Ogden went on thinking about the unusual docility with which Hugh had received his exhortation. Also there was the devotion to his studies at a moment when Ally was about to depart from the house. How about that?

As he swung along he began to smile, his retrospective reflection visualizing that slipping away into the moonlight which he had witnessed and worried over last evening. After a minute in a rush of thought his smile broadened. It seemed probable that the siren, in the excited reaction from her performance, might have thrown a scare into the heir apparent. At what juncture had she slipped away from Hugh’s arm and Miss Frink slipped into it? Something had gone on, to flush Miss Frink’s cheeks and weary her eyes this morning. All the time that he himself was reading and fretting in his room last evening, things had been happening downstairs. Anyway, the net result had been a joyous one, as transpired unmistakably, later.

As Ogden tramped along, he was roused from his reverie to realize that many persons he met greeted him. Realizing that they remembered him as the busy master of ceremonies on the night before, he responded cordially, and at last a short man in a checked suit forced him to a standstill by his effusive manner.

“Goldstein, Mr. Ogden. I. K. Goldstein. We had but a minute’s talk last night—”

“Ah, good-morning, Mr. Goldstein.” Ogden endeavored to edge away from the plump hand with the diamond ring, after yielding to its determined grasp.

“I cannot let you go without speaking again of that won-derful evening. Such an artist you have there, that Mrs. Lumbard; she is amazing. In a town the size of Farrandale we are all one family. You put us all under obligation bringing such an artist here!”

“Oh, not I at all; Miss Frink—”

“Miss Frink! Oh, she is the genius of our city!” Mr. Goldstein made known by gestures and upturned eyes that Miss Frink’s glories were indescribable. “You come any time to see me, Mr. Ogden, and I wish you would bring Miss Frink, and I show you both all over the Koh-i-noor, our theater—”

“Thank you, Mr. Goldstein, but I am leaving town to-night—”

“But can’t you spare a little time, a half an hour this afternoon?—it is a palace equal to any in the country. An organ—oh, such an organ I have installed!—we open in less than a month; you would be happy to see those velvet furniture in the lobby.”

“No doubt I should; but I have—”

“That young man at your house, the one who saved our wonderful Miss Frink’s life, he should be in the pictures, you must see that. There’s the story right there, too. I give him introductions; you send him to me.”

John Ogden disengaged the clinging hand from his lapel as best he could, and, mindfully thanking the manager of the Koh-i-noor, contrived to escape with an apology for his pressing business.

Mr. Goldstein called after him cordially as long as he could hear.

Millicent Duane, enveloped in an apron, had brought out some vegetables to prepare for the noon dinner and was sitting on the porch with a large tin pan in her lap.

Her grandfather, who had been as usual working about the garden, finally came slowly up the steps and sank restfully into his favorite chair with the calico cushion.

“I can’t get that last piece she played out of my head,” he said. “Mrs. Lumbard said it was a Marche Militaire. I should say so.” The speaker drummed the rhythm on the arms of his chair.

“It was splendid,” agreed Millicent. She had been hearing all the morning about the recital, and the English “fed up” but faintly described her satiation.

The morning was so beautiful, the birds so tuneful, everything that had not unfolded was so busy unfolding, and the air so full of sweetness, Millicent could not understand why she felt at odds with a world that was so amiably putting its best foot forward. She forced herself to respond with ardor to her grandfather’s comments. She was glad he had had such an unusual treat. He had seen nothing but charm in Mrs. Lumbard’s manner; while Millicent still felt the perfunctoriness of the star’s response to her own effort to express her appreciation. Hugh had been beside her at the time, and as usual Mrs. Lumbard had implied, or at least Millicent felt the implication, that she was negligible, and the sooner she effaced herself the sooner could life really go on. And it had gone on. The stinging remembrance was that, before the Duanes left, Millicent had seen Hugh and the star disappear together. The girl’s annoyance, and resentment that she could feel it, made her an extra lively and agreeable companion to her grandfather on the way home. He remarked affectionately on the good the evening had done her, and how she needed such outings; and she laughed and hugged him, then went to bed, strains of music flowing through her hot head, while her wet eyes buried in the pillow still saw the moonlight sifting through the great trees with their black shadows, shadows through which they were walking. She wanted—she knew now how desperately she wanted—to walk in the moonlight with Hugh herself, and her feeling that it was a contemptible wish did not help the situation in the least.

Now, this morning, she sat there, enveloped in her pink checked apron, the bright tin pan in her lap and her hands busy, while her grandfather watched her fleeting smiles.

