There is a certain period of the year when all its widely scattered children home to Kentucky as surely as bluebirds home to the hollow stumps in March. It is the season of the May race meet.

All her life Joan had heard of the Kentucky Derby, and she looked forward to it with almost as much eagerness as her father. Derby Day means more to the Kentuckian than the running event that has become classic. It means the reunion in street and club and hotel-lobby of neighbors from the various towns of a State where neighborliness is cultivated to the point of a fine art; of men who have been boys together; of friends whose ways have drifted far apart (for your Kentuckian is a great wanderer), and who have years to make up over the clinking glasses. During the spring race meet, Louisville ceases to be merely Louisville, and becomes Kentucky, the great old mother-home that leaves its stamp upon its children even into the third and fourth generation.

There is a good deal of sentiment about the Derby, a good deal of tradition; and there is as well a certain spirit of carefree, sporting, joyous bonhomie whose like is not to be found perhaps on any other race-course in the world.

Joan, who loved crowds, got much pleasure out of the streets at this time. She took appreciative note of self-conscious belles from up-State, in picture-hats and peek-a-boo blouses, with a predilection for wearing long-stemmed roses pinned to their belts. She noted the young farmers who accompanied them, big-shouldered, square-chinned, clear-eyed, crimson with the sun—a sturdy, virile type, clumsy in their country-made clothes, but with well-stuffed wallets bulging their hip pockets. There is no poverty in the farming regions of Kentucky.

She learned to recognize the professional racing people, men in loud-checked clothes talking an incomprehensible jargon; shabby touts offering confidential tips to anybody who would listen; women wearing diamonds as large as peas, overdressed, coarse-voiced, not easily distinguishable from their sisters of the underworld, except that their men accompanied them openly.

People of the larger world there were, too. The narrow streets were congested with great touring-cars bearing unfamiliar license tags; New York, Michigan, California. Once, hearing crisp Eastern voices at her elbow, Joan turned just in time to see some people she had met at Longmeadow disappearing into a hotel. For a moment her heart stood still. She thought Eduard Desmond was among them. But it proved to be another man, and Joan mingled hastily in the crowd, relieved that they had not noticed her.

In all this preparatory excitement Major Darcy was, as his wife put it, "busy as a bird dog." There were kinspeople from the Bluegrass to be welcomed, cousins from Paducah, Maysville, Fayette County. Joan, who did not altogether share her father's enthusiasm for the ties of kinship, rather admired her step-mother's skill in side-stepping the Major's abounding sense of hospitality. Effie May had taken the precaution to fill her house with paper-hangers.

"What a shame! You'll have to take your cousins and things to the hotel, Dickie, or put 'em up at the Country Club, won't you? If I'd only thought!—" she murmured innocently; but catching Jean's suspicious eye upon her, she winked.

Joan returned the wink. She remembered her mother's patience under the constant influx of Darcy relatives. She had also seen the unfortunate Misses Darcy almost turned out of doors by the daily increasing numbers of their kith and kin. The bookcase in their parlor had become, surprisingly, a bed; and Miss Euphemia, the plump, as the one best fitted by nature for this ordeal, was spending her nights on a packing-box sparsely mitigated by pillows.—Not that the Misses Darcy complained, however. They were long inured to the hospitalities of Derby week.

Effie May, indeed, was the only person of Joan's acquaintance who seemed unaffected by the general excitement over the Derby. She heard with apparent indifference that the Major had been able to secure a box directly opposite the judges' stand, and she declined to rise early enough to accompany him and Joan to Sunday morning breakfast at the Jockey Club, where enthusiasts met regularly to inspect and pass critical judgment on the offerings of the past week.

"Lord, child!" she said once in answer to Joan's surprise at this indifference. "Horses ain't no treat to me. You see, they used to be my bread and butter."

It was one of her few references to a past that rather intrigued her step-daughter.

"Were both of your husbands turfmen?" asked the girl, curiously.

