Whatever interview Miss Maynard and Bruce may have had in the Lookout of the inn, it did not appear to have changed the young man’s mood when later he sought his stepmother.

She was in her bedroom wrapped in a negligÉe when she admitted him.

“Was it very beautiful?” she asked eagerly.

“Very extensive; yes, fine,” he replied.

“You must take me up there to-morrow, Irving.”

“I don’t think I shall be here to-morrow. That’s what I came to speak to you about.”

“Not be here!” repeated Mrs. Bruce in dismay. “Why, look at this room, Irving.” The speaker indicated the woodsy interior. “Isn’t it perfectly enchanting? I was just asking Betsy if she didn’t feel like a dryad.”

Irving glanced at Betsy, quite slim enough for the rÔle, laying out her mistress’s night paraphernalia on a second bed in the opposite corner of the green room. “I was just saying I should like to stay here all summer. What do you mean by to-morrow, Irving?”

“Nothing that need disturb you at all. I hear alluring stories of fishing at the lake. I thought I would go there and wait till you came.”

“Oh, dear!” returned Mrs. Bruce. “Is Nixie going too?”

“I haven’t asked him yet. He may. I’ve seen all I care to see here. Thought I’d come and explain because I might get off before you’re up in the morning.”

“Oh Irving, I don’t know that I want to stay with Mrs. Nixon!” Mrs. Bruce’s tone indicated that she had suddenly found her doll stuffed with sawdust.

“Stay with Betsy and Miss Maynard then. You have an embarrassment of riches.”

“Did you have a pleasant time with Miss Maynard? What is the demure little creature like when she gets off with a man?”

“Why, she gets on with him.”

“Tell me, Irving.”

“She is interesting,” was the unenthusiastic reply. “She finds the situation a little heady, naturally.”

“Well, it’s absurd to see Mrs. Nixon suddenly so exercised about her. It may be catty of me, but I was very glad you took her away.”

“Oh no, she took me away.” Irving’s tone was colorless. While in the Lookout he had brought the conversation round to Rosalie Vincent. He had had a vague notion that this new-fledged heiress might be the maker of Rosalie’s pathway into more congenial surroundings; but he had met cool indifference on the subject.

“Good-night, Madama.” He kissed her forehead. “Good-night, Betsy. If you’re not down to speed the parting guest, I will expect to see you some day on the shore of the lake, hailing me. Have a good time.”

“Oh, Irving!” began Mrs. Bruce, holding open the door he tried to close; but he interrupted.

“Now get your beauty sleep, Madama. It’s all settled. Good-night”; and the door closed.

The moon sailing over the Park sent a stream of light into Irving’s bed-chamber. He watched it move from log to log, from wash-stand to chiffonier, and as it reached each new object he felt a fresh access of impatience at himself for wasting these silent hours.

He had seen Nixie before retiring, and that youth had jumped as joyfully at the fishing scheme as any trout at the fly.

He had warmly declined to divulge his intentions to the family.

“I will leave a note addressed to mother on my table,” he announced. “It will ask forgiveness and tell her that it will be of no use to try to find me.”

“I have told Mrs. Bruce I’m going,” rejoined Irving.

“With what result?”

“Oh, she didn’t like it. She’s crazy about it here.”

“That’s what I say,” returned Robert triumphantly. “There’s nothing like the note on the dresser. It has stood the test of ages.”

And now Irving was wasting his time lying awake and watching the stealing moonlight.

“Coffee never affected me before,” he considered impatiently; then he sat up in bed and punched the unoffending pillows into new shapes and flung himself down on them.

He hoped she was not awake too. He lay quite still for a minute, picturing an aureole of golden hair, pillowed in a shabby room, and stood in awe a minute before the innocence of that childlike face in slumber.

Then he suddenly punched his pillow again, wishing it were the head of one who would presently waken her and call her below stairs to run patiently at the bidding of folk in a ruffianly early-morning mood.

He looked at his watch in the moonlight. The wonder is that his ireful gaze did not stop the repeater at three A. M.

