Mr. Harnden had not had a bit of trouble late that afternoon in securing a promise from Tasper Britt to give him audience and view the plans and specifications of Mr. Harnden's latest invention. In fact, the consent had been secured so easily that Mr. Harnden, freshly arrived in town on Ike Jones's stage, and having heard no Egypt gossip during a prolonged absence from home, had blinked at Britt with the air of a man who had expected to find a door held against him, had pushed hard, and had tumbled head over heels when nothing opposed him.

Mr. Harnden went out on the street and put himself in the way of hearing some gossip. Then he went directly back into Britt's office and shook hands with the money king, giving Mr. Britt an arch look which suggested that Mr. Harnden knew a whole lot that he was not going to talk about right then. He said, ascribing the idea to second thought, that it might be cozier and handier to view the plans at the Harnden home. Mr. Britt agreed with a heartiness that clinched the hopes which gossip had given Mr. Harnden. The father causally said he supposed, of course, that Vona had gone home long before from the bank, and he watched Mr. Britt's expression when the banker replied to a question as to how she was getting on with her work.

“Yes, siree, she's a smart girl,” corroborated the father, “and I have always impressed on her mind that some day she was bound to rise high and get what she deserves to have. Come early, Tasper, and we'll make a pleasant evening of it.”

Mr. Britt went early, but not early enough to catch Vona before she left for the rehearsal.

Although it had been particularly easy to get Mr. Britt to come to the house, Mr. Harnden was not finding it easy to hold his prospective backer's attention. The patent project under consideration was what the inventor called “a duplex door,” designed to keep kitchen odors from dining rooms. Mr. Harnden had a model of the apparatus. With his forefinger he kept tripping the doors, showing how a person's weight operated the contrivance, shutting the doors behind and simultaneously opening the doors in front; but Mr. Harnden did not draw attention to the palpable fact that a waiter would need to have the agility of a flea to escape being swatted in the rear or banged in the face.

Mr. Britt watched the model's operations with lackluster eyes; he seemed to be looking through the little doors and at something else that was not visible to the inventor.

Mr. Harnden was short and roly-poly, with a little round mouth and big round eyes, and a curlicue of topknot that he wagged in emphasis as a unicorn might brandish his horn. Mr. Harnden considered that he was a good talker. He was considerably piqued by Britt's apparent failure to get interested, although the banker was making considerable of an effort to return suitable replies when the inventor pinned him to answers.

“Suppose I go over the whole plan again, from the start,” suggested Harnden.

“Joe, Mr. Britt looks real tired,” protested Mrs. Harnden from the chimney corner. Her querulous tone fitted her lackadaisical looks; her house dress had too many flounces on it; she had a paper-covered novel in her hand.

“Yes, I am tired,” declared Britt, mournfully. “Sort of worn out and all discouraged. I feel terribly alone in this world.”

“Too bad!” Mrs. Harnden cooed her sympathy, affectedly.

“And I've been through hell's torments in the last few hours,” declared Britt; ire succeeded his dolor.

“You must try and forget how those ingrates have abused you, Mr. Britt. This is a beautiful story I have just finished. You must take it with you and read it. The love sentiment is simply elegant. And it speaks of the sheltering walls of the home making a haven for the wounded heart. I hope you have found this home a haven to-night.” She rose and crossed to him and laid the novel in his hands.

Mr. Harnden shoved his own hands into his trousers pockets, throwing back his coat from his comfortable frontal convexity. He presented a sort of full-rigged effect—giving the appearance of one of those handy-Jack “Emergency Eddies” who make personal equipment a fad: the upper pockets of his waistcoat bristled with pencils and showed the end of a folded rule and some calipers. He had all sorts of chains disappearing into various pockets—chains for keys and knife and cigar cutter and patent light. “Tasper,” he advised, briskly, “seeing that you're now in a happy haven, as the wife says, why waste time and temper on this town? The only reason why I have kept my home here is because the town is solid rock and makes a good jumping-off place for me; I can get a firm toe hold. Why do you bother with a dinky office like the one you started out for? With your money and general eminence you can be the Governor of our state. Sure! I know all the men in this state. I've made it my business to know 'em. Let me be your manager and I'll make you Governor like”—Mr. Harnden yanked out one hand and tripped the doors of the model with a loud snap—“like that! Open goes the door to honors—bang goes the door against enemies!”

