Of course we kept our guest all night. It was midnight when Dan came home, and I pretended to be asleep. But he was quite cheerful the next morning. Chicago people were generally hospitable. There were new families coming in almost penniless, one may say, and they were helped upon their feet in the friendliest manner. It had seemed to me that Dan had a large and generous soul, but he did not show it now. I felt heartbroken.

We were to go down to the newspaper office. John thought he should like that above all things.

"I've never had half a chance at books," John said laughingly. "I had about made up my mind to study and get a district school. In a certain way I like farming, but it's not so easy in our old State. Here it must be splendid, inspiring! But a newspaper! That looks like fairyland to me. Cousin Ruth, I'm like a girl about fairy stories and King Arthur and Odin and all those old heroes."

That sounded like Norman, and warmed my inmost heart.

Fortunately we found Mr. Bayne and Mr. Wight both in. I think they were quite taken with young John. I wondered at his sort of aplomb for a country lad. He was no braggart, but he did seem to have a clear estimate of himself, and to most questions he said so cheerfully—"I'd like to learn."

The upshot of it was that he was to come for a week and try. Then Mr. Wight talked about Chris. Being a clergyman himself, he was taking a fervent interest in the lad.

We let father go home, and we took a walk about old Fort Dearborn, and talked western history, which interested him very much, as he had only the vaguest idea about the West. In spite of last evening, I had a light-hearted feeling, as if I was the Little Girl of the past going about with Norman.

On our homeward way, just as I attempted to cross the street, a carriage halted. There were two women in it, and one leaned out calling to me laughingly—"Ruth Gaynor—Ruth Hayne!"

I drew a long breath of utter amazement, and simply stared. But for thin, pale Mrs. Morrison I certainly should not have recognized Polly. She was a handsome woman and dressed in the richest manner. She seemed all of a glitter from her shining, rippling hair, the bronze feathers blowing about her hat, the cloud of lace around her neck with gold threads in it, and the glistening silk gown. On her one bare hand shone a circlet of diamonds, on her wrist a bracelet.

"Oh," I ejaculated, drawing in a long breath of surprise.

"If you had met me in a pudding pot you wouldn't have known me," and she laughed with an amused gayety. "You might get stirred up in the mush, but I wouldn't, I'm too large."

"Polly Morrison," was all I could say.

"I came yesterday afternoon. This is my first visit home, though I've trotted up and down the Mississippi until I know every turn and every town. I have a husband who hardly lets me out of his sight and he has never found it convenient to come to Chicago. Perhaps he is afraid he might see some other woman he would like for a wife, he had such astonishing luck before. And how Chicago has changed! All the old houses have been built on to, and the stores and warehouses! It can't hold a candle to New Orleans, and Kaskaskia is a gay old town, but you're coming on. Is this Chris?"

"No," and I explained.

"We're just out for a flyer. I took mother along so that people would be the more likely to recognize me. This afternoon we must go calling. I suppose I ought to stay at home and let the neighbors call on me, but I want to see them so. And poor Mrs. Hayne is a widow. Ben gone off to college, is it? Homer getting rich and peopling the town, but the other one is abroad—married to some French marquise, I suppose, and Chris going to be a minister. Lots of other changes. There! You may look to see me some day."

Her talk had been a swift dazzle, and made you feel as if some one had whirled you around.

"What a talker," said John. "And what a handsome woman. She looks fit to be a queen!"

We hurried home. I was anxious to have the dinner all right, and I didn't exactly want Dan to see me coming home with young John Gaynor. Why, I could not explain altogether to myself.

Jolette was just dishing up when Dan entered. He should not accuse me of secrecy this time.

"Oh, Dan," I cried, "did you see the new arrival, not exactly in a coach and four, but in Harman's barouche? Madame Maseurier and her mother viewing the town."

"Polly Morrison!" he ejaculated. "How does she look?" He was all interest.

"John thinks like a queen. She is wonderfully handsome, or else it is the fine clothes."

"Come to show them off, I suppose. The old Frenchman with her?"

"No. But she said her husband hardly let her out of his sight."

"I'd trust Polly for squeezing out some dark night if she wanted to." Then he gave his old, merry laugh, and a good-humored nod.

