Clare ran all the way, with scared eyes, and heaving breast, and a hand clutching the rim of the tilted hat. And only when she reached the corner nearest home did she slow a little, to look behind her as if she feared pursuit. Then finding herself breathless, she stepped aside for a moment into the entrance of an apartment house, and there, under the suspicious watch of a negro elevator boy, pretended to hunt for something in her music-roll.

As she waited, she remembered that there was some laundry due her in the basement. That must be collected. She walked on, having taken a second look around, and darted under the front steps to make her inquiry. She promised to call for the articles in ten minutes by way of the back stairs; then slowly ascended the brownstone steps, glancing up the street as she climbed, but as indifferently as possible.

Once inside the storm door, she listened. Someone might be telephoning—they knew her number at the Rectory. Or Tottie might have a visitor, which would interfere with plans.

She heard no sound. Letting herself in noiselessly, she tiptoed to the parlor door and opened it softly.

"Hello-o-o-o!" It was Hull, laughing at the surprise they had for her.

"Felix!" She halted, aghast.

"Well, aren't you glad to see me?"

"Oh, yes! Yes!"—but her face belied her. She tugged at her hat, seeking, even in her nervousness, to adjust it becomingly.

"What're y' pussy-footin' around here for?" questioned Tottie, sharply.

"I'm not.—Tottie, can I see Mr. Hull alone?"

"Sure, dearie. As I say, don't never git your ear full of other folks's troubles—and secrets." She went out, with a backward look at once crafty and resentful.

With a quick warning sign to Hull, Clare ran to the door, bent to listen a moment, holding her breath, then ran to him, leading him toward the window. "Felix," she began, "go back to Northrups. I'll 'phone you in an hour."

He had been watching her anxiously. "What is it? Something wrong?"

"Yes! Yes! My—my brother and sister—in Africa." She got his hat from where he had laid it on the rocker.

"In trouble?" he persisted, studying her narrowly.

"Yes,—in trouble. And I don't want to see any reporters—not one!"

"That's all right"—he spoke very gently—"I'll see them."

Her face whitened. "Oh, no! There isn't anything to say. Felix, I'll just leave here, and they won't be able to find me. And you go now——" She urged him toward the door.

He stood his ground. "You're not giving me the straight of this," he asserted, suddenly severe.

"I am, I tell you! I am!" Her face drew into lines of suffering. She entreated him, clasping his arm with her trembling hands.

He freed himself from her hold. "If I thought you were lying——"
Then, roughly, "I hate a liar!"

"Oh, but I'm not lying! Honest I'm not! Oh, believe me, and go!—Felix!"

He forbore looking at her. "Very well," he said coldly, and started out.

She followed him to the door. "And don't come back here, will you?
Promise you won't!"

"I shan't come back," he promised.

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" Then in tearful appeal, seeing his displeasure, "Oh, Felix, I love you!" The poignancy of her cry made him relent suddenly, and turn. He put an arm about her, and she clung to him wildly. "Oh, Felix, trust me! Oh, you're all I've got!"

"But there's something I don't understand about this," he reminded more kindly.

"I'll explain later. I will! You'll hear from me soon."

Again he drew away from her. "Just as you say,"—resentfully.

The front door shut behind him, Clare called up the stairs. "Tottie!
Tottie!" She listened, a hand pressing her bosom.

"A-a-a-all right!"

Clare did not wait. Running back into the front-parlor, she stood on a chair in the bay-window, and worked at the hook holding the bird-cage. "Well, precious!" she crooned. "Missy's little friend! Her darling pet! Her love-bird! How's the sweet baby?" The cage released, she stepped down and hurried across the room.'

"Aunt Clare!"—first the clear, glad cry; next, a head all tumbled curls.

"Barbara!" Clare came short. Then, as Tottie sauntered in, "Oh, what's this young one doing here?"

Barbara had risen, discarding the doll and the shawl, and gone to Clare. Now, feeling herself rebuffed, she went back to the settee, watching Clare anxiously.

