The next morning Kenelm, arrayed in his best, was early on hand to escort the lady of his choice to the Fair. The lady, herself, was ready and the pair drove away in Winnie S.'s depot-wagon bound for Wellmouth Centre and the train. Before she left the house Imogene made an earnest request.

“If you don't mind, ma'am,” she said, addressing Mrs. Barnes, “I wish you wouldn't say nothin' to nobody about Mr. Kenelm and me bein' engaged. And just ask the rest of 'em that heard the—the rough-house last night not to say anything, either, please.”

“Why, Imogene,” said Thankful, “I didn't know you wanted it to be a secret. Seems to me you said yourself that it wasn't any secret.”

“Yes'm, I know I did. Well, I suppose 'tain't, in one way. But there ain't any use in advertisin' it, neither. Kenelm, he's promised to keep still.”

“But, Imogene, why? Seems to me if I was willin' to be engaged to that—to Kenelm, I wouldn't be ashamed to have folks know it.”

“Oh, I ain't ashamed exactly. I ain't ashamed of what I done, not a bit. Only what's the use of tellin'?”

“But you'll have to tell some time; when you're married, sartin.”

“Yes'm. Well, we ain't married—yet.”

“But you're goin' to be, I should presume likely.”

“Maybe so; but not for a good while, anyhow. If I am it won't make any difference far's you and me are concerned, ma'am. Nor Mr. Parker, either; he'll stay here and work long's you want him, married or not. And so'll I.”

“Well, I suppose that's one comfort, anyhow. I won't say anything about your engagement and I'll ask the others not to. But folks are bound to talk, Imogene. Miss Parker now—how are you goin' to stop her tellin'?”

Imogene nodded knowingly. “I shan't have to, I'll bet you, ma'am,” she said. “She ain't so anxious to have it talked about—not s'long as there's a chance to break it off, she ain't. She'll keep still.”

“Maybe so, but folks'll suspect, I guess. They'll think somethin's queer when you and Kenelm go to the Cattle Show together today.”

“No, they won't. Why should they? Didn't Hannah Parker herself go yesterday with Mr. Hammond? And didn't Mr. Kendrick go with Miss Emily? Yes, and you with Cap'n Bangs? Lordy, ma'am, I—”

“Don't say 'Lordy,' Imogene,” cautioned Thankful, and hastened away. Imogene looked after her and laughed to herself.

When Captain Obed made his morning call Mrs. Barnes told him of this conversation.

“And how is Hannah this mornin'?” asked Thankful. “I was surprised enough to see Kenelm in that depot-wagon. I never thought for a minute she'd let him go.”

The captain chuckled. “Let him!” he repeated. “Why, Hannah helped him get ready; picked out his necktie for him and loaded him up with clean handkerchiefs and land knows what. She all but give him her blessin' afore he started; she did say she hoped he'd have a good time.”

“She did! Mercy on us! Is the world comin' to an end? Last night she was—”

“Yes, I know. Well, we've got to give Hannah credit; she's got a head on her shoulders, even if the head does run pretty strong to mouth. Imogene's took her measure, judgin' by what you said the girl said to you. Hannah's thought it over, I cal'late, and she figgers that while there's life there's hope, as you might say. Her brother may be engaged, but he ain't married, and, s'long's he ain't, she's got a chance. You just see, Mrs. Thankful—you see if Hannah ain't sweeter to Kenelm from this on than a molasses jug stopper to a young one. She'll lay herself out to make his home the softest spot in creation, so he'll think twice before leavin' it. That's her game, as I see it, and she'll play it. Give Hannah credit; she won't abandon the ship while there's a plank above water. Just watch and see.”

Thankful looked doubtful. “Well, maybe so,” she said. “Maybe she will be nice to her brother, but how about the rest of us? She wouldn't speak to me last night, nor to Emily—and as for Imogene!”

“Yes, I know. But wait until she sees you, or Imogene either, next time. She'll be smooth as a smelt. I'll bet you anything she'll say that, after all, she guesses the engagement's a good thing and that Imogene's a nice girl. There's a whole lot in keepin' the feller you're fightin' off his guard until you've got him in a corner with his hands down. Last night Hannah give me my orders to mind my own business. This mornin' she cooked me the best breakfast I've had since I shipped aboard her vessel. And kept askin' me to have more. No, Imogene's right; Hannah'll play the game, and she'll play it quiet. As for tellin' anybody her brother's engaged, you needn't worry about that. She'll be the last one to tell.”

This prophecy seemed likely to prove true. The next time Thankful met Hannah the latter greeted her like a long-lost friend. During a long conversation she mentioned the subject of her brother's engagement but once and then at the very end of the interview.

“Oh, by the way, Mrs. Thankful,” she said, “I do beg your pardon for carryin' on the way I did at your house t'other night. The news was pitched out at me so sudden that I was blowed right off my feet, as you might say. I acted real unlikely, I know; but, you see, Kenelm does mean so much to me that I couldn't bear to think of givin' him up to anybody else. When I come to think it over I realized 'twa'n't no more'n I had ought to have expected. I mustn't be selfish and I ain't goin' to be. S'long's 'tain't that—that Jezebel of an Abbie Larkin I don't mind so much. I couldn't stand havin' her in the family—THAT I couldn't stand. Oh, and if you don't mind, Mrs. Thankful, just don't say nothin' about the engagin' yet awhile. I shouldn't mind, of course, but Kenelm, he's set on keepin' it secret for a spell. There! I must run on. I've got to go up to the store and get a can of that consecrated soup for supper. Have you tried them soups? They're awful cheap and handy. You just pour in hot water and there's more'n enough for a meal. Good-by.”