Effie May gave a brief nod; and Joan did not somehow feel encouraged to further questioning.

Derby Day dawned bright and sunny.

"A fast track, Dollykins," cried the Major in great glee. "We ought to break a record to-day!"

"That means the Long colt," said Joan learnedly. "The Camden entry's apt to prove a mud-hen."

She had in the past week made an exhaustive research into the race-horse question. Breeding and pedigree, record and past performance, rolled trippingly from her tongue. Joan was what the theatrical profession call "quick study."

The Darcys had been invited to go out to the tracks in the approved fashion, on top of a tallyho coach, tooled by Johnny Carmichael—who was not quite as sober as might have been wished. But his four-in-hand seemed aware of the fact, and took no ungenerous advantage of him.

Effie May had awakened that morning with a bad headache, and proclaimed her intention of staying at home.

"What! Not see the Derby run?" cried her husband incredulously.

And when with a great shouting and tooting of horns the tallyho drew up under the porte-cochÈre, her determination weakened.

"Oh, do come on, Mrs. Darcy! The air will do you good, and we shan't have half as much fun without you!" cried several voices, for she was very popular with young people.

She hesitated. Joan decided the matter.

"Put on a heavy veil to shield your eyes from the glare," she suggested; and Effie May yielded. It was not often that her step-daughter asked for her society.

They became part of a procession that had been filing steadily past the Darcy house since sunrise. Every vehicle in town and the surrounding country, horse-power or motor-power, was on its way to the races. Street-cars passed in a solid line, with passengers hanging to the straps, bulging out of the windows, crowding on to the roofs. There was a steady throng of foot-passengers, all heading in the same direction, which hailed the tallyho as it passed with shouts of greeting and good luck. The tallyho responded with tooting horns and waving parasols.

It was a friendly, intimate, highly democratic gathering such as may be found only south of Mason and Dixon's line; never pushing or jostling, but good-naturedly determined to enjoy itself. At the gate humanity was packed in a dense, immovable mass as far as the eye could see, and Joan, descending from her elevation, looked at the crowd in mild alarm. But the cry arose, "Make way for the ladies!" and instantly a lane appeared as if by magic, through which she and her companions made royal progress, laughing at the personalities which greeted them as they passed.

"Nobody ever minds what happens on Derby Day!" explained Emily Carmichael.

Once in the box, the men of the party deserted in a body for the betting ring, and Effie May promptly hailed a messenger. Her interest in racing seemed to have revived.

"Let's see your tips, girls—anything good?"

She looked over their various lists in a business-like way, approving this, discarding that, displaying a knowledge that put Joan's recent learned discussions to shame.

"Will-o'-the-Wisp, Satyr out of Firefly. Umm! Ought! to be worth taking a shot at. Who's up—Casey? No. Won't do! They'll can that crooked little jock yet—" etc., etc., while her companions eyed her with respect, and the messenger consulted with her laconically as with an equal.

"You want to play 'em straight across the board, dearie;" she admonished Joan. "That's the only way to win. No piking!"

But Joan declined to play them straight across the board, or in any way at all. For one thing she had brought no purse. For another she was far too busy with the people about her.

Faces rose behind her in a packed mass to the top of the grandstand—women's faces for the most part; school-girls, nice old ladies, mothers of families (who occasionally fed their families under the casual shelter of a shawl), gum-chewing shop-girls, houris of every variety, respectable and otherwise, all chatting together with the utmost simplicity under the spell of a common interest. In the boxes, and on the clubhouse porch, were girls and women most of whom she knew, dressed as if for a garden party. Chiffons fluttered in the breeze, plumes waved, there were bared throats, and lace-covered arms, and dainty white slippers. Here and there appeared the more conventional tailored dress, looking almost conspicuous in its severity. For on Derby Day, Louisville harks back to a custom as old as itself, and frankly looks its loveliest.