"Waitin' for you," answered Tottie, taking up her shawl.

"Aunt Clare!" pleaded the child, softly.

"Oh! Oh!" mourned Clare. She set the cage on the table.

Barbara bethought herself of the gift. Out of the sagging pocket of the gingham, she produced the tightly-made bouquet. "See!" she cried, holding out the flowers with a smile. "For you, Aunt Clare!"

But Clare brushed them aside, and fetched the child's hat. "Where's that Colter woman?" she demanded angrily.

Tottie lolled against the mantel, studying Clare and enjoying her gum.
"Huntin' pickle forks," she replied.

"Aunt Clare!" insisted Barbara, again proffering the drooping nosegay.

"Here! Put this on!"—it was the coat. Clare took one small arm and directed it into a sleeve.

"Do I have to go?" asked Barbara, plaintively.

"Now don't make a fuss!"—crossly. "Stand still!" Then taking the bouquet away and letting it drop to the floor, "Here! Here's the other sleeve." The coat went on.

"Are you coming with me?" persisted Barbara, brightened by the thought.

But Clare did not heed. "When'll she be back?" She avoided looking at Tottie. "—Let me button you, will you?"—this with an impatient tug at the coat.

"Can't say," answered Tottie, with exasperating indifference.

"Tottie, I'm going to move."

At that, the landlady started, suddenly concerned. "Move?" she echoed incredulously.

Clare ran to a sewing-machine that stood against the wall behind the settee. "Today," she added; "—now."

"Where you goin'?"

"To—to Jersey."

Barbara, coated and hatted, and with Lolly-Poppins firmly clasped in her arms, followed the younger woman. "Aunt Clare——"

"Jersey!" scoffed Tottie. "You sure don't mean Jersey City."

Clare covered her confusion by hunting among the unfinished work on the machine. "Yes,—Jersey City," she challenged.

Tottie's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Must be pretty bad," she observed. "Pretty bad."

Barbara, planted squarely in Clare's path, again importuned. "Am I going too, Aunt Clare?"

"No! Sit down! And keep quiet!"

The child obeyed. There was comfort in Lolly-Poppins. She lifted the doll to her breast, mothering it.

"What's happened, pettie?" inquired Tottie.

"Nothing—nothing." Clare folded a garment.

"Nothin'—but you're movin' to Jersey City.—Ha!"

"Well, most of my singing is across the River now, so it's more convenient."

"Mm!"—it implied satisfaction. Then carelessly, "Say, here's a letter for you." And as Clare took it, tearing it open, "Glad nothin' 's gone wrong.—Is that good news?"

Clare thrust the letter into her dress. "Oh, just another singing engagement," she answered. And went back to the heap of muslin on the sewing-machine.

Tottie's face reddened beyond the circumference of her rouge spots.
She took a long step in Clare's direction, and laid a hand on her arm.
"Now, look here!" she said threateningly. "You're lyin' about this
move!"

"I'm not! I'm not!"

"Somebody's been knockin' me."

"No. Nonsense!" Clare tried to free her arm.

But Tottie only held her the tighter. "Then why are you goin'?"

"I've told you.—Please, Tottie!" Again she strove to loosen the other's grip, seeing which Barbara, fearing for her Aunt Clare, cast aside her doll and ran to stand beside the younger woman, trembling a little, and ready to burst into tears.

"Aw, you can't fool me!" declared Tottie.

"I don't want to!"

Tottie thrust her face close to Clare's. "You've got your marchin' orders!"

"What do you—you mean?" The other choked; her look wavered.

"You're on the run."

"I am not! No!"

Tottie's voice lowered, losing its harshness, and took on a wheedling tone. "But you never have to run," she informed slyly, "if you've got the goods on somebody." She winked.

"I—I haven't."

"Stick—and fight—and cash in."

"Tottie!" Clare stared, appalled.

"O-o-o-oh!"—sneeringly. "Pullin' the goody-goody stuff, eh?"

"Let me go! Let me go!"