Imogene, when she returned from the Fair, announced that she had had a perfectly lovely time.

“He ain't such bad company—Kenelm, I mean,” she observed. “He talks a lot, but you don't have to listen unless you want to; and he enjoys himself real well, considerin' how little practice he's had.”

“Did you meet anyone you knew?” asked Emily.

“No'm. We saw quite a lot of folks from East Wellmouth, but we saw 'em first, so we didn't meet 'em. One kind of funny thing happened: a man who was outside a snake tent, hollerin' for everybody to come in, saw us and he says to me: 'Girlie,' he says—he was a fresh guy like all them kind—'Girlie,' he says, 'ask your pa to take you in and see the Serpent King eat 'em alive. Only ten cents, Pop,' he says to Kenelm. 'Don't miss the chance to give your little girl a treat.' Kenelm was all frothed up at bein' took for my father, but I told him he needn't get mad—if I could stand it he could, I guessed.”

Kenelm reported for work as usual on Monday morning and he worked—actually worked all day. For an accepted lover he appeared rather subdued and silent. Captain Obed, who noticed his behavior, commented upon it.

“Cal'late Kenelm's beginnin' to realize gettin' engaged don't mean all joy,” he said, with a chuckle. “He's just got two bosses instead of one, that's all. He's scart to death of Hannah at home and when he's here Imogene orders him 'round the way a bucko mate used to order a roustabout. I said Hannah was in a clove hitch, didn't I? Well, she is, but Kenelm—well, Kenelm's like a young one runnin' 'tiddly' on thin ice—worse'n that, 'cause he can't stop on either side, got to keep runnin' between 'em and look out and not fall in.”

Labor Day, the day upon which the Cape summer season really ends, did not, to the High Cliff House, mean the general exodus which it means to most of the Cape hotels. Some of Thankful's lodgers left, of course, but many stayed, and were planning to stay through September if the weather continued pleasant. But on the Saturday following Labor Day it rained. And the next day it rained harder, and on Monday began a series of cold, windy, gloomy days which threatened to last indefinitely. One after the other the sojourners from the cities passed from grumbling at the weather to trunk-packing and leaving. A few stayed on into the next week but when, at the end of that week, a storm set in which was more severe than those preceding it, even these optimists surrendered. Before that third week was over the High Cliff House was practically deserted. Except for Heman Daniels and John Kendrick and Miss Timpson and Caleb Hammond, Thankful and Emily and Imogene were alone in the big house.

This upsetting of her plans and hopes worried Thankful not a little. Emily, too, was troubled concerning her cousin's business outlook. The High Cliff House had been a success during its first season, but it needed the expected September and early October income to make it a success financially. The expense had been great, much greater than Thankful had expected or planned. It is true that the boarders, almost without exception, had re-engaged rooms and board for the following summer, but summer was a long way off. There was the winter to be lived through and if, as they had hoped, additions and enlargements to the establishment were to be made in the spring, more, a good deal more money, would be needed.

“As I see it, Auntie,” said Emily, when they discussed the situation, “you have splendid prospects here. Your first season has been all or more than you dared hope for, and if we had had good weather—the sort of weather everyone says the Cape usually has in the fall months—you would have come out even or better. But, even then, to make this scheme a real money-maker, you would be obliged to have more sleeping-rooms made over, and a larger dining-room. Now why don't you go and see this—what is he?—cousin of yours, Mr. Cobb, and tell him just how you stand? Tell him of your prospects and your plans, and get him to advance you another thousand dollars—more, if you can get it. Why don't you do that?”

Thankful did not answer. She had few secrets from Emily, whom she loved as dearly as a daughter, but one secret she had kept. Just why she had kept this one she might not have been able to explain satisfactorily, even to herself. She had written Emily of her visit to Solomon Cobb's “henhouse” and of the loan on mortgage which had resulted therefrom. But she had neither written nor told all of the circumstances of that visit, especially of Mr. Cobb's attitude toward her and his reluctance to lend the money. She said merely that he had lent it and Emily had evidently taken it for granted that the loan was made because of the relationship and kindly feeling between the two. Thankful, even now, did not undeceive her. She felt a certain shame in doing so; a shame in admitting that a relative of hers could be so mean and disobliging.

“Why don't you go to Mr. Cobb again, Auntie?” repeated Emily. “He will lend you more, I'm sure, if you explain all the circumstances. It would be a perfectly safe investment for him, and you would pay interest, of course.”

Mrs. Barnes shook her head. “I don't think I'd better, Emily,” she said. “He's got one mortgage on this place already.”

“What of it? That was only for fifteen hundred and you have improved the house and grounds ever so much since then. I think he'll be glad to let you have another thousand. The mortgage he has is to run for three years, you said, didn't you?”

Again Thankful did not answer. She had not said the mortgage was for a term of three years; Emily had presumed that it was and she had not undeceived her. She hesitated, and Emily noticed her hesitation.

“It is for three years, isn't it, Auntie?” she repeated.

Mrs. Barnes tried to evade the question.

