My unexpected entrance caused a sensation. Lute, sitting on the edge of one of the kitchen chairs, an agonized expression on his face, started so violently that he almost lost his balance. Dorinda, standing with her back toward me, turned quickly. Captain Jedediah Dean, his hand on the knob of the door opening to the back yard, showed the least evidence of surprise. He did not start, nor did he speak, but looked at me with a countenance as grim and set and immovable as if it had been cast in a mould.

Lute, characteristically enough, uttered the first word.

“By time!” he gasped. “It's Ros himself! Ros—Ros, you know what he says?” He pointed a shaking finger at the captain. “He says you—”

“Keep still!” Dorinda struck her palms together with a slap, as if her husband had been what she often called him, a parrot. Then, without another glance in his direction, she stepped backward and took her stand beside me.

“I'm real glad to see you home safe and sound, Roscoe,” she said, calmly.

“Thank you, Dorinda. Now, Captain Dean, I believe you were sending a message to me just now. I am here and you can deliver it. What is it you have to say?”

Before he could answer Dorinda spoke once more.

“Lute,” she said, “you come along with me into the dinin'-room.”

“But—but, Dorindy, I—”

“You come with me. This ain't any of my business any more, and it never was any of yours. Come! move!”

Lute moved, but so slowly that his progress to the door took almost a full minute. His wife paid no heed to the pleading looks he gave her and stood majestically waiting until he passed her and crossed the sill. Then she turned to me.

“If you want me, just speak,” she said. “I shall be in the dining-room. There ain't no need for Comfort to know about this. She doesn't know that you've been away and hasn't been worried at all. I'll look out for her. Lute'll be with me, so you needn't fret about him, either.”

She closed the door.

“Now, Captain Dean,” I repeated, “what is it you have to say?”

The captain's grim mouth twisted in a savage sneer.

“You know what I'm goin' to say as well as I do,” he answered.

“Possibly, but you had better say it.”

“It won't take me long. You've sold that Shore Lane land to Jim Colton, ain't you?”

“Yes.”

My calm affirmative seemed to astonish him. I think he expected a denial. His hand left the doorknob and he stepped toward me.

“You—HAVE!” he cried. “You don't even take the trouble to—You have the face to stand there and tell me—”

He almost choked.

“Captain Dean,” I interrupted, quickly, “wait a moment. Listen to me. I have sold Colton the land. I did not intend selling it at all, least of all to him, but circumstances compelled me to change my mind. I did it because I was obliged to. It is done. I am sorry I had to do it, but, under the same conditions, I should do it again. I am not ashamed.”

He leaned forward, steadying himself with a hand upon the table, and stared at me.

“You ain't ashamed?” he repeated. “You ain't ashamed! Why, you—Didn't you tell me you'd never sell that land? Didn't you promise me?”

“I did not promise anything. At first I promised not to sell without letting you know of my intention. Afterward I took back that promise.”

“But why did you sell? You said it wan't a question of price at all. You made your brags that it wan't! To me, over and over, you made 'em. And then you sneak off and—”

“Stop! I did think it was not a question of price. Then I found out that it was.”

He clenched his fist.

“Damn you!” he shouted, furiously. “You liar! You sneak! After I—”

“That is enough, Captain. This has gone far enough. I have sold the land—for what seemed to me a good reason—and your calling me names will not change the situation. I don't care to hear them. You had better go.”

“WHAT?”

“I say you had better go.”

“I go? You'll put me out?”

“No, certainly not. But there is nothing to be gained by a quarrel, and so, for both our sakes, I think you had better go away.”

For a moment I thought he would strike me. Then his fist fell heavily upon the table. His lips were quivering like those of an infirm person. He looked old, and I had never before considered him an old man.

“What made you do it?” he cried, desperately. “What made you do it? Is it all settled? Can't you back out?”

“No.”

“But—but why didn't you sell to me—to the town? If you had to sell why didn't you do that? Why did you go to him?”

“Because he would pay me what I needed; because his price was higher than any you or the town could offer.”

“How did you know that? My heavens above! I'd have paid—I'd have paid most anything—out of my own pocket, I would. I tell you this meant everything to me. I'm gettin' along in years. I ain't been any too well liked here in Denboro, and I knew it. You think that didn't make no difference to me, maybe I pretended it didn't, but it did; by the Almighty, it did! I intended for folks to be thankful to me for—I—Oh, WHY did you do it, Ros?”