Mr. Britt glanced at the title of the story in his hands—The Flowers Along Life's Pathway—and perked up a bit as if he saw an opportunity to pluck some of those flowers. But when Mr. Harnden went on to say that politics was not as expensive—with the right manager—as some folks supposed, Mr. Britt exhibited gloomy doubt. “A home is about all I have in mind right now,” he declared. “A man has got to have a happy home before his mind is free for big plans.”

“My experience exactly!” stated Mr. Harnden, graciously indicating with a wave of the hand the happy home which he rarely graced. “And knowing what I do about the help a good home gives an enterprising man, you've got my full co-operation in your efforts, Tasper.”

They heard the hall door open.

“It's Vona,” announced Mrs. Harnden. She beamed on Britt. “I wonder why the dear girl is coming home so early.”

The caller's face lighted up with the effect of an arc lamp going into action.

But when the sitting-room door opened and Vona escorted Vaniman in ahead of her, Britt's illuminated expression instantly became the red glare of rage instead of the white light of hope. He leaped to his feet.

The situation made for embarrassment of overwhelming intensity; there was no detail of the affair in front of Usial's cot that had not been canvassed by every mouth in Egypt, including the mouths of the Harnden home.

Vaniman made the first move. He bowed to Mrs. Harnden; he knew the mother; she had called on Vona in the bank. “May I meet your father?” he asked the girl.

Vona presented him, recovering her composure by the aid of Frank's steadiness.

“How-de-do!” said Mr. Harnden, stiffly. He did not ask the caller to be seated. Vona gave the invitation. While Vaniman hesitated, the master of the household had a word to say, putting on his best business air. “Ordinarily, young man, the latchstring of my home is out and the boys and the girls are welcome here to make merry in a sociable way.” Mr. Harnden was distinctly patronizing, with an air that put Frank into the intruding-urchin class. “But it so happens that this evening Banker Britt has seized the opportunity of my being in town and he and I are in close conference regarding an important matter in the investment line. You'll excuse us, I'm sure.”

It was certainly no moment to go tilting in the field of Love, and Frank, though undaunted, was deferential; and he was compelled to recognize the father's rights as master of the household. He bowed and turned to leave, carefully keeping his eyes off Britt.

But Vona had her word to say then; her foot was on the hearth of home; she had that advantage over Frank. Moreover, she was moved by the instinct of self-protection; she did not relish the notion of being left alone with that trio.

“We can kindle a fire in the front room, father!”

“There hasn't been a fire in that room all winter, dear girl.” Mrs. Harnden's protest was sweetly firm. “No one shall run the chance of catching a cold.”

“Exactly! It's tricky weather, and we must be careful of our guests,” agreed Mr. Harnden. “Call again, young sir!”

“I will,” stated Vaniman. He turned and addressed Vona. “The little matter will take no harm if it's postponed till to-morrow,” he told her. His gaze was tender—and the girl looked up at him with an expression which even a careless observer would have found telltale. Britt's vision was sharpened by such jealous venom that he would have misconstrued even innocent familiarity. He had been struggling with his passion ever since Vaniman had appeared, escorting the girl in from the night where the two had been alone together. Age's ugly resentment at being supplanted by youth was sufficiently provocative in this case where Britt ardently longed, and had promised himself what he desired; but to that provocation was added the stinging memory of the blow dealt that day by Youth's hand across Age's withered mouth; he licked the swollen lips with a rabid tongue. He beheld the two young folks exchanging looks that gave to their simple words an import which roused all his fury. Britt shook himself free from all restraint. He had been assured by the Harndens that their home was his haven; he took advantage of that assurance and of the young man's more dubious standing in the household.