“Why, not exactly, Emily,” she replied. “It ain't. You see, he thought three years was a little mite too long, and so—and so we fixed up for a shorter time. It's all right, though.”

“Is it? You are sure? Aunt Thankful, tell me truly: how long a term is that mortgage?”

“Well, it's—it's only for a year, but—”

“A year? Why, then it will fall due next spring. You can't pay that mortgage next spring, can you?”

“I don't know's I can, but—but it'll be all right, anyhow. He'll renew it, if I ask him to, I presume likely.”

“Of course he will. He will have to. Auntie, you must go and see him at once. If you don't I shall.”

If there was one point on which Thankful was determined, it was that Emily should not meet Solomon Cobb. The money-lender had visited the High Cliff premises but once during the summer and then Miss Howes was providentially absent.

“No, no!” declared Mrs. Barnes, hastily. “You shan't do any such thing. The idea! I guess I can 'tend to borrowin' money from my own relation without draggin' other folks into it. I'll drive over and see him pretty soon.”

“You must go at once. I shan't permit you to wait another week. It is almost time for me to go back to my schoolwork, and I shan't go until I am certain that mortgage is to be renewed and that your financial affairs are all right. Do go, Auntie, please. Arrange to have the mortgage renewed and try to get another loan. Promise me you will go tomorrow.”

So Thankful was obliged to promise, and the following morning she drove George Washington over the long road, now wet and soggy from the rain, to Trumet.

Mr. Solomon Cobb's “henhouse” looked quite as dingy and dirty as when she visited it before. Solomon himself was just as shabby and he pulled at his whiskers with his accustomed energy.

“Hello!” he said, peering over his spectacles. “What do you want? . . . Oh, it's you, is it? What's the matter?”

Thankful came forward. “Matter?” she repeated. “What in the world—what made you think anything was the matter?”

Solomon stared at her fixedly.

“What did you come here for?” he asked.

“To see you. That's worth comin' for, isn't it?”

The joke was wasted, as all jokes seemed to be upon Mr. Cobb. He did not smile.

“What made you come to see me?” he asked, still staring.

“What made me?”

“Yes. What made you? Have you found—has anybody told you—er—anything?”

“Anybody told me! My soul and body! That's what you said when I was here before. Do you say it to everybody? What on earth do you mean by it? Who would tell me anything? And what would they tell?”

Solomon pulled his whiskers. “Nothin', I guess,” he said, after a moment. “Only there's so much fool talk runnin' loose I didn't know but you might have heard I was—was dead, or somethin'. I ain't.”

“I can see that, I hope. And if you was I shouldn't be traipsin' ten miles just to look at your remains. Time enough for that at the funeral. Dead! The idea!”

“Um—well, all right; I ain't dead, yet. Set down, won't ye?”

Thankful sat down. Mr. Cobb swung about in his own chair, so that his face was in the shadow.

“Hear you've been doin' pretty well with that boardin'-house of yours,” he observed. “Hear it's been full up all summer.”

“Who told you so?”

“Oh, I heard. I hear about all that's goin' on, one way or another. I was over there a fortni't ago.”

“You were? Why didn't you stop in and see me? You haven't been there but once since the place started.”

“Yes, I have. I've been by a good many times. Didn't stop, though. Too many of them city dudes around to suit me. Did you fetch your October interest money.”

“No, I didn't. It ain't due till week after next. When it is I'll send it, same as I have the rest.”

“All right, all right, I ain't askin' you for it. What did you come for?”

And then Thankful told him. He listened without comment until she had finished, peering over his spectacles and keeping up the eternal “weeding.”

“There,” concluded Mrs. Barnes, “that's what I came for. Will you do it?”

The answer was prompt enough this time.

“No, I won't,” said Solomon, with decision.

Thankful was staggered.

“You won't?” she repeated. “You won't—”

“I won't lend you no more money. Why should I?”

“You shouldn't, I suppose, if you don't want to. But, the way I look at it, it would be a perfectly safe loan for you. My prospects are fine; everybody says so.”

“Everybody says a whole lot of things. If I'd put up money on what everybody said I'd be puttin' up at the poorhouse, myself. But I ain't puttin' up there and I ain't puttin' up the money neither.”

“All right; keep it then—keep it and sleep on it, if you want to. I can get along without it, I guess; or, if I can't, I can borrow it of somebody else.”

“Humph! You're pretty sassy, seems to me, for anybody that's askin' favors.”

“I'm not askin' favors. I told you that when I first come to you. What I asked was just business and nothin' else.”

“Is that so? As I understand it you're askin' to have a mortgage renewed. That may be business, or it may be a favor, 'cordin' to how you look at it.”

Thankful fought down her temper. The renewal of the mortgage was a vital matter to her. If it was not renewed what should she do? What could she do? All she had in the world and all her hopes for the future centered about her property in East Wellmouth. If that were taken from her—

“Well,” she admitted, “perhaps it is a favor, then.”

“Perhaps 'tis. Why should I renew that mortgage? I don't cal'late to renew mortgages, as a general thing. Did I say anything about renewin' it when I took it? I don't remember that I did.”

“No, no—I guess you didn't. But I hope you will. If you don't—I—I—Solomon Cobb, that boardin'-house means everything to me. I've put all I've got in it. It has got the best kind of a start and in another year—I—I—Please, Oh PLEASE don't close me out.”