"Auntie Clare!" With the cry of fear, Barbara came between them, catching at the elder woman's arm.

Tottie loosed her hold and went back to the mantel to lean and look. Clare drew out a drawer of the small center-table, searched it, and laid a hand-mirror beside the cage.

"What'll be your new address?"

"I'll send it to you."

The landlady began to whine. "Ain't that just my rotten luck! Another room empty!—you know you oughta give me a week's notice."

"Oh, I'll pay you for it," answered Clare, bitterly.

"Well, I don't want to gouge you, dearie. And I don't know what I'll do when you're gone. I've just learned to love you.—And with summer comin' on, goodness knows how I'm goin' to rent that back-parlor. It's hard to run a respectable house and keep it full. Now as I say, if I was careless, I——"

But what Miss St. Clair might have been moved to do under such conditions was not forthcoming, for now steps were heard, climbing to the front door. Next, a man's voice spoke. Then the bell rang.

"Wait! Wait!" As she warned Tottie, Clare crossed to the bay-window at a run.

"Maybe here's a new roomer," suggested the hopeful landlady.

But Clare had pressed aside the heavy curtain framing the window until she could command the stoop. Two men were waiting there. "Oh!" she breathed, almost reeling back upon Tottie. "Oh, don't let 'em in! Don't! I can't see anybody! Say I'm gone! Oh, please, Tottie! I'm gone for good." She was beside Barbara again, and was almost lifting the child from the floor by an arm. Then she reached for the bird-cage.

"Friends of yours?" questioned Tottie. She also peeked out.

"No! No!"—and to Barbara, "Come! Don't you speak! Don't open your mouth! Not a word!" Taking the child with her, she fled into her own room, closing the door.

The bell rang again, but Tottie took her time. Going to the fireplace, she turned "The Lorelei" to the wall; then slipping the shawl from her shoulders, she draped it carelessly over the plaster statuette of the diving-girl. After which she stepped back, appraised the effect, and went to open the front door to a large, ill-tempered man in a loose sack suit, and a young man, tall and white to ghastliness, whose nostrils quivered and whose mouth was scarcely more than a blue line.

"Good-morning," began Balcome, entering without being asked.

"Won't you step in?" begged Tottie, pointedly.

The door to the back-parlor had opened to a crack. And a face distorted with fear looked through the narrow opening. Clare heard the invitation, and the entering men. She shut the door softly.

Tottie followed her visitors. This was a transformed Tottie—all airs and graces, with just the touch of the dramatic that might be expected from a great "star." Indeed, she paused a moment, framed by the doorway, and waited before delivering her accustomed preamble. She smiled at the elder man, who returned a scowl. She bestowed a brighter smile on Wallace, who failed to see it, but licked at his lips, and smoothed his throat, like a man suddenly gone dry. Then she entered, slowly, gracefully, allowing the teagown to trail.

"As I say," she began, turning her head from side to side with what was intended to be a pretty movement, "—as I say, it's a real joy to room your theatrical friends. Because they fetch y' such swell callers."

Balcome, with no interest in this information, aimed toward Wallace a gesture that was meant to start the matter in hand.

Wallace rallied his wits. "Is Miss—er—Crosby at home?" he asked.

"Miss Crosby," repeated Tottie, with her very best honey-huskiness; "oh, she don't rent here no more."

He reddened in an excess of relief.

"She don't?" mocked Balcome, glaring at the teagown.

"Nope," went on the landlady, mistaking his attention for a compliment, and simpering a little, with a quick fluttering of her lids; "took all her stuff.—Hm!" Now she let her eyes play side-wise, toward that double door behind Balcome.

He took the hint. "I see."

"And, oh, I'm goin' to miss her! Her first name bein' Clare, and my last name bein' St. Clair, I always feel, somehow, that she's a sorta relation."

Balcome went nearer to the double door. "And you don't know where she's living now?" He raised his voice a little. Then with Wallace gaping in amazement, he put a hand into a pocket and brought out several bills. He gave these a flirtatious wave before Tottie's eyes. "You don't know?"

