NEW YORK is at its very brightest and best in October. This month of the year may be safely trusted not to disappoint. The skies are blue, the air balmy, and there is generally a delightful absence of wind. The summer exiles are home again from Jersey boarding houses, and mountain camps, and seaside hotels, and thankful to the point of hilarity that this episode of the year is over, that they can once more dwell under their own roofs without breaking any of the manifest laws of the great goddess Custom or Fashion.

Judge Rawdon’s house had an especially charming “at home” appearance. During the absence of the family it had been made beautiful inside and outside, and the white stone, the plate glass, and falling lace evident to the street, had an almost conscious look of luxurious propriety.

The Judge frankly admitted his pleasure in his home surroundings. He said, as they ate their first meal in the familiar room, that “a visit to foreign countries was a grand, patriotic tonic.” He vowed that the “first sight of the Stars and Stripes at Sandy Hook had given him the finest emotion he had ever felt in his life,” and was altogether in his proudest American mood. Ruth sympathized with him. Ethel listened smiling. She knew well that the English strain had only temporarily exhausted itself; it would have its period of revival at the proper time.

“I am going to see grandmother,” she said gayly. “I shall stay with her all day.”

“But I have a letter from her,” interrupted the Judge, “and she will not return home until next week.”

“I am sorry. I was anticipating so eagerly the joy of seeing her. Well, as I cannot do so, I will go and call on Dora Stanhope.”

“I would not if I were you, Ethel,” said Ruth. “Let her come and call on you.”

“I had a little note from her this morning, welcoming me home, and entreating me to call.”

The Judge rose as Ethel was speaking, and no more was said about the visit at that time but a few hours later Ethel came down from her room ready for the street and frankly told Ruth she had made up her mind to call on Dora.

“Then I will only remind you, Ethel, that Dora is not a fortunate woman to know. As far as I can see, she is one of those who sow pain of heart and vexation of spirit about every house they enter, even their own. But I cannot gather experience for you, it will have to grow in your own garden.”

“All right, dear Ruth, and if I do not like its growth, I will pull it up by the roots, I assure you.”

Ruth went with her to the door and watched her walk leisurely down the broad steps to the street. The light kindled in her eyes and on her face as she did so. She already felt the magnetism of the great city, and with a laughing farewell walked rapidly toward Dora’s house.

Her card brought an instant response, and she heard Dora’s welcome before the door was opened. And her first greeting was an enthusiastic compliment, “How beautiful you have grown, Ethel!” she cried. “Ah, that is the European finish. You have gained it, my dear; you really are very much improved.”

“And you also, Dora?”

The words were really a question, but Dora accepted them as an assertion, and was satisfied.

“I suppose I am,” she answered, “though I’m sure I can’t tell how it should be so, unless worry of all kinds is good for good looks. I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.”

“Now, Dora.”

“Oh, it’s the solid truth—partly your fault too.”

“I never interfered——”

“Of course you didn’t, but you ought to have interfered. When you called on me in London you might have seen that I was not happy; and I wanted to come to Rawdon Court, and you would not invite me. I called your behavior then ‘very mean,’ and I have not altered my opinion of it.”

“There were good reasons, Dora, why I could not ask you.”

“Good reasons are usually selfish ones, Ethel, and Fred Mostyn told me what they were.

“He likely told you untruths, Dora, for he knew nothing about my reasons. I saw very little of him.”

“I know. You treated him as badly as you treated me, and all for some wild West creature—a regular cowboy, Fred said, but then a Rawdon!”

“Mr. Mostyn has misrepresented Mr. Tyrrel Rawdon—that is all about it. I shall not explain ‘how’ or ‘why.’ Did you enjoy yourself at Stanhope Castle?”