“Humph!”

“Please don't. You told me when I was here before what a lot you thought of my Uncle Abner. You knew how much he thought of me. When you think of him and what he said—”

Mr. Cobb interrupted. “Said?” he repeated, sharply. “What do you mean he said? Eh? What do YOU know he said?”

“Why—why, he told you about me. You said yourself he did. How much he thought of me, and all.”

“Is that all you meant?”

“Yes, of course. What else is there to mean? Solomon, you profess to be a Christian. You knew my uncle. He did lots of favors for you; I know he did. Now—”

“Sshh! shh!” Mr. Cobb seemed strangely perturbed. He waved his hand. “Hush!” he repeated. “What are you draggin' Cap'n Abner and Christianity and all that in for? They ain't got nothin' to do with that mortgage. Who said they had?”

“Why, no one said it. No one said anything; no one but me. I don't know what you mean—”

“Mean! I don't mean nothin'. There! There! Clear out and don't bother me no more today. I'm—I ain't feelin' well. Got a cold comin' on, I cal'late. Clear off home and let me alone.”

“But I can't go until you tell me about that mortgage.”

“Yes, you can, too. I can't tell you about nothin' just now. I got to think, ain't I? Maybe I'll renew that mortgage and maybe I won't. I'll tell you when I make up my mind. Time enough between now and spring. I—Ah, Ezry, how be you? Come on in. Glad to see you.”

The last portion of the foregoing was addressed to a man who had entered the office. Mr. Cobb did look as if he was really glad to see him.

Thankful rose. “I'll go,” she said, drearily. “I suppose I might as well. But I shan't sleep much until you make up that mind of yours. And do make it up the right way, for my sake—and Uncle Abner's.”

Her relative waved both hands this time.

“Shh!” he ordered, desperately. “Don't say no more now; I don't want the whole creation to know my business and yours. Go on home. I—I'll come over and see you by and by.”

So, because she saw there was no use remaining, Mrs. Barnes went. The drive home, through the dismal grayness of the cloudy afternoon, seemed longer and more trying than the trip over. The dream of raising money for the spring additions and alterations was over; the High Cliff House must do its best as it was for another year at least. As to the renewal of the mortgage, there was a faint hope. Mr. Cobb's final remarks had inspired that hope. He had been on the point of refusing to renew, Thankful was sure of that. Then something was said which caused him to hesitate. Mrs. Barnes looked out between the ears of jogging George Washington and spoke her thought aloud.

“It's somethin' to do with Uncle Abner,” she soliloquized. “He don't like to have Uncle Abner mentioned. Hum! I wonder what the reason is. I only wish I knew.”

To Emily, who was eagerly waiting to hear the result of her cousin's visit to Solomon Cobb, Thankful told but a portion of the truth. She did say, however, that the additional loan appeared to be out of the question and she guessed they would have to get on without the needed alterations for another year. Emily thought they should not.

“If this place is to become really profitable, Auntie,” she insisted, “those changes should be made. I don't see why this Mr. Cobb won't lend you the money; but, if he won't, then I'm sure someone else will, if you ask. Don't you know anyone here in East Wellmouth whom you might ask for a loan—on your prospects?”

“No. No, I don't.”

“Why, yes, you do. There is Captain Bangs, for instance. He is well to do, and I'm sure he is a good friend. Why don't you ask him?”

Thankful's answer was prompt and sharp.

“Indeed I shan't,” she declared.

“Then I will. I'll be glad to.”

“Emily Howes, if you say one word to Cap'n Obed about borrowin' money from him I'll—I'll never speak to you afterwards. Go to Captain Obed. The idea!”

“But why not, Auntie? He IS a friend, and—”

“Of course he is; that's the very reason. He is a friend and he'd probably lend it because he is, whether he knew he'd ever get it back or not. No, when I borrow money it'll be of somebody that lends it as a business deal, not from friendship.”

“But, Auntie, you went to Mr. Cobb because he was your relative. You said that was the very reason why you went to him.”

“Um, yes. Well, I may have GONE to him for that reason, but there ain't any relationship in that mortgage of his; don't you get the notion that there is.”

Emily's next question, naturally, concerned the renewal of that mortgage. Mrs. Barnes said shortly that she guessed the renewal would be all right.

“He's comin' over to settle it with me pretty soon,” she added. “Now don't worry your head off any more about mortgages and loans, Emily. You're goin' to leave me pretty soon; let's not spend our last days together frettin' about money. That mortgage is all right. Maybe the extra loan will be, too. Maybe—why, maybe Mr. Kendrick would lend it, if I asked him.”

“Mr. Kendrick? Why, Auntie, Mr. Kendrick has no money, or only a very little. He is doing well—very well, considering how short a time he has practised his profession here, but I'm sure he has no money to lend. Why, he tells me—”

The expression of Mrs. Barnes' face must have conveyed a meaning; at any rate Emily's sentence broke off in the middle. She colored and seemed embarrassed.

Thankful smiled. “Yes,” she observed, drily, “I notice he tells you a lot of things—a whole lot more than he does anybody else. Generally speakin', he is about the closest-mouthed young man about his personal affairs that I ever run across. However, I ain't jealous, not a mite. And 'twa'n't of him I was speakin'; 'twas his cousin, Mr. E. Holliday Kendrick. He's got money enough, I guess. Maybe he might make a loan on decent security. He's a possibility. I'll think him over.”

