one. I caught sight of my name

on that package six feet long under there, and I 've been delirious with

suspense ever since."

"As soon as Santa Claus arrives," promised Jane, who had agreed with

Shirley that no accompaniment of the traditional Christmas should be

lacking, although there were no small children present to be edified by

the sight of the patron saint. Older people, as she well knew,

frequently enjoy a return to childish means of entertainment, and when

Santa Claus, in full rig, walked into the room, she was not surprised to

see the looks of greatest pleasure upon the faces of Grandfather and

Grandmother Bell.

Peter made a capital Santa Claus, treating them all as children, and

making speeches as he presented the gifts which brought forth peals of

merriment. The gifts themselves were many and varied, from the mittens

knit by Grandmother Bell's skilful fingers, to the silken scarfs and

fans and foreign photographs which were the contributions of the

travelled Townsends.

"Skees!" cried Rufus, going into contortions of ecstasy over Murray's

present, and clumping up and down the room on the unwieldy articles.

"Won't I get out to-morrow night on that hill back of the pond!"

"Such beautiful lace I never saw," said Mrs. Joseph Bell to Mrs.

Townsend, her fingers caressing the exquisite tracery of the pattern

lying in her lap, which had come to her "with the love of Eleanor

Forrest Townsend."

"I thought it looked like you," returned Mrs. Townsend, who was looking

very much pleased herself over a handkerchief wrought by Nancy's clever

art. The others were busy over their gifts; it was a pandemonium of

exclamations and congratulations, expressions of gratitude and

observations of wonder and delight. Shirley, her lap full of parcels,

tissue-paper, ribbons, and cards of presentation, talking and exclaiming

with the rest, was yet keeping her eye on Santa Claus, as he stripped

the tree. She was watching for the moment when he should find that

envelope. When it came, she meant to be out of the room and away.

Meanwhile Santa Claus dropped a fresh package into her lap. She

recognised the saint's own handwriting on the wrapper--a bolder, firmer

hand than one would have expected from a gentleman with so long and

snowy a beard. She opened it with strong anticipation, and found within

a set of note-books of special style and quality, evidently made to

order, for the binding was of a beautiful texture of leather, and the

paper within of the best known to trade--the thin India, used only for

fine work. Her name, delicately stenciled on the covers, completed a

gift which appealed to the girl with a sense of the thought and care put

into its make-up. She looked up, to find Santa Claus's eyes watching

her from behind the tree, his lips smiling beneath the white beard, for

her surprise and pleasure were plainly to be read upon her face. She

nodded at him, colouring rosily--a picture, in her gray and scarlet

frock, as she sat upon the floor surrounded by her gifts, the sight of

which was quite sufficient to reward any giver.

Almost everything was off the tree. "Hello, here 's something I nearly

missed!" murmured Santa Claus, catching sight of the corner of the white

envelope beneath the golden ball. Shirley looked up quickly, saw him

struggling with the red ribbon which tied the envelope in place, and

rose to her feet, letting a lapful of miscellaneous articles slide to

the floor.

Everybody was busy, and only Mrs. Bell noticed, and said, gently, "Look

out, dear, you 're dropping things." But Shirley was gone, through the

crowd of people and packages, to the door, and had closed it softly

behind her.

Peter had already had a gift from Shirley, a little thing. She was not

the girl to present any man with a keepsake more valuable than the small

book of modern verse which had in it certain stirring lines that she

knew would be a stimulus to him. So when he saw his own name in

typewriting upon the envelope, he opened it without much consideration,

thinking it a joke of Ross's or Rufus's. But a second envelope was

fitted inside the first, and it was labeled, "Please don't read this in

public."

His curiosity was awakened now, and slipping the communication into his

pocket, he summarily finished his duties by distributing the few

remaining parcels without comment, and then walked away out of the room.

It had occurred to him that that note-paper was of a sort that he had

seen once or twice before, when Shirley had had occasion to send him a

note of invitation.

Outside in the hall, which was dimly lighted by an oil side-lamp screwed

to the wall, Peter opened his inner envelope. Still in typewritten

characters was a set of rhymes, cast in a popular fashion used by makers

of humorous doggerel. His eye ran over them hurriedly, with a low

ejaculation of astonishment and incredulity at the end; then he read

them again more intently, looking as if he could not believe the

evidence of his eyes, They ran thus:

A farm owned by people named Bell

Was a place where a Thorn would fain dwell.

So he bought up a mortgage,

Intending to war wage

On the property-owners named Bell.

Now one of the Bells, christened Peter,

Thought life would be fuller and sweeter

If the farm could be shorn

Of this sharp-pricking Thorn,

For he feared a foreclosure, did Peter.

A designing young person called Townsend

Was seeking investment (cash down), and

She purchased the mortgage.

She never will war wage,

She'll never foreclose, will S. Townsend.

Peter had noticed, if nobody else had, when Shirley went out of the

room. He now understood her sudden disappearance. He made a quick trip

through the lower part of the house, paper in hand, his questioning gaze

penetrating every corner. She was not in the sitting-room, or the

dining-room, or the kitchen--at least he thought she was not, although

he even looked into the wood-shed. As he was returning through the

kitchen, an expression of determination on his face not wholly obscured

by his patriarchal beard, whose hitherto uncomfortable presence he had

quite forgotten, a slight movement of the pantry door caught his eye.

He seized the door-knob. It would not turn for a moment; then it

slipped slowly round, for his fingers were stronger than hers.

The two confronted each other--the white-bearded gentleman, with the

figure of an athlete and the eyes of an excited youth, and the slim girl

in the gray silk, with cheeks like her scarlet ribbons.

"What does this mean?" demanded Santa Claus. He put forth one vigorous

arm and drew the runaway out from the closet by her resisting hand.

"Just what it says, I should think," answered Shirley, bravely, although

trembling. Had she offended him? Through the whole transaction that

had been the one burden of her anxiety. "It doesn't say it very clearly,

but she never tried writing limericks before. They 're not so easy as

you might think."

"She! Who?"

"'S. Townsend.'"