I shook my head. I was sorry for him now—sorry and astonished. He had given me a glimpse of the real Jedediah Dean, not the pompous, loud-voiced town politician and boss, but the man desirous of fighting his way into the esteem and liking of his neighbors.

“I'm sorry, Captain,” I said. “If I had known—if I had had time to think, perhaps I might have acted differently. But I had no time. I found that I must have the money which that land would bring and that I had to have it immediately. So I went where I knew I could get it.”

“Money? You needed money? Why didn't you come to me? I'd have lent it to you.”

“You?”

“Yes, me. What do you cal'late I've been backin' you all this summer for? What did I get you that job in my bank for?”

“YOU? George Taylor engaged me for that place.”

“Maybe so. But do you suppose he did it on his own hook? HE couldn't hire you unless the directors said so and the directors don't say anything, the majority of 'em, unless I say it first. I put the notion in George's head. He didn't know it, but I did. And I put it in the directors' heads, too. Ros Paine, I always liked you, though I did use to think you was a gentleman loafer. There was a somethin' about you even then, a kind of hands-off, mind your own business independence about you that I liked, though I knew mighty well you never liked me. And after you and me got together on this Lane thing I liked you more and more. You could tell me to go to the devil as well as you could anybody else, and I'll shake hands with a feller that'll do that. I always wanted a boy of my own. Nellie's a good girl, no better afloat or ashore, but she is a girl. George is a good feller, too, but somehow, or 'nother, I'd come to think of you as the kind of son I'd have had, if the Almighty had give me one. Oh, what did you do this for?”

I could not answer. He had overwhelmed me. I never felt meaner or more wicked. I had been ready to face him, ready for the interview with him which I knew was inevitable and which I had foreseen, but not this kind of an interview.

He took his hand from the table and stood erect.

“Money!” he said. “You wanted money. You must have wanted it bad. What did you want it for?”

“I can't tell you.”

“You had better. It's your only chance, I tell you that!”

“I can't help it, Captain Dean. I can't tell you. I wish I could.”

He regarded me in silence for a moment. Then: “All right,” he said, solemnly. “I'm through with you, Ros Paine. In one way I'm through with you. In another I ain't. I cal'late you was figgerin' to go straight up to the bank, as bold as brass, and set down at George Taylor's desk and draw your wages like an honest man. Don't you ever dare set foot in that bank again. You're fired! bounced! kicked out! Do you understand?”

“Very well; I understand.”

“You will understand, whether you do now or not. Colton's got the Shore Lane and you've got his dirty money in your pocket. He's paid you, but the town ain't. The town you sold out ain't paid you—but I'm goin' to see that it does. Ros Paine, I'm goin' to drive you out of Denboro.”

He turned on his heel, strode to the door, went out, and slammed it behind him.

I went back to the dining-room. Lute was nowhere in sight, but Dorinda was standing by the mantel, dusting, as usual, where there was no dust. I did not speak but walked toward the door leading to the stairs. Dorinda stepped in front of me.

“Roscoe,” she said, sharply, “can he do it?”

“Do it?” I repeated. “What do you mean?”

“Can he give you your walkin' papers at that bank? Oh, I heard him! I tried not to, but he hollered so I couldn't help it. That kitchen door ain't much thicker'n a sheet of paper, anyhow. Can he do it?”

“I guess so. He seems to be boss of that institution.”

“But can't 'Lisha Warren or some of the other directors help you? Jed Dean don't boss 'Lisha Warren—not much.”

“I shan't ask for help. Please don't trouble me, Dorinda.”

I tried to pass her, but she would not permit it.

“I shan't trouble you, Ros,” she said. “I guess you've got troubles enough without me. But you let me ask you this: Are you goin' to let him drive you out of town?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “It may not take much driving,” I announced, listlessly, “if it were not for Mother I should be only too glad to go.”

Again I tried to pass, but this time she seized my arm.

“Roscoe Paine,” she cried, “don't you talk like that. I don't want to hear another word like that. Don't you let Jed Dean or nobody else drive you out of Denboro. You ain't done nothin' to be ashamed of, have you?”

“I sold that land to Mr. Colton. I don't know how Captain Jed found it out, but it is true enough; I did exactly what he said I did.”