"Say, y' don't expect me to tell y', do y'?" she inquired, also raising her voice. Those eyes sparkled with greed.

"Of course I expect you to tell me," Balcome mocked again, sliding the bills into a coat pocket.

"Well, she didn't leave her new address." Out came a beringed hand.

"Didn't she?" Once more Balcome displayed the money.

"No, she said she'd send it." Then pointing toward the double door, her fingers closed on the bribe.

Wallace gulped, looking about him at the carpet, like a creature in misery that would lie down.

Balcome was taking a turn about the room. "So she's gone," he said. "Too bad! Too bad! And no address." Presently, as he came close to the door again, he gave one half of it a sudden, wrenching pull. It opened, and disclosed Clare, crouched to listen, one knee on the floor.

"No! Don't!" It was Tottie, pretending to interfere.

"O-o-oh!" Clare scrambled to her feet. But contrary to what might have been expected, she almost hurled herself into the room, shut the door at her back, and stood against it.

Tottie addressed herself angrily to Balcome. "Say, look-a here! This ain't the way out!"

"My mistake," apologized Balcome. Then with a look at Wallace that was full of meaning, he retired to the hearth, planted his shoulders against the mantel at Tottie's favorite vantage point, and surveyed Clare. "We thought you were gone," he remarked good-naturedly. He bobbed at her, with a flop of the big hat against his leg.

She made no reply, only waited, breathing hard, her eyes now on
Wallace, now on Tottie. To the former, her glance was a warning.

He understood. "We'd—we'd like to see Miss Crosby alone," he said curtly, for by another wave of the hat Balcome had given him the initiative.

"Yes—go, Tottie."

Miss St. Clair turned, her gown trailing luxuriously. "I seem to be in the way today," she laughed, with an attempt at coquetry. Then to Clare, "I'm your friend, pettie. If you need me——"

The younger man could no longer contain himself. "Oh, she told us you were here!" he cried.

"Tottie!"

"It's a lie!—a lie!" She swept past him, her face ugly with resentment. And to Clare, "Don't you let this feller put anything over on you, kid."

"All right, madam! All right!" Wallace's fingers twitched. He was ready to thrust her from the room.

She went, with a backward look intended to reduce him; and shut the door. As he followed, opening the door to find that she was actually gone, and leaning out to see her whereabouts farther along the hall, she broke into a raucous laugh.

"Rubber!" she taunted. "Rubber!"

When he had shut the door again, and faced about, he kept hold of the
knob, as if supported by it. "I—I felt you'd like to know, Miss
Crosby," he commenced, forcing himself to speak evenly, "that Mr.
Farvel is over there at the Rectory."

"Oh!" She put a hand to her head, waited a moment, then—"I—I thought—maybe when—I saw you."

"I knew that was why you left." He was more at ease now, and came toward her. "Do you want to see him?"

"No! No!" She put out both hands, pleadingly. "I don't want anything to do with him! I don't want him to know I'm in New York. Promise me! Promise!"

Wallace looked down. "Well,—it isn't my affair," he said slowly.

Mrs. Colter bustled in, a package swinging from one hand by a holder.
"Oh, excuse me!" she begged, coming short.

Clare ran to her in a panic. "Oh, go! Go!" she ordered almost fiercely. "Go home! Don't wait! Hurry!" Then as Mrs. Colter, scared and bewildered, attempted to pass, "No! Go 'round! Go 'round!"

"Yes," faltered the other, dropping and picking up her bundle as Clare shoved her hallward; "yes." She fled.

"Close the door!" cried Clare. And as Wallace obeyed, she again went to stand against the panels of the double door. She seemed in a very fever of anxiety. "Please go now, Wallace," she begged. "Please! I'm much obliged to you for coming. It was kind. But if you'll go——" Her voice broke hysterically.

He glanced at Balcome, and the elder man nodded in acquiescence. "We'll go," said Wallace. "I'm glad to have seen you again." He moved away, and Balcome went with him. "But I hoped I could do something for you——"

"There's nothing,"—eagerly. "If you'll just go."