“Enjoy myself! Are you making fun of me? Ethel, dear, it was the most awful experience. You never can imagine such a life, and such women. They were dressed for a walk at six o’clock; they had breakfast at half-past seven. They went to the village and inspected cottages, and gave lessons in housekeeping or dressmaking or some other drudgery till noon. They walked back to the Castle for lunch. They attended to their own improvement from half-past one until four, had lessons in drawing and chemistry, and, I believe, electricity. They had another walk, and then indulged themselves with a cup of tea. They dressed and received visitors, and read science or theology between whiles. There was always some noted preacher or scholar at the dinner table. The conversation was about acids and explosives, or the planets or bishops, or else on the never, never-ending subject of elevating the workingman and building schools for his children. Basil, of course, enjoyed it. He thought he was giving me a magnificent object lesson. He was never done praising the ladies Mary Elinor and Adelaide Stanhope. I’m sure I wish he had married one or all of them—and I told him so.”

“You could not be so cruel, Dora.”

“I managed it with the greatest ease imaginable. He was always trotting at their side. They spoke of him as ‘the most pious young man.’ I have no doubt they were all in love with him. I hope they were. I used to pretend to be very much in love when they were present. I dare say it made them wretched. Besides, they blushed and thought me improper. Basil didn’t approve, either, so I hit all round.”

She rose at this memory and shook out her silk skirts, and walked up and down the room with an air that was the visible expression of the mockery and jealousy in her heart. This was an entirely different Dora to the lachrymose, untidy wife at the Savoy Hotel in London, and Ethel had a momentary pang at the thought of the suffering which was responsible for the change.

“If I had thought, Dora, you were so uncomfortable, I would have asked Basil and you to the Court.”

“You saw I was not happy when I was at the Savoy.”

“I thought you and Basil had had a kind of lovers’ quarrel, and that it would blow over in an hour or two; no one likes to meddle with an affair of that kind. Are you going to Newport, or is Mrs. Denning in New York?”

“That is another trouble, Ethel. When I wrote mother I wanted to come to her, she sent me word she was going to Lenox with a friend. Then, like you, she said ‘she had no liberty to invite me,’ and so on. I never knew mother act in such a way before. I nearly broke my heart about it for a few days, then I made up my mind I wouldn’t care.”

“Mrs. Denning, I am sure, thought she did the wisest and kindest thing possible.”

“I didn’t want mother to be wise. I wanted her to understand that I was fairly worn out with my present life and needed a change. I’m sure she did understand. Then why was she so cruel?” and she shrugged her shoulders impatiently and sat down. “I’m so tired of life,” she continued. “When did you hear of Fred Mostyn?”

“I know nothing of his movements. Is he in America?”

“Somewhere. I asked mother if he was in Newport, and she never answered the ques-tion. I suppose he will be in New York for the winter season. I hope so.”

This topic threatened to be more dangerous than the other, and Ethel, after many and futile attempts to bring conversation into safe commonplace channels, pleaded other engagements and went away. She was painfully depressed by the interview. All the elements of tragedy were gathered together under the roof she had just left, and, as far as she could see, there was no deliverer wise and strong enough to prevent a calamity. She did not repeat to Ruth the conversation which had been so painful to her. She described Dora’s dress and appearance, and commented on Fred Mostyn’s description of Tyrrel Rawdon, and on Mrs. Denning’s refusal of her daughter’s proposed visit.

Ruth thought the latter circumstance significant. “I dare say Mostyn was in Newport at that time,” she answered. “Mrs. Denning has some very quick perceptions.” And Ruth’s opinion was probably correct, for during dinner the Judge remarked in a casual manner that he had met Mr. Mostyn on the avenue as he was coming home. “He was well,” he said, “and made all the usual inquiries as to your health.” And both Ruth and Ethel understood that he wished them to know of Mostyn’s presence in the city, and to be prepared for meeting him; but did not care to discuss the subject further, at least at that time. The information brought precisely the same thought at the same moment to both women, and as soon as they were alone they uttered it.

“She knew Mostyn was in the city,” said Ethel in a low voice.

“Certainly.”