“Found out! He found out from somebody over to Ostable where the deed was recorded, that is how he found out. He said so. But I don't care for that. And I don't care if you sold the Lane ten times over. You didn't do it for any mean or selfish reason, that I know. There ain't a selfish bone in your body, Roscoe. I've lived along with you all these years and I know. Nobody that was mean or selfish would give up their chances in life and stay here in this one-hoss town because his ma was sick and had took a notion that she couldn't bear to part with him. Don't you mind Jed Dean—pig-headed old thing!—or anybody else in Denboro. Hold up your head and show 'em you don't care for the whole caboodle of 'em. Let 'em talk and act like fools, if they want to. It comes natural to most of 'em, I cal'late, and they'll be sorry some day. Don't you let 'em drive you out. They won't come inside THIS house with their talk, not while I'm here, I tell you that!”

Her eyes, behind the brass-rimmed spectacles, flashed fire. This was the longest speech I had ever heard her make.

“There, Dorinda,” I said, smiling, “don't worry on my account. I'm not worth it. And, whatever I do, I shall see that you and Lute are provided for.”

Instead of calming her this statement seemed to have the exactly opposite effect.

“Stop it!” she snapped. “The idea! Do you suppose it's for myself I'm talkin' this way to you? I guess 'tain't! My soul! I'll look out for myself, and Lute, too, long's I'm able to walk; and when I can't walk 'twill be because I've stopped breathin'. It's for you I'm talkin', for you and Comfort. Think of her.”

I sighed. “I have been thinking of her, Dorinda,” I declared. “She doesn't know a word about this.”

“Then tell her.”

“I can't tell her my reason for selling, any more than I can tell you—or Dean.”

“Tell her what you can, then. Tell her as much of the truth as you can. She'll say you done right, of course. Whatever you do is right to her.”

I made no reply. She regarded me keenly.

“Roscoe,” she went on, “do you WANT to go somewheres else?”

“I don't know, Dorinda. I might as well be here as anywhere, perhaps. I am rather blue and discouraged just now, that's all.”

“I can't blame you much. But bein' discouraged don't do any good. Besides, it's always darkest just afore dawn, they say; anyhow, I've had that preached to me ever since I was a girl and I've tried to believe it through a good many cloudy spells. Roscoe, don't you let old Jed or anybody DRIVE you out of Denboro, but, if you WANT to go—if you think you'd ought to go, to earn money or anything, don't you worry about leavin' Comfort. I'll look out for her as well as if she was my own. Remember that.”

I laid my hand on hers. “Thank you,” I said, earnestly. “Dorinda, you are a good woman.”

To my surprise the eyes behind the spectacles became misty. Tears in Dorinda's eyes! When she spoke it was in, for her, a curiously hesitating tone.

“Roscoe,” she faltered, “I wonder if you'd be cross if I asked about what wan't any of my business. I'm old enough to be your grandma, pretty nigh, so I'm goin' to risk it. You used to be independent enough. You never used to care for the town or anybody in it. Lately you've changed. Changed in a good many ways. Is somethin' besides this Lane affair frettin' you? Is somebody frettin' you? Are you worried about—that one?”

She had caught me unawares. I felt the blood tingle in my cheeks. I tried to laugh and made a failure of the attempt.

“That one?” I repeated. “I—Why, I don't understand, Dorinda.”

“Don't you? Well, if you don't then I'm just talkin' silly, that's all. If you do, I . . . . Humph! I might have known it!”

She turned like a shot and jerked the door open. There was a rattle, a series of thumps, and a crash. Lute was sprawling upon the floor at our feet. I gazed at him in open-mouthed astonishment. Dorinda sniffed scornfully.

“I might have known it,” she repeated. “Sittin' on the stairs there, listenin', wan't you?”

Lute raised himself to his knees.

“I think,” he panted, “I—I swan! I shouldn't wonder if I'd broke my leg!”

“Um-hm! Well, if you'd broke your neck 'twouldn't have been no more'n you deserve. Shame on you! Sneakin' thing!”

“Now, Dorindy, I—I wan't listenin'. I was just—”

“Don't talk to me. Don't you open your mouth. And if you open it to anybody else about what you heard I'll—I declare I'll shut you up in the dark closet and keep you there, as if you was three year old. Sometimes I think your head ain't any older than that. Go right out of this house.”

“But where'll I go?”

“I don't care where you go. Only don't let me set eyes on you till dinner time. March!”

Lute backed away as she advanced, waving both his hands and pleading and expostulating.

“Dorindy, I tell you . . . WHAT makes you so unlikely? . . . I was just . . . All right then,” desperately, “I'll go! And if you never set eyes on me again 'twon't be my fault. You'll be sorry then. If you never see me no more you'll be sorry.”