"Do you mean to say you 've actually bought that mortgage?":

"Murray did the business. I didn't see Mr. Thorn."

"But you own the mortgage?"

"Yes."

"Thorn did n't want to sell it."

"No--but he had to take payment if it came when the mortgage matured."

"It is n't due for six weeks yet."

"He did n't mind being paid sooner, when he found all hope of the chance

of foreclosing was gone."

"He would n't sell for the face of it?"

"I 'm not familiar with business terms," urged Shirley.

"Not? A girl who holds a position with Townsend & Company! Tell me,

Shirley--you did n't get that mortgage six weeks before it was due, for

the face value of it?"

"Not quite."

"How much did you pay?"

"Not more than it was worth."

"Please tell me _how much more_ you paid."

"I think that's my affair," said Shirley, with her head up. But her

eyes were down.

There was a silence. Peter put his hand to his mouth with intent to

cover a sudden urgent and unwonted necessity to steady his lips. He

encountered the beard, tore it off, and cast the wig beside it upon the

floor. A young man with a face of mingled light and shadow emerged from

the disguise of the elderly one.

"If I didn't know that, with this farm as security, you 'd made a safe

investment, I could n't stand this." he said, in a low tone. "But I

know that making a safe investment was the last thing you cared about.

You wanted to stand by in a time of need--and you 've done it."

"You mustn't think," said Shirley, looking up eagerly, "that you 're

under the least obligation to me. It's just as you say. The farm

itself is more than security. It's merely a matter of business. You

know, I 'm learning to manage my little affairs. Father thought it

would be good for me. And a change of investment like this is great

fun."

Peter looked at her steadily. "Oh, no, we 're not under the least

obligation to you!" he answered. "It's very easy to find people to take

a mortgage at terms that will induce a man to sell it who 's looking for

a chance to foreclose--that's why I have n't done any worrying about the

matter! Shirley--you 're----" he seized her hand. "You're----"

"It 's all right," said Shirley, turning her head away with a sudden

access of shyness. There was no knowing what terms Peter might be going

to use, when his voice dropped to that vibrating note.

But she did not escape. Peter was ordinarily a self-controlled young

man, with a cool head not likely to be carried away by sudden emotion.

But he had a warm heart, none the less, and the girl's friendly act had

touched him deeply. Besides, he was, as has been admitted before,

entirely human, and Shirley, in her gray and scarlet, with her brilliant

cheeks and drooping eyes, was a very captivating figure. Tightening his

grasp upon her hand he ended his impulsive speech half under his breath

with--"You 're the--dearest--girl in the world!"

What he would have said--or done--next can only be conjectured, for upon

this unexpected and most disconcerting demonstration Shirley pulled her

hand away and ran--somewhere--anywhere--she did not just know where. In

this indefinite region she remained for fully half an hour. In the end

she had to come back to the living-room, but when she did it was not to

look at Peter.

As for Peter himself, when he had got rid of his Santa Claus costume and

put himself in order again, he also came back to the living-room. His

face had been put in order as well as his dress, and nobody noticed

anything odd about him. But there _was_ something odd about him--very

odd. He felt like a railway locomotive off the track, obliged to convey

to the beholders, by its steadiness of gait, the impression that it was

still on!

CHAPTER IX

A RED GLARE

"By all that's astonishing, are you actually idling? And may I come and

idle, too?"

Shirley looked up from the depths of one of the capacious willow chairs,

which, well stocked with cushions, were favourite lounging-places upon

the great side porch of the Townsend house, and from which one could

look out over a long and charming stretch of lawn toward the

tennis-court.

It was a warm evening in late May. Everybody else was away, and Shirley

had settled herself for one of the rare hours of rest and solitude which

she so much enjoyed when her work was done. But she answered Brant

Hille cordially:

"Of course you may, if you will be nice and soothing. These first warm

days make me feel a trifle lazy."

"Not strange, when you spend them in a stuffy office." Brant accepted

the cushions she tossed to him, and disposed himself comfortably upon

them on the top step near her feet.

"The office is n't stuffy. I 've sat by a wide-open window all day.

Besides, the first thing Murray did when he went in with father was to

overhaul our whole system of ventilation. So the office is never stuffy,

even in winter."

"Don't be belligerent, or I 'll not be responsible for the soothing

effects of my society. What can I do to lull you to repose? You don't

like banjo music, or I 'd have brought my banjo over. It's just the

evening for that."

"If you had, you'd have gone home again."

"You _are_ in a sweet mood!" Brant spoke with the familiarity of old

acquaintance. "Would you object to telling me what's gone wrong with

your ladyship?"

"I can't find out the French for certain phrases it's necessary to use

in the correspondence we have on hand just now. There are no

equivalents for the idioms that I can discover as yet, and it's most

important that I get them right. I 've practically had to make a

phrase-book for myself so far, because the dictionaries and hand-books

don't give the terms I want. I got hold of some old correspondence last

week that helped me immensely, but to-day I was completely baffled. I

suppose it has got on my nerves, and made me fractious."

Yet she did not look particularly nerve-worn, lying there in the low

chair, in her thin white frock, her round arms resting upon the arms of

the chair, her head thrown back, as she regarded her visitor from under

low-sweeping lashes. Neither did she look in the least like the young

woman of business she had become.

Brant was always trying to convince himself that her work was spoiling

her--it would be a comforting realisation if he could think it. But as

often as he had succeeded in making himself half believe that some other

girl, whose ways of living were such as he approved, was nearly as

attractive as Shirley Townsend, just so often did the sight of Shirley

in some unbusinesslike surroundings upset his convictions. To-night she

looked particularly feminine and alluring, in spite of her avowed

fractiousness and her explanation of the cause.

"All baffling things wear on one," he answered, with an air of being

sympathetic. "I know how it is, from experience. I 'd like a

dictionary or a phrase-book myself--one that would tell me what to say

to you when you want to be 'soothed.' Shall I go in and get a book of

verse and read aloud to you?"

"Please don't."

"Fiction, then?

"Worse and worse."