His window commanded the mound of geyserite which made the inn famous. He leaped out of bed on a chance that the view might break the monotony.

Scarcely had he reached the window when, in the lonely loveliness of the night, up sprang the geyser—lowly at first, then higher and higher—like a thing of life, leaping toward the moon, scattering myriad diamonds from its banner of cloud. No artificial light now bathed its beauty. No crowd of humanity encircled it like clustering bees. Alone in the silvery light it mounted and mounted under the brooding stars that knew it so well. They sparkled, and beckoned to the beloved captive, who, holding herself at full height, could not quite reach their kisses, but sank back at last, reflecting their brightness in her tears as she vanished.

“And Rosalie weeps. I know she does,” thought Irving; “and I won’t stay to see it.”

He jumped back into bed.

“It’s a beastly shame that I can’t do anything and nobody else will. Mr. Derwent says she’s a relative, and then goes doddering around and lets her bring him his coffee. When he gets to the lake, I’ll have a few words with him, Betsy or no Betsy. I’m just waiting to see if he means to do anything of his own accord. I wonder if my blood will run as cold as that, when I’m fifty. One thing sure, I shall never dare to fall in love, if just a matter of ordinary humanity can stir me up like this.”

The whack which his long-suffering pillow received as punctuation to this muttered speech was the last for that night. The philanthropist sank to slumber and wakened with a start and a sensation of being too late for something important.

He looked at his watch. It was just half an hour to stage time.

He jumped up, dashed some cold water over his head, pulled on some of his clothes, and stuffed the rest into his suit-case, which closed reluctantly and under the influence of muttered incantations such as may proceed from masculine youth in the anticipation of a stage-ride of twenty miles on an empty stomach.

Irving prided himself on being his own alarm-clock. He had especially requested not to be called, and in a nettled state of mind he finally pulled open his door and nearly tumbled over Betsy, seated in the corridor. Beside her on the floor reposed a tray. Odorous steam was rising from a brown pot thereon. She picked up the tray.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” she said calmly. “Open the door.”

She carried her fragrant burden into the bedroom and set it on the table. Irving would have followed that steam anywhere. He dropped his suit-case and drew up a chair.

“Good fairy!” he exclaimed as she filled his cup and he bit deep into the bread and butter. “Good genius! Betsy, have I ever been ungrateful to you? This ends it!”

She sat composedly, her watch in her hand. “Do chew a little, Mr. Irving.”

He laughed. “Sounds natural,” he said, busily devouring and drinking.

“Time’s up.”

He knew so well that she would give him the limit, that he rose like a shot, and picked up the suit-case.

“But why, Betsy,” examining her as they fled, “why are you hatted and suited in so finished a manner?”

“Because we’re goin’ with you,” replied Betsy equably.

“What? Why?”

“Because Mrs. Bruce didn’t sleep any, and neither did Mrs. Nixon; and we’re all goin’.”

There was no further time for talk. Irving had had the forethought to pay his bill the night before, and when he and Betsy stepped into the last stage it had all the familiar appearance of previous days except that no waitress was shrinking in a corner like a violet striving to hide beneath its leaves.

“Here we are,” said Robert cheerfully. “United we stand, divided we fall. We’re all going fishing.”

“Irving, come here.”

Mrs. Bruce made room for him beside her, and the stage started. She was pale, and had made no effort to get the driver’s seat, where Miss Maynard and Robert had climbed at Mrs. Nixon’s suggestion.

“Let some one sit up there who has had a wink of sleep,” Mrs. Bruce had said sepulchrally. “If I owned that inn, Irving Bruce, I would sell it for twenty-five cents.”

“Well well!” responded her son, so fortified by coffee and bread and butter, eaten where he was not obliged to look upon a captive maid, that he could smile. “I thought the inn was enchanting you into remaining all summer.”

“H’m!” ejaculated Mrs. Bruce. “It may be very fascinating by day; but by night it is Hades, nothing less—not a whit less.” And the speaker shook her head as one who should say that hours of argument would not persuade her to abate a jot of her denunciation. “Did you sleep any, Irving?”