The dinner passed pleasantly. John had a good deal to say about the town.

Dan's strictures rankled in my mind. I really wanted young John to live with us. I liked him so much already, as one might regard a young brother, indeed as I did Chris, only John belonged to me, to father. But I did not want any trouble or jealousy.

The lad went down to the office the next morning, taking some lunch. Dan did not ask about him. He came home very enthusiastic. He had struck just the right thing, he was confident. And, grasping father's hands, he said in his young, earnest voice, he could never be thankful enough for that cordial letter of his.

It was the third day later when father was resting after having spent the morning in the fields, that I took my sewing and sat beside him. Presently I said tentatively:

"I am glad John has taken such a liking to the printing office. What a cheerful, ambitious fellow he is."

"A real Yankee!" Father laughed. "I like him very much. It seems a whiff of my native air—of my boyhood's air. Only I hadn't the ambition. The world was not so ambitious. People had an idea in those days that God had put you just where He wanted you to be, and that it was a sin to try to get elsewhere. They didn't read the Bible right in the very beginning, 'Dominion over everything' is his birthright."

After a pause I began in a kind of indifferent tone, "Do you not think it would be a good thing for him to board near the office, where he could run home to his dinner? He is a growing lad, and a cold lunch doesn't seem just the thing. Then in winter there will be storms and awful going."

"We're not in winter now. What is to hinder him from staying until then?"

He looked suddenly, sharply at me. I felt the hot blood rush to my face.

There was a silence. The fresh wind off the lake sang its murmuring song, and the birds gave the chorus, but I could feel the other hush.

"Yes, what's to hinder?" rather impatiently.

"I thought," then my voice faltered.

"Did Dan say anything? He doesn't like the boy's coming, I can see that."

"He felt hurt because he had not known about it. So many things happened just then——"

"Well, it was rather queer. He might have struck something at home, and not come at all. I should have felt like a fool making a great spread about it. I did suppose his mother would write again. But I don't care now. And the house isn't Dan Hayne's! There's our bargain in black and white. To be sure, I haven't deeded it to you. I started to once, when Hamilton made a suggestion——"

"We have been so happy and peaceable."

"Ruth," his voice was low, and with an inexpressible longing, "I wish you had a child or children."

"Oh, father, it has been the one desire of my heart, my trial, my constant prayer," and I leaned my face down on his arm and cried softly.

Sophie had twin boys besides her other son and daughter. Dan envied the twins with the longing of fatherhood. This matter had been a sorrowful disappointment to us both.

"There, dear," said father presently. "There may be some wise purpose in it that we can't see now. But I don't say, like David, in his prosperity, "I shall never be removed. Thou, Lord, hast made my hill so strong." I think quite often of the time when I shall be removed. I'd like to know that some one of my blood would take a delight in these broad prairies and fertile fields. It seems queer when luck went against me in my early life that I should have so much of it now when I am an old lamenter. Of course, Dan is an excellent manager, it's born in him, but I keep things up sharp as well. This was what Hamilton said: 'If your daughter dies without children you know this goes to Mr. Hayne. Have you no relative that you would like to succeed her?' I stopped short then. You see Dan might marry again, and your property go to another woman's children."

"I wouldn't mind Dan, but another woman and her children—oh, I couldn't bear to think of their living in this house—the children I have been denied," and I could not stifle my sobs.

"Little Girl, you may outlive Dan. Think how his father went, who had never had a day's illness in his life before. But one needs to consider all the points. So I have been thinking this last year if there was any one I would like to have succeed us, or if I should leave it to found a hospital, which we shall need. I couldn't make up my mind. I thought we would talk it over some day. And now John has come in a sort of miraculous way. We do not know how he will turn out in the end—but I like the name—John Gaynor. Would you mind if he came after us?"

"Oh, I should like it. Already he seems like a brother."

"That is, if there should be no children. We needn't give up hope," and he smiled tenderly.

"Yes, I should like him to come after us," I said after some moments of thought.

"Meanwhile, if I want to help him out of my part of the profits, you will not feel sore?"

"Oh, no, no," I returned earnestly.