“I'll set eyes on you at dinner time. I ain't afraid of that. Git!”

She followed him to the kitchen and then returned.

“Ah hum!” she sighed, “it's pretty hard to remember that about darkest just afore dawn when you have a burden like that on your shoulders to lug through life. It's night most of the time then. Poor critter! he means well enough, too. And once he was a likely enough young feller, though shiftless, even then. But he had a long spell of fever three year after we was married and he's never been good for much since. I try to remember that, and to be patient with him, but it's a pretty hard job sometimes.”

She sighed again. I had often wondered how a woman of her sense could have married Luther Rogers. Now she was telling me.

“I never really cared for him,” she went on, looking toward the door through which the discomfited eavesdropper had made his exit. “There was somebody else I did care for, but he and I quarreled, and I took Luther out of spite and because my folks wanted me to. I've paid for it since. Roscoe,” earnestly, “Roscoe, if you care for anybody and she cares for you, don't let anything keep you apart. If she's worth a million or fifty cents that don't make any difference. It shouldn't be a matter of her folks or your folks or money or pride or anything else. It's a matter for just you and her. And if you love each other, that's enough. I tell you so, and I know.”

I was more astonished than ever. I could scarcely believe that this was the dry, practical Dorinda Rogers who had kept house for Mother and me all these years. And with my astonishment were other feelings, feelings which warned me that I had better make my escape before I was trapped into betraying that which, all the way home from Mackerel Island, I had been swearing no one should ever know. I would not even admit it to myself, much less to anyone else.

I did not look at Dorinda, and my answer to her long speech was as indifferent and careless as I could make it.

“Thank you, Dorinda,” I said. “I'll remember your advice, if I ever need it, which isn't likely. Now I must go to my room and change my clothes. These are too badly wrinkled to be becoming.”

When I came down, after an absence of half an hour, she was sitting by the window, sewing.

“Comfort's waitin' to see you, Roscoe,” she said. “I've told her all about it.”

“YOU'VE told her—what?” I demanded, in amazement.

“About your sellin' the Lane and losin' your job, and so on. Don't look at me like that. 'Twas the only common-sense thing to do. She'd heard old Leather-Lungs whoopin' out there in the kitchen and she'd heard you and me talkin' here in the dinin'-room. I hoped she was asleep, but she wan't. After you went upstairs she called for me and wanted to know the whole story. I told her what I knew of it. Now you can tell her the rest. She takes it just as I knew she would. You done it and so it's all right.”

“Roscoe, is that you?”

It was Mother calling me. I went into the darkened room and sat down beside the bed.

She and I had much to say to each other. This time I kept back nothing, except my reason for selling the land. I told her frankly that that reason was a secret, and that it must remain a secret, even from her.

“I hate to say that to you, Mother,” I told her. “You don't know how I hate it. I would tell you if I could.”

She pressed my hand. “I know you would, Roscoe,” she said. “I am quite content not to know. That your reason for selling was an honorable one, that is all I ask.”

“It was that, Mother.”

“I am sure of it. But,” hesitatingly, “can you tell me this: You did not do it because you needed money—for me? Our income is the same as ever? We have not met with losses?”

“No, Mother. Our income is the same that it has been for years.”

“Then it was not because of me; because you felt that I should have those 'luxuries' you talk about so often? Oh, I don't need them, Roscoe I really don't. I am—I scarcely dare say it for fear it may not be true—but I THINK I am better than I have been. I feel stronger.”

“I know you are better, Mother. Doctor Quimby is very much encouraged.”

“Is he? I am so glad! For your sake, Boy. Perhaps the time will come when I may not be your Old Man Of the Sea as I am now. But you did not sell the land because of me?”

“No.”

“You did not sell it for yourself, that I know. I wonder . . . But, there! I mustn't wonder, and I won't. Captain Dean was very angry and unreasonable, Dorinda says. I suppose his pride is hurt. I'm afraid he will make it unpleasant for you in the village.”

“He will do his best, I'm sure of that.”

“You poor boy! As if you did not have enough to bear without that! He has asked you to resign from the bank?”

I smiled. “He has pitched me out, neck and crop,” I answered. “I expected that, of course.”

“But what will you do? Can't Mr. Taylor help you? Perhaps he will use his influence with the captain.”

“I don't need his influence, Mother. I took the place merely because of a whim. Now that I have lost it I am no worse off than I was before.”

“But you enjoyed the work?”

“Yes.”