Britt was holding to the paper-covered novel—it was doubled in his ireful grip and its title showed plainly above his ridged hand—a particularly infelicitous title it seemed to be under the circumstances, because Britt was shaking the book like a cudgel and his demeanor was that of a man who was clutching thorns instead of flowers. He advanced on Frank and his voice made harsh clamor in the little room. “You'd better not take on any more engagements for to-morrow, Vaniman. You'll be mighty busy with me, winding up our business together.”

“Very well, sir. And suppose we leave off all matters between us until then!”

But Britt had started to run wild and was galloping under the whip of fury. He had been doing some amazing things that day—he had written verse, he had blubbered foolishly with a girl looking on, and he had horsewhipped his twin brother before the eyes of the populace—but what he did next was more amazing than all the rest. Having sourly admitted to himself that he was a coward when he was alone with the girl, he took advantage of this moment when his choleric desperation gave him fictitious courage. He slashed into the situation with what weapons he had at hand—and he held a reserve weapon, so he thought, in the big wallet that thrust its bulk reassuringly against his breast. “This thing seems to have come to a climax; and it ain't through any fault of mine. I've never yet been afraid to talk for myself, in a climax, and I ain't afraid now. The time to do business is when you've got your interested parties assembled—and the five folks in this room—the whole five—may not be collected together again,” he stated, with vengeful significance, looking hard at Vaniman. Then he whirled on the girl. “Vona, I want to marry you. You know it. Your folks know it. It's all understood, even if it hasn't been put into words. I'll give you everything that money will buy. When you get me you know what you're getting. I put the question to you right here and now, before your home folks, and that shows you what kind of a square man I am. I don't sneak in dark corners.” He accused her escort with a glowering side-glance.

Mrs. Harnden simpered.

Vona had never found her mother an especially stable support in times of stress, but the girl did feel that the maternal spirit might arise and help in an emergency as vital as that one! Mrs. Harnden, however, was gazing into the arena and was blandly indicating by her demeanor, “Thumbs down!”

Then the girl appealed to her father, mutely eager; denied sympathy, she was asking for protection. But Mr. Harnden was distinctly not extending protection. He was looking at Mr. Britt. By avoiding what he knew the girl was asking for with all her soul in her eyes, Mr. Harnden was indulging his consistent selfishness; he hated to be worried by the troubles of others; others' woes placed brambles on the pathway of his optimism.

“Tasper, you have certainly jumped the Harnden family—jumped us complete! You can't expect a girl to get her voice back right away. But I suppose it's up to me to speak for the family.”

Vaniman stepped into the center of the room. “I suppose so, too, Mr. Harnden. I'll confess that I came into your house this evening with that idea in my mind.”

Now the girl had eyes only for the one whom she recognized as her real champion; those eyes would have inspired a knight to any sort of derring-do, Frank was telling himself.

“That being agreed, I'll speak,” stated Mr. Harnden, throwing back his coat lapels and displaying all his pencil quills.

“Just one moment, sir, till I have shown that Mr. Britt has no monopoly on courage—seeing that he has put invasion of a quiet home on that plane. I love your daughter. I want her for my wife. I came here to tell you so; but I was putting politeness ahead of my anxiety after you told me that you were engaged.”

“Harnden, that man hasn't a cent in the world,” Britt declared. “He sends away every sou markee he can spare from his salary. He buys checks from me. I can show 'em.” Out came Britt's big wallet; he threw down the paper-covered novel.

“I support my mother and I'm putting my young sister through school,” admitted the cashier. “Mr. Britt is right. But every time I buy one of his checks I buy a lot of honest comfort for myself.”

“I think, young man, that the Harnden family better not interfere with the comfort of the Vaniman family,” averred the father, loftily. “I'd hate to think I was a party to taking bread from the mouths of a mother and a sister. I'm sure Vona feels the same way.”

“Certainly!” supplemented Mrs. Harnden. “I understand a woman's feelings in such a matter.”

“Furthermore, I have discharged Vaniman for good and sufficient reasons,” said President Britt. “He stands there busted and without a job.”

