Emerson Hall was a young civil engineer, who had pushed his way to the front in his chosen profession because he had both energy and ability. He had been graduated from Columbia some year or two later than Donald, and had at once left New York for Chicago, where he had entered the employ of a large contracting company. Sheer hard work had forced him to the front, and he was now one of the concern’s most trusted men.

Alice Rogers he had met, some time before, at a commencement hop, and he had straightway fallen in love with her. Being in New York but seldom, he had seen very little of her, but the impression she had made upon him persisted, and their courtship, carried on largely by means of an extensive correspondence, had progressed so favorably that Mrs. Pope felt obliged to place him under the ban of her displeasure. Alice, however, paid little attention to her mother’s objections. She had a very clear idea of what she wanted in the world, and what she wanted she determined to get. Emerson Hall was one of the things she wanted, and she bent all her energies to the task of making that young man conclude that life without her to share it would be but a barren waste.

Pursuant to her intentions, Alice had written to Mr. Hall, inviting him to spend his vacation with them at New London. She had asked Edith’s permission, and the latter had granted it gladly. The latter had never met Mr. Hall, but she felt as though she almost knew him, both because he had been an acquaintance of Donald’s and because Alice talked about him so much. Then, too, she felt that she owed him some recompense for his services at the time of West’s death. He had gone to the hospital, in answer to Alice’s wire, only to find that West had died some three days before. This information he had wired to Alice the following day.

The two girls looked forward to his coming with delight. The extensive entertaining which Mrs. Pope had planned had failed to materialize. She found that, after dropping from her visiting-list the friends of her poverty, there remained but few among the elect whose acquaintance she might claim, and these, it seemed, were mostly away for the summer.

Hence the two girls were somewhat lonely in the big and stately house, and Edith found that the time between Monday morning, when Donald departed for the city, and Saturday afternoon, when he returned, hung heavily upon her hands.

She had no housekeeping details to occupy her—Mrs. Pope had insisted upon a competent housekeeper; her duties were confined to signing checks, her pleasures, to enjoying Bobbie’s delight in his surroundings. His pony cart, the boat she had got for him, all his new experiences, made the child feel that he had suddenly entered heaven itself. His cough, his pale cheeks, his fretful nights were a thing of the past. He lived the life of a little savage and health flowed in upon him accordingly.

Mrs. Pope did not share her daughter’s loneliness. The atmosphere in which she now lived and moved charmed her. With Alice and Edith at her side, a houseful of expensive and competent servants to gratify her slightest wish, with Donald on hand only over the week ends, she felt that her cup of blessedness was once more filled to the brim.

It was late Saturday afternoon. The Sound lay sparkling in the hot August sunshine. Mrs. Pope came into the handsomely appointed hall of their new home, and sank heavily into a padded-leather chair. After all, she felt, this was indeed life in its fullest sense. She fanned herself languidly with a lace fan, regarding her elaborate gown, meanwhile, with much satisfaction. She glanced up as Edith entered the room, looking very lovely in a costume of white lace.

“Has Alice come back from the station yet, mother?” inquired Edith.

“Not yet, my dear. I’m waiting for her now. I suppose I am expected to welcome this young Hall—though I can’t say I want to. I wish Alice had not invited him. If she would take my advice, she would send him about his business. Four thousand a year! Pooh! a beggar!”

“Well, mother, now that we have asked him, we must make him welcome. How do you like my dress?” She came around in front of her mother’s chair.

Mrs. Pope observed it critically through her gold lorgnon. “Oh, it will do, my dear,” she replied. “I should have preferred the Irish point.”

“But, mother, it was five hundred dollars.”

“What of it? Why shouldn’t you look as well as possible? Of course, Donald would never care, but there are others. I heard several people at the hotel say last night that you were the best-looking and the best-dressed woman there.”

“I don’t care what they said, mother,” replied Edith, selecting a rose from a jar on the table, and putting it in her bosom. “I’d rather please Donald.”

Mrs. Pope sniffed audibly. “Oh, very well, my dear,” she observed. “Have your own way. It’s some satisfaction, at least, to know that you can buy a dress when you feel like it, without having to account to your husband for it. My poor, dear J. B. always gave me a most liberal allowance. I never could dress on less than three thousand a year.”