Just behind Joan in the front row of the grandstand sat a respectable, gray-headed little old woman with a bonnet tied under her chin, quite alone, who looked as staid and out of place as Ellen Neal would have done in these surroundings. But she had a professional-looking pair of fieldglasses at her eyes, and Joan noticed that her lips were constantly moving and muttering. The girl turned her back on the Derby to watch this odd figure.

At first she thought the old creature was praying; but the syllables that reached her ears were not prayer.

"Come on, you Will-o'-the-Wisp! Hop it, baby! 'Ata-boy! Step, darlin', step lively! Oh, you Will-o'-the-Wisp!"

Joan saw that she was not merely watching the great race, she was riding it, with whip, and knee, and voice. And at a certain moment the girl saw that she had lost it. There was a shrug, a little despairing gesture of the glasses, and the muttering ceased.

An explanation suddenly occurred to Joan. She nudged Effie May. "Look at this funny old soul behind us! She's evidently the mother of the jockey that's riding Will-o'-the-Wisp," she whispered.

Effie May glanced briefly over her shoulder, and smiled. "Mother nothing! That's Texas Nell, who's been following the ponies since the day of Molly McCarthy. She's lost and won more money, I guess, than any woman in the business."

A little later she suggested that they all adjourn to the Club House for refreshments; but Archie Blair had come with the promise of taking Joan down to the paddock later, and she decided to stay where she was.

Archie, who seemed to know everybody, pointed out various celebrities who were present; fine old General Dutton, down from Lexington with his flock of famous though still unmarried daughters; Nick Sanders of the Pisgah neighborhood, who had just escaped conviction for manslaughter because of the unwritten law; Mrs. Kildare of Storm, a splendid-looking woman in mannish hat and driving coat, here to see one of her colts go to the post in the Derby—though of late years Storm was raising mules instead of race-horses.

"A shame, too, when it's one of the oldest stud-farms in the State," commented Archie. "Racing's on its last legs when people like the Kildares turn to breeding mules!"

But racing did not appear to be on its last legs that day. The eagerness, the wild enthusiasm, above all the joyousness of the crowd, struck an answering chord in Joan. For the first time she really understood the devotion of Kentuckians to their State and to each other. It is never their work that endears a people to each other; it is their play. In a world that takes itself overseriously, Kentucky still knows how to play.

She followed Archie presently down toward the paddock where the winner was to receive his ovation; but as they reached the foot of the staircase, suddenly there was the sharp explosion of a pistol. Instantly the crowd surged in the direction of the shot.

Archie, placing her behind him, forged his way through the struggling mass to the nearest wall, where he stood her, breathless and disheveled, but undismayed.

"Goodness! This is local color with a vengeance! What's happening? Do you suppose it's your man-eating friend from Pisgah?"

"Just an old woman shot herself, they say," volunteered a friendly voice near by, "Cleaned out, I reckon!"

One of the intuitions to which Joan was liable came to her. Glancing up at the grandstand, she saw the seat just behind hers was empty.

"Oh, Archie! It's my little old woman!" she cried pitifully. "Go and see, will you?—a shabby old thing with a bonnet tied under her chin."

He hesitated. "I don't like to leave you here alone. Suppose somebody should speak to you?"

"Then I shall most certainly speak back!" she said, and he reluctantly obeyed her wish. Indeed, with Archie, her wishes were apt to assume the form of commands.

The gaiety of the scene was gone for Joan. She had got her glimpse of the grim reality that lies beneath. She was to have another glimpse of it.

As she stood there, buffeted by the passing throng, she caught sight across the wide passageway of her step-mother, in conversation with somebody who for a moment she did not see. Joan started across to join her. Effie May's back was toward her, and not until Joan was within hearing distance did she notice the man to whom her step-mother was speaking. Then she stopped where she was, startled.