"History? Philosophy? Science? Travel?--Or humour?"

"None of them. I don't like to be read to--as a duty."

"Duty! I'd be delighted."

"I should n't, then."

"What _do_ you want?"

"Silence, I think," said the girl in the chair, with a mischievous look

at the back of her companion's head. Her face was demure again,

however, when he turned. "Don't you like just to sit and gaze off into

space on a languid night like this, and say nothing at all?"

"If you prefer to have me go home----"

"Not in the least. I 'd like to know you were there on call--if you

would n't talk."

A silence of some length ensued. Brant stared moodily off over the

darkening lawn, watching distant electric lights twinkle into existence

along the rows of tree-tops which outlined the streets. Shirley closed

her eyes. She really was more weary than she knew. It had been a busy

winter in the office, and she had worked hard to be able to fill the

place she held. Her achievements in the matter of the technical French

correspondence had proved of considerable importance to the firm, and

her satisfaction at becoming so useful had led her to spend much of her

spare time in making herself proficient.

It was fully fifteen minutes--he thought it at least an hour--before

Brant looked around. He had vowed to himself that he would give her all

the silence she wanted, that he would not speak until she spoke. But

after a time her absolute motionlessness struck him as caused by

something even less flattering to himself than her desire for absence of

speech.

"Confound it--I believe she 's gone to sleep!" he said to himself, and

rose abruptly, to stand looking down at her, discomfited and very nearly

angry. Of all the odd girls, one who would tell you to stop talking,

and then go off to sleep in your presence, was certainly the oddest. He

supposed she might be tired, and with reason, but--to go to sleep!

The shaded electric bulbs, which hung at each corner of the porch, at

this moment came glowingly into life, as somebody within switched on the

current. They were not designed to illuminate the porch strongly, only

to turn its gloom into a mellow moonlight effect. But the light was

quite sufficient to show Brant that although Shirley's lashes still

swept her cheek, her lips were smiling.

"It was a frightful test of your friendship, n't it?" she murmured,

without opening her eyes. "But you did nobly. I never thought you

could hold out so long!"

"You--rascal! I 'll wager you wanted to talk, yourself, after a while."

"Of course I did. The minute a woman gets what she wants, she

wants--something else."

"What is it now? Me to go home?"

"How distrustful of yourself you are to-night!"

"That's the effect you usually have on me." Brant drew up a chair.

"Shirley," he began again abruptly, "do you know what I wish?"

"No."

"Do you want to know it?"

"Not badly."

"You don't care a straw for me, do you?"

"Several straws."

"You do! I say----"

A door opened. Sophy said, deferentially, "You 're wanted at the

telephone, if you please, Miss Shirley."

Shirley vanished. Brant rose and paced about the porch, waiting.

"Of course it's no use!" he said, discontentedly, to himself. "I 've

got as far as this forty times--and no farther. The next thing she did

would be to throw a soaking wet blanket over me. I ought to be used to

it. But she might at least take me seriously. She never does. It 's

no good--this growing up with a girl and then trying to convince her

that you mean anything when you speak!"

Inside, Shirley was listening to a rapid fire of words which woke her up

as thoroughly as anything had ever done in her life. They came in the

voice of Peter Bell, a voice at once excited and controlled:

"Shirley, the factory is on fire. I don't want father to hear about

it--he 'd come down--you understand. Will you think up some way to get

him off with yourself for the next hour? We 'll probably have to turn in

a general alarm, and if we do, somebody 'll be sure to call him up and

tell him. That 's all. I can count on you?"

"Yes--yes. Peter----"

But Peter was already gone. Evidently he had no time to spare for

answering questions. Shirley turned away from the telephone, thinking

rapidly.

She knew that Mr. Joseph Bell was at home, for she had seen him, an hour

earlier, training vines over the front porch. She understood that Peter

had remained for late work at the factory office, as he so often did,

although it was now nearly nine o'clock. And she knew well that it

would never do for Peter's father to go down to the burning

building--the excitement of a great fire at his own place of business

would be the worst thing in the world for him.

Mr. Joseph Bell had kept steadily on at his work throughout the year,

and nothing that Peter had feared had happened. It had been arranged

somehow so that the most fatiguing part of his duties now came upon the

broad shoulders of the son instead of the bent ones of the father. But

it was as necessary as ever that there should be no sudden strain,

either physical or mental, and it was this which she now must prevent.

Brant Hille, waiting impatiently outside, saw Shirley fly back to him,

and looked up at her with gratification. But her first words made him

sit up, for she spoke in haste:

"Brant, is your car ready for a start?"

"Always is. Want to----"

"Will you get it--quick? The Armstrong paper-factory is on fire. Mr.

Bell mustn't know it. I can't stop to explain. I must get him away

where he won't hear. I 'll go ask him and Mrs. Bell to take a drive

with us--out to the farm, perhaps. I 'll run over. You drive round

there--will you?"

"Why on earth should n't he know? He----"

"Oh, don't stop to talk about it. I 'll tell you afterward. The

general alarm may go in any minute, and somebody will telephone him if

he's at the house. Quick--please!"

Of course Brant did not understand, but Shirley's manner was not to be

taken lightly. Even as she spoke she left him and ran indoors again.

Well, if he could serve her, it would be better than having to sit

beside her in silence while she thought about technical French phrases.

Besides, he was an enthusiastic motorist, and a hurry call for the car

always gave him more or less pleasure. He bolted across the lawn,

through the hedge by a short cut to the street, and so to his own home,

on the farther side of Worthington Square.

Shirley hurried across Gay Street, having stopped only to pick up a long

coat and scarf. She caught sight of Mrs. Bell's light skirt at the edge

of the vine-screen of the porch.

"Isn't it a perfect night?" Mrs. Bell heard a familiar, clear-toned

voice ask. "Don't you and Mr. Bell want to take a gentle little spin

down Northboro road in Mr. Hille's car? He 's asked me out, and given

me leave to invite whomever I want. I 'd love to have you."

Mr. Brant Hille--inviting Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Bell to go motoring with

him at nine o'clock on a May evening--there was no precedent for this!

