The Close was the favorite retreat of the Rectory household. In the wintertime, it was a windless, sunny spot, never without bird-life, for to it fared every sparrow of the neighborhood, knowing that the two long stone benches in the yard would be plentifully strewn with crumbs, and that no prowling cat would threaten a feathered feaster.

With the coming of spring, the small inclosure was like a chalice into which the sun poured a living stream. Here the lawn early achieved a startling greenness as well as a cutable height; here a pair of peach trees dared to put out leaves despite any pronouncement of the calendar; and in the Close, even before open cars began their run along the near-by avenue, a swinging-couch with a shady awning was installed at one side; while opposite, beyond the sun-dial, and nearer to the drawing-room, a lawn marquee went up, to which Dora brought both breakfast and luncheon trays.

The Close, shut in on its four sides, afforded its visitors perfect privacy. The high blank wall of an office building, which had conformed its architecture to that of the Church and the other structures related to the Church, lifted on one hand to what—from the velvet square of the little yard—seemed the very sky. Directly across from the office building was the Rectory; and two windows of the drawing-room, as well as two upper windows (the window of a guest-room and the window of "the study") opened upon it.

One face of the Church, ivy-grown and beautified with glowing eyes of stained-glass, looked across the stretch of green to a high brick wall which shut off the sights and sounds of the somewhat narrow and fairly quiet street. It was over this wall that the peach trees waved their branches, and in the late summer dropped a portion of their fruit. And it was in this wall that there opened a certain door to the Close which was never locked—a little door, painted a gleaming white, through which the Orphanage babies came, to be laid in the great soft-quilted basket that stood on a stone block beneath a low gable-roof of stone.

On this perfect spring morning, the Close was transformed, for the swinging-couch and the lawn marquee were gone, and a great wedding-bell of hoary blossoms was in its place, hung above the wide flagstone which lay before this side entrance to the Church. Flanking the bell on either hand, flowers and greenery had been massed by the decorators to achieve an altar-like effect. And above the bell, roofing the improvised altar, was a canopy of smilax, as Gothic in design as the vari-tinted windows to right and left.

Discussing the unwonted appearance of their haunt and home, the bird-dwellers of the Close flew about in some excitement, or alighted on wall and ledge to look and scold. And fully as noisy as the sparrows, and laboring like Brownies to set the yard to rights following the departure of the florist and his assistant, a trio of boys from the choir raked and clipped and garnered into a sack.

Ikey was in command, and wielded the lawn mower. Henry, a tall mild-eyed lad, selected for the morning's pleasant duty in the Close in order to reward him for irreproachable conduct during the week previous, snipped at the uneven blades about the base of the sun-dial. The third worker was Peter, a pale boy, chosen because an hour in the open air would be of more value to him than an hour at his books.

"I tell you she iss not a Gentile!" denied Ikey, who was arrogant over being armed with authority as well as lawn mower.

"She is so!" protested Henry, with more than his usual warmth.

"I know she ain't!"

"Aw, she is, too!"

"I asks her, 'Momsey, are you a Gentile?'" went on Ikey. "Und she answers to me, 'Ikey, I am all kinds of religions.'—Now!"

"Ain't her mother a Gentile?" demanded Henry.

"I'm glat to say it!"

"And her father was."

"Sure! Just go in und look at him!"

"Then what's the matter with you! She's got to be a Gentile!"

Ikey recognized the unanswerableness of the argument. "Vell," he declared stoutly, "I lof her anyhow!"

A fourth boy leaned from a drawing-room window. "Telephone!" he called down.

"Ach! Dat telephone!" Ikey propped himself against the sun-dial. "Since yesterday afternoon alretty, she rings und nefer stops! 'Vere iss Miss Hattie?'—dat Wallace, he iss awful lofsick! 'I don't know.' 'Vere iss Miss Susan?' 'I don't know.' 'Vere iss my daughter?'—de olt lady! 'I don't know.'—All night by dat telephone, I sit und lie!"

"Ha! Ha!" Peter, the pale, seized the excuse to drop back upon the cool grass. "How can you sit and lie?"