“Seems to me you look sort of pale this morning, honey,” he said.

“Dissipation,” she returned. “You know I’m a country girl.”

“It wasn’t late,” he returned reminiscently, still evidently enjoying his memories. “How she did play the ‘Spring Song’! Simplest things are the best, aren’t they, Milly? I think you look sweeter in that pink apron than in your party dress,” he added.

“Didn’t I look nice last night?” asked the girl with unexpected gravity.

“I should say so. Quite the up-to-date girl, standing there with Miss Frink in her august dignity.”

“Grandpa, here comes Mr. Ogden.”

Colonel Duane rose as the caller opened the gate, and came to the head of the steps to meet him.

“Don’t you move now, Miss Millicent,” said Ogden as the girl started to put aside the big pan. “You make the most charming domestic picture.”

“I can’t shake hands,” she returned, as he approached, and her cheeks matched the gay hue of her apron while her eyes welcomed him.

“This is my P.P.C.” he remarked, taking the chair Colonel Duane offered.

“Oh, are you leaving us?” asked the old gentleman, returning to his calico cushion. “I don’t know what they’ll do without you at Miss Frink’s. That was a great treat she gave us last night. We haven’t talked about anything else this morning; and your announcements, and the general pleasant informality with which you managed the occasion, gave it the last touch of charm. How is that delightful, bright particular star, this morning?”

“Mrs. Lumbard? I haven’t seen her. She didn’t come down to breakfast.”

“Well, she certainly earned that luxury,” responded the Colonel, while Millicent’s gaze fell demurely to her busy hands. “I’d like to have Milly take some lessons of her,” he added.

The girl flashed a quick glance up at the caller. “But I’m not going to,” she said. “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

The men laughed.

“What makes you go away, Mr. Ogden?” she added.

“Oh, life can’t be all Farrandale, you know. There’s business waiting for me over there in the suburb of New York. I only came to see Hugh because he was ill.”

“Hugh seemed quite proud of his brilliant friend last night,” remarked the Colonel.

“Oh!” thought Millicent, “will he ever get through talking about her!”

“I shouldn’t blame him if he lost his heart—so handsome and so talented she is.”

Down went the young girl’s gaze again to the contents of her pan.

John Ogden saw the compression of her soft lips.

“Mrs. Lumbard is leaving Miss Frink to-day also,” he said.

Millicent looked up quickly again.

“Why is that? Not leaving Farrandale, I hope,” said the Colonel.

“No. I heard some one say something about the Coopers’. Of course, Mrs. Lumbard has only been visiting Miss Frink.”

“The Coopers’!” echoed Millicent. “Is Mrs. Lumbard going to live at the Coopers’?”

Ogden shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t quote me. I may be all off, but I understood that.”

“Of course, they are Mr. Grimshaw’s cousins,” said the girl reflectively.

“Another one of her satellites,” remarked the old gentleman, smiling. “It was easy to see last evening that Grimshaw’s steady head was all off its balance. I don’t believe you attractive bachelors are going to let that charmer teach very long. One of you will snatch her up.”

“I had to leave her to my rivals last night,” said Ogden. “I probably lost out for good.”

Millicent’s grave large gaze was upon him, trying to discover whether he was serious. She liked Mr. Ogden, but she would have been perfectly willing he should snatch up Mrs. Lumbard.

“You’re quite a matchmaker, Colonel,” he went on. “I don’t know how that rosebud over there behind the tin pan escapes your machinations.”

Millicent threw a glance over her shoulder in evident search for the rosebud, and Ogden laughed.

“Oh, she,” returned the old man regarding the girl with eyes of placid love; “she has a heart like a flint. We have a lot of the nicest boys you’d ever care to know, in Farrandale. She used to like them, Milly did. When she was in the store, I used to have to complain of the way she let them bother around and keep her up late; but now she has left the store, and could sleep in the morning if she wanted to, she won’t have a thing to do with them. They can’t do anything right. One laughs too loud, one brings his mandolin and she hates it, one parts his hair in the middle, and they all varnish their locks—”

“Grandpa!” Millicent interrupted him with rather unnecessary severity, Ogden thought. “I don’t like to be discussed.”

Her grandfather laughed toward her affectionately, and raised his eyebrows. “Gracious!” he exclaimed. “What a grown-up baby I have.”

“Well, I must get at my business,” said the visitor. “I came this morning, not only to say good-bye, but to let you nice people be the first to know something concerning our friend Hugh.”

Millicent’s collection of knives hit the tin pan and clattered to the floor. The pan so nearly fell after it that Ogden, springing forward, caught it just in time. The girl’s hands trembled as she grasped it, and murmured some inarticulate thanks.