But Mrs. Bell, with the intuition of the mother of young people, thought

she understood. Shirley wanted a chaperon, and her kind young heart

prompted her to ask a pair who were not much accustomed to the delights

of automobiling in the moonlight.

"Why, yes, we'll go," said Mr. Bell, getting up from his rocking-chair.

"We 're all alone to-night--the young people are off at a party. If you

'll persuade the young man not to put on too much speed."

So in less than five minutes the party were settling themselves in the

big green car, its headlights making a wide, brilliant track before it

down the quiet street.

"All ready?" asked Hille, and started the car. As it began to move, the

distant but distinct sound of a telephone-bell struck upon Shirley's

ear. Mr. Bell turned his head. "Was that in our house?" he asked.

Mrs. Bell was tying a scarf over her hair, slightly muffling her ears.

She had not heard.

"Go on--fast!" breathed Shirley in Hille's ear. The street was nearly

empty, and he obeyed. For a moment Mr. Bell's attention was taken by

the new sensation of speed,--not appreciable speed, from the motorist's

stand-point, because the car was within city limits, but to the novice

considerable.

At the intersection of Gay Street with Conner Street it was possible to

look for a moment straight down toward the heart of the city, into the

business district. A red glare was plainly visible, although partly

dimmed by hundreds of twinkling electric lights between.

"Must be a big fire," said Mr. Bell, straining his eyes to see. Then

the trees and houses hid the city from view. "It was down our way, too.

I wish I could telephone the factory and find out. Peter's there. He

'd know. Might be that was our telephone-bell that rang."

"I did n't hear any bell, dear," his wife assured him.

"A fire always looks nearer than it is," said Hille, over his shoulder,

driving on without diminishing his speed. Instead, he accelerated it.

The street was a quiet one, there was nobody in sight.

"One summer, when I was a little girl, and we were staying in the

country, father and I walked half a mile to see a fire--and found a big

red moon coming up behind the trees," said Shirley, and talked lightly

on.

Brant seconded her efforts with skill, for which she inwardly thanked

him, and between them they soon had the thoughts of their guests far

away from the dangerous subject. They ran quickly through the suburbs

out into the open country, taking the Northboro road, for that course

led directly away from the red glare which, as Shirley covertly glanced

back from time to time, could be clearly perceived on the western side

of the city behind them.

Gaily as she talked and laughed, the girl's thoughts were with Peter.

He was somewhere back in that red glare, working, without doubt, if

there were anything for him to do. She was thankful that it was after

hours, and that there were probably few of the factory hands about the

place, yet there were undoubtedly many things to be saved in the

office--books and papers and drawings. She knew Peter well enough to be

sure that his own personal safety would be the last thing he would think

of, so long as he could do what might look like his duty to the house he

served.

The Bells did not know how far they went, nor did they guess at what a

pace. Brant's machine was a fine one, and he was an expert at smooth

running. The flight through the warm moonlight was a delightful

experience, for few curves and no sharp grades gave accent to the speed,

and the hour flew by as swiftly as the road. When they turned again

toward the city, the crimson glow upon the clouds had gone.

"The fire is out," remarked Mr. Bell, as they arrived at the top of a

small hill in the suburbs, from which he could see into the heart of the

business district. "Hope it was n't as serious as it looked."

But Brant's eyes and Shirley's, younger and sharper, could make out a

dense mass of smoke hanging over the place where the flames had been.

"It won't do to take them home yet," thought the girl, setting her wits

at work again.

The result was an invitation to the Bells to alight at the great porch

of the Townsend house, instead of in Gay Street, with the promise of

some light refreshment. At first they shook their heads; but Hille

declared so loudly that he knew what Shirley had to offer, and could not

think of letting them down short of the full measure of the

entertainment, that there seemed to be no way out without spoiling the

pleasure of the two young people. So presently they were all partaking

of a hastily concocted iced drink, served with tiny cakes, and laughing

over Hille's stories of certain college incidents, which he told with

gusto, incited thereto by Shirley's whispered, "You 're helping me

splendidly. Please keep it up, and I 'll be forever in your debt."

"If there's any way of making you forever in my debt," Brant made reply

under his breath, "I 'll do a continuous performance for your friends

till daylight."

But such an effort as this would have been was unnecessary. Mrs. Bell

presently took her husband away, and since it was a late hour, and no

other chaperons appeared upon the scene, Brant was forced to go, also.

He was obliged to give up making any further attempts at gaining headway

in Shirley's good graces, for although she dismissed him with hearty

thanks, it was with an air of abstraction hardly to be wondered at. Her

one desire was to hear the telephone-bell ring again, and learn that

although the factory might have burned to the ground, no lives were

lost--and that not a hair of her friend's head was hurt.

She stood alone upon the porch, waiting anxiously, when the Townsend

landau drove in at the gate, bringing home Murray and Jane, who had been

out to dinner.

"There she is," said Murray, with suppressed excitement. The next

instant he was out, had whirled Jane out also, and was grasping his

young sister's hands.

"Don't be frightened--it 's all right. But a few things have happened

this evening. The Armstrong factory----"

"I know. Is it gone?"

"To the foundations. Peter found the fire, fought it alone till the

firemen came, rescued the night-watchman--played the leading part

generally--till an accident put him out. My word!--that

fellow----Well--he 's all right, but he 's burned a bit, and his leg 's

broken. He was so confoundedly risky, trying to save the last calendar

on the wall----"

"Where is he?"

"St. Martin's Hospital. We 've just come from there. He got his

knock-out the first half-hour after the thing began, so there 's been

time to get him fixed up. Our man Larrabee was at the fire, saw Peter

put into the ambulance, and telephoned me at the Kingsfords'. Tried

three times to get his people at home, but could n't. See here, he wants

you to tell his mother--says Jane is too much upset."

[Illustration: "'LARRABEE WAS AT THE FIRE AND SAW PETER PUT INTO THE

AMBULANCE'"]

Shirley looked at Jane. "I 'm not upset," said Jane, but her lips were

unsteady. Murray put his arm around her.

