"Hilda!" called out a voice in a shrill, angry key. "Hilda!"

"Yes—m'm," came the slow reply.

The boarding house drudge, a bold looking Irish girl, not devoid of certain physical attractions, despite a dirty apron, dishevelled hair, and besmudged face, entered Mrs. Parkes' parlor, carrying broom and dust pan.

"Was it me yer wus after callin', m'm?" she demanded, in a rich, auld counthry brogue.

"I thought I told you to dust this room!" snapped her mistress, with rising wrath.

The girl looked stupidly around.

"Sure—ain't it dusted?" she answered saucily.

Mrs. Parkes bounded with anger. Losing all patience and pointing to an accumulation of dirt plainly in evidence under the chairs, she cried:

"Do you call that dusting? What have you been doing all day? It's always the same—nothing done. I don't know what we're coming to—having to run a respectable house with such help. All you girls think about nowadays is gadding about, getting as much wages as you can, and doing as little work as possible. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

Mrs. Parkes stopped her tirade for sheer want of breath. Hilda threw back her head defiantly.

"Maybe I ain't as good as some as think they're my betters, and maybe I am. If I don't suit, yer can get someone else. My month's up to-day. I'll go at once."

Throwing down broom and dust pan, she bounced out of the room.

Mrs. Parkes looked after the disappearing form of her housemaid in consternation. She was sorry now that she had lost her temper. Servants were so hard to keep that it seemed the height of folly to deliberately send them away. It would have been better to put up with any insolence rather than expose herself to be left alone. How was it possible to run a boarding house without domestic help? Certainly things were coming to a pretty pass if a mistress couldn't say a few plain words of truth. With a weary sigh of discouragement, she picked up the broom and started to do, herself, the work which Hilda had neglected.

The servant problem had bothered Mrs. Parkes for nearly twenty-three years, since the day when she first took upon herself the task of letting "nice rooms with board for select ladies and gentlemen." Left a widow in straitened circumstances after a none too happy married life, and faced with the urgent necessity of doing something for a living, it occurred to her that the best way to provide herself and boy with a home and income was to open a boarding house. She leased an old four-story residence on West Fourteenth Street, and, furnishing it as neatly as possible with the capital at her disposal, she hung out her shingle. Lodgers knocked at the door to inquire, were attracted by the clean rooms, and remained for years. It was hard work catering for the table and looking after the wants of the guests, but Mrs. Parkes toiled uncomplainingly. It would not be forever, she promised herself. When her boy grew up, she could take a rest. He would provide for everything, and they would no longer be under the necessity of taking boarders.

Her boy was Mrs. Parkes' one weakness. There were just three things in which she took special pride—cleanliness of her house, the respectability of her boarders, and her son Harry. Not that there existed any good reason for feeling particular satisfaction over her offspring. Harry grew up as other boys do, but his earning capacity did not grow with him. Like other boys who are made too comfortable at home, he saw no necessity to exert himself, and at the age of thirty he was still living at home, more of a hindrance than a help in the domestic economy, his usefulness being limited to doing odd jobs around the house and keeping tab on the lodgers' accounts. Recently he had found employment in an architect's office, and then he became intolerable. There was nothing that he could not do; no heights to which he could not climb. A good deal of a poseur he wore gold-rimmed glasses, aped the absent-minded manner of the student, and spoke in vague terms of big things he was about to accomplish. That nothing came of them surprised nobody but his credulous and indulgent mother, who lived on year after year in the blissful conviction that one day Harry would astonish the world. If she had any secret worries about her son at all, it was that he might commit some folly with the other sex and marry below his station. Mrs. Parkes was only a boarding house keeper, but she was proud. She did not forget the fact that on her maternal side she was descended from one of the best families in the South. Not that she had any cause to complain of Harry in this respect, but she recalled certain anxieties which her dead husband had caused her in this respect, and she sometimes feared that her son might have inherited some of the paternal traits. For this reason alone she was glad Hilda was leaving. There was no telling what mischief might happen with such a bold creature around the house.

Mrs. Parkes was absorbed in her reflections when the sound of a well-known voice made her look up.

"Hallo, ma! Whatever are you doing that for? Where's Hilda?"

An oldish-looking young man, a pipe in his mouth, newspaper in his hand, stood in the doorway looking at her.

Mrs. Parkes smiled at her son:

"There's no one else to do it, Harry. Hilda is going."

The young man was so surprised that he took the pipe from his mouth, gave an expressive whistle, and came into the room.

"Hilda leaving? I just met her coming down stairs with all her things on. She looks deuced pretty in her street clothes. What are you sending her for?"

"She gave me insolence. I scolded her for neglecting her work. She said she would go. That's all." Looking at her son searchingly, she added: "Why are you so interested?"

The young man laughed, and, throwing himself into an armchair, proceeded to make himself comfortable.