I was only beginning to realize how much I had enjoyed it. I sighed, involuntarily.

Mother heard the sigh and the pressure of her hand on mine tightened.

“Poor boy!” she said again. Then, after a moment, “I wish I might talk with Miss Colton about this.”

I started violently. What had put that idea in her head?

“Miss Colton!” I exclaimed. “Mother, whatever you do, don't speak to her—about me.”

“Why not? She has not called on us for some time, but she is interested in you, I know. And perhaps her father could—”

“Mother, don't.”

She was silent for an instant. Then she said, quietly. “Boy, what is it? Is there something else you haven't told me? Something about—her?”

“No, no,” I stammered.

“Isn't there? Are you sure?”

I do not know what reply I should have made. Her question, coming so close upon the heels of Dorinda's hints, upset me completely. Was it written upon my face, for everyone to see? Did I look the incredible idiot that I knew myself to be? For I did know it. In spite of my determination not to admit it even in my innermost thoughts, I knew. I was in love with Mabel Colton—madly, insanely, hopelessly in love with her, and should be until my dying day. I had played with fire too long.

Before I could answer there came a knock at the door. It opened and Dorinda's head appeared. She seemed, for her, excited.

“There's somebody to see you, Ros,” she said. “You'd better come out soon's you can. He's in a hurry.”

“Someone to see me,” I repeated. “Who is it?”

Dorinda glanced at Mother and then at me. She did not so much as whisper, but her lips formed a name. I rose from my chair.

Mother looked at me and then at Dorinda.

“Who is it, Roscoe?” she asked.

“Just a caller on a business matter,” I answered, hurriedly. “I'll be out at once, Dorinda.”

“But who is it, Roscoe?”

“It's Mr. Colton, Mother. He has probably come to—”

“Dorinda,” Mother interrupted me, “ask Mr. Colton to come in here.”

“But, Mother—”

“Ask him to come in here, Dorinda. I should like to meet him.”

Dorinda hesitated, but when Mother spoke in that tone none of us hesitated long. She disappeared. A moment later the door opened wide and Colton entered. The sudden transition from sunlight to semidarkness bewildered him for a moment, doubtless, for he stood there without speaking. Dorinda, who had ushered him in, went out and closed the door. I stepped forward.

“Good morning, Mr. Colton,” I said, as calmly as I could. “You have never met my mother, I think. Mother, this is Mr. Colton, our neighbor.”

Colton turned toward the bed and murmured a few words. For once, I think, he was startled out of his customary cool self-possession. And when Mother spoke it seemed to me that she, too, was disturbed.

“Roscoe,” she said, quickly, “will you draw that window-shade a little more? The light is rather strong. Thank you. Mr. Colton, I am very glad to meet you. I have heard of you often, of course, and I have met your daughter. She has been very kind to me, in many ways. Won't you sit down?”

I drew forward a chair. Our visitor accepted it.

“Thank you, Mrs. Paine,” he said. “I will sit. To be honest, I'm very glad of the opportunity. I have been under the doctor's care for the past few weeks and last night's performance is not the best sort of treatment for a tender digestion. The doctor told me what I needed was rest and sleep and freedom from care. I told him I probably shouldn't get the last item till I was dead. As for the rest—and sleep—Humph!” with a short laugh, “I wonder what he would have said if he had seen me last night.”

Mother's face was turned away from him on the pillow. “I am sorry to hear that you have been ill, Mr. Colton,” she said.

“Ill! I'm not ill. I have never been sick in my life and I don't propose to begin now. If the crowd in New York would let me alone I should be all right enough. There is a deal on there that is likely to come to a head pretty soon and my people at the office are nervous. They keep 'phoning and telegraphing and upsetting things generally. I'll have to run over there myself in a day or two and straighten it out. But there! I didn't come here to worry you with my troubles. I feel as if I knew you, Mrs. Paine.”

“Knew me? Knew ME, Mr. Colton?”

“Yes. I have never had the pleasure of meeting you before, but my daughter has spoken of you often. She is a great admirer of yours. I won't tell you all the nice things she has said about you, for she has probably said them to you or to your son, already.”

“You should be very proud of your daughter, Mr. Colton. She is a charming girl.”

“Thanks. Just among us three I'll admit, in confidence, that I think you're right. And I'll admit, too, that you have a pretty good sort of a son, Mrs. Paine. He is inclined to be,” with a glance in my direction, “a little too stubborn and high-principled for this practical world, but,” with a chuckle, “he can be made to listen to reason, if you give him time enough. That is so, isn't it, Paine?”