“She was expecting him.”

“I am sure of it.”

“Her elaborate and beautiful dressing was for him.”

“Poor Basil!”

“She asked me to stay and lunch with her, but very coolly, and when I refused, did not press the matter as she used to do. Yes, she was expecting him. I understand now her nervous manner, her restlessness, her indifference to my short visit. I wish I could do anything.”

“You cannot, and you must not try.”

“Some one must try.”

“There is her husband. Have you heard from Tyrrel yet.”

“I have had a couple of telegrams. He will write from Chicago.”

“Is he going at once to the Hot Springs?”

“As rapidly as possible. Colonel Rawdon is now there, and very ill. Tyrrel will put his father first of all. The trouble at the mine can be investigated afterwards.”

“You will miss him very much. You have been so happy together.”

“Of course I shall miss him. But it will be a good thing for us to be apart awhile. Love must have some time in which to grow. I am a little tired of being very happy, and I think Tyrrel also will find absence a relief. In ‘Lalla Rookh’ there is a line about love ‘falling asleep in a sameness of splendor.’ It might. How melancholy is a long spell of hot, sunshiny weather, and how gratefully we welcome the first shower of rain.”

“Love has made you a philosopher, Ethel.”

“Well, it is rather an advantage than otherwise. I am going to take a walk, Ruth, into the very heart of Broadway. I have had enough of the peace of the country. I want the crack, and crash, and rattle, and grind of wheels, the confused cries, the snatches of talk and laughter, the tread of crowds, the sound of bells, and clocks, and chimes. I long for all the chaotic, unintelligible noise of the streets. How suggestive it is! Yet it never explains itself. It only gives one a full sense of life. Love may need just the same stimulus. I wish grandmother would come home. I should not require Broadway as a stimulus. I am afraid she will be very angry with me, and there will be a battle royal in Gramercy Park.”

It was nearly a week before Ethel had this crisis to meet. She went down to it with a radiant face and charming manner, and her reception was very cordial. Madam would not throw down the glove until the proper moment; besides, there were many very interesting subjects to talk over, and she wanted “to find things out” that would never be told unless tempers were propitious. Added to these reasons was the solid one that she really adored her granddaughter, and was immensely cheered by the very sight of the rosy, smiling countenance lifted to her sitting-room window in passing. She, indeed, pretended to be there in order to get a good light for her new shell pattern, but she was watching for Ethel, and Ethel understood the shell-pattern fiction very well. She had heard something similar often.

“My darling grandmother,” she cried, “I thought you would never come home.”

“It wasn’t my fault, dear. Miss Hillis and an imbecile young doctor made me believe I had a cold. I had no cold. I had nothing at all but what I ought to have. I’ve been made to take all sorts of things, and do all sorts of things that I hate to take and hate to do. For ten days I’ve been kicking my old heels against bedclothes. Yesterday I took things in my own hands.”

“Never mind, Granny dear, it was all a good discipline.”

“Discipline! You impertinent young lady! Discipline for your grandmother! Discipline, indeed! That one word may cost you a thousand dollars, miss.”

“I don’t care if it does, only you must give the thousand dollars to poor Miss Hillis.”

“Poor Miss Hillis has had a most comfortable time with me all summer.”

“I know she has, consequently she will feel her comfortless room and poverty all the more after it. Give her the thousand, Granny. I’m willing.”

“What kind of company have you been keeping, Ethel Rawdon? Who has taught you to squander dollars by the thousand? Discipline! I think you are giving me a little now—a thousand dollars a lesson, it seems—no wonder, after the carryings-on at Rawdon Court.”

“Dear grandmother, we had the loveliest time you can imagine. And there is not, in all the world, such a noble old gentleman as Squire Percival Rawdon.”

“I know all about Percival Rawdon—a proud, careless, extravagant, loose-at-ends man, dancing and singing and loving as it suited time and season, taking no thought for the future, and spending with both hands; hard on women, too, as could be.”