"Smarty, you're too fresh!" charged Ikey. "How can you sit und be lazy? Look vat stands on dis sun-dial!—Tempus Fugits. Dat means, 'De morning iss going.' So you pick up fast all de grass bits by de benches.—Und if somebody asks, 'Vere iss Mr. Farvel,' I says, 'I don't know,' und dat iss de truth. Because he iss gone oudt all night, und dat iss not nice for ministers." He shook his head at the lawn mower.

"Say, a woman wants to talk with Mrs. Milo," reminded the boy who was hanging out of the window.

"She can vant so much as she likes," returned Ikey, mowing calmly.

"Oo! You oughta heard her!—Shall I say she's gone?"

"Say she's gone, t'ank gootness," instructed Ikey. And as the boy precipitated himself backward out of sight, "Ach, dat's vat's wrong mit dis world!—de mutter business. Mrs. Milo, Mrs. Bunkum, und your mutter, und your mutter——"

"Aw, my mother's as good as your mother!" boasted Henry, chivalrously.

"Dat can't be. Because you nefer hat a mutter—you vas left in dat basket." He pointed. "Vasn't you? Und my mutter"—proudly—"she iss dead."

Peter lifted longing eyes. "Gee, I wish I had a mother."

"A-a-a-ah!" Ikey waggled a wise head. "You kids, you vould like goot mutters—und you git left in baskets. Und Momsey says dat lots of times mutters dat iss goot mutters, dey don't haf no children." Then to Henry, who, like Peter, had seized upon an excuse for pausing in his work, "Here! Git busy mit de shears! Ofer by de vall iss plenty schnippin'."

Henry tried flattery. "I like to hear y' talk," he confessed.

"Ve-e-e-ell,—" Ikey was touched by this appreciation of his philosophizing.

"And I'm kinda tired."

Now Ikey's virtuous wrath burst forth. He fixed the tall boy with a scornful eye. "Oh, you kicker!" he cried. "You talk tired—und you do like you please! Und you say Momsey so much as you vant to! Momsey! Momsey! Momsey! Momsey!" Each time the lawn mower squeaked and rattled its emphasis. "Und de olt lady, she iss gone!"

All the sparrows watching the laboring trio from safe vantage points now rose with a soft whirr of wings and a quick chorus of twitters as Farvel opened the door from the Church and came out. A long black gown hung to his feet, but this only served to accentuate the paleness of his newly-shaven cheeks. "Ah, fine!" he greeted kindly; "the yard is beginning to look first-class." Then as the bearer of the telephone message now projected himself once more between the curtains of the drawing-room, this time to proffer a package, "Not for me, is it, my boy?—Get it, Ikey, please." He sat down wearily.

Ikey moved to obey, squinting back over a shoulder at the clergyman in some concern. But the package in hand, he puzzled over that instead as he came back. "It says on it 'Mr. Farvel,'" he declared. "Ain't it so?"

"Open it, old chap," bade Farvel, without looking up.

Ikey needed no urging; and, his companions, once again welcoming an interruption, gathered to watch. Off came a paper wrapping, disclosing a box. Out came the cover of the box, disclosing—in a gorgeous confection of silk, lace, and tulle, with flowers in her flaxen hair, and blue eyes that were alternately opening and shutting with almost human effect as Ikey moved the box—a large and remarkably handsome lady doll.

"Oy, ich chalesh!" cried Ikey, thrown back upon his Yiddish in the amazement of discovery.

Farvel sprang up, manifestly embarrassed, reached for the box, and put it out of sight behind him as he sat again. "Oh!—Oh, that's all right," he stammered. "It's for Barbara."

"Bar-bar-a?" drawled the boy. Then following a pause, during which the trio exchanged glances, "A little girl, she comes here?"

"Yes, Ikey; yes.—Have you boys dusted the drawing-room? You know
Dora's not here today."

"No, sir." Peter and Henry backed dutifully toward the door of the
Rectory.

But Ikey stood his ground. "Does de little girl come by de basket?" he inquired.

"No, son; no. Dora will bring her.—Now run along like a good chap."

Ikey backed a few steps. "Does—does she come to de Orphanage?" he persisted.

"No. She's not an orphan.—You see that Peter and Henry put everything in shape, won't you?"

At this, Peter and Henry disappeared promptly. But Ikey only backed another step or two. "Den she's got a mutter?" he ventured.

"Oh, yes—yes.—Be sure and dust the library."

Ikey gave way another foot. "Und also a fader?"

