There was an early breakfast the next day, for John’s train left Melville at a little before eight. He had begged that Margaret would not come down to see him off and she had answered with a noncommittal smile. But when he entered the lamplighted dining-room she was already seated behind the shimmering urn, fresh and bright. A big fire roared and crackled in the chimney place, for the morning was cold and lowering, and the scene was so warm and cozy and homelike that John was sorely tempted to invent some desperate excuse and remain at Elaine. Why not? he asked himself. Was it incumbent upon him to hurry away merely because Margaret had not thrown herself into his arms at the first opportunity? Why not stay and go on as though yesterday’s episode had never been? She liked him; she had owned that; then why not remain and find what pleasure he could in that friendship she was ready to give him? But no, he could not go on as though nothing had happened; that was impossible. His presence would prove an embarrassment to Margaret every hour of the day. Besides, yesterday’s occurrence had proved that he could not trust himself. No; it was better to take his departure now before he did anything to impair Margaret’s regard.

The reasons he had given for his sudden leaving were decidedly vague; it was necessary that he should be in Washington that evening; Corliss had telegraphed; it was all very important. Phillip damned Corliss heartily and didn’t hesitate to express dark suspicion. Even this morning found him still grumbling and lamenting. John could not flatter himself that he had deceived Margaret. She had expressed sincere regret upon the news of his intended departure, but she had asked no questions; she had even reprimanded Phillip when he had overstepped the bounds of politeness and had shown undue curiosity as to the contents of the telegram.

Breakfast was a dismal affair. The outside world, seen through the tall windows, was gray and chilly. Phillip was out of temper; John depressed. Of the three, Margaret alone seemed possessed of her usual good spirits, and talked brightly and cheerfully until John mentally accused her of hard-heartedness and told himself bitterly that she was probably glad to be rid of him. He had said good-by to Mrs. Ryerson overnight and had been touched and pleased at the warmth of feeling she had shown.

“You must come back, Mr. North,” she said. “I want you to feel that here at Elaine there’s a room always ready and waiting for you, and a welcome from us all. I’ve adopted you, sir, so don’t—don’t let it be too long before you return.”

“My dear Mrs. Ryerson,” he had answered warmly, “no one could be sorrier to go than I, and no one happier to come back.”

“That is a promise,” she had replied, well pleased. “We shall remember it. And you’ll look after Phillip, won’t you? You see, I’m not altogether disinterested, am I? Good-night and good-by, Mr. North; and—I suppose you don’t care to kiss old women, do you?”

“I love to kiss young women who call themselves old,” John had answered.

But Mrs. Ryerson was not the only member of the household at Elaine who had fallen victim to John. Uncle Casper had learned of his departure with comical but genuine sorrow, and all through breakfast he stole about the table with gloom depicted on his countenance. He passed every dish to John again and again, accompanying each with low-voiced advice and entreaties.

“Better have some mo’ cakes, Mister No’th, sir; traveling mighty tryin’ bizness.”

“’Nother aig, sir? Yo’ got a long journey ahaid, sir!”

“Please, sir, let me git yo’ some mo’ coffee. It’s pow’ful cold an’ crampy out do’s this mawnin’!”

Will was awaiting them with the buckboard, in which John’s trunk and luggage were already piled. Margaret accompanied them to the porch, and when Phillip, who for some inexplicable reason had come out without his hat, returned inside, John seized the opportunity to bid her good-by. The smile she had worn all during breakfast left her face as he took her hand.

“I wish I were not driving you away,” she said regretfully.

“But you’re not; I have to go.”

She shook her head. “I fear I’m as distrustful of that telegram as Phil is,” she answered with a smile. “I’m sorry. We shall miss you. But you will come again, won’t you? You won’t let this—this mistake keep you away?”

“Do you want me to come back?” he asked with a note of hope in his voice.

“Yes,” she replied evenly. “I always want my friends to come back.”

“Good-by,” he sighed, dropping her hand. “Here’s one friend who will be mighty glad to get back. And if—— Well, good-by, Miss Ryerson. Remember your promise.”

“Yes; but please, please don’t think of that!”

“You mean don’t hope anything from it? I fear I can’t promise that. I was born hopeful, I guess, and it’s too late now to reform. All ready, Phil. Say good-by to ‘Uncle Bob’ for me, Miss Ryerson; tell him I hope his gout will improve.”