Mr. E. Holliday and his doings were still East Wellmouth's favorite conversational topics. The great man was preparing to close his summer house and return to New York. His family had already gone—to Lenox, where they were to remain for a few weeks and then journey to Florida. E. Holliday remained, several of the servants remaining with him, but he, too, was to go very soon. There were rumors that he remained because of other schemes concerning his new estate. Just what those schemes were no one seemed to know. If John Kendrick knew he told no one, not even Emily Howes.

But E. Holliday himself disclosed his plan and it was to Thankful Barnes that he did so. He called at the High Cliff House one afternoon and asked to see its proprietor. Thankful was a trifle flustered. It was the first call which her wealthy neighbor had made upon her, and she could not understand why he came at this late date.

“For mercy sakes, come into the livin'-room with me, Emily,” she begged. “I shan't know how to act in the face of all that money.”

Emily was much amused. “I never knew you to be frightened of money before, Auntie,” she said. “I thought you were considering borrowing some of this very—ahem—personage.”

“Maybe I was, though I cal'late I should have took it out in consideration; I never would have gone to him and asked. But now the—what do you call it?—personage—come to me for somethin', the land knows what.”

“Perhaps HE wants to borrow.”

“Humph! Perhaps he does. Well, then, he's fishin' in the wrong puddle. Emily Howes, stop laughin' and makin' jokes and come into that livin'-room same as I ask you to.”

But this Emily firmly declined to do. “He's not my caller, Auntie,” she said. “He didn't even ask if I were in.”

So Thankful went into the living-room alone to meet the personage. And she closed all doors behind her. “If you won't help you shan't listen,” she declared. “And I don't know's I'll tell you a word after he's gone.”

The call was a long one. It ended in an odd way. Emily, sitting by the dining-room window, heard the front door slam and, looking out, saw Mr. Kendrick stalking down the path, a frown on his face and outraged dignity in his bearing. A moment later Thankful burst into the dining-room. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked excited and angry.

“What do you think that—that walkin' money-bag came here for?” she demanded. “He came here to tell me I'd got to sell this place to him. Yes, sell it to him, 'cause he wanted it. It didn't seem to make any difference what I wanted. Well, it will make a difference, I tell you that!”

When she had calmed sufficiently she told of the interview with her neighbor. E. Holliday had lost no time in stating his position. The High Cliff House, it appeared, was a source of annoyance to him and his. A boarding-house, no matter how genteel or well-conducted a boarding-house it may be, could not longer be tolerated in that situation. The boarders irritated him by trespassing upon his premises, by knocking their tennis balls into his garden beds, by bathing and skylarking on the beach in plain sight from his verandas. And the house and barn interfered with his view. He wished to be perfectly reasonable in the matter; Mrs. Barnes, of course, understood that. He was willing to pay for the privilege of having his own way. But, boiled down and shorn of politeness and subterfuge, his proposition was that Thankful should sell her property to him, after which he would either tear down the buildings on that property, or move them to a less objectionable site.

“But, Auntie,” cried Emily, “of course you told him you didn't want to sell.”

“Sartin I did. I told him all I had was invested here, that my first season had been a good one considerin' 'twas the first, and that my prospects were all I had a right to hope for. I told him I was sorry if my boarders had plagued him and I'd try to see they didn't do so any more. But I couldn't think of sellin' out.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“What didn't he say? What I said didn't make a bit of difference. He made proclamation that any reasonable price I might name he would consider. He wouldn't submit to what he called 'extortion' of course, but he would be perfectly fair, and all that. I kept sayin' no and he kept sayin' yes. Our talk got more and more sultry long towards the last of it. He told me that he made it a p'int to get what he wanted and he was goin' to get it now. One thing he told me I didn't know afore, and it's kind of odd, too. He said the land this house sits on used to belong to him once. His father left it to him. He sold it a long while ago, afore my Uncle Abner bought, I guess. Now he's sorry he sold.”

“That was queer, what else did he say?”

“Oh, he said a whole lot about his desire to make East Wellmouth his permanent residence, about the taxes he paid, and what he meant to do for the town. I told him that was all right and fine and the town appreciated it, but that I'd got to think of myself; this boardin'-house idea was a life-long ambition of mine and I couldn't give it up.”

“And how did it end?”

“Just where it begun. His last words to me was that if I wouldn't listen to reason then he'd have to try other ways. And he warned me that he should try 'em. I said go ahead and try, or words not quite so sassy but meanin' the same. And out he marched. Oh, Emily, WHAT do you suppose he'll try? He can't MAKE me sell out, can he? Oh, dear! Oh, dear! here's more trouble. And I thought there was enough already!”

Emily did her best to reassure her relative, telling the latter that of course she could not be forced into parting with what was her own and that Mr. Kendrick was talking merely for effect; but it was plain that Miss Howes herself was troubled.

“I think you should consult a lawyer, Auntie,” she said. “I am sure I am right, and that that man can't make you do what you don't want to do. But I don't know, of course, and a lawyer would know because that is his business. Why don't you ask John—Mr. John Kendrick, I mean? He will advise you.”

Thankful nodded. “I will,” she said.

