With Clare Crosby's sudden departure, the group in the Rectory drawing-room stood in complete silence for a moment, astonished and staring. Wallace, with his hands to his face, was like a man half-stunned.

Outside in the Close, the choir, having come to a halt, was rendering the Wedding March with great gusto—proof positive that the choirmaster, at least, made an audience for the twelve. Above the chorus of young voices pealed that one most perfect—the bird-sweet voice of Ikey Einstein, devoid of its accent by some queer miracle of song. It dipped and soared with the melody, as sure and strong and true as a bugle.

"Well!" It was Mrs. Milo who spoke first—Mrs. Milo, who could put so much meaning into a single word. Now she expressed disapproval and amazement; more: that one exclamatory syllable, as successfully as if it had been an extended utterance, not only hinted, but openly avowed her belief in the moral turpitude of the young woman who had just reeled so blindly through the door.

"Wallace!" Sue went to her brother.

"Now, what's the row!" demanded Balcome, irritably, looking around for his hat, which Hattie had taken from him in order to make him more presentable for the rehearsal.

"I suppose I've done something," ventured Mrs. Balcome, plaintively.

Mrs. Milo hastened to the door leading to the lawn, spied the choirmaster, waved a wigwag at him with her handkerchief, and shut the door. The singing stopped.

She came fluttering back. Always, when something unforeseen and unpleasant happened, it was Mrs. Milo's habit to accept the occurrence as aimed purposely at her and her happiness. So now her attitude was one of patient forbearance. "I told you, Hattie," she reminded; "—bad luck if Wallace saw you in your wedding-dress today."

Wallace had slipped to a seat on the sofa, leaning his head on a hand, and shaking like a man with a chill. Now, at mention of Hattie's name, he sprang up, went to her, getting between her and his mother, and putting an arm about the girl as if to protect her. "It has nothing to do with Hattie," he declared, his eyes blazing. "Nothing, I tell you! And you're trying to make trouble!"

"If you please," interrupted Sue, quietly, "you're speaking to your mother."

But Mrs. Milo was amply able to take care of herself—by the usual method of putting any opponent instantly on the defensive. "So it has nothing to do with Hattie?" she returned. "Well, perhaps it has something to do with you."

Wallace's tall figure stiffened, as if from an electric shock. His lips drew back from his clenched teeth in something that was like a grin.

Hattie took a long step, freeing herself from his arm.

"Or perhaps"—Mrs. Milo's glance had traveled to Sue—"perhaps it has something to do with Mr. Farvel."

"I won't discuss Alan behind his back," retorted Wallace, hotly.

"A-a-a-ah!"—this with a gratified nod. She felt that she had forced the knowledge she wanted, namely that the going of the soloist had something to do with the clergyman. "Well,"—smiling—"I think I have an idea." With a beckon to Mrs. Balcome, she made toward the hall.

Mrs. Balcome came rolling after, the dog worn high against the crÊpe cascade. "Perhaps it's just as well that Miss Crosby went," she observed from the door. "Of course, we could screen her with palms. But I think she'd take away from Hattie tomorrow. She's much too pretty—much."

"Puh!" snorted Balcome. He went to slam the door after her.

Now, Hattie turned upon Wallace with sudden intensity. "What has Miss
Crosby to do with Mr. Farvel?" she demanded.

"But does it make any difference, Hattie?" put in Sue, quickly; "—as long as it isn't your Wallace. It doesn't, of course. Mr. Farvel has his own personal affairs, and they're no business of ours—none whatever. Are they? No. And Miss Crosby is charming, and pretty, and—and sweet." Now she in turn faced round upon her brother. "But—but what has Miss Crosby to do with Mr. Farvel?"

"Does it make, any difference to you?" countered Hattie.

"Of course not, Hattie!—Foolish question nine million and nine!—Wallace, she's—she's not—the girl? You know."

He reddened angrily. "She is not!" he exploded. But as Sue, showing plain distrust in his answer, turned toward the passage as if to go in search of Farvel, he caught at her arm almost fiercely—and fearfully. "Oh, no! Not yet!" he begged. "Please, Sue!"

"I believe he ought to know," she declared.

"Do you want him to give up this Church?" he cried. And as she came back slowly, "Oh, trust me, Sue! It's something I can't tell you. But I'm right about it.—Sh!" For Mrs. Milo had re-entered, on her countenance unmistakable signs of triumphant pleasure.

"Ah-ha!" exclaimed that lady, as she hurried forward. "I thought there was something queer about that Crosby girl!"

"Why, mother dear!" expostulated Sue. "I've heard you say she was such a lady—so refined——"

"Please don't contradict me!"

"I beg your pardon."

Mrs. Milo glanced from one to another of the little group, saving her news, preparing for a good effect. "Mrs. Balcome and I have just solved the Farvel mystery," she announced. "We looked at that photograph in the bureau again, and—it's Miss Crosby's picture."

"Haw-haw!" roared Balcome, with a scornful flop of the hat.