“Grandmother, I never saw a more courteous gentleman. He worships women. He was never tired of talking about you.”

“What had he to say about me?”

“That you were the loveliest girl in the county, and that he never could forget the first time he saw you. He said you were like the vision of an angel.”

“Nonsense! I was just a pretty girl in a book muslin frock and a white sash, with a rose at my breast. I believe they use book muslin for linings now, but it did make the sheerest, lightest frocks any girl could want. Yes, I remember that time. I was going to a little party and crossing a meadow to shorten the walk, and Squire Percival had been out with his gun, and he laid it down and ran to help me over the stile. A handsome young fellow he was then as ever stepped in shoe leather.”

“And he must have loved you dearly. He would sit hour after hour telling Ruth and me how bright you were, and how all the young beaux around Monk-Rawdon adored you.”

“Nonsense! Nonsense! I had beaux to be sure. What pretty girl hasn’t?”

“And he said his brother Edward won you because he was most worthy of your love.”

“Well, now, I chose Edward Rawdon because he was willing to come to America. I longed to get away from Monk-Rawdon. I was faint and weary with the whole stupid place. And the idea of living a free and equal life, and not caring what lords and squires and their proud ladies said or did, pleased me wonderfully. We read about Niagara and the great prairies and the new bright cities, and Edward and I resolved to make our home there. Your grandfather wasn’t a man to like being ‘the Squire’s brother.’ He could stand alone.”

“Are you glad you came to America?”

“Never sorry a minute for it. Ten years in New York is worth fifty years in Monk-Rawdon, or Rawdon Court either.”

“Squire Percival was very fond of me. He thought I resembled you, grandmother, but he never admitted I was as handsome as you were.”

“Well, Ethel dear, you are handsome enough for the kind of men you’ll pick up in this generation—most of them bald at thirty, wearing spectacles at twenty or earlier, and in spite of the fuss they make about athletics breaking all to nervous bits about fifty.”

“Grandmother, that is pure slander. I know some very fine young men, handsome and athletic both.”

“Beauty is a matter of taste, and as to their athletics, they can run a mile with a blacksmith, but when the thermometer rises to eighty-five degrees it knocks them all to pieces. They sit fanning themselves like schoolgirls, and call for juleps and ice-water. I’ve got eyes yet, my dear. Squire Percival was a different kind of man; he could follow the hounds all day and dance all night. The hunt had not a rider like him; he balked at neither hedge, gate, nor water; a right gallant, courageous, honorable, affectionate gentleman as ever Yorkshire bred, and she’s bred lots of superfine ones. What ever made him get into such a mess with his estate? Your grandfather thought him as straight as a string in money matters.”

“You said just now he was careless and extravagant.”

“Well, I did him wrong, and I’m sorry for it. How did he manage to need eighty thousand pounds?”

“It is rather a pitiful story, grandmother, but he never once blamed those who were in the wrong. His son for many years had been the real manager of the estate. He was a speculator; his grandsons were wild and extravagant. They began to borrow money ten years ago and had to go on.”

“Whom did they borrow from?”

“Fred Mostyn’s father.”

“The devil! Excuse me, Ethel—but the name suits and may stand.”

“The dear old Squire would have taken the fault on himself if he could have done so. They that wronged him were his own, and they were dead. He never spoke of them but with affection.”

“Poor Percival! Your father told me he was now out of Mostyn’s power; he said you had saved the estate, but he gave me no particulars. How did you save it?”

“Bought it!”

“Nonsense!”

“House and lands and outlying farms and timber—everything.”

Then a rosy color overspread Madam’s face, her eyes sparkled, she rose to her feet, made Ethel a sweeping courtesy, and said:

“My respect and congratulations to Ethel, Lady of Rawdon Manor.”

“Dear grandmother, what else could I do?”

“You did right.”