But John did not come home for dinner that night. He had business which called him to Wellmouth Centre that afternoon and it was late in the evening when he returned. Heman Daniels was late for dinner also, and when he entered the dining-room there was an air of mystery and importance about him which everyone noticed. Miss Timpson, who seldom permitted reticence to interfere with curiosity, asked him what was the matter.

“I do declare, Mr. Daniels,” she said, “you look as if you had the cares of the nation on your shoulders tonight. Has anything gone wrong with one of those important cases of yours?”

Mr. Daniels shook his head. “No,” he answered, gravely. “My cases are progressing satisfactorily. My worries just now are not professional. I heard some news this afternoon which—er—upset me somewhat, that is all.”

“News? Upsettin' news? Land sakes, do tell us! What is it?”

But Mr. Daniels refused to tell. The news concerned other people, he said, and he was not at liberty to tell. He trusted Miss Timpson would excuse him under the circumstances.

Miss Timpson was therefore obliged to excuse him, though it was plain that she did so under protest. She made several more or less direct attempts to learn the secret and, failing, went out to attend prayer-meeting. Caleb Hammond went out also, though the club, not prayer-meeting, was his announced destination. Heman finished his dinner alone. When he had finished he sent word by Imogene that when Miss Howes was at liberty he should like to speak with her.

Emily, who was in the kitchen with Thankful and Captain Obed, the latter having, as usual, dropped in on his way to the postoffice, seemed in no hurry to speak with Mr. Daniels. It was not until half an hour later, when the message was repeated, that she bade the captain good night and started for the living-room. Captain Obed and Thankful smiled at each other.

“Heman's a heap more anxious to see her than she is to see him,” observed the former. “He's pretty fur gone in that direction, judgin' by the weather signs.”

Thankful nodded.

“I cal'late that's so,” she agreed. “Still, he's been just as fur gone with others, if all they say's true. Mr. Daniels is a fascinator, so everybody says.”

“Yup. Prides himself on it, always seemed to me. But there generally comes a time when that kind of a lady-killer gets hit himself. Lots of females have been willin' to marry Heman, but he's never given 'em the chance. About so fur he'll go and then shy off.”

“How about that widow woman over to Bayport?”

“Well, I did think he was goin' to cast anchor there, but he ain't, up to now. That widow's wuth a lot of money—her husband owned any quantity of cranberry bog property—and all hands cal'lated Heman had his eye on it. Maybe he and the widow would have signed articles only for Miss Howes heavin' in sight.”

“Well, I suppose he's a good man; I never heard a word against him that way. And he's a risin' lawyer—”

“Yes—or riz.”

“Yes. But—but I somehow wouldn't want Emily to marry him.”

Captain Obed agreed heartily. “Neither would I,” he declared. Then, after a moment, he added: “Hasn't it seemed to you that John Kendrick was kind of—well, kind of headin' up towards—towards—”

“Yes. Ye-es, I have thought so. I joke Emily a little about him sometimes.”

“So do I, John. How do you think she”—with a jerk of the head toward the living-room—“feels—er—that way?”

“I don't know. She likes him, I'm sure of that. But, so fur as I know, there's no understandin' between them. And, anyhow, John couldn't think of gettin' married, not for a long spell. He hasn't got any money.”

“No, not yet he ain't, but he will have some day, or I miss my guess. He's gettin' more popular on the Cape all the time, and popular in the right places, too. Why, the last time I was in South Denboro Cap'n Elisha Warren spoke to me about him, and if Cap'n 'Lisha gets interested in a young feller it means a lot. 'Lisha's got a lot of influence.”

“You say you joke with John about Emily. How's he take the jokes?”

“Oh, he takes 'em all right. You can't get him mad by teasin' him, 'cause he won't tease. He generally comes right back at me about—er—that is—”

“About what?”

“Oh—nothin'. Just nonsense, that's all. Well, I cal'late I'd better be goin' if I want to fetch the postoffice afore it's shut up.”

But he was destined not to “fetch” the postoffice that night. He had risen to go when the dining-room door opened and Emily appeared. Her face was flushed, and she seemed excited and angry.

“Auntie,” she said, sharply, “Auntie, will you come into the living-room a moment. I want you to hear what that—what Mr. Daniels says. Don't stop to talk. Come! Captain Bangs, you may come, too. You are—are his friend and you should hear it.”

Surprised and puzzled, Thankful and the captain followed her through the dining-room to the living-room. There they found Heman Daniels, standing by the center table, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable.

“Now, Mr. Daniels,” said Emily, “I want you to tell my cousin and Captain Bangs just what you have told me. It's not true—I know it's not true, and I want them to be able to contradict such a story. Tell them.”

Heman fidgeted with the paper-cutter on the table.

“I merely told Miss Howes,” he said, nervously, “what was told me. It was told me by one of the parties most interested and so I accepted it as the truth. I—I have no personal interest in the matter. As—as a friend and—and a lawyer—I offered my services, that is all. I—”

He was interrupted by the opening of the front door. John Kendrick, wearing his light overcoat, and hat in hand, entered the living-room.

“I'm awfully sorry to be so late, Mrs. Barnes,” he began. “I was detained at the Centre. Hello, Captain! Good evening, Daniels! Good evening, Miss Howes!”

Captain Obed and Thankful said, “Good evening.” Neither Emily nor Heman returned the greeting. John, for the first time, appeared to notice that something was wrong. He looked from Mrs. Barnes to Captain Bangs, standing together at one side of the table, and at Daniels and Emily at the other side. Heman had moved closer to the young lady, and in his manner was a hint of confidential understanding, almost of protection.