He was a dissipated-looking creature, hardly better in appearance than a race-horse tout, flashily dressed, wearing a large diamond in his tie—altogether one of the least desirable types of those who follow the races. But he was not only talking with evident familiarity to Mrs. Darcy, he had taken hold of her arm. It came to Joan in a flash that the man was doubtless some relative, possibly her brother. What did they know of Effie May's family?

Joan stood still and frankly listened.

"No, no, you don't put that over on me, old girl," this person was saying in a low but carrying voice. "You're not going to slip away on me again that easy!"

Her step-mother's rejoinder did not reach Joan's ears, but she saw her glance round uneasily. Joan did not blame her for not wishing to be seen with her present companion. She quietly slipped behind the shelter of a pillar.

"Married, eh?" repeated the man's voice. "Come, that's a good one! I'm from Missouri, I am. You'll be sayin' Calloway married you next. Oho! he did, eh? A bigger fool than I took him for! If that's the case—" his voice sharpened—"you must a' come in for a pretty good thing when he croaked. You'll have to come across, old sport. No going back on a pal!"

The color suddenly went out of Joan's cheeks. She leaned against her pillar, feeling rather queer. She wished she were not there—and yet she listened.

Effie May's voice reached her, speaking quite steadily, "Not one cent, Joe! You're no pal of mine. When I left you it was for good and all, and you know why!"

"Humm! Well, we'll see what your new husband thinks about it, eh?"

"No, you don't!" It was a sort of gasp; but instantly the voice steadied again. "You'll never lay eyes on my husband, Joe. He doesn't live here. I—I just happened to come over for the races."

The man grinned. "That's easy enough! I seen you drivin' in with your swell friends, and sittin' in a box and all. Recognized you right away, too, for all that thick veil. You ain't the sort a man forgets easy, Ef," he leered. "Not when he's knowed you like I have! I'll get your name before you leave this stand, and then—Better come across, kiddo!"

"I—let me go now, Joe! I'll think it over."

The man chuckled. "Afraid somebody'll see you talking to me, eh? You can bet your sweet life you'll think it over, and damn quick, too! See?"

His grip tightened on her arm. Effie May glanced this way and that, nervously. Joan stepped out from behind her pillar. After all, the woman was her father's wife! She must be protected....

Just then she saw Archie coming, and hurried to him.

"It was an old lady with a bonnet tied under her chin," he told her soberly. "She's dead."

But Joan had no ears for the earlier tragedy.

"There's a man frightening Mrs. Darcy," she said breathlessly, "he seems to be somebody she knows. He's—threatening her! Oh, Archie, what shall we do?"

The meaning of it, the incredible sordid horror of the thing she had half learned, began to come home to her. Her father's wife!

"Threatening!" Archie's jaw set. "Here, that won't do!"

He strode forward, Joan following. They both heard the man say with leering distinctness, "It ought to be worth a little cash to a loving husband to learn the sort of woman he's married up with, Ef, old girl!"

Then Archie's hand fell on his shoulder.

Joan never forgot the face her step-mother turned upon them—She made a desperate attempt to rally.

"Why—why, dearie! is that you? A—an old friend of mine's been giving me a tip."

"Get out," said Archie to the man. "Get out, quick!"

"Hold on there, kid—So, you been robbing the cradle this time, Ef?" He grinned at her evilly. "Wait a minute, mister, there's a few things I might be able to tell you about this party—"

"Nothing I don't know already," muttered Archie, his grip tightening. "You've got five minutes to get off the grounds before I tell the police. Blackmail's a penitentiary offense in this State."

The man hesitated, looked at Archie's grim jaw, and went....

Joan and her step-mother gazed at each other. The woman's face had a curious gray look under its perennial bloom, and she moistened her lips with a dry tongue.

"You—you heard?" she said at last.

Joan nodded. She could not speak.

It was Archie who remarked quietly: "You'll want to be going home, I guess. I'll get a taxicab."

Then sheer pity overcame the horror in the girl's mind. "Yes, Mother. Come home with me!" she murmured.

For the first and last time in her life she had called her father's wife "Mother."