“Well, mother, you know you did manage to get along on much less, the last few years.”

Mrs. Pope assumed a deeply hurt expression. “Edith,” she exclaimed irritably, “it is most unkind of you to remind me of my temporary poverty. Before my poor, dear J. B. died—”

“Frightfully hot this evening, isn’t it?” Edith interrupted.

The mother glared at her daughter in annoyance. “Where’s Donald?” she suddenly asked.

“In his room, mother.”

“Didn’t he get here on the five-o’clock train?”

“Yes.”

“Then why doesn’t he come downstairs? I hope he bought the afternoon papers.”

“They’re in the library. Donald says the trip down was terribly hot and stuffy. He’s changing his things.”

Mrs. Pope snorted. “If he would spend the summer down here with you, as a husband ought, instead of staying in town, fooling with that engineering work of his, he wouldn’t have that hot trip to make every Saturday.”

“Nonsense, mother!” replied Edith. “Donald is perfectly right. I wouldn’t want him to become an idler, living on his wife. He has too much spirit for that.”

“Then if he must stay in town, why doesn’t he get a decent place to live? I don’t think it looks well for him to be staying at that cheap little flat, now that you have plenty of money to take your proper place in society.”

“He likes the old place. He says he was happy there. He thought he might as well stay on till the lease expired.”

“Well, there’s no accounting for tastes. If you are satisfied, I see no reason why I should object.” Mrs. Pope began to fan herself vigorously. “I can get along very well without him.”

Mrs. Rogers went to the door and looked down the long, shady drive.

“Alice seems to be gone a long time. I hope the machine hasn’t broken down.”

“The train is probably late. They generally are on this road. What room are you going to give Mr. Hall?”

“I thought I’d give him the one over the library,” said Edith, as she resumed her chair. “It has a lovely view of the Sound. I know he’ll be glad enough to see it again after being West over six months.”

Mrs. Pope snorted indignantly. “I wish he had stayed there,” she grumbled. “I cannot imagine what Alice sees in him to rave about.”

“Donald tells me he’s a very bright fellow. He knew him in college. She might do a great deal worse.”

“Not much. Why can’t she pick out a man of means, like poor Mr. West was? Think of what we owe that poor young man!”

“Don’t, mother!” Edith cried. “Please!”

She rose and went to the fireplace, her face convulsed with emotion.

“Why is it, Edith, that you always seem annoyed whenever I speak of Mr. West? You don’t show proper feeling. Think of all you owe him. I don’t see how you can let a day pass without thanking him from the bottom of your heart for all the happiness he has given you.”

“I appreciate it very much, mother.” Edith’s voice trembled—there was a trace of a sob in it.

“You certainly do not act like it,” pursued her mother relentlessly. “Every time I mention his name you change the subject.”

Edith turned, her face flushing. “Can’t you see,” she cried, “how it hurts me? I don’t want to be reminded of his death every minute of the day. God knows, I wish he were alive again!”

“There’s no use in wishing that, my dear,” remarked her mother. “God, in His wisdom, orders all things for the best.” She glanced about the richly furnished room with a satisfied smile.

Edith was about to reply, when the afternoon stillness was broken by the sound of wheels upon the gravel road, accompanied by the honk of an automobile horn. She hurried to the door, and, as she did so, Alice appeared, accompanied by a heavily built young fellow in blue serge, carrying a suit-case. Mrs. Pope rose.

“Well, mother, we’re here at last,” cried Alice. “The train was fifteen minutes late.” She turned to the man behind her. “Mother, you know Mr. Hall.”

“My dear Mr. Hall, I’m so glad to see you!” said Mrs. Pope effusively, as she offered the newcomer her hand.

Mr. Hall shook hands. He was a genial, whole-souled sort of a fellow, and, as he turned to acknowledge his introduction to Edith, she felt an instinctive liking for him. He was telling Mrs. Pope how glad he felt to be East again, after six nights in a sleeping-car.

“Yes,” he rattled on, in his breezy way, “I’ve come all the way from ’Frisco. We’re building some docks there. Ever been in ’Frisco, Mrs. Rogers?”

“No,” replied Edith, “though I’ve always wanted to go.”

“Great place. Nothing like it this side of the Rockies. Wide-open town, I can tell you.”