Sue went close to her brother. "Then she is the girl who disappeared," she said under her breath.

"Well—yes."

"And she'll go again! She'll be lost!" She started toward the hall.

"Susan!" cried her mother, peremptorily. And as Sue halted, "We want nothing to do with that girl. Come back."

"What harm could come of my going?" argued Sue.

"That is not the question."

"Mother, I don't like to oppose you, but in this case——"

"I shall not allow it," said her mother, decisively.

"Then I must go against your wishes." Sue opened the door.

"I forbid it, I tell you!" That note of shrillness now appeared in
Mrs. Milo's voice.

"Oh, mother!" Sue came back a little way. "Don't treat me like a child!"

Now Mrs. Milo became all gentleness once more. She put a hand on Sue's arm. "Your mother is the best judge of your actions," she reminded. "And she wants you to stay."

Sue backed. "No; I'm sorry," she answered. "In all my life I can't remember disobeying you once. But today I must." Again she started.

"My daughter!" Mrs. Milo's voice broke pathetically. "You—you mean you won't respect my wishes?"

Checked by that sign of tears so near, again Sue halted, but without turning. "I want to help her," she urged, a little doggedly.

"But your mother," went on Mrs. Milo, "—my feelings—my love—are you going to trample them under foot?"

"Oh, not that!"

Mrs. Milo fell to weeping. "Oh, what do you care for my peace of mind!" she mourned. "For my heartache!"

It brought Sue to her mother's side. "Why! Why!" She put an arm about the elder woman tenderly.

Mrs. Milo dropped to a chair. "This is the child I bore!" she sobbed. "I've devoted my whole life to her! And now—oh, if your dear father knew! If he could only see——" Words failed her. She buried her face in her handkerchief.

Sue knelt at her side. "Oh, mother! Mother!" she comforted. "Hush, dear! Hush!"

"I'm going to be ill," wept Mrs. Milo. "I know I am! My nerves can't stand it! But it's just as well"—mournfully. "I'm in your way. I can see that. And it's t-t-t-time that I died!" She shook convulsively.

Commands, arguments, appeals, tears—how often Mrs. Milo and her daughter went through the several steps of just such a scene as this. Exactly that often, Sue capitulated, as she capitulated now, with eyes brimming.

"Ah, don't say that, mother," she pleaded. "You'll break my heart! You're my whole life—with Wallace away, why I've got nobody else in the whole world!" And looking up, "Wallace, you go."

Instantly Mrs. Milo's weeping quieted.

"Today?" asked her brother, impatiently.

"Yes, now! Right away!" Sue got to her feet.

"Oh, Sue, there's no rush!"

Mrs. Milo, suddenly dry-eyed, came to her son's rescue. "And why should Wallace go?" she asked. "Mr. Farvel is the one."

"No! No!" he cried, scowling at her. "I won't have Alan worried."

"Mm!" commented Mrs. Milo, ruffled at having her good offices so little appreciated. "You're very considerate."

"I understand the matter better than anyone else," he explained, trying to speak more politely. "Alan can't even bear to talk about it. So—I'll go."

Sue turned to Balcome. "And you go with him," she suggested.

"But why?"—again it was a nervous, frightened protest.

Sue nodded toward Hattie, standing so slim and still beside her father.
"So my little sister will feel all right about it," she explained.
"Because nothing, Wallace, must worry her. It's her happiness we want
to think of, isn't it?—dear Hattie's."

"Oh, yes! Yes!"

"The address—I'll write it down." She bent over the desk.

Wallace went to Hattie. "Good-by," he said, tremulously. "I'll be right back." He leaned to kiss her, but she turned her face away. His lips brushed only her cheek.

Sue thrust the address into his hand. "Here. And, oh, Wallace, be very kind to her!"

"Of course. Yes. I'll do what I can." But he seemed scarcely to know what he was saying. He fingered the card Sue had given him, and watched Hattie.

Urging him toward the vestibule, Sue glanced down at her bridesmaid's dress, then searchingly about the room—for a hat, a wrap. "And bring them together—won't you?" she went on, taking Balcome's arm. At the door, she crowded in front of him.

"Susan," challenged her mother.

"Yes, mother,"—coming short, with a whimsically comical look that acknowledged discovery and defeat.

"They can find their way out. Come back."

Sue came. "But I could go with them, and not see Miss Crosby." Once more that note of childlike pleading. "I could just wait near by."

"Wait here, Susan.—Oh, I realize that you could be there and back before I'd know it."

Sue laughed. "Oh, she's a smart little mother!" she said fondly.
"Yes, she is!"

"She knows your tricks," retorted Mrs. Milo, wisely. "You'd even trapse out in that get-up.—Please don't fidget while I'm talking."

Seeing that it was impossible for her to get away, Sue sat down resignedly. "Well, as Ikey says," she observed, "'sometimes t'ings go awful fine, und sometimes she don't.'"

Now, Farvel came breezing in. "I've found a minister, Miss Milo," he announced. Then realizing that something untoward had happened, "Why,—where's Wallace?"