"Of course I want him to make his own way, it gives a young fellow more reliance on himself. But he might as well live here——"

I was cut to the heart with a curious presentiment. Dan would be jealous, I knew by what he said that first night. If it had been altogether the drink he would have met the boy cordially afterward. But he had not. I had never thought of Dan caring especially for father's property, yet I wondered now if he would have wanted to marry me if there had been only a trifle. As I grew older I could not understand why he had been so persistent, when I had not really "fallen in love with him," as the phrase goes. I might have been mortified if he had given me up at last, but I knew now I should not have been heartbroken. I had tried my utmost to yield him all wifely love. Sometimes he was fierce in his vehemence, and it turned me cold at heart. I liked the gentler moods best, but occasionally there was a hard indifference. If there had only been a child to give scope to the fatherly feeling! After that I think I would only have been the mother of his child.

There was nothing to do but to tell father the truth. He was quite angry at first, but he loved me too well to risk my happiness, so he consented reluctantly. But John should come as a visitor and be made welcome.

"And whatever you want to do for him you must do without thinking it will take aught away from me," I said firmly. "It is all yours, and I want you to be happy."

"I wish I had never persuaded you to marry Dan Hayne," he subjoined in a profoundly reflective manner. "But I was truly afraid then that I should die, and he did seem to love you."

"And he loves me now," I returned bravely, but with a curious sinking of heart.

It took more than one talk to get matters settled and father was loth to let John go. But I knew how necessary it was when Dan said with an acrid sound in his voice—"Is that fellow going to hang round here all the time?"

"No," I replied cheerfully. "He is to board with Mrs. Wilson down on Lake Street. It will be so much more convenient when he is once fairly at work. He has decided to learn the printing business."

I knew he looked sharply at me, and I hated to have anything to hide from him.

I went over to Mrs. Wilson's and selected his room, seeing that it was comfortably bedded and furnished. Then I paid her a month's board in advance, explaining the relationship to father and saying that he was warmly interested in his namesake's welfare. She promised to see that he was well taken care of in every way.

He hated to go, declaring he did not mind the walk nor the early rising it entailed. But we set it out so very much to his advantage that he ceased to object.

"And we shall look for you on Sundays and whenever you like of an evening. We shall keep a sharp watch over you and see that you do not go astray."

"I should be a beast if I did after all your kindness," he returned with deep feeling.

I was rather glad that Polly Morrison, as people still called her, made a diversion through this time, when relations were strained. It was quite an event for the town. Madame Maseurier was somebody in her silks and furbelows. She was not "dined and wined," though no doubt the gentlemen would have done it if it had been admissible, but tea drinkings, the complimentary honor of that day, were proffered.

"Dan," I said, and I tried to keep in my usual mood, even if he was captious, "Dan, Mrs. Gurnee has asked us to supper to meet Madame Maseurier to-morrow evening."

"Well—" rather sharply.

"If you don't care to go I will send regrets."

"Who said I didn't care to go? Can't a man think a moment if he has anything to prevent?"

I made no comment.

"Do you want to go?" in a curious tone.

"It is always pleasant at Mrs. Gurnee's, and her tea is delicious. It must come straight from China."

"Oh, it is no doubt part in the brewing. Well," with a nod of the head, "we'll go and inspect the Madame in her fine array. I hope you have something decent to wear."

Fortunately I had a silk gown made in the latest style. The skirts were very full, and mine, because I was very slim, had to be laid in plaits underneath the gauging.

Certainly Polly was a fine-looking woman and distinguished in manner, in spite of her madcap youth. Several of her old admirers were present as husbands, and she distributed her smiles impartially. She seemed to have a very ready wit and much intelligence, and really was fit to grace a court.

The next night but one we met her again. She was very charming and brilliant.

"I hear you have a fine new house," she said to Dan. "Am I to have a chance to view it?"

"It's nothing to your fifty or hundred year old houses with all their treasures. Chicago, you will remember, is new, and the world has not yet poured its luxuries into our laps. I had an idea you had given it a long last farewell."

She laughed softly. "That is to say you decline—and an old friend! I did not think you so cruel."

He flushed. "No, I should feel quite honored," he subjoined quickly. "Ruth, is there an evening you and Madame Maseurier can agree for her to come to us?"