"Interested? I'm not particularly interested that I know of. I'm sorry if you have to do all the work, that's all."

Mrs. Parkes shook her head ominously as she said:

"Harry, you're your father over again."

Absorbed in reading his newspaper, the young man at first made no answer. Then looking up, he chuckled lightly:

"Mother—you're over-anxious—and like most over-anxious mothers, you're mistaken."

Mrs. Parkes looked at him fondly as she answered slowly:

"My dear boy—I know human nature——"

He shrugged his shoulders impatiently:

"You knew father, that's all," he said testily. "I wish to goodness he'd been a better husband, then you wouldn't make my life miserable by always suspecting the worst. I can't speak to a girl—I can't even look at one—that you don't jump to the ridiculous conclusion that I'm falling in love with her, or that I'm like my father. Why don't you hire Japs?"

His mother could not suppress a smile:

"They're too expensive for a boarding house. Besides, some of my lady guests might object to having them around. No—it's not you, my boy. It's our designing sex I'm afraid of. I know I'm anxious, but I don't want to lose you as I lost your father."

"You're always throwing my father at me," he answered. "Can I help it if he was a little wild? He's dead now. Why can't you let him alone?"

Rising and flinging down his newspaper with a gesture of impatience, the young man crossed the room, and, pausing at a door near the window, he leaned his head forward and listened. His mother watched him in silence. Disapproval at his behavior was plainly written on her face.

"What are you doing at that door, sir?" she demanded sharply.

Harry grinned. He knew his mother's weakness too well to be much impressed with her affected tone of severity.

"Is Miss Marsh in?" he asked, in a low tone.

A new suspicion crossed Mrs. Parkes' mind. Hilda was safe out of the way, but here was a new peril. Before this she had noticed her son staring at her young lady lodger. Dear—dear—how like his father he was!

"Why do you want to know?" she demanded. "What concern is it of yours?"

"I want to see her on important business," he said doggedly.

Mrs. Parkes held up her finger warningly.

"Now, Harry—don't make a fool of yourself. Remember—this Miss Marsh is a boarder—under my roof. She seems a nice girl—even if she does owe me three weeks' rent. But she's nothing for you to waste your time on."

Harry held up his hand in protest.

"Mother," he cried. "I'm thirty years old—I'm earning fifteen hundred a year as assistant draughtsman in the office of the biggest firm of architects in New York City. I'm a free, separate entity, an independent individual, a somebody, and I warn you—if you try to pick out my company for me—as you did for my father, you'll lose me as you did him. You'll not only be a grass widow, but a grass mother. I want to see Miss Marsh because—well, I want to see her——"

"She owes me three weeks' board," repeated Mrs. Parkes doggedly.

"What of it?" he laughed. "I don't want to see her about that."

"I don't trust a girl who owes me three weeks' lodging——"

"You do trust her, or she wouldn't owe you. You trust her because she's a lady, because you like her—yes, you do! She's in trouble, mother—and you're never hard on anyone that's in trouble, you dear old bundle of inconsistencies!"

Going up to his mother, he put his arm round her neck. Kissing her, he added:

"She'll pay you as soon as she gets the money her father left her. You know she's won her lawsuit."

Fumbling in her pocket, Mrs. Parkes drew out an envelope.

"Yes, so I heard," she said dryly, "but this is a little reminder—just to let her know how much it is. I never knew you took such an interest in her affairs."

"An interest?" exclaimed Harry, with mock surprise. "What nonsense. Come here, mother—sit down. I want to talk seriously with you."

Drawing up a chair, he made her take a seat. Taking a seat opposite, he asked:

"Mother, was my father a serious man?"

"Never—except when he was broke."

"Well—I am serious. I love Paula Marsh. Now, don't faint. Last night I asked her to be my wife——"

Mrs. Parkes gasped.

"Not one word against her," he went on anxiously. "I know your first impulses are never friendly."

Mrs. Parkes nodded her head sagaciously.

"If—if she inherits all her father's money—you might do worse."

"No—no, mother," replied her son, shrugging his shoulders. "You're mistaken. I love her for herself—not for her money. Besides, she may not get the money after all. Mr. Ricaby, her lawyer, telephoned last night that there is a new move now against her. You see her father made a will leaving her all his money. Her Uncle James is contesting the will and the estate is tied up and she can't get any of it. She hasn't money enough even to get good lawyers. I think Ricaby's an old fluff. It's a shame the way her relations are trying to do her out of it. How I do hate relations!"

"How can they deprive her of her property if it's hers?" inquired Mrs. Parkes incredulously.

"I don't know," said Harry, scratching his head. "They're doing it, that's all. Last night after talking to her lawyer over the 'phone she broke down and burst into tears. Said she was all alone in the world—had no one to protect her—and I—mother—human nature couldn't stand it. I—offered to protect her——"

Mrs. Parkes sighed.