Kendrick looked from one pair to the other. When he next spoke it was to Emily Howes.

“Why, what's the matter?” he asked, with a smile. “This looks like a council of war.”

Emily did not smile.

“Mr. Kendrick,” she said, “I am very glad you came. Now you can deny it yourself.”

John gazed at her in puzzled surprise.

“Deny it?” he repeated. “Deny what?”

Before Miss Howes could answer Heman Daniels spoke.

“Kendrick,” he said, importantly, “Miss Howes has heard something concerning you which she doesn't like to believe.”

“Indeed? Did she hear it from you, may I ask?”

“She did.”

“And that is why she doesn't believe it? Daniels, I'm surprised. Even lawyers should occasionally—”

Emily interrupted. “Oh, stop!” she cried. “Don't joke, please. This is not a joking matter. If what I have been told IS true I should—But I know it isn't—I KNOW it!”

John bowed. “Thank you,” he said. “What have you heard?”

“She has heard—” began Heman.

“Pardon me, Daniels. I asked Miss Howes.”

Emily began a reply, but she did not finish it.

“I have been told—” she began. “I have been told—Oh, I can't tell you! I am ashamed to repeat such wicked nonsense. Mr. Daniels may tell you; it was he who told me.”

John turned to his fellow practitioner.

“Very well,” he said. “Now, Daniels, what is it?”

Heman did not hesitate.

“Miss Howes has heard,” he said, deliberately, “that your client, Mr. Holliday Kendrick, is determined to force Mrs. Barnes here into selling him this house and land, to force her to sell whether she wishes it or not. Is that true?”

John nodded, gravely.

“I'm afraid it is,” he said. “He seems quite determined. In fact, he said he had expressed that determination to the lady herself. He did that, didn't he, Mrs. Barnes?”

Thankful, who had been so far a perplexed and troubled listener, answered.

“Why, yes,” she admitted. “He was here today and he give me to understand that he wanted this property of mine and was goin' to have it. If I wouldn't agree to sell it to him now then he'd drive me into sellin' later on. That's about what he said.”

Captain Obed struck his fists together.

“The swab!” he exclaimed. “Well, if that don't beat all my goin' to sea! Humph! I'd like to know how he cal'lates to do it.”

“Anything more, Daniels?” inquired John.

“Yes, there is something more. What we want to know from you, Kendrick, is whether or not you, as his legal adviser, propose to help him in this scheme of his. That is what we wish to know.”

“We? What we? Has Mrs. Barnes—or Miss Howes—have they engaged you as their attorney, Daniels?”

Before Daniels could reply Emily asked a question.

“Did he—has he asked you to help him?” she demanded. “Has he?”

John smiled. “I doubt if it could be called asking,” he observed. “He gave me orders to that effect shortly after he left here.”

Emily gasped. Thankful and Captain Obed said, “Oh!” in concert. Heman Daniels smiled triumphantly.

“You see, Miss Howes?” he said.

“One moment, Daniels,” broke in Kendrick, sharply. “You haven't answered my question yet. Just where do you come in on this?”

“I—I—” began Daniels, but once more Emily interrupted.

“Are you—” she cried. “Tell me; are you going to help that man force my cousin into giving up her home?”

Again John smiled. “Well, to be frank,” he said, “since it IS her home and she doesn't wish to sell it I can't for the life of me see how she can be forced into selling, with or without my valuable aid. Miss Howes, I—”

“Stop! You persist in treating this affair as a joke. It is NOT a joke—to my cousin, or to me. Did you tell that man you would help him?”

“No.”

“I knew it! I was certain of it! Of course you didn't!”

“Pardon me, Miss Howes,” put in Daniels. “We have not heard all yet. Kendrick, do I understand that you told your cousin and—er—benefactor that you would NOT help him in his infamous scheme?”

John's patience was nearing its limits. He smiled no more.

“I don't know what you understand, Daniels,” he said, crisply. “Your understanding in many matters is beyond me.”

“But did you say you would not help him?” persisted Emily.

“Why no, not exactly. He did not wait to hear what I had to say. He seemed to take my assistance for granted.”

Daniels laughed scornfully.

“You see, Miss Howes?” he said again. Then, turning to Thankful: “Mrs. Barnes, I met Mr. Holliday Kendrick on the street just after he had come from the interview with his—er—attorney. He told me that he intended to force you into giving up your property to him and he told me also that his cousin here had the case in his hands and would work to carry it through. There seemed to be no doubt in his mind that this gentleman,” indicating John, “had accepted the responsibility. In fact he said he had.”

Captain Obed snorted. “That's plaguy nonsense!” he declared. “I know better. John ain't that kind of feller. You wouldn't help anybody to turn a woman out of her house and home, would you, John? Course you wouldn't. The swab! Just 'cause he's got money he cal'lates he can run everything. Well, he can't.”

“Goodness knows I hope he can't!” moaned Thankful.

“And in the meantime we are waiting to hear what his lawyer has to say,” observed Heman.

John stepped forward. “Daniels,” he said, “it strikes me that your 'we's' are a bit frequent. Why are you interfering in this affair?”