"Well, good-by, then."

"Good-by. Good-by, Mr. Balcome."

"Good-by," grumbled Balcome.

Wallace's hand was on the knob when a child's voice piped up from beyond the door—a voice ready to tremble into tears, and full of pleading. "But I want to kiss her," it cried.

Clare fairly threw herself forward to keep the two men from leaving.
"Wait! Wait!" she implored in a whisper.

"She's busy, I tell you!"—it was Mrs. Colter. "Now come along."

Something brushed the outer panels; then, "Good-by, Aunt Clare!" piped the little voice again.

"Come! Come!" scolded Mrs. Colter.

Now a sound of weeping, and whispers—Mrs. Colter entreating obedience, and making promises; next, a choking final farewell—"Good-by, Aunt Clare!"

"Good-by," answered Clare, hollowly.

As the weeping grew louder, and the outer door shut, Wallace went toward the bay-window, slowly, as if drawn by a force he could not master. He put a shaking hand to a curtain and moved it aside a space. Then leaning, he stared out at the sobbing child descending the steps.

When he turned his face was a dead white. His look questioned Clare in agony. "Who—— That—that—your niece?" he stammered.

"She's my sister's little girl," answered Clare, almost glibly. She was recovering her composure, now that Barbara was out of the house.

"A-a-ah!" Wallace took out a handkerchief and wiped at his face. Then without looking at Clare, "Isn't there something I can do for you?"

"No. No, thank you. I've got relatives here with me. I'm all right." She took a chair by the table, and began to play with the mirror, by turns blowing on it, and polishing it against the folds of her dress.

He watched her in silence for a moment. It was plain that she was anxious to detain them until she felt certain that the child had left the block and was out of sight. He helped her plan. Standing between them, Balcome vaguely sensed that they had an understanding and resented it. His under lip pushed out belligerently.

"I wish you'd let me know if there is anything," said the younger man, his tone conventionally polite.

"Yes. I'll—I'll write." She controlled a sarcastic smile.

"In care of the Rectory," he directed. "Will you? I want to help you in any way I can. I mean it."

Now Clare rose. "Good-by," she said pleasantly. "I'm sorry I rushed out the way I did today. But—you understand." She extended a hand.

"Of course," he answered, scarcely touching the tips of her fingers.
"Yes."

"I wish you the best of luck." She bowed, and again to Balcome.

Balcome returned the bow sulkily. And turning his back as if to leave, gave a quick glance round in time to see her make the other a warning sign.

At this juncture, the hall door swung wide, and Tottie appeared, head
high with suppressed excitement, and face alive with curiosity.
"Here's another caller, Miss Crosby," she announced. At her back was
Sue.

Clare retreated, frowning.

Sue, breathless from hurrying, and embarrassed, halted, panting and smiling, in the doorway. "Oh, dear! This dress never was meant for anything faster than a wedding-march!"—this with that characteristic look—the look of a child discovered in naughtiness, and entreating forgiveness.

"Say, ain't you pop'lar!" broke in Tottie, shaking her head at Clare in playful envy. And to Sue, "Y' know, all my theatrical friends 're just crazy about her. They'll hate to see her go."

"Go?" repeated Sue, sobering.

"Tottie!" cried Clare, angrily. "Please! Never mind!" Peremptorily she pointed her to leave.

Tottie, having accomplished her purpose, grinned a good-natured assent. "All right, dearie,"—once more she was playing the fine lady, for the edification of this new arrival so well worth impressing. "I call this my rehearsal room," she informed, with a polite titter. "Pretty idea, ain't it? Well,"—with a sweeping bow all around—"make yourselves to home." She went out, one jeweled hand raised ostentatiously to her back hair.

There was a moment's pause; then Sue held out an impulsive hand to the younger woman. "Oh, you're not going to leave without seeing him," she implored.

"Who do you mean?"—sullenly.