Phillip touched Cardinal with the lash and they sped off down the avenue into the raw, chill mist. At the last turn John looked back. Margaret and Uncle Casper were still standing under the portico, indistinct forms in the gray morning gloom.

John found George Corliss at his office that afternoon and went out to his house with him. He remained in Washington until Sunday morning and then went on to New York. David’s welcome was hearty, the new automobile was tantalizing and mysterious in its actions, the holiday attractions at the theatres were excellent, and the remaining days of recess sped rapidly.

Back at Elaine John’s departure left a vacancy that was apparent for many days. Phillip moped about the house and grounds and refused to be comforted until “Uncle Bob” reminded him that the season for partridges ended with the last day of December. Then he picked up spirits, and during the next few days they shot far and wide. Margaret went back to her somewhat neglected household affairs cheerfully enough, but found to her surprise and dismay that, with John North’s departure, things seemed less well worth doing.

She strove to find a reason for this, but failed. She did not love him; of that she was certain. A woman, she told herself, does not fall in love with a man on six days’ acquaintance. She liked him, yes, very much; she was amazed to find how much. She liked him far better than any man she had known. She mentally compared him with these, with Nate Willis, with several quasi and would-be suitors of the town, with the wealthy gentleman breeder who came over regularly from Prentiss every week to dinner and made open love to her over the roast; and he emerged triumphant from every comparison.

She owned to herself that John North was what she would have the man she loved: strong, gentle; capable, considerate; manly, tender and good to look upon. He was all these, and yet—no, she did not care for him in the way he would have her care for him, in the way she must care for the man whose wife she was to be. She wondered why. Perhaps, after all, in spite of her denials, if he should come again, if she were to meet him day after day—— She paused at her work and stared speculatingly out of the window. Couldn’t she, after all, grow to care for him? Surely, it wouldn’t be impossible? Impossible! Of a sudden it seemed to her that it would be very easy, and she seized her work again and sewed hurriedly as though to change the current of her thoughts. But presently the needle was again idle. She had promised—such a promise! What had possessed her to make it! Supposing—some day—it should become incumbent upon her to keep it! She gave a little gasp of dismay.

Suddenly she had become fearful of that promise!

“Uncle Bob” left them three days after John had gone and went back to Richmond with a hamper of birds and a surcease from gout. Phillip was preparing for his own departure, and Margaret began, in anticipation, to feel lonely.

One afternoon she was seated by the hall fireplace busy with some of Phillip’s garments which she had rescued from his trunk in various states of disrepair. Uncle Casper had just put a massive oak log on the andirons, and the silence of the darkening hall was broken only by the hissing and sputtering of the flames as they attacked the damp wood. The door from the drawing-room opened suddenly and Phillip strode in.

“Margey!”

Something in his tone caused her to drop the garment in her hands and turn quickly toward him. He came into the radius of the firelight, and she saw that his face was pale and troubled. Something white fluttered in his hand. She knew then what had happened, but she only asked quietly:

“What is it, Phil, dear?”

“This,” he answered. He put the letter he carried into her hand. “I want you to read it to me, Margey. There is something there I don’t understand.”

She held it to the light. It was, as she had feared, an old letter from George Corliss.

“You haven’t read it?” she asked with sudden hope.

“Read it!” he answered. “No; it’s a letter of yours or mamma’s. I went to your room to find a pen; mamma said you had some. It was lying open in the little drawer of the desk and I couldn’t help seeing it. I saw some words: ‘He has learned you want to sell Elaine!’ What does it mean, Margey? Who is it from? I want to know!”

For an instant the idea of putting him off presented itself to her; if she lied to him he would believe her and he need not know until summer. She was silent a moment. Phillip moved impatiently, stretched forth a hand toward the letter and drew it back again, staring down at her with troubled eyes.

“Margey! What is it?”

“It’s from Mr. Corliss, Phil,” she answered quietly. “You are right, dear; you ought to know. Maybe we—I have done wrong in keeping it from you. Get down here beside me, Phil, and I will tell you everything.”

“Everything? Why—what—Margey; it isn’t true, is it? We’re not going to sell Elaine?” he cried sharply.

“Come,” she answered. He sank to his knees beside her chair and she put one arm over his shoulders, drawing him to her and laying her head against his. Phillip gazed white-faced at the flames. “Don’t say anything until I have finished dear,” she begged.

Then she told him.

He let her finish uninterrupted. Then he removed her arm quietly and arose and walked back into the shadows toward the doorway. She remained motionless and silent, her eyes on the sputtering flames, until a tear welled over and she brushed it away. Phillip came back and stood beside her, looking not at her but into the fire.