"You see, Larrabee thought it was worse than it was with Peter, when

they put him in the ambulance. He was stunned by the fall that broke

his leg. It gave Janey a bad shock, and no wonder--it did me. But the

old boy 's himself again, all right, and his one idea is to let his

mother know why he does n't come home, but to keep even the news of the

factory fire from his father to-night, if he can. We don't see why, but

he seems to, so we 'll follow his wishes. It's the least we can do for

him."

Shirley slipped through the hedge, and slowly crossed Gay Street in the

moonlight. She was trying hard to be cool and do as Peter wanted her to

do. If she rang, Mr. Bell would come to the door, and then how should

she manage, what excuse should she give? She thought of a way.

"Mr. Bell," she said when he appeared, "Janey 's come home from her

party--and she 's had just a little bit too much party. She feels like

a small girl again, and wants her mother to come over for a few

minutes."

"Why, of course," said Mr. Bell, heartily, from the shadow of the

doorway. "Nothing much the matter with the little girl?"

"Oh, no--she 'll be all right in the morning."

So Mrs. Bell crossed the road with Shirley, and the girl, with her arm

round the elder woman's shoulders, gently told her the news. Mrs. Bell

took it as Peter had known she would, quietly, although, aside from his

personal injury, there was much cause for anxious thought in the loss of

the factory and the consequent putting of its workers out of employment.

When Peter's mother had gone home again, resting on Murray's promise

that in the morning he would take her to the hospital, Shirley turned to

her brother. He had taken Jane upstairs, and come down again, himself

too restless to go to bed. He discovered his sister to be in a like

mood, and they sat down once more in the moonlit porch to talk it over,

regardless of the hour, which was past midnight.

"I wonder sometimes," said Murray, suddenly, when he had told Shirley in

detail all he knew of the events of the evening, "whether anybody but me

fully appreciates that chap, Peter Bell. Do you know what I' ve been

thinking a long time? That he 's the man we need at the head of one of

our departments. From all I can learn, he 's been growing as nearly

invaluable to the Armstrongs as a man can be, yet they have n't raised

his salary for two years. Now 's our chance to jump in and get him. If

I can only convince father--and I think he 's pretty nearly convinced--I

'll make Peter an offer to-morrow. Pretty good medicine for a broken

leg and burned hands--eh?"

"I should hope it would be."

"You 'd like to see him in the business, would n't you?"

"If you think him fit for it."

"If I think him fit! What about you?"

"How can I judge? It's for you to say."

Murray looked sharply at her, in the shaded light of the electric bulbs.

He smiled, for in spite of her remarkably quiet manner, her fingers,

unconsciously twisting and untwisting her delicate handkerchief, were,

as he put it to himself, "giving her away." He had an idea that it

mattered a good deal to his sister what Peter Bell's future might be,

although he was confident that there was no understanding between them.

If he knew Peter, that young man was not the one to ask to marry a rich

man's daughter until his own feet were on substantial ground. But that

Peter cared, and cared very deeply, for Murray Townsend's sister, Murray

was well assured.

"It's for me to say, is it?" he went on, wickedly persisting in his

theme. "But it's for you to think! How about having him round our

office every day--desk next mine--giving you dictation, now and then,

maybe, when it suits me to put it off on him? Think you could stand it?

Look up at him as coolly as you do at me? Could you, Miss Townsend,

stenographer? See here, what are you jumping up for?"

"Because you are getting impudent," responded Miss Townsend, turning her

head so that her face was in shadow. Her heart was beating so quickly

she was afraid her brother would recognise the fact. It had been an

agitating evening all through, and now this last suggestion was rather

more than she could face with composure.

"I 've a notion P. B. himself could put up with the situation," went on

Murray, watching her. "His dictation might be a trifle flurried at

first, and he might forget himself now and then, and ignore those purely

businesslike relations which should always exist between a business man

and his stenographer. But I 've no doubt that by a judicious course of

snubbing you could----"

But he was talking to the empty air. By a hasty flight and the abrupt

closing of a door, his sister had put herself out of range.

CHAPTER X

PETER PREFERS THE PORCH

"You 're quite sure you want me?" asked Peter Bell.

"Quite sure," replied Murray Townsend. The two pairs of eyes looked

into each other.

Peter's gaze shifted to his father. "I 'll do it under one condition,"

he said. "That father gives up factory work and goes to live at the old

farm."

Mr. Harrison Townsend turned also toward Mr. Joseph Bell. He smiled

slightly, noting the hesitation of the other man.

"It's time you and I retired, Bell," said he. "I 've been getting to the

point for a long time. Let's make a bargain of it. If you 'll go back

to the farm, I 'll come and spend a good share of my time there. I 'd

like to help with the haying. I should enjoy watching the cows come

home. I 'll venture to say I could drive a mowing-machine--for an hour

or two."

The four men occupied the small rear porch of the house in Gay Street,

looking out on Nancy's garden. Peter lay upon a couch, his leg in

splints, his hands in bandages. After a few days at the hospital he had

been brought home, to spend the long hours of his recovery where he

could bear them best. The other three were close by, Murray nearest.

He had put off making his proposition to Peter until he and his father

could arrive at a perfect agreement as to every term of the offer.

Joseph Bell met his son's meaning gaze with understanding. He knew

nothing counted with Peter as did the anxiety over his father's physical

condition. He had kept his boy a long time upon the rack, because of

his own unwillingness to give up his old work. But the work was taken

away from him now; there would be a considerable interval before the

Armstrongs would be ready for him again; and he could hardly think of

trying for a new position. Meanwhile, the haying season was

approaching. He thought with longing of the scent of the newly cut

grass. He could not work hard out under the sun, he knew that; but--he

could play at work. And his friend, Harrison Townsend, rich man though

he was, was offering to play, too.

He looked at Peter and smiled, under his short gray beard. Peter smiled

back entreatingly. Slowly Joseph Bell nodded. "All right, Peter," he

said. "I'll let you have your way at last."