"Alan Farvel."

Clare's eyes flashed. "Does he know you came?"

"No."

Clare turned to Wallace. "Does your sister know my real name?" she asked.

His pale face worked in a spasm. He coughed and swallowed. "N-n-no," he stammered.

"Now—just—wait—a—minute!" It was Balcome. He approached near enough to Wallace to slap him smartly on the shoulder with the hat. "You—told—me——"

"What does it matter?" argued the other. "One name's as good as another."

Balcome said no more. But he exchanged a look with Sue.

She glanced from Clare to Wallace, puzzled and troubled. Then, "I—I—don't know what this is all about," she ventured, "and I don't want to know. I just want to tell you, Miss Crosby, that—that he grieves for you—terribly. Oh, see him again! Forgive him if he's done anything! Give him another chance!"

"You're talking about something you don't understand," answered Clare, rudely.

Sue shook her head. "Well, I think I know a broken heart when I see one," she returned simply.

To that, Clare made no reply. "These gentlemen are going," she said.
"And I wish you'd go too."

"Then I can't help him—and you?"

In sudden rage, Clare came toward her, voice raised almost to a shout. "Help! Help! Help!" she mocked. "I don't want help! I want to be let alone!—And I can't waste any more time. You'll have to excuse me!" She faced about abruptly and disappeared into her own room, banging the door.

Sue lowered her head, and knitted her brows in a look of defeat that was almost comical. "Well," she observed presently, "as Ikey says, 'Always you can't do it.'"

Seeing the way clear for himself, her brother's attitude became more sure. "I'm afraid you've only made things worse," he declared.

Balcome flapped his hat. "We had her in pretty good temper—for a woman."

Thus championed, the younger man grew even bolder. "And I thought you were going to keep out of this," he went on; "you promised mother——"

Now of a sudden, Sue lost that manner at once apologetic and childlike.
"When did you know Miss Crosby?" she demanded of Wallace, sharply.
"How long ago?"

"The year I met Alan.—I was eighteen."

"And you didn't have anything to do with this trouble? You're not responsible in any way?"

"Now why are you coming at me?" expostulated her brother. There was an unpleasant whine in his voice.

But Balcome failed to note it. "By golly!" he complained. "Women are all alike!"

"I'm coming at you," explained Sue, "because I know Alan Farvel. And I don't believe he could do any woman such a hurt that she wouldn't want to see him again, or forgive him. That's why."

"But you think I could! I must say, you're a nice sister!"

"I must say that your whole attitude today has been curious, to put it mildly."

"If I don't satisfy your woman's curiosity, you get even by putting me in the wrong." Again there was that unpleasant whine.

"No. But Mr. Farvel was relieved when he thought you had told me about this matter. And the fact is, you haven't told me at all."

He was cornered. His tall figure sagged. And his eyes fell before his sister's. "I—I," he began. Then in an outburst, "It's Hattie I'm thinking of! Hattie!"

"Ah, as if I don't think of Hattie!" Sue's voice trembled. "I want to think you've had nothing to do with this. I couldn't bear it if anything hurt her—her happiness—with you."

Outside, the stairs creaked heavily. Then sounded a bang, bang, as of some heavy thing falling. Next came Tottie's voice, shrill, and strangely triumphant: "Hey there! You're tryin' to sneak! Yes, you are! And you haven't paid me!"

Sue understood. She opened the hall door, and took her place beside Clare as if to defend her. The latter could not speak, but stood, a pathetic figure, holding to a suitcase with one hand, and with the other carrying the bird-cage.

"Get back in there!" ordered Tottie, beginning to descend from the upper landing.

Clare obeyed, Sue helping her with the suitcase. "I'll send the money," she pleaded. "I—I meant to. Oh, Tottie!"

Tottie was down by now, scowling and nursing a foot, for she had slipped. She made "shooing" gestures at Clare.

"How much does Miss Crosby owe you?" asked Sue, getting between Clare and the landlady.

"Sixteen dollars—and some telephone calls."