“That is quite true,” Vaniman admitted. “I cannot remain with the Egypt Trust Company, but that's a matter quite of my own choice.”

“Oh, it is, is it?” scoffed the president.

“Yes, sir! I've had quite enough of your society.”

“Therefore, it seems to me that there isn't much more to be said—not here—in a home that we try to make peaceful and happy at all times,” said Mr. Harnden, pompously.

“But there's something more I'm going to say!” Britt was proceeding with malice in tones and mien. He had been waving the canceled checks. He pulled another paper from the wallet. “You think the directors would keep you on in that job, do you, Vaniman, if you forced the issue?”

“I do! Jealousy and petty spite would not show up very strong in a board meeting, Mr. Britt.”

Britt shook the paper. “How would this show up?”

Vaniman did not lose his composure. “Why don't you read it aloud? You have stirred curiosity in Mr. and Mrs. Harnden, I see.”

“And I'll stir something else in a girl you're trying to fool! But I'm gong to save this letter for that board meeting; I'll have you fired by a regular vote—and I'll send the record of that vote to every bank in this part of the country. Then see how far you'll get with your lies about my jealousy!” Britt was plainly determined to allow guesswork to deal in the blackest construction regarding the letter.

Vaniman turned his back on the others. He talked directly to Vona. The agonized query in her eyes demanded a reply from him. “Mr. Britt has in his hand a letter from some banking friend of his. The letter says that my father was sentenced to the penitentiary, charged with embezzlement. That is so. My father died there. But it was wicked injustice. You and your father and mother are entitled to know that an honest man was made a scapegoat.”

“Excuse me!” broke in Harnden. “We are outsiders and will probably remain so, and have no hankering to pry into family matters.”

“I did not intend to tell the story now, Mr. Harnden. It's too sacred a matter to be discussed in the presence of that man who stands there trying to make a club of the thing to ruin my hopes and my life. This is a hateful situation. I apologize. But he has forced me to speak out, as I have done, telling you and your wife of my love for Vona.”

“I don't see how you dare to speak of it, seeing what the circumstances are,” declared the father; there was a murmur of corroboration from the mother.

“It's a cheeky insult to all concerned,” shouted Britt.

“No, it's my best attempt to be honest and open and a man,” insisted Vaniman. “I have left no chance for gossip to bring tales to you, Mr. Harnden.”

But Mr. Harnden sliced the air with a hand that sought to sever further conference. “Absolutely impossible, young man.”

“Vona's prospects must not be ruined by anybody's selfishness,” stated Mrs. Harnden.

In his eagerness, encouraged by this parental backing, Mr. Britt did not employ a happy metaphor. “It has been my rule, in the case of bitter medicine, to take it quick and have the agony over with.” He put all the appeal he could muster into his gaze at Vona. “That's why I have sprung the thing this evening, on the spur of the moment. I ain't either young or handsome, Vona. I know my shortcomings. But I've got everything to make you happy; all you've got to do is turn around and take me as your husband and make me and your folks happy, too.”

Mr. Harnden's optimism bobbed up with its usual serenity. “We're making a whole lot out of a little, come to think it over!” He turned to Vona, feeling that he was fortified against any appeal he might find in her eyes.

In the silence that she had imposed on herself while her champion was battling she had been gathering courage, piling up the ammunition of resolution. Love lighted her eyes and flung out its signal banners of challenge on her cheeks.

“Why, our girl has never said that she is in love with anybody,” prated the father.

“I'll say it now, when there's a good reason for saying it,” cried the girl, her tones thrilling the listeners. “I'll say it in my own way to the one who is entitled to know, and you may listen, father and mother!”

She went to Frank, stretching her hands to him, and he took them in his grasp. “I understand! I can wait,” she told him. “And when the time comes and you call to me, I'll say, as Ruth said, 'Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.'” Impulsively, heeding only him, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Then she ran from the room.

And finding the light gone out of the place, Frank groped to the door, like a blind man feeling his way, and departed.