"Er—why—yes."

Now Ikey nodded, and turned away. "He ain't so sure," he observed sagely, "aboudt de fader."

At this moment, loud voices sounded from the drawing-room—Henry's, expostulating; next, the thin soprano of Peter; then a woman's, "Where is he, I say? I want to see him!" And she came bursting from the house, almost upsetting Ikey.

It was Mrs. Balcome, looking exceedingly wrathful. She puffed her way across the grass, clutching to her the unfortunate Babette, and dragging (though she had just arrived) at the crumpled upper of a long kid glove, much as if she were pulling it on preparatory to a fight. "Mr. Farvel,"—he had risen politely—"I have come to take away the presents and other things belonging to us. Since you have seen fit to turn my best friend out of her home, naturally the wedding cannot be solemnized here."

Farvel bowed, reddening with anger. "Wallace Milo's wedding cannot be solemnized here," he said quietly.

"In-deed!"

Ikey had entered with another box. She received it, scolding as she put down the dog and pulled at the fastening of the package. "Oh, such lack of charity! Such shameless lack of ordinary consideration! What do you care that the wedding must take place at some hotel! And you know these decorations won't keep! And it's a clergyman who's showing such a spirit! That's what makes it more terrible! A man who pretends——" Busy with the box, she had failed to see that Farvel was no longer present. Now she whirled about, looking for him. "Oh, such impudence! Such impudence!" she stormed.

Ikey indicated the package. "De man, he said, 'Put it on ice,'" he cautioned.

"Ice?" Mrs. Balcome stared. "What's in it?"

"It felt like somet'ing for a little girl."

With a muttered exclamation, she threw the box upon the grass. "Is
Miss Susan here?" she demanded.

"I don't know." Ikey's eyes were clear pools of truth.

"Have my daughter and her father arrived yet?"

"I don't know."

"Well, have they telephoned?" Mrs. Balcome strove to curb her rising irritation.

"I don't know."

Patience could bear no more. "What's the matter with you?" she cried.
"Don't you know anything?"

"Not'ing," boasted Ikey. "I promised, now, dat I vouldn't, und I keep my vord!"

Mrs. Balcome seized him by a sleeve of his faded blue waist. "You promised who?" she screeched, forgetting grammar in her anger. "I'll report you to Mrs. Milo, that's what I'll do! How dare——"

A hearty voice interrupted. "Good-morning, my boy! Good-morning!" Balcome grinned broadly, pleased at this opportunity of contrasting his cordiality with the harshness of his better half.

Ikey was not slow in recognizing opportunity either. "Goot-mornin'," he returned, ostentatiously rubbing an arm.

"Is Miss Milo at home?" inquired Balcome, with exaggerated politeness, enjoying the evident embarrassment of the lady present, who—not unlike Lot's wife—had suddenly turned, as it were, into a frozen pillar.

"I don't know," chanted Ikey.

"Well, is Mr. Farvel at home?"

Now, Ikey stretched out weary hand. "Oh, please," he begged, "don't make me lie no more!"

"Ha-a-a-a?" cried Balcome.

"What?" exclaimed Mrs. Balcome.

Ikey nodded, shaking that injured finger. "To lie ain't Christian," he reminded slyly.

Balcome guffawed. But Mrs. Balcome, visited with a dire thought, looked suddenly concerned.

"Tell me:"—she came heaving toward Ikey once more; "did my daughter stay last night with her father?" And as Ikey stared, not understanding the system of family telephoning, "Did—my—daughter—stay—last—night—with—her—father?"

"But vy ask me?" complained Ikey. "Let him lie! Let him!" And he started churchward.

"Wait!" Balcome was bellowing now. "Where is my daughter?"

"Didn't she stay with her father?" repeated Mrs. Balcome.

"Didn't she stay with her mother?" cried Balcome.

Ikey did not need to reply. For one question had answered the other. With an "Oh! Oh!" of apprehension, Mrs. Balcome sank, a dead weight, to a bench.

"Where is she, I say? Where is she?" Now Balcome had the unfortunate Ikey by a faded blue sleeve. He shook him so that all the curls on his head bobbed madly. "Open your mouth!"

"I don't know!" denied Ikey, desperately.

"Good Heavens!" Balcome let him go, and paced the grass, clutching off his hat and pounding at a knee with it.