I really wanted father to see her, so I accepted the opportunity readily, for I had hardly dared propose it to Dan, and she agreed with charming suavity.

"You can hardly make Polly Morrison out of her," I remarked as we were walking home.

"She has been polished up by society, we must admit, and she is what I call a handsome woman. Those tall women always do have such a queenly look. It pays a man to get them fine clothes."

And I was barely medium.

I did my best to have a pretty tea table. Dan said not to ask any one else. We had made some vines grow over our porch, and I had a row of flowers on each side of the walk, like my mother's dooryard. Polly admired it cordially and told us of the southern flowers and vines that grew so riotously in their sweetness and bloom. She sat and talked to father until they were summoned to tea, and we had a rather merry meal. She thought our prospect so fine, the great sweep of prairie on one side, the lake on the other. They laughed about old Chicago, though Polly said it had not made rapid strides only in a business way.

Her eyes gave one the queerest feeling, as if they really absorbed you, drained you of some power, and yet you were lured to meet them again and again.

Dan proposed to take her home in the buggy.

"Oh, no, let us walk," she returned. "I am afraid of these uneven narrow lanes at night, when you can't see the pitfalls."

So they went off together, she with a lace scarf over her shining, rippling hair, southern fashion.

"What do you think of her, father?" I asked, as we settled ourselves on the porch.

"She is out of the ordinary, a woman to take a man straight to the devil if she so elected. I don't wonder her husband keeps a good watch over her, but she seems to accept it gayly. I do not believe she has any heart."

Dan did not return until midnight. At first when he was out late I used to keep awake until I found it annoyed him. Now I went to sleep if I could, or pretended.

Two or three days after that Polly returned home.

John trudged over when he had been at his boarding place three days. It was as nice as it could be, but wasn't like this, and the street was wretched down that end. Yes, the meals were very good, and the office work was easy enough. Mr. Bayne had asked him to come in some evening, he had quite a library. He had written everything to his mother, a long, long letter, and she would be so amazed, so delighted.

"I wish I might call you Uncle John," he said in his frank, free way. "It seems to bring you into the proper relation—there's so much difference between us in years. Oh, at the office they think you know such a lot!"

"I've had a chance to learn a good deal in the years I've lived. Any one can who keeps his eyes open and adds two and five together."

"But why two and five?"

"Because it takes you farther along than two and two. Sometimes when you go out of bounds you strike a new knowledge."

Sunday morning Dan went off with one of the packers to look at a drove of cattle, and we had a delightful time with John all day. He told us about his sisters and their families. One of the husbands taught school in the winter. His own brother seemed a rather close-fisted sort of person, and his mother now and then went out nursing. But there was no chance for a young fellow in the town unless he had a farm to start with.

Dan seemed to settle into a sort of tolerant mood toward young John, but though I tried my best I often found him sharp and captious. Then he would have a spell of being tigerishly fond of me. I cannot use any other adjective, and it filled me with terror, as it had times before, as if he sought to impress upon me that I was his alone.

Then we heard that Mr. Pierre Maseurier had been thrown from his horse and picked up with a broken neck.

Everybody wondered what Polly would do. Her mother went to her.

So the winter came on again. Half a century had passed. It was 1850. How queer it seemed, as if we had written 1840 all our lives. And I was twenty years old.

Ben was in Harvard. Mr. Wight planned for Chris to study Latin and Greek, and go to a preparatory school another year.

Mrs. Morrison and Polly came home. It seems that Mr. Maseurier had made no will, and the sons claimed everything. Wives were not well provided for at that period. Still, the sons gave her a small portion of their wealth, and she returned to Chicago, her luxurious life at an end. I wondered if she was very sorry. She wore heavy widow's mourning, and did not look as attractive as in all her furbelows. Then widows were expected to live very quiet, retired lives for six months at least.

I was rather surprised when Dan inquired somewhat brusquely one day if father had given me the deed of the house.

"Is it worth while before I am twenty-one?" I asked.

"What a silly idea! It is worth while any time. Ask him to do it. He promised to."

I spoke to father.