I did not answer. Mother spoke for me.

“I am not sure that I understand you, Mr. Colton,” she said, quietly. “I presume you are referring to the sale of the land. I do not know why Roscoe changed his mind in that matter, but I do know that his reason was a good one, and an honest one.”

“He hasn't told it to you, then?”

“No. But I know that he thought it right or he never would have sold.”

I broke in here. I did not care to hear my own praises.

“Did you call to discuss the Shore Lane, Mr. Colton?” I inquired. “I thought that affair settled.”

“It is. No, I didn't come to discuss that. Mrs. Paine, I don't know why your son sold me that land, but I'm inclined to think, like you, that he wouldn't have done it unless he thought it was right. I know mighty well he wasn't afraid of me. Oh, you needn't laugh, young man. There ARE people in that fix, plenty of 'em. No, I didn't come to talk 'Lane.' That bird is dead. I came, first of all, to thank you for what you did for my daughter last night.”

Mother turned her head and looked at him.

“For your daughter? Last night? Roscoe, what does he mean?”

“Nothing, Mother, nothing,” I said, hastily. “I was unlucky enough to run the Comfort into Miss Colton's canoe in the bay yesterday afternoon in the fog. Fortunately I got her into the launch and—and—”

“And saved her from drowning, then and a dozen times afterward. He hasn't told you, Mrs. Paine? No, I can see that he hasn't. All right, I will. Paine, if your ingrowing modesty won't stand the pressure you had better leave the room. This is about what happened, Mrs. Paine, as Mabel tells it.”

I tried to prevent him, but it was no use. He ignored me altogether and went on to tell of the collision in the fog, the voyage across the bay, and my telephone from the lighthouse. The story, as he told it, magnified what he called my coolness and common-sense to a ridiculous extent. I lost patience as I listened.

“Mr. Colton,” I interrupted, “this is silly. Mother, the whole affair was more my fault than my good judgment. If I had anchored when it first happened we should have been home in an hour, instead of drifting all night.”

“Why didn't you anchor, then?” asked Colton.

“Because I—I—”

I stopped short. I could not tell him why I did not anchor. He laughed aloud.

“That's all right,” he said. “I guess Mabel's story is near enough to the truth for all practical purposes. Mrs. Paine,” with a sudden change to seriousness, “you can understand why I have come here this morning. If it had not been for your son's pluck, and cool head, and good judgment I—Mrs. Colton and I might have been—God knows in what state we might have been to-day! God knows! I can't think of it.”

His voice trembled. Mother put out a hand and took mine.

“Roscoe,” she said, “Roscoe.”

“So I came to thank him,” went on our visitor. “This isn't the first time he has done something of the sort. It seems almost as if he—But never mind that. I'm not going to be foolish. Your son and I, Mrs. Paine, have been fighting each other most of the summer. That's all right. It was a square fight and, until this newest freak of his—and he has got me guessing as to what it means—I admit I thought he was quite as likely to lick me as I was to lick him. I've watched him pretty closely and I am a pretty fair judge of a man, I flatter myself. Did he tell you that, a while ago, I offered him a place in my office?”

“In your office? You offered him that? No, he did not tell me. Roscoe!” reproachfully.

“I did not tell you, Mother, because it was not worth while. Of course I could not accept the offer.”

She hesitated and, before she spoke, Colton broke in.

“Why not? That was what you were going to say, Mrs. Paine, I take it. That is what I said—why not? And I say it again. Paine, that offer is still open.”

I shook my head. “I told you then that I could not accept,” I said. “It is impossible.”

“Why is it impossible? So far as I am concerned I believe you would be a mighty good investment.”

“Impossible,” I said again.

“Nothing is impossible. We won't waste words. I am going to be plain and I think Mrs. Paine will excuse me. You think you should not leave your mother, perhaps. I understand that reason. It would be a good one, except that—well, that it isn't good any longer. Your mother is much better than she was. Quimby—her doctor and mine—says so. I shall see that she is well looked after. If she needs a nurse she shall have one, the best we can get. Oh, be still and let me finish! You can talk afterward. You're not going so far away. New York isn't the end of the earth; it is only the center, or it thinks it is. You'll be in close touch with Denboro all the time and you can come here whenever you want to. Now will you take my offer?”

“No.”