"Your father would have done the same," she said.

"Kindly refrain from associating my father's name with this matter," he cried impatiently.

Mrs. Parkes seemed lost in thought. Her eyes filled with tears.

"At a time like this I can't forget him—bad as he was—I can't help thinking of him." With a deep sigh, she added: "Well, what did—what did she say——?"

"Nothing," rejoined Harry carelessly, "she looked haughtily at me and walked out of the room. Perhaps I was wrong, mother. I had no right to take advantage of her distressed condition of mind. I'm going to apologize to her. I came away from business early to-day on purpose to do so. It was too soon for a proposal—she doesn't know me well enough——"

Mrs. Parkes tossed back her head indignantly.

"I don't see why you should apologize," she said; "you're as good as she is—and maybe better. If I remember rightly there was some question as to her mother being legally married to the father."

"That's a damnable lie invented by her relations so as to deprive her of her rights to her father's estate!" broke in Harry hotly.

"And her father——" went on his mother, "they say he was crazy when he made his will."

"Another lie!" he cried indignantly. "Don't you know that's what lawyers always say about a man who doesn't leave his estate to their clients. And they can get any number of people to prove it, too—if the estate is large enough."

His mother was silent for a moment; then, with an air of unconcern, she asked:

"How much money is there?"

"I don't know—a whole pile. If there wasn't, Bascom Cooley wouldn't be the lawyer for the other side—you can bet on that."

"It's very strange," mused Mrs. Parkes; "she promised me three weeks ago that she'd pay me what was owing."

Harry put his hand in his pocket and brought out a roll of bank notes.

"Here, mother, I'm going to pay that bill. When she gives you the money you can pay me back. I don't want you to mention it to her. Will you promise me?"

Mrs. Parkes looked fondly at her son.

"Is it as bad as all that?" she said.

Harry looked sheepishly down at the carpet.

"Yes—I'm—I'm a goner this time——" he murmured.

"Well," exclaimed Mrs. Parkes, with a laugh, "your father never would have done that. No, Harry, I won't take your money. I can wait. Food is dear, rent is high, and times are hard, but I can wait——"

The young man bounded forward and again threw his arms around her.

"You know, mother, that's what I like about you. You're barking all the time, but you never bite."

Mrs. Parkes, overcome at this unusual display of filial affection, put her handkerchief to her eyes. Whimpering, she said:

"You know, Harry, I always did like that girl. There's something about her one can't help liking. She came here from the swellest hotel on Fifth Avenue and took what we gave her without a murmur. At first I thought she was a leading lady out of an engagement, until I found that she went down to the slums every day and worked among the poor. I tell you I was kinder scared when she told me about her lawsuit. Two years ago I had a young lady who occupied the front parlor and back—and private bath, too. She was a show girl, and she ran up five hundred dollars on the strength of a lawsuit she had against a Wall Street man for breach of promise. She lost the case and I lost my money." With a sigh she went on: "It was your father's fault. He advised me to trust her, but this one's different. Yes, quite different." She stopped and burst into tears: "Harry, my boy, you're all I have. I don't want to lose you—I don't——"

Harry looked distressed.

"Now—now—don't cry," he said. "You won't lose me. You'll get a daughter—that's all."

"God knows I've always wanted a daughter!"

"Well, let me pick one out for you. I think my judgment is better than yours."

The little door opposite which Harry had been watching so eagerly suddenly opened, and a young woman quietly entered the sitting room. It was Paula Marsh, dressed in her street clothes.

She nodded to mother and son in a friendly but reserved manner, and was about to pass out through another door into the outer hall without speaking when she seemed to remember something. Opening a small bag, she said amiably:

"Oh, Mrs. Parkes, I was looking for you. I've just come in. Here is what I owe you. I am sorry——"

Mrs. Parkes, all flustered, rose from the chair.

"Oh, please—not now—there's no hurry—not just now. You look so tired—sit down a moment and rest yourself."

Paula smiled at her landlady's solicitude, and, taking off her hat and coat, thrust some money in the elder woman's hand.

"Yes—yes—I insist," she said. "I've been downtown all morning, waiting for my lawyer in a stuffy little office—and even then I didn't succeed in seeing Mr. Ricaby. Nothing makes one so tired as failing to do what one starts out to do."

"Sit down, dear, and rest yourself," said Mrs. Parkes, proceeding to bustle about. "Let me get you a cup of tea—now, do—you look so tired!"

"Don't say that, please," protested the young girl. "It makes me feel ten times more tired than I really am."

"But I insist. The water is boiling," said the landlady, hurrying out of the room. "I won't be a moment. A nice cup of tea is just the thing. Harry will keep you company while I'm gone." With a mischievous wink at her son, she added, as she disappeared: "Won't you, Harry—like a good boy?"