He went over to Judge Manierre and had the deed made out. The house and the three acres of ground, barn, outbuildings, etc., were mine, and to go to the heirs of my own body, failing in that they were to revert to the original estate of John Gaynor. Then he made his will. Everything was left to me during my lifetime with the exception of a few gifts of land, a plot to Dan Hayne, another to the son of his cousin, John Gaynor. At my death without lawful heirs it was all to go to John Gaynor. There were several permissions given about selling under certain circumstances. And if John Gaynor died without heirs the estate was to go to the city of Chicago to found a hospital.

He brought a copy home to see if I was satisfied with it.

I said I was entirely. If I died, why should father's fortune go to enrich one who would soon forget me?

For now I had an awesome consciousness that my husband did not love me as Homer loved Sophie, as many wives were loved. I tried to be sweet and patient, to keep my house in pretty order, to have his clothes just as he wanted them, and everything to his hand, to be ready if he asked me to go out, which he did not often do nowadays. He was a good deal with the men. He had been training Chita's pretty colt for a splendid racer and was proud enough of him. Then he was off to Galena for a week at a time, or on some other business over night.

When he learned about the house he was very angry. I had never seen him in such a passion. It turned me sick and cold. He had never sworn at me before, and he said dreadful things about father.

"It is all father's," I replied. "He gives it to me during my lifetime if I outlive him, and while he lives no one can take it away from him."

"He promised you the house. It was an object for me to marry you."

"Then you did not love me?" I faced him with that.

"Well, in a way, yes. But you are poor, barren stock! And here comes this beggar's brat that no one ever heard of before—why, I thought you had no relations. And he is to take everything."

"I may live to be an old woman. And father may live years yet."

He had certainly seemed stronger the past year. He had attended to nearly all the planting in the spring, Dan had been away so much. He got about very well with only one crutch.

Dan swore a horrible oath and turned on his heel. I was glad father was not in the house, but I was mortally afraid he would go after him. He was away then for two or three days and nights. There are some shocks that seem to change life for us, make a difference that one can never wholly surmount. I knew this had come to me.

Dan was not covetous. He made money easily, and spent it freely without any apparent regret. There were suppers with the men, and he was generous about helping his friends. So why should he have counted on father's money when he could be a rich man with a little carefulness?

But the awful knowledge that was more than suspicion rushed over me, leaving me cold and faint. Father had been poorly that winter. And I knew now if father's land should be turned into money, if the city should go on spreading out, I would be an heiress. Dan had as much faith in Chicago's future as father.

Had this anything to do with his fancy for me? I could not blind myself to the fact. Then I think I had piqued him by not being too easily won. It was not coquetry, but because I had never felt certain of myself.

I was so miserable I had to tell father.

"My poor Little Girl!" Then he roused to anger. "I can easily destroy the deed. The bargain was that I should deed the house to you, but that I should have my home in it as long as I lived. I never promised to will all my property to you. For a certain amount of oversight he was to have a certain share of the profits. This last year he has not done his part at all. I could justly complain of him. I have hired some of his work done out of my part. He is with a gay set and he does drink. Oh, my Little Girl, you are between two fires."

He took me in his arms, and I cried on the dear fatherly breast.

It is curious how the expected fails to meet the mark. Father had resolved to brave it out, and I was shaking in every pulse. But Dan returned careless and pleasant, ate his supper with rather exuberant gossip, dressed himself, and went out with no sign of storm, and we would not throw the first dart.

"Ruth," Sophie began hesitatingly one morning when I had gone in to see the babies, which were my delight, "what calls Dan down to the Morrisons' so much? He is there every few nights. And he took Polly out driving after nine o'clock. Some one ought to put a stop to it. Polly is being very retired and discreet, and all that, but this is going on."

"How do you know?" I asked, cold as ice at heart.

"I can't tell you without a breach of confidence, that is, not the name. But it is true. Shall Homer take it up?"

"Oh, no, no," I cried. "Don't let him quarrel about me. I can't tell. Wait and let me think."

"It will be an open scandal by and by, though they carry it on in the dark. Somehow I always rather distrusted Dan. Oh, you ought not have married him."

But it was all done. No one can take a step backward in his or her life. I remembered what father had said about Polly.

I rose weak and trembling. I said again I must think it over. She kissed me tenderly, but I was like one bereft of feeling.