“Young man, if I didn't know there were brains inside that head of yours I should think it was, as the boys say, solid ivory. Confound you! Here, Mrs. Paine,” turning to Mother, “you take him in hand. Tell him he must come with me.”

“Mother—” I protested. He cut my protest short.

“Tell him,” he ordered.

Mother looked at me. “I think, perhaps, you should accept, Roscoe,” she said, slowly.

“Accept! Mother!”

“Yes. I—I think you should. I am sure everyone else would think so. I should not wish you to do so if Mr. Colton was merely trying to be kind, to help you from motives of gratitude, or charity—”

“Don't use that word, please,” snapped “Big Jim.” “When I lose my mind I may take to charity, but not before. Charity! Good Lord!”

“But it is not charity. I am better, Roscoe; I realize it every day; and with Dorinda I shall get on perfectly well. I have been thinking of something like this for a long time. You owe it to yourself, Roscoe. The chance is one that many men would be very, very glad to have come their way. I shall not urge you, Boy. You must decide for yourself, and I know you will; but, Roscoe, I shall be quite contented—yes, glad and proud, if you say yes to Mr. Colton.”

The gentleman named nodded emphatic approval. “That's the talk!” he exclaimed. “Mrs. Paine, I congratulate you on your common-sense.”

“I think, like you, that you will have made a good investment, Mr. Colton,” was Mother's answer.

I rose to my feet. This must be ended now, for all time.

“I thank you, Mr. Colton,” I said, though not as steadily as I could have wished. “I am greatly obliged to you and I realize that you offer me an exceptional opportunity, or what would be one for another man. But I cannot accept.”

“Look here, Paine! I'll speak plainer still. I understand that that Shore Lane trade of ours has become common property, or, at any rate, it will be common property soon. If I see the situation clearly, Denboro is likely to be a rather unpleasant place for you. That fellow Dean has a lot of influence here—heaven knows why!—and he hates me worse than Old Nick hates holy water. Oh, I know you're not afraid of him! But what is the use of taking the rough road when the smooth one is right before your feet? Say yes, and let's end it.”

“No,” said I, stubbornly. “No, Mr. Colton.”

“You mean it? Very well, I leave you in your Mother's hands. She will probably bring you to your senses before long. Mrs. Paine, you can handle him, I have no doubt. I am glad to have met you, and, with your permission, I shall call on you again. So will Mabel. As for you, young man, I thank you for last night's work. You will, perhaps, accept thanks if you refuse everything else. Good morning.”

He rose, bowed, and walked to the door. As he opened it he staggered, perceptibly. I thought, for an instant, that he was going to fall, and I sprang to his assistance.

“It's all right,” he said, gruffly. “This digestion of mine sets my head spinning sometimes. That doctor says I shall upset completely unless I rest. I told him he was a fool and I intend to prove it. Let me be. I can walk, I should hope. When I can't I'll call the ambulance—or the hearse. I'll find the way out, myself. Good-by.”

The door closed behind him.

“Roscoe,” said Mother, quickly, “come here.”

I turned toward her. She was looking at me with a strange expression.

“What is it, Mother?” I asked, anxiously.

“Roscoe,” she whispered, “I know him. I have met him before.”

“Know him! You have met Mr. Colton—before? Where?”

“At our home in the old days. He came there once with—with your father. He was our guest at dinner.”

I could scarcely believe it. Then, as the thought of what this might mean flashed to my mind, I asked anxiously:

“Did he know you, do you think?”

“No, I am sure he did not. We met but once and I have,” with a little sigh, “changed since then. But I recognized him. The name of Colton was familiar to me when you first mentioned it, some time ago, but I did not remember where I had heard it. Of course, I did not connect this Mr. Colton with—that one.”

I frowned. This complicated matters still more, and further complications were superfluous.

“And, knowing this, knowing that he might recognize you at any time, you urged me to accept his offer,” I said, reproachfully. “Mother!”

“Yes.”

“Mother, how can you? Would you have me go to New York and enter a banking house where, any hour of any day, I might be recognized by some of the men I once knew? Where I might expect at any moment to be called by my real name? How can you?”

She gazed at me earnestly. “Why not tell him, Roscoe?” she asked.

I stared at her, aghast. “Tell him!” I repeated. “Tell him who I am? Tell him our story, the story that—Mother, are you crazy?”