For a moment Peter could not speak. He lay with dropped eyelids,

fighting lest the sudden relief from the long strain should unman him

before these who had been paying tribute to his manhood. But after a

short space he looked from Mr. Townsend to his son.

"I 'll come," said he, and forgetting his bandaged hands, started to

hold one out. Then he smiled whimsically, and added in an odd tone, "If

you 're not afraid of the bad omen in taking on a man with a pair of

hands like these?"

"Not much, when we remember what put them in that shape!" declared

Murray, in a tone of great satisfaction; and his father gave an emphatic

assent.

"What do you think 's going to happen _now_?" cried Nancy, rushing out

upon Peter's porch, a week later.

"Give it up. But nothing can surprise me, after recent events," replied

Peter, removing his gaze for a moment from the morning newspaper pinned

up in front of him to the excited face of his sister, but looking

immediately back again at the absorbing column of business news he had

been with some difficulty perusing. His hands had been slow in

recovering from the severe injuries they had received.

"This will. Somebody's going to be married."

"Remarkable. But such events have occurred before in the history of

nations," replied her brother, abstractedly.

"Not at the Townsend house, for Murray married Jane over here. Ah, ha!

I thought you 'd give me your undivided attention at last," crowed

Nancy, triumphantly.

Peter did his best to look unconcerned, but his heart had begun to thump

quite suddenly and disconcertingly. He waited. He forgot the

newspaper.

"Have n't you noticed how devoted Brant Hille has been for the last

year?" Nancy demanded.

"No."

"Then you 've been blind."

"I 've been busy."

"How oddly you speak! Is your throat sore?"

"Don't tease, Nan. I'm not up to it." It was no use trying to look

unconcerned.

Nancy saw, and took pity on him, as she might not have done if he had

been upon his feet. "It's Olive, then--though I believe I could have

made you think it was Shirley. It's not Brant Hille's fault that it is

n't, I can tell you that. Olive's going to marry an Englishman she met

last summer abroad--Mr. Arthur Crewe of Manchester. It's just announced.

The wedding 's to be the first of July. You 'll be on crutches, Peter.

Is n't that lucky? You can go."

"Oh, yes, I 'll dance at the wedding!" agreed Peter, looking as if the

shot that missed him had come uncomfortably close.

"It's going to be a big wedding--a gorgeous one. Is n't that like

Olive? Shirley's to be maid of honour, and there 'll be six

bridesmaids. Six ushers--and you 'd have been one if you had n't broken

your leg. Olive told me so."

"Compensation in all things," murmured Peter.

"The best man is the Englishman's brother. Olive says he 's stunning.

Would n't it be funny if he and Shirley should take a fancy to each

other? The maid of honour and the best man often do, you know."

"Very interesting. I should say you had been taking a course of novels,

you 're so full of possible plots." And Peter eyed his newspaper as if

he preferred its practical columns to his sister's outlines of

sentimental situations. Nancy laughed.

"Shirley's to have a vacation, for a week before the wedding. Perhaps

she 'll find time to get over to see you oftener, then."

"She 's been over to see me."

"How many times?"

"Twice."

"For how long?"

"Five minutes, the first time, three, the second."

"How many other people present?"

"A dozen or so."

"Have a satisfactory visit?"

"Oh, very!" Peter hit the newspaper with his elbow, and it fell down.

"What have you got it in for me this morning for, Sis?" he demanded,

wrathfully.

Nancy stopped laughing and looked serious. "It won't hurt you any. It

may wake you up. I just want you to know that I 'm honestly and truly

worried about Brant Hille."

Then she vanished, and Peter lay wishing he had two good legs, that he

might get up and go and see for himself just how much all this meant. He

read the newspaper no more that morning; it lay forgotten on the floor

where it had fallen.

The weeks went by slowly enough to the convalescent, impatient to begin

his new work, and full of plans for it. Long talks with Murray helped

most to make the waiting endurable, and the two young men grew to know

and respect each other still more deeply than ever before. Everybody was

kind. Both Mr. and Mrs. Townsend came often to see Peter; and even

Olive, although at times distraught with the business of preparation for

her approaching marriage, found a half-hour now and then in which to

slip across to Gay Street and talk with him.

At these times she found decided refreshment in his society, for Peter's

ideas on the subject of matrimony were both novel and sensible, and in

after years she often found herself remembering and putting into

practice one or another of his quizzical maxims, founded on much shrewd

observation.

"You are coming to my wedding, you know," she said, on the last of these

occasions, three days before the date set for that event. "And I want

you at dinner the evening before, so you may get to know Mr. Crewe, and

he you, as well as you can in one short evening. I'm so disappointed he

could n't be here all this week, as he planned."

"Dinners?--weddings?--on these sticks?" scoffed Peter, that day promoted

to crutches and finding them as yet merely invitations to ironic humour.

"Certainly. If you make them an excuse for staying away, I shall never

forgive you."

"Please let me off from the dinner. If you 'll put me in the porch, and

let me be found there afterward, I 'll agree, but I can't hobble out to

the table on crutches of torture."

"Not even to take out Shirley?" Olive glanced at him mischievously, and

saw him colour slightly as he answered:

"That would be an inducement if anything would. But I 'm sure you 'll

adopt my point of view if I beg you to."

"Then I shall have to send her in with Geoffrey Crewe--or Brant Hille."

"Will the men stay behind when the ladies come out?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then I prefer the porch," persisted Peter, comfortably; and Olive

acknowledged that he had chosen the wiser part.

So on Tuesday evening, when Shirley, in the midst of a rainbow-tinted

group of young women, floated airily out from the brightly lighted and

oppressively warm dining-room to the cool, softly lighted recesses of

the great porch, it was with a sense of refreshing change that she went

straight to the big chair by a pillar, where Peter sat waiting for her.

As she dropped into a low seat by his side, she thought she had never

seen him show to greater advantage, although he could not rise to do her

honour, and could only say, with a straight, upward glance, "This is

kind of you. I 've been thinking for an hour how you 'd look when you

came out that door."

"Do I look it?"