“Why—not much. I think it must have been the coffee. You overdid it too, eh?”

“Coffee!” Mrs. Bruce glared palely at the suggestion. “There were two men in the room next to us. Logs between—nothing but logs. Irving, wouldn’t anybody with any sense or forethought have cemented between those logs?”

“So picturesque,” murmured Irving.

“Don’t let me ever hear the word again,” gasped Mrs. Bruce. “They said it all night. Didn’t they, Betsy?”

“You said so, ma’am.”

“That’s it. I kept asking Betsy if she was awake. Didn’t I, Betsy?”

“Yes’m.”

“And she knows how they talked. They went out every hour—every hour, all night, Irving.” Mrs. Bruce made the repetition with an impressiveness mere print is powerless to convey. “Went to see the geysers and then slammed back into their room to talk about them. Oh!!”

“Too bad, Madama! You’re quite tired out. Now just rest a while. Don’t trouble to talk.”

“And the radiator, Irving.” Mrs. Bruce had not yet relieved her mind. “It cracked all night. The apparatus must be put in wrong. I called Betsy’s attention to it several times. She’ll remember.”

Miss Foster looked as if the memory of the night was liable to remain for some time as green as the room Mrs. Bruce had waked in.

“The hotel should be thoroughly done over,” declared Mrs. Bruce, “the walls chinked with cement and the steampipes looked to, or else in common honesty a placard should be nailed up, reading: ‘For show only!’ If ever I was grateful for anything, it is that you had planned to go this morning, anyway. I shouldn’t have had the force to argue or persuade you.”

Irving thought of his own nocturnal perambulations, and turned toward the seat behind, where Mrs. Nixon was seated with her brother.

Her countenance wore a forbidding expression.

“Were you unfortunate also?” he asked.

“Really, Mr. Bruce,” she replied with deliberate distinctness, “I should not expect it to be a matter of general interest if I had been. Perhaps you remember what Emerson says apropos of retailing woes of that character to one’s morning companions. I quite agree with him.”

Having thus delivered herself, the lady’s lips closed in the curves of beauty which nature had bestowed upon them, and she again gave her attention to the landscape.

Mrs. Bruce made a grimace as she met her son’s amused eyes.

“Now,” she thought, “I suppose she thinks she is even with me for last evening.”

Mr. Derwent, unconscious of injuring his sister’s effect, addressed Mrs. Nixon.

“You look done up, Marion. I am sorry you passed such a disturbed night.”

Mrs. Bruce pressed Irving’s arm and gave him a malicious side glance.

“You should all be equipped like myself for traveling,” continued Mr. Derwent rather grimly, “and take off your ear when you go to bed.”

“Poor gentleman,” thought Betsy. “How gladly he would lie awake to hear his neighbors, and if he could listen to the radiators snap, it would be music to him, I’ve no doubt.”

She glanced around at him. He had his hands crossed on the head of his stick in his usual posture.

“I wonder if I’ll ever dare talk to him! He looked so kind at Rosalie yesterday. If the fish bite good, perhaps Mr. Irving’ll forget her. Here’s hopin’ they will! I meant to have a real good visit with the child to-day. I must send her a card when we stop for lunch.”

At the Thumb, Betsy had a chance to do this.

As soon as Mrs. Bruce discovered that they might make the remainder of their trip by water, she urged it.

“I would just as lief go separately from Mrs. Nixon,” she said to her son, “until she has had a night’s sleep. Find out, Irving, whether they’re going by boat.”

It proved that all the places on the boat had been engaged, and as soon as Mrs. Bruce discovered this, her desire to proceed in that way was augmented; and many were the alterations she suggested in a management which contained possibilities of such poignant disappointment as hers.

Mrs. Nixon preserved a magnificent silence; but looked graciously upon her child, whose sallies appeared to have amused Miss Maynard out of her habitual demureness.

“They seem to get on very well together,” she remarked to her brother at a moment when they were alone.

He nodded. “Helen dares be a girl again,” he announced. “There is a great weight off her mind. Her cheeks seem to have grown plump over night.”