"He has followed Miss Crosby," answered Mrs. Milo, speaking the name with exaggerated distinctness.

"Miss Crosby?" Farvel was puzzled.

"Miss—Clare—Crosby."

He turned to Sue, and she rose and came to him—smiling, and with a certain confidential air that was calculated either to rescue him from a catechism or to result in her own banishment from the room. "Do you know that you haven't dictated this morning's letters?" she asked. And touching him on the arm, "Shan't we go into the library now?"

"Susan," purred Mrs. Milo.

"Yes, mother." But Sue, halting beside Farvel, continued to talk to him animatedly, in an undertone.

"Will you kindly see that Dora understands about dinner preparations?"

"Hattie, do you mind ringing?"

Mrs. Milo held up a slender hand to check Hattie. "Susan," she went on, patiently, "do you want your mother to do the trotting after the servants?"

"No, mother. But Mr. Farvel's letters——"

Now that quick, mechanical smile, and Mrs. Milo tipped her head to one side as she regarded the clergyman in pretty concern. "Mr. Farvel is in no mood for dictation," she declared gently; "and—I am quite exhausted, as you know." But as Sue hurried away, not lifting her eyes, lest she betray how glad she was to be dismissed, her mother rose—and there was no appearance of the complained-of exhaustion. Her eyes shone with eagerness. They fastened themselves on Farvel's face. "That Miss Crosby," she began; "—she came, recognized Wallace, gave a cry—and ran."

Farvel listened politely. Mrs. Milo was so prone to be dramatic. There was scarcely a day that some warning of Wolf! Wolf! did not ring through the Rectory. "Well, what seemed to be the matter?" he asked.

"I thought you might know,"—with just a trace of emphasis on the You.

"I don't," he assured her, quietly.

"Then why not go yourself—and get the facts?"

"Wallace didn't ask me."

There was something in the tone of his reply that brought the blood to her cheeks. She replied to it by making her own tone a little chiding. "But as my boy's oldest friend," she reminded.

Farvel laughed. "Friend?" he repeated. "He's more like a younger brother to me. But that doesn't warrant my intruding on him, does it?"

Mrs. Milo lifted her eyebrows. "I hope," she commented, with something of that same sorrowful intonation which characterized the speech of Dora, "—I hope there's no reason why you shouldn't meet this Crosby girl."

Farvel stared at her. "I?" he demanded, too astonished by her daring to be angry. "Why—why——"

At this juncture the library door opened and Dora entered, to set the room to rights apparently, for she gave a critical look about, arranged the writing-desk, and put a chair in place.

"Dora," said Mrs. Milo, "you saw Miss Susan?"

Dora lifted pale eyes. "Oh, yes," she answered, "but only a fleeting glimpse."

"Glimpse?" repeated Mrs. Milo, startled.

"From the rear portal"—with an indefinite wave of the hand—"she turned that way."

"Oh! She went! To that Crosby girl! And I forbade her!—Mr. Farvel, come!"

"But I'm not wanted," urged the clergyman.

"Why do you hold back? Don't I want you?"

Farvel pondered a moment, his look on Hattie, standing in the bay-window, now, alert but motionless. "Well, I'll come," he said at last.

"Dora!" cried Mrs. Milo, as she fluttered hallward; "my bonnet!"

Dora had gone by the same door through which she had come. Hattie and Farvel were alone. She turned and came to stand beside him. "Why do you suppose——" she commenced; and then, more bluntly, "What was the matter with Miss Crosby?"

Farvel studied her face for a moment, his own full of anxious sympathy. "I can't imagine," he said, finally; "but whatever it is you may be sure of one thing—Wallace isn't to blame."

Hattie's look met his. "It's queer, isn't it?" she said; "but that—well, that doesn't seem to be troubling me at all." Then for no reason whatever, she put out her hand. He took it, instantly touched. Her eyes were glistening with tears. She turned and went out into the Close.

Farvel stood for a moment gazing after her. Then remembering his promise to Mrs. Milo, he hastened in the direction of his study.

As the hall door shut after him, the library door swung wide, and Dora came bouncing in, waving an arm joyously. "Your path is clear!" she announced.

At her back was Sue, looking properly guilty, and scrambling into a coat that would hide the bridesmaid's dress. "Just what did you tell mother?" she inquired.

"I said you went that way,"—with a jerk of the head that set the tight braids to bobbing.

"Oh, what did you tell her that for!" mourned Sue. "It's the way I must go!"

"It is the truth," said Dora, solemnly, "and, oh, Miss
Susan,"—chanting—"'a lying tongue is but for a moment.'"

"I know," answered Sue, exasperated; "'a lying tongue is but for a moment,' and 'deceitful men shall not live out half their days,' but, Dora, this is a desperate case. So you find my mother and tell her that—that I'm probably downstairs in the basement,—er—er—well, I might be setting the mouse-trap." And giving Dora an encouraging push in the direction of the hall, Sue disappeared on swift foot into the vestibule.