“The Squire is Lord of the Manor as long as he lives. My father says I have done well to buy it. In the future, if I do not wish to keep it, Nicholas Rawdon will relieve me at a great financial advantage.”

“Why didn’t you let Nicholas Rawdon buy it now?”

“He would have wanted prompt possession. The Squire would have had to leave his home. It would have broken his heart.”

“I dare say. He has a soft, loving heart. That isn’t always a blessing. It can give one a deal of suffering. And I hear you have all been making idols of these Tyrrel-Rawdons. Fred tells me they are as vulgar a lot as can be.”

“Fred lies! Excuse me, grandmother—but the word suits and may stand. Mr. Nicholas is pompous, and walks as slowly as if he had to carry the weight of his great fortune; but his manners are all right, and his wife and son are delightful. She is handsome, well dressed, and so good-hearted that her pretty county idioms are really charming. John Thomas is a man by himself—not handsome, but running over with good temper, and exceedingly clever and wide-awake. Many times I was forced to tell myself, John Thomas would make an ideal Squire of Rawdon.”

“Why don’t you marry him.”

“He never asked me.”

“What was the matter with the men?”

“He was already engaged to a very lovely young lady.”

“I am glad she is a lady.”

“She is also very clever. She has been to college and taken high honors, a thing I have not done.”

“You might have done and overdone that caper; you were too sensible to try it. Well, I’m glad that part of the family is looking up. They had the right stuff in them, and it is a good thing for families to dwell together in unity. We have King David’s word for that. My observation leads me to think it is far better for families to dwell apart, in unity. They seldom get along comfortably together.”

Then Ethel related many pleasant, piquant scenes between the two families at Monk-Rawdon, and especially that one in which the room of the first Tyrrel had been opened and his likeness restored to its place in the family gallery. It touched the old lady to tears, and she murmured, “Poor lad! Poor lad! I wonder if he knows! I wonder if he knows!”

The crucial point of Ethel’s revelations had not yet been revealed, but Madam was now in a gentle mood, and Ethel took the opportunity to introduce her to Tyrrel Rawdon. She was expecting and waiting for this topic, but stubbornly refused to give Ethel any help toward bringing it forward. At last, the girl felt a little anger at her pretended indifference, and said, “I suppose Fred Mostyn told you about Mr. Tyrrel Rawdon, of California?”

“Tyrrel Rawdon, of California! Pray, who may he be?”

“The son of Colonel Rawdon, of the United States Army.”

“Oh, to be sure! Well, what of him?”

“I am going to marry him.”

“I shall see about that.”

“We were coming here together to see you, but before we left the steamer he got a telegram urging him to go at once to his father, who is very ill.”

“I have not asked him to come and see me. Perhaps he will wait till I do so.”

“If you are not going to love Tyrrel, you need not love me. I won’t have you for a grandmother any longer.”

“I did without you sixty years. I shall not live another twelve months, and I think I can manage to do without you for a granddaughter any longer.”

“You cannot do without me. You would break your heart, and I should break mine.” Whereupon Ethel began to cry with a passion that quite gratified the old lady. She watched her a few moments, and then said gently:

“There now, that will do. When he comes to New York bring him to see me. And don’t name the man in the meantime. I won’t talk about him till I’ve seen him. It isn’t fair either way. Fred didn’t like him.”

“Fred likes no one but Dora Stanhope.”

“Eh! What! Is that nonsense going on yet?”

Then Ethel described her last two interviews with Dora. She did this with scrupulous fidelity, making no suggestions that might prejudice the case. For she really wanted her grandmother’s decision in order to frame her own conduct by it. Madam was not, however, in a hurry to give it.

“What do you think?” she asked Ethel.

“I have known Dora for many years; she has always told me everything.”

“But nothing about Fred?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing to tell, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

“Where does her excellent husband come in?”

“She says he is very kind to her in his way.”