"My imagination fell a long way short. It's months since I 've seen you

in this sort of thing."

He indicated her gauzy evening frock of pale rose-colour. A wreath of

tiny rosebuds crowned her hair; a little silver basket of roses,

ribbon-tied, lay in her lap, a dinner favour like those the others

carried, but suiting her attire with special charm.

"Do you remember our first party?" asked Shirley, smiling at him.

"I certainly do," Peter assured her. "You had on a white dress and pink

ribbons--pink slippers, too. You came up and slid your hand into mine,

because you saw I was feeling lonely. You were jolly kind to me that

night, and I never forgot it. I suppose I was a pitiful object,

standing there looking on, all by myself."

"You did n't look pitiful at all, but rather superior, if I remember,

like a big St. Bernard, condescending to watch the antics of a lot of

frolicsome terriers."

Peter threw back his head and laughed low, with a gleam of white teeth.

Whatever there might have been that was odd about Peter's appearance at

that first party, there could be no criticism of his looks to-night.

Olive, taking critical note of Shirley's companion, owned that she

should feel no hesitation in presenting him to Mr. Arthur Crewe and his

brother as a connection of the family. When that moment arrived, the

American and the Englishmen appeared to take a frank liking to one

another on the spot, for the Crewes both sat down to talk, and Peter,

sitting up, met them half-way in a cordial effort to become acquainted

in the brief time allotted them.

"Will you tell me what you think of him?" It was Olive, slipping for a

moment toward the end of the evening into the chair by Peter's, he being

temporarily left to himself.

"I think he's a man," said Peter, heartily, and to the point. "There 's

nothing better I could say than that, is there?"

"I suppose not, being one yourself. A woman would think it necessary to

add a number of complimentary things about his appearance and his manner

and all that."

"I could do that, at a pinch," said Peter, smiling, "for my memory would

tell me that they were all right, though I thought nothing about them at

the time. I was looking to see what it was you were going to marry, and

I found out--as far as a half-hour's talk would show it. I wish you

great happiness, Olive--and I believe you 'll get it."

"Thank you," and Olive was gone again, being in constant demand, as the

central figure of the occasion. She found time, however, to ask much

the same question of Arthur Crewe concerning Peter Bell, and received so

nearly the same sort of answer that she laughed, and told him of the

similarity in the two estimates.

"I am flattered," said Crewe, "for I don't know when I 've met a young

American I 've liked better. He 's both frank and reserved--a

combination which appeals to me. It looks a bit as if you were going to

have him in the family, I believe you told me? I sincerely hope you

will--though, if you don't mind my saying it, now that I see your

sister, I feel as if I 'd like to leave Geoffrey here for the summer,

with deliberate intention. I fancy it's too late for that, though."

"I 'm glad you like Peter. It would be too unkind to the family to take

more than one daughter to England."

"See how well Geoffrey appreciates his privileges?" whispered Crewe,

indicating his brother, as that personable young man went by with

Shirley, his manner suggesting concentration of attention upon the

subject in hand. Then he looked in Peter's direction. "The chap in the

chair isn't deserted, is he? I think each bridesmaid has taken a turn

at him, and he seems equal to them all."

However this might have been, Peter found himself thoroughly weary at

the end of the evening, and glad to be put into a wheeled chair and

taken home, ignominious as that mode of departure seemed. Arthur Crewe

insisted on walking at Peter's elbow, all the way round to the house in

Gay Street and the two parted with friendly warmth of good-will on each

side.

According to Nancy, who kept Peter informed, Geoffrey Crewe neglected

none of the opportunities afforded him by his brief visit, and in one

way and another Shirley was kept busy all the next day. The wedding was

to take place in the evening, so Peter had plenty of time to rest and

reflect on the advantages an able-bodied man has over a temporary

cripple, as he caught glimpses, from time to time, of such sights as

Shirley driving off in the trap with the younger Englishman, or sitting

beside Brant Hille as he took a portion of the bridal party away for a

spin in his big green car.

Olive had chosen to be married at home, so every effort at effective

decoration had been expended upon the house and grounds in Worthington

Square. For a hot night in July, it was expected that the outdoor

arrangements would be most popular, and the great lawn, with its natural

beauties of landscape-gardening enhanced by the devices of electricity

and Chinese lanterns, flowers and bunting, was like a fairyland.

"If a fellow's will amounted to anything, a scene like this would make

him get on his legs, if both of them were only just out of the

repair-shop!" groaned Peter, as he was brought through the gates by

Rufus at an early hour. He took note of the paths winding away through

the grounds, made enticing to promenades by every witchery of art, and

his imagination already pictured Shirley, in her maid-of-honour attire,

floating away down one of them, devotedly attended by Brant Hille or

Geoffrey Crewe.

"Cheer up. The wounded-hero role is awfully taking with the girls, you

know," consoled Rufus, divining the tantalising effect of this stage

setting upon his handicapped brother.

"Wounded hero be shot!" retorted Peter.

"It would be the most soothing thing that could happen to him. Would

you like to change places with him, instead of being able to dash about

in search of what you want?"

"I shouldn't mind, if my crippled condition seemed to have the hypnotic

effect yours did last evening. According to Nancy, the bride-elect was

n't in it with you at posing as an interesting figure. She said the

bridesmaids were four deep around you."

"Kind-hearted things--they were nearly the finish of me. When I become

a society man please notify my family. I shall not have the brains,

myself."

"I will. Where will you be placed for the ceremony?"

"Behind a screen of palms, if possible," requested Peter. He did not

get his wish literally, but by grace of a special plea to one of the

ushers, he was put in an inconspicuous place of great advantage, where

he could not only view the entire scene, but could watch the bridal

party during its whole course, from stair-landing to improvised altar

beneath a vine-covered canopy at one end of the long drawing-room.