"Let me——" It was Wallace. He ran a hand into a pocket.

Sue warned him with a look. "Mr. Balcome will lend it," she said.

Balcome did not wait to be asked. From an inside coat pocket he produced a black wallet fat with bills, and pulled away the rubber band that circled it.

Tottie viewed the wallet with greedy eyes. "And there's some laundry," she supplemented; "and Mrs. Colter's lunch today—just before you come in, Clare,—and Barbara's."

Clare implored her to stop by a gesture. "Twenty," she said to
Balcome. "I'll pay it back."

Sue took the bills that Balcome held out, and gave them to Tottie.
"Keep the change," she suggested, anxious to get the woman away.

Tottie recovered her best air. "Wouldn't mention such small items," she explained, "but it's been a bad season, and I haven't had one engagement—not one. As I say,——"

"Don't apologize. I can tell a generous woman when I see one." This with a hearty smile.

Tottie simpered, shoved the money under the lace of her bodice, and backed out—as a bell began to ring somewhere persistently.

Clare had set down the suitcase and the cage. As Sue closed the door and turned to her, the sight of that lowered head and bent shoulders brought the tears to her eyes. "You want to get away?" she asked gently; "you want to be lost again?"

The other straightened. "What if I do!" she cried, angrily. "It's my own business, isn't it? Why don't you mind yours?"

"Now look here!" put in Balcome, advancing to stand between the two. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Miss Milo came with the kindest intentions in the world——"

"No, no," pleaded Sue. And to Clare, "I'm going. I haven't wanted to make you unhappy. And, oh, if you're alone——"

"Rot!" interrupted Balcome, impatiently. "She's got relatives right here in the house." He shuffled his feet and swung his hat.

"I have not!"

Balcome puffed his cheeks with astonishment and anger, and appealed to
Wallace. "Didn't she say so?" he demanded. "And that child called her
Aunt Clare."

"A—child," repeated Sue, slowly. "A—child?"

"My—my brother's little girl."

"A-a-a-ah!" taunted Balcome. "And ten minutes ago, it was her sister's little girl." He laughed.

"My sister-in-law!"—she fairly screamed at him. "Oh, I wish you'd go—all of you! How dare you shove your way in here! Haven't I suffered enough? And you hunt me down! And torture me! Torture me!" Wildly, she made as if to drive them out, pushing Sue from her; gasping and sobbing.

"Wallace!—Mr. Balcome!" Backing out of Clare's reach, Sue took the two men with her.

"Go!—Go!—Go!" It was hysteria, or a very fair imitation of it.

Then of a sudden, while her arms were yet upraised, she looked past the three who were retreating and through the door now opening at their back. Another trio was in the hall—Tottie, important and smiling; Mrs. Milo, elbowing her way ahead of the landlady to hear and see; and with her, Farvel, grave, concerned, wondering.

"More visitors!" hailed Tottie.

"Susan, I distinctly told you——"

Clare's look fastened on Farvel. She went back a few steps unsteadily, until the door to her own room stopped her. There she hung, as it were, pallid and open-mouthed.

And Farvel made no sound. He came past the others until he stood directly in front of the drooping, suffering creature against the panels. His look was the look of a man who sees a ghost.

Wallace, with quick foresight, had closed the hall door against Tottie. But the others had no thought except for the meeting between Farvel and Clare. Mrs. Milo, quite within the embrasure of the bay-window, looked on like a person at an entertainment. Her glance, plainly one of delight, now darted from Farvel to Clare, from Clare to Sue.

With Balcome it was curiosity mixed with hope—the hope that here was what would completely absolve Wallace, who was waiting, all bent and shaken.

Sue stood with averted eyes, as if she felt she should not see. Her face was composed. There was something very like resignation in the straight hanging down of her arms, in the bowed attitude of her figure.

Thus the six for a moment. Then Farvel crumpled and dropped to the settee. "Laura!" he said, as if to himself; "Laura!"

"Oh, it's all over! It's all over!" she quavered.