“Do you like that kind of a town, Mr. Hall?” asked Mrs. Pope grimly.

“Do I? Well, rather. Chinatown’s got anything I ever saw wiped right off the map. Great!”

“Indeed?” The amount of reproof that Mrs. Pope could put into that single word exceeds belief. “I should hardly suppose any respectable person would want to visit such places.”

“I’m afraid I’m not respectable, Mrs. Pope. I’m only honest,” laughed Hall, as he turned to Edith. “I looked for your husband on the train, Mrs. Rogers. Hoped I might be lucky enough to run across him.”

“He came earlier. He’s dressing now. I’m expecting him down at any moment.”

“Dressing!” ejaculated Mr. Hall, with a wry face. “Whew! I’m afraid I’ll disgrace the party. I didn’t bring my evening togs. Somehow, I’d got the idea from your sister that you were roughing it down here. She wrote me you had taken a cottage—” He looked about the stately hall with a broad smile. “Some cottage!” he observed.

“Don’t bother about not dressing, Mr. Hall. Mr. Rogers generally wears flannels, hot nights like this. Shall I show you to your room?”

“Let me do so, Edith,” said Mrs. Pope, puffing forward importantly. “And, really, I’m going up, anyway.”

She swept up the staircase, with their guest meekly following in her rear.

“Dinner at seven,” called Alice, after them.

“Well, Edith, how do you like him?” she asked, when they were alone.

“He’s awfully breezy, isn’t he? I imagine he’s very sincere and straightforward.”

“Emerson’s as straight as they make them. No foolishness about him. We’re engaged—almost, that is. Don’t let on to mother.”

“Engaged! Not really! When did he ask you?”

“Coming up from the station.”

“He certainly didn’t lose any time,” observed Edith, laughing. “Did you accept him?”

“Of course not. Now he’ll have to do it all over again. To-night, perhaps, down on the rocks. I shouldn’t think of accepting a man in an automobile. It isn’t romantic enough.”

“Didn’t he feel discouraged?”

“Not a bit. You couldn’t discourage Emerson with a pile-driver. Anyway—I guess he understood.” She smiled quietly to herself.

“I thought,” Edith said, somewhat nervously, “that he seemed rather surprised at the way we are living here. I suppose he wonders where all the money is coming from.”

“I suppose so. He did seem a bit overcome, when he saw the auto. Asked me if Donald had struck a gold mine.”

“A gold mine! Alice! He doesn’t know anything about the—will, does he?” Mrs. Rogers seemed troubled, her face had lost its animation, her eyes took on a hunted look.

“I don’t think so,” replied her sister, “but why shouldn’t he?”

“I’d rather he didn’t. It might look—well, sort of queer—and then, Donald might not want him to think—”

“To think what?” interrupted Alice sharply.

“Oh, nothing! I suppose he’ll have to know, some time. Only it seems, somehow, to make Donald look sort of cheap—don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t,” said Alice bluntly. “There is nothing to be ashamed of—at least, nothing that anybody knows anything about. You seem to be getting awfully considerate of Donald lately.”

“Perhaps I’m only just beginning to find out what a splendid fellow he is.”

“Well, if you are, I’m glad of it, but I shouldn’t get up any more excitement about this money if I were you. It will look suspicious.”

“Did Mr. Hall ever write you anything more about—about Mr. West after that telegram we sent him?”

“No, never. You remember the answer he sent the next day, telling us poor Billy was dead. He’s never mentioned the matter since. You know he left Denver shortly after that.”

“Yes, I remember. I wonder if he could know anything.”

Alice looked disgusted. “Don’t be absurd, Edith,” she said. “How could he? How could anybody? For heaven’s sake, don’t get yourself all worked up about nothing. I’m the only person in the world, outside of yourself, that knows anything about your affair with Billy West, and I certainly am not going to say anything. I wouldn’t have Emerson know for the world. He might change his mind about me.”

“Alice!” exclaimed her sister. “That’s an awful thing to say.”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it? I don’t mind his knowing that Billy left you the money. I think he ought to know that. But when it comes to his knowing why he left it—I draw the line. Of course, he couldn’t blame me, but if he thought that my sister was living on the money left her by her—well, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Edith, but he might not care so much about becoming one of the family.”