“And his way is to drag her over the world to see the cathedrals thereof, and to vary that pleasure with inspecting schools and reformatories and listening to great preachers. Upon my word, I feel sorry for the child! And I know all about such excellent people as the Stanhopes. I used to go to what they call ‘a pleasant evening’ with them. We sat around a big room lit with wax candles, and held improving conversation, or some one sang one or two of Mrs. Hemans’ songs, like ‘Passing Away’ or ‘He Never Smiled Again.’ Perhaps there was a comic recitation, at which no one laughed, and finally we had wine and hot water—they called it ‘port negus’—and tongue sandwiches and caraway cakes. My dear Ethel, I yawn now when I think of those dreary evenings. What must Dora have felt, right out of the maelstrom of New York’s operas and theaters and dancing parties?”

“Still, Dora ought to try to feel some interest in the church affairs. She says she does not care a hairpin for them, and Basil feels so hurt.”

“I dare say he does, poor fellow! He thinks St. Jude’s Kindergarten and sewing circles and missionary societies are the only joys in the world. Right enough for Basil, but how about Dora?”

“They are his profession; she ought to feel an interest in them.”

“Come now, look at the question sensibly. Did Dora’s father bring his ‘deals’ and stock-jobbery home, and expect Dora and her mother to feel an interest in them? Do doctors tell their wives about their patients, and expect them to pay sympathizing visits? Does your father expect Ruth and yourself to listen to his cases and arguments, and visit his poor clients or make underclothing for them? Do men, in general, consider it a wife’s place to interfere in their profession or business?”

“Clergymen are different.”

“Not at all. Preaching and philanthropy is their business. They get so much a year for doing it. I don’t believe St. Jude’s pays Mrs. Stanhope a red cent. There now, and if she isn’t paid, she’s right not to work. Amen to that!”

“Before she was married Dora said she felt a great interest in church work.”

“I dare say she did. Marriage makes a deal of difference in a woman’s likes and dislikes. Church work was courting-time before marriage; after marriage she had other opportunities.”

“I think you might speak to Fred Mostyn——”

“I might, but it wouldn’t be worth while. Be true to your friend as long as you can. In Yorkshire we stand by our friends, right or wrong, and we aren’t too particular as to their being right. My father enjoyed justifying a man that everyone else was down on; and I’ve stood by many a woman nobody had a good word for. I was never sorry for doing it, either. I’ll be going into a strange country soon, and I should not wonder if some of them that have gone there first will be ready to stand by me. We don’t know what friends we’ll be glad of there.”

The dinner bell broke up this conversation, and Ethel during it told Madam about the cook and cooking at the Court and at Nicholas Rawdon’s, where John Thomas had installed a French chef. Other domestic arrangements were discussed, and when the Judge called for his daughter at four o’clock, Madam vowed “she had spent one of the happiest days of her life.”

“Ruth tells me,” said the Judge, “that Dora Stanhope called for Ethel soon after she left home this morning. Ruth seems troubled at the continuance of this friendship. Have you spoken to your grandmother, Ethel, about Dora?”

“She has told me all there is to tell, I dare say,” answered Madam.

“Well, mother, what do you think?”

“I see no harm in it yet awhile. It is not fair, Edward, to condemn upon likelihoods. We are no saints, sinful men and women, all of us, and as much inclined to forbidden fruit as any good Christians can be. Ethel can do as she feels about it; she’s got a mind of her own, and I hope to goodness she’ll not let Ruth Bayard bit and bridle it.”

Going home the Judge evidently pondered this question, for he said after a lengthy silence, “Grandmother’s ethics do not always fit the social ethics of this day, Ethel. She criticises people with her heart, not her intellect. You must be prudent. There is a remarkable thing called Respectability to be reckoned with remember that.”

And Ethel answered, “No one need worry about Dora. Some women may show the edges of their character soiled and ragged, but Dora will be sure to have hers reputably finished with a hem of the widest propriety.” And after a short silence the Judge added, almost in soliloquy, “And, moreover, Ethel,