“Ah, many a true word spoken in jest,” said the Colonel. “That is why the lovely pianist is leaving Miss Frink’s; but conventionality can be carried too far, I think.”

John Ogden was busy restoring Millicent’s goods, wares, and chattels to her lap, and he camouflaged her tremor by laughing allusion to Uncle Remus, and Brer Rabbit’s clatter with his seben tin plates, and seben tin cups.

“No, nothing of that kind, Colonel Duane,” he said as he took his chair again. “This is a story that I will make brief. Long ago there was a feud in Miss Frink’s small family.”

Millicent tried to moisten her dry lips, and ceased attempting to use the knife which seemed determined to beat a rat-a-plan against the side of the pan.

“She had a nephew, Philip Sinclair, whom she loved; but his opposition to her plans for him angered her to such a degree that it made a complete break. She never met his wife or children, and refused to know them. I was a friend of that family, and Hugh was one of the children. When he returned from the war, I hunted him up.”

Ogden glanced at Millicent. She was leaning back in her chair, her lips parted, her face very pale, and her eyes full upon him. He looked back at once to Colonel Duane, who was giving him similar fixed attention.

“When I met Hugh, whom I had last seen as a child, you can understand what an impression he made on me, and how I thought of his lonely great-aunt whom I had come to know well in the way of business. Hugh was alone, and drifting, like so many of the returned boys, and a scheme came into my head which I suggested to him. It was to come here with a letter of introduction from me, and, using only his first two names, Hugh Stanwood, apply to Miss Frink for a job in Ross Graham Company. I knew there was no hope of her receiving him if she knew he was the son of the man who had so bitterly disappointed and offended her, and I trusted to his winning her esteem before the truth came out. I had a lot of difficulty in getting Hugh’s consent to this, but at last I succeeded. I fitted him out for the experiment, which, of course, put him under some obligation to me: an obligation which was my weapon to hold him to our compact. He has had times of hating me, because Hugh is essentially honest; and the remarkable coincidence which threw him into his aunt’s house as a guest, instead of allowing him to be an employe in her store, gave him many a weary hour of thought which he used mostly for condemnation of me and himself. I came on as soon as I learned of his illness, and found that Miss Frink had become very fond of the boy. When she at last experienced the shock of discovering who he was, she suspected me at once as being the instigator of the plan, and for a time she was torn: undecided as to whether I should be cannonaded or canonized. I judge she has decided on the latter course, for this morning she called me her benefactor.”

Ogden paused.

“Extraordinary!” said Colonel Duane. “I’ll warrant the old lady is happy.”

Millicent said nothing; just gazed.

“My reason for coming to tell you this”—Ogden addressed Millicent now—“is that, as the affair is known and discussed, Hugh is going to be misunderstood and condemned. Thoroughly disagreeable things are going to be said about him. He is going to be called a fortune-hunter.”

“He was, wasn’t he?” broke in Millicent suddenly.

“I was. It was I. Please remember that. I exacted from him at the time a promise that he would not reveal their relationship to Miss Frink until I gave him permission; so, chafe as he might and did, he kept that promise. He’s a fine youngster; and to my relief and pleasure his aunt realizes it, and they understand each other.”

Colonel Duane nodded and smiled. “A story that ends well. Eh, Milly?”

She assented with another of the fleeting smiles. This change in Hugh’s fortunes put him still farther away. No one could tell to what lengths Miss Frink’s pride and joy would go, and what advantages now awaited him.

“What did you say Hugh’s name is?” asked the Colonel.

“Sinclair. Hugh Stanwood Sinclair, and one of the finest,” returned Ogden. “I hope I have set him right in your eyes and that you will defend him as occasion arises.”

“We’re fond of Hugh,” returned the old gentleman quietly, “and I don’t think you need dread unkind comments on him. You know the way of the world, and Miss Frink’s handsome heir is going to be persona grata to everybody, except, perhaps”—Colonel Duane laughed—“Leonard Grimshaw.”

Ogden smiled. “The nephew was introduced to him this morning at breakfast; and, except for a look which endangered the sweetness of the cream, he took it very calmly.”

After the caller had departed, Colonel Duane came back to his chair.

“Well, well,” he said. “So the hero wasn’t called Prince Charming for nothing, was he? A story that ends well. Eh, Milly? He’ll grace the position, eh? I like the idea. Indeed, I do. Isn’t it fine?”

And Millicent said it was, and gathered up her paraphernalia and went into the house.