Edith shrank away from her sister, her face quivering. “You say that to me—you, who advised me to take it!”

“Don’t try to blame it on me, Edith. I advised you to keep your mouth shut, and not make things any worse than they were. I advise you to do the same thing now.”

“So that you can go on enjoying the fruits of my wrong-doing.” Mrs. Rogers looked at her sister scornfully—defiantly.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t get so melodramatic. The thing’s past. Why not forget it?”

“Can you forget it? You are ashamed to let the man you love know about it, for fear he might not want to marry you—not want to marry you, on account of me.”

“You take the thing too seriously, Edith. You never told me much about your affair with Billy West, and I never asked you. Every family has a skeleton in its closet. Most of them are lucky if they haven’t several, but they don’t make a practice of parading them before the public. What on earth do you want to talk about this thing for? It can’t do any good now.”

“Because I’m sick of living this lie. I’ve a great mind to tell Donald everything.”

“You are getting just plain, ordinary dippy, Edith. You ought to take something for it. Do you know what he would do?”

“He couldn’t do anything that would make matters worse than they are.”

“He couldn’t? You think he couldn’t? Well, I’ll tell you what he would do. He’d make you give up every cent of this money so quick it would make your hair stand on end.”

“Alice! What do you mean?” Mrs. Rogers was horror-struck. This phase of the matter had evidently not occurred to her.

“I should think it was plain enough. He couldn’t do anything else. If you didn’t do as he wished, he would leave you. He might do it, anyway. He isn’t the sort of a man who would stand for any foolishness, kind as he is. You know that. You’d lose either your husband or your money. Then where would you be?”

“Donald would never do a thing like that.”

“Of course he would. Any man would, who had a grain of self-respect. Then you’d have the pleasure of giving up all this”—she waved her hand about the room—“and going back to that wretched hole in Harlem, and doing your own cooking, while Bobbie plays on the sand pile on the corner lot, and pretends he has a pony cart with a soap box. You would enjoy that, wouldn’t you? Oh, of course you would!”

“Don’t! Don’t!” cried Edith, with a shudder. “I could never stand it—never!”

“Furthermore,” pursued her sister, “Emerson would be bound to know. He’s seen this place, and wouldn’t understand what it all meant, if you gave it up. He probably would have no further use for me. I’m sorry for you, Edith, but you have got us all into this situation, and you haven’t any right to upset it—at least, not now. Wait until Emerson and I are married, at any rate.”

Edith was on the verge of tears. “I ought to have told him long ago,” she wailed. “In the very beginning. Now it’s too late. If he knew the truth, he might never forgive me.”

“I wouldn’t take any chances, if I were you,” observed Alice dryly.

“And Donald has been so fine, so strong, so splendid,” sobbed her sister. “I never realized before all that he has been to me. I can’t tell you how I admire him.”

“Very likely. It’s a great deal easier for a woman to realize her husband’s good points when she has thirty thousand dollars a year than when she hasn’t thirty cents.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Mrs. Rogers, drying her eyes. “I guess I’ll have to make the best of it.”

“That’s sensible, Edith. Nothing else to do. Now I think I’ll go up and dress. What’s on for this evening?”

“We might go to the hotel for an hour or so. There’s a dance. After that you and Mr. Hall can take a walk along the beach. That will give him another chance,” she added, with a meaning smile. “Mother isn’t at all favorable.”

“I know it. She thinks Emerson hasn’t money enough. She’s right, too; he hasn’t. But I guess he will have, some day. I’m willing to take a chance, anyway. You know, Edith, I’m very fond of mother, but I don’t intend to let her interfere between Emerson and myself. As a mother-in-law I can see her weak points. I’ve never said so before, but I believe she is responsible for nine-tenths of the trouble between Donald and yourself.”

“What trouble?”

“Oh, your discontent and everything. You would never have thought of running away with Billy West if she hadn’t sympathized with you all the time. When I get married I’m going to live as far away as possible—somewhere where I shall see mother about once in six months. I don’t propose to have her making any trouble in my domestic arrangements.” She started toward the staircase. “I’ve barely time to dress. Hello, Donald!” she said, as she met her brother-in-law descending the stairs. “How’s everything?”