"Oh, what has happened! What has happened!" Mrs. Balcome rocked in her misery. "Oh, and we had words last night—bitter words! Oh!"

At this juncture, out from between the drawing-room curtains Henry appeared, balancing himself on his middle, and handed down still another package. Ikey ran to receive it, and as if to silence the mourning with which the Close resounded, hastened to thrust the package into the lap of the unhappy lady on the bench.

The result was to increase Mrs. Balcome's sorrow. "Oh, my poor Hattie!" she wept. "My poor child!" She pulled at the cord about the bundle, and Balcome halted behind her to look on. "Here is another gift for her wedding! Oh, how pitiful! How pitiful! A present from someone who loves her! Who thought the dear child would be happy! Something sweet and dainty"—the wrapping paper was torn off by now—"to brighten her new home! Something——"

A cover came off. And there, full in Mrs. Balcome's sight, lay a good-sized, and very rosy Kewpie—blessed with little raiment but many charms.

"Baa-a-a-ah!"—a gesture of disgust, and the Kewpie was cast upon the lawn.

Wallace came hurrying from the house. He looked more bent than usual, and if possible more pale. His clothes indicated that he had slept in them.

Balcome charged toward him. "Where's my daughter?" he asked, with a head-to-foot look, much as if he suspicioned the younger man with having Hattie concealed somewhere about him.

"Wallace!" Mrs. Balcome held out stout arms to the newcomer.

Wallace went to her. "I tried and tried to telephone her," he answered. "And they told me they don't know where she is. So I've come.—Oh, is it all right? What does she say? I want to see her!"

"She's gone!" informed Balcome, his voice hollow.

"She's gone! She's gone!" echoed Mrs. Balcome. She shook the stone bench.

"Gone?" Wallace clapped a hand to his forehead.

"She's wandered away!" sobbed Mrs. Balcome. "Half-crazed with it all!
Heart-broken! Heart-broken!"

With a muffled growl, Balcome once more fell upon Ikey, who had been watching and listening from a discreet distance. "Where is Miss Milo, I say!" he demanded as he swooped.

But Ikey's determination did not fail him, though his teeth chattered.
"I—I—d-d-don't know!" he protested for the tenth time.

"Oh, terrible! Terrible!"—this in a fresh burst from Mrs. Balcome.
"Oh, what did I say what I did for!"

"Don't cry! Don't cry!" comforted Wallace. "We'll hunt for her.
Police, and detectives——"

A crash of piano notes interrupted from the drawing-room. Then through open door and windows floated the first bars of "Comin' Thro' the Rye"—with an accompaniment in rag-time. As one the group in the Close turned toward the house.

"Hattie?" exclaimed Mrs. Balcome.

"Hattie!" faltered Wallace.

"Hattie!"—it was a crisp bass summons from Hattie's father.

Hattie put her head out at the door. "Good-morning, mother!" she called cheerily. "Good-morning, dad! Good-morning,—Wallace."

"Where did you spend last night?" asked Mrs. Balcome, rising. Anger took the place of grief, for Hattie was wearing an adorable house frock culled from her trousseau—a frock combined of rose voile and French gingham. And such a selection on this particular morning——

Hattie sauntered to the sun-dial. "Last night?" She pointed to that upper guest-room window.

Her mother was shocked. "You don't mean to tell me that you slept here!"

"When the telephone wasn't ringing,"—whereat Ikey grinned.

"You slept here unchaperoned?"

"Oh, Sue was home."

"Oh, what's the matter with you, Hattie? You're not like other girls!"

"Well, have I been raised like other girls?"

At this, Mrs. Balcome became fully roused. "You'll pack your things and come right out of that house!" she cried. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes, mother.—Ikey dear, find Mr. Farvel and tell him his breakfast is ready." Then with a proprietary air, "And Miss Balcome says he must eat it while it's hot."

Wallace straightened, his face suddenly flushing.

"Dear me, aren't we concerned about Mr. Farvel's breakfast!" exclaimed
Mrs. Balcome, mockingly.

"We are."

"But not a word for this poor boy. One would think you were going to marry Farvel instead of Wallace."

"But—am I going to marry Wallace?"

Wallace swayed toward her. "Oh, you can't—you can't turn me down!"