Mr. Daniels drew himself up. “I am not interfering,” he replied. “My interest is purely that of a friend. AS a friend I told Miss Howes what your cousin said to me. She seemed to doubt my word. In justice to myself I propose to prove that I have spoken the truth, that is all. So far I think I may say that I have proved it. Now I demand to know what you intend doing. Are you for Mrs. Barnes or against her?”

“So you demand that, do you?”

“I do. Will you answer?”

“No.”

“Ah ha! I thought not.”

“I'll answer no demands from you. Why should I? If Mrs. Barnes or Miss Howes asks me I will answer, of course.”

“Mr. Kendrick—” began Thankful. Emily interrupted.

“Wait, Auntie,” she said. “He must answer me first. Mr. Kendrick, when that man came to you with his 'orders,' as you call them, you must have had some opportunity to speak. Why didn't you refuse at once?”

For the first time John hesitated. “Well,” he said, slowly, “for one reason I was taken completely by surprise.”

“So was Aunt Thankful, when he came to her. But she refused.”

“And, for another, there were certain circumstances which made it hard to refuse point-blank. In a way, I suppose Mr. Kendrick was justified in assuming that I would work for his interests. I accepted his retaining fee. You remember that I hesitated before doing so, but—but I did accept, and I have acted as his attorney since. I—”

“Stop! I did not ask for excuses. I ask you, as Mr. Daniels asked, are you for my cousin or against her?”

“And I ask you what is Mr. Daniels' warrant for asking me anything?”

“Answer my question! Will you fight for my cousin's rights, or have you sold yourself to—to this benefactor of yours?”

John flushed at the repetition of the word.

“I have tried to give value received for whatever benefactions have come my way,” he said, coldly. “This matter may be different; in a way it is. But not as Mr. Holliday Kendrick sees it. When a lawyer accepts a retaining fee—not for one case but for all cases which his client may give him—he is, by the ethics of his profession, honor bound to—”

“Honor!” scornfully. “Suppose we omit the 'honor'.”

“That is not easy to do. I AM my cousin's attorney. But, as Mrs. Barnes' friend and yours, I—”

Emily stamped her foot. “Friend!” she cried. “I don't care for such friends. I have heard enough. I don't wish to hear any more. You were right, Mr. Daniels. I apologize for doubting your word. Aunt Thankful, you must settle this yourself. I—I am through. I—I am going. Please don't stop me.”

She was on her way to the door of the dining-room. Heman Daniels called her name.

“One minute, Miss Howes,” he said. “I trust you will not forget you have one friend who will be only too glad to work for Mrs. Barnes' interests and yours. I am at your service.”

“Thank you, thank you, Mr. Daniels. I—I have no doubt we shall need your services. But please don't—”

John Kendrick was at her side.

“Miss Howes—Emily—” he pleaded. “Don't misunderstand me.”

She burst out at him like, as Captain Obed said afterward, “an August thunder tempest.”

“Misunderstand!” she repeated. “I don't misunderstand. I understand quite well. Don't speak to me again.”

The door closed behind her. Thankful, after an instant's hesitation, hurried out after her.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Daniels, and followed Mrs. Barnes.

Captain Obed turned to his friend.

“For the Lord sakes, John!” he shouted. “What in the everlastin' do you mean? What did you let her go that way for? Why didn't you tell her you wouldn't do it?”

But Kendrick paid not the slightest attention. He was gazing at the door through which Emily and Thankful had disappeared. His face was white.

“John,” repeated the captain.

“Hush!” ordered John. He strode to the door and opened it.

“Emily!” he cried. “Emily!”

There was no answer. John waited a moment and then turned and walked to the window, where he raised the shade and stood looking out.

“John,” said the captain again.

“Hush! Don't say anything to me now.”

So Captain Obed did not speak. A few minutes later the dining-room door opened and Mr. Daniels entered. His expression was one of complete, not to say malicious, satisfaction. John turned at the opening of the door.

“Emily,” he began. Then, seeing Daniels, he remained silent, looking at him.

“Kendrick,” said Heman, with dignity, “in the matter which we have just been discussing you will hereafter deal with me. That is Mrs. Barnes' wish and also Miss Howes'.”

John did not reply. Once more he walked to the door and opened it.

“Miss Howes!” he called. “Emily! If you will let me explain—Emily!”

“I'll go fetch her,” declared Captain Obed. John pushed him back.

“Don't interfere, Captain,” he said, sharply. “Emily!”

No answer. Daniels made the next remark.

“I'm afraid you don't get the situation, Kendrick,” he said. “Neither Miss Howes nor Mrs. Barnes cares to see you or speak with you. After this you are to deal with me. They have asked me, as a FRIEND,” emphasizing the word, “to act as their representative in this and all matters.”

John turned and looked at the speaker.

“In all matters?” he asked, slowly.

“Yes sir, in all.”

“And they refuse to see me?”

“It would—er—seem so. . . . Is there anything further, Kendrick? If not then this affair between your—er—client and mine would appear to be a matter of skill for you and me to contest. We'll see who wins.”

John still looked at him.

“So that's it then,” he said, after a moment. “You and I are to determine which is the better lawyer?”

“So it would seem. Though, considering my record and experience, I don't know that—”

“That such a test is necessary? I don't know that it is, either. But we'll have it.”

He walked from the room and they heard him ascending the stairs. Captain Obed swore aloud. Heman Daniels laughed.