“You ought to have told me,” he said in low voice, “you ought to have told me.”

Margaret kept silence.

“I had a right to know,” he went on. And then, bitterly: “God! what a fool you’ve made me act, Margey! Squandering money up there while our home is being offered for sale to any stranger that can buy it! While you and mamma were struggling along—starving, for all I know——!”

“No, Phil!”

“And selling things out of the stable to get enough to pay my damned bills. I understand now about the harness. What—what did that money go for?”

“It was needed, Phil.”

“But what for? For me? Did you send it to me?” he demanded.

“I—I don’t remember now, dear. What does it matter?”

“Don’t lie, please, Margey. Did you send it to me?”

“Phil!... Yes, dear, I did. You needed money. We had none in the house and mamma could not get any for a week or more. So—there was that old harness, Phil, and—surely, that was better than borrowing from—any one?”

“Mamma couldn’t get any for a week! Then—then it was to pay—you sold the harness to get money to pay my poker debts?”

“Does it matter, dear?”

“Matter? No, I reckon not; it’s of a piece with the rest of it all.” He was silent a minute. Then:

“Oh, I know you did it out of kindness, Margey; I understand that; but—but you shouldn’t have treated me like a child that has to be pampered and cuddled! I ought to have known; it was my place to know!”

“But we thought—and Mr. Corliss agreed that it would be best, dear, that——”

“Corliss! What right has Corliss coming into our private affairs?”

“He was your father’s best friend, dear,” answered Margaret simply. “And he has been a good friend to us all, Phil. Don’t you see, we didn’t want your first year at college spoiled by the knowledge of your poverty. Father would not have wanted it, Phil. He hoped so much of Harvard for you. All along I have comforted myself when there have been doubts with the sure knowledge that father would have approved, Phil.”

Phillip stared at the flames. Suddenly he turned almost fiercely.

“After I lost at poker, Bassett would never play again with me,” he cried. “Why was that? Did he know? Did any one up there know?”

“Mr. North knew, Phil. I—I wrote and asked him to—to keep you away from cards. Phil! What else could I do? I didn’t want you to know!”

Phillip turned back to the flames abruptly.

“John knew!” he muttered. “He knew! And he told Bassett! Every one seems to have known save I that I was a beggar! They were all laughing at me behind my back, I daresay; at me, playing cards and spending money and joining clubs when my folks had to sell things to pay my bills! And so John knew; and he professed to be my friend!” He turned with clenched hands. “He should have told me, the cheat! Why didn’t he tell me instead of every one else?”

“I made him promise not to, Phil. You’re doing him——”

“Was that what a friend would have done? Seen me the laughing-stock of that crowd? David knew, and Chester, and Kingsford, and——!”

Betty? Had Betty known?

“I’ve done with him now, though,” he went on fiercely. “He can go hang for all I care. Friend? A nice friend he has proved!” He faced Margaret again and took a step toward her. “Look here! I don’t know what took place between you and John; and I don’t ask. But drop it! Do you hear? I won’t have him making love to my sister. I——”

“Phillip! Be still!”

“I mean what I say,” he went on angrily, his eyes flashing. “He’s a cur! He’s——”

“Phil, dear, you’re angry! Don’t say anything more now, please! For my sake, Phil!” She went to him and put one arm around him and kissed the cheek that strove to draw away. “Wait until to-morrow, Phil, please.”

He gulped; then he drew the hand from his shoulder and turned away.

“All right, Margey,” he answered quietly. “I’m—I’m a little bit—I reckon I’ll go out for awhile.”

He picked his cap from the table and passed out onto the porch. Margaret took up the letter from the hearth, sighed, and then in a passion of rage tore it into bits and hurled it into the flames. Sinking into the chair, she leaned her face in her hands and sat there long, motionless, in the firelight.

After supper Phillip sought her again. The trouble was not gone from his face, but his first anger was past.

“I’ve been thinking it over, Margey,” he said quietly. “We must make the best of it. I beg your pardon for—for the way I went on, for the things I said. It—it’ll be all right, won’t it?”

She smiled back at him gladly.

“Yes, Phil, it will be all right if we stick together, dear. And we will, won’t we?”

“Always, Margey.”

“And—and what you said, Phil, about Mr. North wasn’t——”

“We’ll leave him out of it, if you please, Margey,” he said coldly.

Margaret sighed.