"Ah, Wallace!" she said sadly.

"Mrs. Balcome, you don't think I deserve this?"

"Now don't be hasty, Hattie," advised her mother. "Everything's ready.
Our friends are coming. Are you going to send them away?"

"Messages have gone—to tell everyone not to come."

"Oh!" Wallace turned away, his head sunk between his shoulders.

"What will Buffalo think of you!" cried Mrs. Balcome.

"Buffalo," answered Hattie, "will have a chance to chatter about me, and that will give you and dad a rest."

"Are you going to send back all those beautiful wedding presents?"

Balcome, relieved of his worry over Hattie, had been strolling about, pulling at a cigar. Now he greeted this last question with a roar of laughter. "Oh, Hattie, can you beat it! Oh, that's a good one!"

Mrs. Balcome fixed him with an angry eye. "Doesn't he show what he is?" she inquired. "To laugh at such a time!"

"Beautiful wedding presents!" went on Balcome. "Oh, ha! ha! ha!"

"No sentiment!" added his wife. "No feeling!"

Hattie appealed to Wallace. "Oh, haven't I had my share of quarreling?" she asked plaintively.

"But we wouldn't quarrel!"

"Oh, yes, we would. I'd remember—and then trouble. I'd always feel that you and——"

"Hattie!" warned her mother. "You can't discuss that matter."

"Why not?"

"You ask that! Doesn't your good taste—your modesty—tell you that it's not proper?"

"Oh!—I mustn't discuss it. But if Wallace and I were to marry at twelve o'clock today, we could discuss it at one o'clock—and quarrel!"

"Mr. Balcome!" entreated Wallace.

Balcome deposited his cigar ashes on the sun-dial. "My boy," he said, "if a man has to dodge crockery because his wife's jealous about nothing, what'll it be like if she's got the goods on him?"

"There he goes!" triumphed Mrs. Balcome. "It's just what I expected!" And to Hattie, who was admiring the Kewpie, "Put that down!" Then to Wallace, "Oh, she gets more like her father every day! Now drop that!"—for Hattie, having let fall the Kewpie, had picked up the flaxen-haired doll. "Wallace, she never came to this decision alone!"

"Alan Farvel!" accused Wallace, hotly.

Hattie turned on him. "You—you dare to say that!"

"Oh, I knew you'd stick up for him! You like him."

"He's good! He's fine, and big! He's a man!—and a clean man."

"I meant Sue Milo." Mrs. Balcome interposed her bulk between them.

"She's not to blame!" defended Hattie. "On the contrary—she wouldn't let me decide quickly. We talked about it 'way into the night."

Balcome twitched a rose voile sleeve. "Don't mind her, Hattie," he counseled. "That's the kind of wild thing she says about me."

"Can you deny that Susan has influenced you?" persisted Mrs. Balcome. "Can you truthfully say—Oh!" For over the wall, and over the little white door, had come a large, gay-striped rubber ball. It Struck the grass, bounced, and came rolling to Mrs. Balcome's feet.

"Here she is!" whispered Balcome.

"Sneaking in!" accused his wife.

Now, the white door swung wide to the sound of motor chugging, and a hop came trundling across the lawn. Next, Sue appeared, backing, for her arms were full of bundles. She dropped one or two as she came. "Oh, there you go again!" she laughed. "Oh, butter-fingers!"

"Goo-oo-ood-morning!" began Mrs. Balcome, portentously.

Sue turned a startled face over a shoulder. And at once she was only a small girl caught in naughtiness. "Oh,—er—ah—good-morning," she stammered. "I—er—I've got everything but the kitchen stove." She made to a bench and let all her purchases fall. "Mrs. Balcome,—how—how is mother?"

"You care a lot about your poor mother!" retorted Mrs. Balcome.
"You'll send her gray hairs in sorrow to the grave!"

Balcome winked at Sue. "Hebrews, ten, thirty-six," he reminded roguishly. "'For ye have need of patience.'"

"Well, dear lady, just what have I done?" Sue sank among the packages.

"I say you're responsible for this—this unfortunate turn of affairs."

"If you'd only let things alone yesterday," broke in Wallace; "if you'd stayed at home, and minded your own affairs."

"So you could have deceived Hattie."