Olive made a strikingly beautiful bride, as her friends had known she

would, and her bridesmaids were nearly all more than ordinarily fair--or

seemed so in their picturesque garb. But to Peter, in all the bridal

party there was only one face and figure worth more than a moment's

glance. And when the maid-of-honour finally turned away from the altar

to take her position by the side of the best man for the ceremonies of

reception and congratulation which followed upon the conclusion of the

marriage service, the one onlooker who could not get up and take his

place in the gay company forming in line to greet the bridal party, was

feeling more than ever like a stranded canal-boat in the company of a

fleet of racing yachts.

They came to him, however, when they were free--Olive Crewe and her

husband, Shirley and Mr. Geoffrey Crewe, several of the bridesmaids, and

even Brant Hille, and Peter said all the things that were expected of

him, and said them well. He might be no "society man," as he had said,

but he possessed the self-command and quickness of wit which take the

place of familiarity with such situations. Arthur Crewe liked him

better than ever as the two shook hands, and Peter spoke his quiet but

earnest words of felicitation and prophecy for the future.

"I 'm sorry I can't be here to see you when you get about again," said

Crewe, at parting. "I can quite fancy the energy and enthusiasm you put

into your work."

"I don't need to see you at yours to be sure you 're a steam-engine both

at project and performance," responded Peter, smiling.

"We 'd work jolly well together, I venture to say," said the Englishman.

"Perhaps we'll have the chance some day."

"I wish we might," and Peter gave the friendly hand a hearty grip.

"Good-bye--good-bye. The best of luck."

Peter sat alone upon the Townsend porch, waiting for someone to come and

take him home. Everything was over; the bridal pair had gone; the last

lingerers along the lantern-lighted paths among the shrubbery had

straggled in and reluctantly taken their departure. The big marquee in

the centre of the lawn, where supper had been served, was empty except

for scurrying caterer's men. The string orchestra stationed in the

summer-house had at last stopped playing, mopped their perspiring heads,

and packed up their instruments. Mrs. Townsend had betaken herself to

her room in a state of collapse, requiring the attendance of her husband

and Jane; and Murray paced up and down the upper hall, thinking to

himself that he had never before realised what unpleasant things

weddings were when they occurred in one's own family.

As for Shirley, no one had laid eyes upon her since the moment when the

Townsend landau had driven away, with everybody throwing confetti, and

Olive, leaning out, had flung her bouquet straight at her sister's feet.

Everybody had laughed as Shirley picked it up, but the girl had run away

with the white bridal roses crushed close against her breast, her lips

set tight and her eyes brilliant with unshed tears. She and Olive had

been more to each other during this last year than ever before--and

England, as a place of permanent residence, seemed a very, very long way

off.

It was odd that at the last everybody seemed to have forgotten Peter.

Ross, laughing with a pretty girl, had walked directly past him and gone

home, unmindful. Peter had supposed he would come back, but he did not.

The servants were busy, the quiet of the deserted porch restful, and

Peter leaned his head against one of the tall white pillars, thinking

less of the evening that was past than of the future that was,

coming--so soon as he could walk sturdily about once more.

Up through the narrowest and least conspicuous path of all, one which

few of the wedding revelers had noticed because its entrance was

designedly unlighted, came a slim white figure with bent head. Peter,

gazing dreamily out over the lawn, saw it at once, and recognised it

with a start of gladness.

Shirley came on across the velvety grass without looking up, and slowly

ascended the porch steps with her eyes still cast down. Reaching the

top, she turned about and stood leaning against the pillar, on the other

side of which was Peter's chair, without noticing his presence, staring

off at the rainbow-tinted lights, and seeing a little misty halo about

each one.

When she had stood motionless there for some time, Peter spoke, so

quietly that he hardly startled her. She turned about with a little

choking breath, said, "Oh, is it you?" in a tone of relief, and resumed

her former position.

"I wish I could help make it easier," said Peter, very gently. "You 've

made things easier for me so many times, first and last."

"You do," said Shirley, in a half-whisper.

"Do I? I'm glad. But how?"

"Just by being there."

Peter's face lighted up. This was a most unusual tribute from his

independent little friend. He got slowly to his crutches, and with a

greater effort than he had yet made, came stumping round to her side of

the pillar, and stood near her, leaning against a great green tub which

held a towering palm. He felt somehow as if he must be literally upon

his feet in order to stand by her in this crisis.

Both were silent again for some minutes, until suddenly Shirley looked

round at him, and exclaimed, "Why, I mustn't let you stand like this!

Please sit down again."

"Not unless you do."

"Why? I 'm not tired."

"But I want to be near you. I 've done nothing all the evening but envy

the men who could get about and do things for you."

"You 'll soon be walking off at your usual breakneck pace," said

Shirley, the colour coming back with a rush into cheeks which had been

pale since Olive went.

"To the office--yes--your office. I can hardly wait. But I wonder

sometimes if I can keep my wits and do my work there."

"Why not?"

"Don't you know why?"

Shirley's little moist ball of a handkerchief was all at once being

clutched very tight in her fingers. She shook her head.

"I think you do. I think you must know why I 'm half out of my head

with the prospect of being manager of the new house of Townsend & Son."

"I 'm glad that you like the prospect," said Shirley, in the lowest of

voices, and looking anywhere but at Peter.

"Are you? Do _you_ like it?"

"Very much."

Peter forgot his crutches, and one of them fell with a rattle at

Shirley's feet. She would have bent to pick it up, but he prevented

her, and laboriously reached for it himself.

"I 'm not going," said Peter, deliberately, "to let you wait on me, when

all in life I want is the chance to serve you--all my life."

"It would be a very poor partnership," said Shirley, in a half-whisper,

after a minute--and Peter's heart stopped beating--"if the serving were

all on one side"--and Peter's heart went thumping on again, though not

in proper rhythm.

"Partnership! _Is_ it a partnership, Shirley?"

She nodded. But she moved three steps out of reach. Peter made a hasty

movement, and both crutches slipped down to the floor with a crash, and

slid away off the edge of the porch to the ground. Peter glared after

them. Then he looked at Shirley, standing there, rose-cheeked, her

tear-wet eyes now full of laughter.

"Oh, _please_ get them for me, dear!" he pleaded. "Or--no--never mind

the crutches! Just--_come here_!"