"No! You've no right to call it deception. That's one of your new-woman ideas. This is something that happened long ago, before I ever met Hattie—and it's sacred——"

Hattie burst out laughing. "Sacred!" she cried. "Of course—an affair with the wife of your host!"

"Hattie!" warned Mrs. Balcome.

But Hattie ignored her mother. "What a disgusting argument!" she went on. "What a cowardly excuse!"

Matters were taking a most undesirable turn. To change their course, Mrs. Balcome swung round upon Sue. "Why did you send Dora for that child?"

"What has the poor child to do with it?"

"Ah! You see, Wallace? It was all done purposely. So that Hattie would decide against you. What does Susan Milo care that you'll be mortified? That Hattie's life will be spoiled?" (Hattie smiled.) "That I'll have to explain and lie?"

"Ha! Ha!—Lie!" chuckled Balcome.

"Don't you see that she's not thinking of you, Hattie? That you'll have to pack up and go home?—Oh, it's dreadful! Dreadful!"

"Yes," answered Hattie. "It would be dreadful—to have to go home."

Mrs. Balcome did not seem to hear. She was waving a hand at the bundles. "And what, may I ask, are all these?"

"These?"

"You heard me."

"Well, this—for, oh, she must have the best welcome that we can give her, the darling!—this——"

"All cooked up for Mr. Farvel's benefit, I suppose," interjected Mrs.
Balcome.

"Of course. Who cares anything about the child!" Sue laughed.

"Oh, your mother has told me of your aspirations,"—this with scornful significance.

"Mm!—This is socks—oh, such cunning socks—with little turnover cuffs on 'em!" Sue's good-humor was unshaken. "And this is sash ribbon. And this is roller skates." She lifted one package after the other. "And a game. And a white rabbit. And a woolly sheep—it winds up!" She gave it to Hattie. "And a hat—with roses on it! And rompers—I do hope she's not too big for rompers! These are blue, with a white collar. And 'Don Quixote'—fine pictures—it'll keep. And look!"—it was a train of cars. "Isn't it a darling? I could play with it myself! Just observe that smokestack! And—well, she can give it to her first beau. And, behold, a lizard! Its picture is on the box!" She waved it. "Made in the U. S. A.!"

Mrs. Balcome had been watching with an expression not so irritable as it was wearied. "You are pathetic!" she said finally. "Simply pathetic!"

"Look!" invited Sue, holding up a duck. "It quacks!"

But Mrs. Balcome had turned on Hattie, and caught the sheep from her hand. "You!" she scolded; "—for the child of that—that——"

Hattie held up a warning finger. "Don't criticize the lady before
Wallace," she cautioned.

Slowly Wallace straightened, and came about. "Well," he said quietly,
"I guess that's the end of it." He went to Sue, holding out a hand.
"Sue, I'm going——"

"Go to mother, Wallace. I'll see you later."

"Hattie! Hattie!" importuned her mother. "Tell him not to go!"

"No," said Hattie, firmly. "I was willing to do something wrong—and all this has saved me from it. I've never cared for Wallace the right way. He knows it. I was only marrying him to get away from home."

"Hear that!" cried Mrs. Balcome.

"No,—you don't love me," agreed Wallace.

"I don't believe I've ever loved you," the girl went on; "only—believe me!—I didn't know it till—till I came here."

"I understand." Out of a pocket of his vest he took a ring—a narrow chased band of gold. "Will—will you keep this?" he asked. "It was for you."

"Some other woman, Wallace, will make you happy." She made no move to take the ring, only backed a step.

Quickly Sue put out her hand. "Let me take it, dear brother. And try not to feel too bad." She had on a long coat. She dropped the ring into a pocket.

"And, Sue, I want to tell you"—he spoke as if they were alone together—"that I'm ashamed of what I said to you yesterday—that you're quick to think wrong. You're not. And you were right. And you're the best sister a man ever had."

"Never mind," comforted Sue. "Never mind."

He tried to smile. "This—this is chickens coming home to roost, isn't it?" he asked; turned, fighting against tears, and with a smothered farewell entered the house.

Mrs. Balcome wiped her eyes. "Oh, poor Wallace! Poor boy!" she mourned. And to Sue, "I hope you're satisfied! You started out yesterday to stop this wedding—your own brother's wedding!—and you've succeeded. I can't fathom your motives—except that some women, when they fail to land husbands of their own, simply hate to see anybody else have one. It's the envy of the—soured spinster."

Sue was busily arranging the toys. "So I can't land a husband, eh?" she laughed.

"But your mother tells me that you're championing the unmarried alliance," went on Mrs. Balcome.

"You mean Laura Farvel, of course. Well, not exactly. You see, neither mother nor I know anything against Mrs. Farvel except what Mrs. Farvel has said herself. But one thing is certain: even an unmarried alliance, as you call it, is more decent than a marriage without love."

"Oh, slam!" Balcome exploded in pure joy.

"How dare you!" cried Mrs. Balcome, dividing an angry look between her husband and Sue.

"And," Sue went on serenely, "when it comes to that, I respect an unmarried woman with a child fully as much as I do a married woman with a poodle."

"Wow!" shouted Balcome.

"I think," proceeded Mrs. Balcome, suddenly mindful of the existence of her own poodle, and looking calmly about for Babette, "I think that you have softening of the brain."

"Well,"—Sue was tinkering with the smoke-stack—"I'd rather have softening of the brain than hardening of the heart."

"Isn't she funny?" demanded Balcome, to draw his wife's fire. "She doesn't dare to stand up for Wallace you'll notice, Sue,—though she'd like to. But she can't because she's raved against that kind of thing for years. So she has to abuse somebody else."

"There's a man for you!" cried his better half. "To stand by and hear his own wife insulted!—the mother of his child—and join in it! How infamous! How base!"

Satisfied with results, Balcome consulted his watch. "Well, I'm a busy man," he observed, and kissed Hattie.

"Where is your father going?" demanded Mrs. Balcome.

"Where is father going?" telephoned Sue, taking off hat and coat.

"Buffalo."

Mrs. Balcome threw up the hand that was not engaged with the dog. "Oh, what shall we say to Buffalo!" she said tragically. "Oh, how can I ever go back!"

"Mr. Balcome, do you want to settle on some explanation?"

"Advise Hattie's mother"—Balcome shook a warning finger—"that for a change she'd better tell the truth."

"Oh!"—the shot told. "As if I don't always tell it—always!" Then to
Sue, "Suppose we say that the bridegroom is sick?"

Inarticulate with mirth, Balcome gave Sue a parting pat on the shoulder and started away.

"But, John!"

Astounded at being thus directly addressed, and before he could bethink himself not to seem to have heard, Balcome brought short, silently appealing to Sue for her opinion of this extraordinary state of affairs.

For Sue knew. There was only one thing that could have so moved Mrs. Balcome. "Lady dear," she inquired pleasantly, "how much money do you want?"

"Oh, four hundred will do." And as Balcome dove into a capacious pocket and brought forth a roll, which Sue handed to her, "One hundred, two hundred,—three—four——" She counted in a careful, inquiring tone which implied that Balcome might have failed to hand over the sum she suggested. "And now, Hattie, get your things together. We want to be gone by the time that child comes."

"Oh, mother," returned Hattie, crossly, "you're beginning to treat me exactly as Mrs. Milo treats Sue."

No argument followed. For at this moment a door banged somewhere in the Rectory, then came the sound of running feet; and Mrs. Milo's voice, shrill with anger, called from the drawing-room:

"Susan!"

"Mother?" said Sue.

Hattie and her father gravitated toward each other in mutual sympathy.
Then joined forces in a defensive stand behind Sue.

"Now, you'll catch it, Miss Susan!" promised Mrs. Balcome. "Here's someone who'll know how to attend to you!"

"My dear friend," answered Sue, "since early yesterday afternoon, here's a person that's been calling her soul her own."

"Susan!"—the cry was nearer, and sharp.

With elaborate calmness, Sue took up the Kewpie, seated herself, and prepared to look as independent and indifferent as possible.

"Susan!—Oh, help!"

It brought Sue to her feet. There was terror in the cry, and wild appeal.

The next moment, white-faced, and walking unsteadily, Mrs. Milo came from the drawing-room. "Oh, help me!" she begged. "I didn't tell her anything! I didn't! I didn't! How could she find us! That terrible woman!" She made weakly to the stone bench that was nearest, and sat—as Tottie followed her into sight and halted in the doorway, leaning carelessly.