“No. I believe I am sane, at least. I have been thinking a great deal of late. As I have been growing stronger I have been thinking more and more and I am not sure that you and I have been right in hiding here as we have done. It was all my fault, I know, but I was weak and—and I dreaded all the gossip and scandal. But, Boy, it was a mistake. After all, we have done no wrong, you and I—we, personally, have nothing to be ashamed of. Why not end all this? Go to Mr. Colton, tell him who you are, tell him our story; then, if he still wants you—”

I interrupted. “No, Mother,” I said, “no, no! It is impossible. Even if he knew, and it made no difference, I could not do it. I may go away! I may feel that I must go, if you are well enough for me to leave you, but I can not go with him. I ought not to see him again. I must not see HER. . . . . Oh, don't you understand? Mother, I—I—”

She understood. I had seized her hand and now she stroked it gently with her own.

“So it is true,” she said, quietly. “You love her, Roscoe.”

“Yes! yes! yes!” I answered, desperately. “Oh, don't speak of it, Mother! I am insane, I think.”

“Does she care for you, Boy? Have you spoken to her?”

“MOTHER! Is it likely?”

“But I think she does care, Roscoe. I think she does. She must.”

This was so characteristic that, although I was in anything but a laughing mood, I could not help smiling.

“How could she help it? I presume you mean,” I observed, sarcastically. “There, Mother, don't worry. I did not intend that you or anyone else should know what an idiot I am, but don't worry—I shan't do anything ridiculous or desperate. I may go somewhere, to get away from Denboro, and to earn a living for you and me, but that is all. We won't speak of her again.”

“But if she does care, Boy?”

“If she does—Of course, she doesn't—but, if she does, can't you see that only makes it worse? Think who she is and who and what I am! Her family—Humph! you have not met her mother; I have.”

“But if she loves you—”

“Do you think I should permit her to ruin her life—for me?”

“Poor boy! I am SO sorry!”

“It is all right, Mother. There! we won't be foolish any longer. I am going for a walk and I want you to rest. I am glad, we have had this talk; it has done me good to speak what I have been thinking. Good-by. I will be back soon.”

She would have detained me, but I broke away and went out. My walk was a long one. I tramped the beach for eight long miles and, though one might think that my adventures of the night before had provided exercise enough, this additional effort seemed to do no harm. I forgot dinner entirely and supper was on the table when I returned to the house.

I found Dorinda in a condition divided between anxiety and impatience.

“Have you seen anything of that man of mine?” she demanded. “I ain't seen hide nor hair of him since I pitched him out of this room this mornin'!”

I was surprised and a little disturbed. I remembered Lute's threat about “never seein' me no more.”

“You don't suppose he has run away, or anything like that, do you?” I asked.

“He wouldn't run far; runnin's too much like work. But why he wan't home for dinner I don't understand. I never knew him to miss a meal's vittles afore. I hope nothin' ain't happened to him, that's all. Well, we'll have our supper, anyhow. After that we'll see.”

But we did not have to see. We were at the table when we heard the sound of hurrying footsteps on the walk. The gate closed with a bang. Dorinda rose from her chair.

“I swan! I believe that's him now!” she exclaimed.

“If it is, he is certainly running this time,” I observed. “What—”

The door was thrown open and the missing member of the household appeared. He was red-faced and panting, but there was a curious air of dignified importance in his bearing. Dorinda's lips shut tightly.

“Well, Lute,” said I, “where have you been?”

Lute struggled for breath.

“Don't ask me where I've been!” he gasped. “Don't waste no time askin' ME questions. Get your hat on, Ros! Get your hat on this minute! Where did I put that? Where in time did I put it?”

He was fumbling in his pockets. Dorinda and I looked at each other. She shook her head.

“He's gone stark foolish at last!” she said, with decision. “Well, I've been expectin' it! Lute Rogers, stop pawin' yourself over and act sensible, if you can. What is the matter with you?”

“Matter with me! Nothin's the matter with ME; but there's somethin' the matter with other folks, I tell you that! Doctor Quimby's been there twice already, and the telephone's been goin', and—and—My time! you ought to seen her face! 'Twas just as white as—as—WHERE did I put that letter?”

His “pawing” became more frantic than ever. His wife stepped forward and seized him by the arm.

“Stop it, I tell you!” she commanded. “Stop it! Who's sick? Whose telephone's ringin'? What letter are you talkin' about? Answer me! Stop that Saint Vitus dancin' and answer me this minute!”

She gave him a shake and his cap fell to the floor. From it fell an envelope. Lute pulled himself free and pounced upon it.

“There 'tis!” he exclaimed. “By time! I was scart I'd lost it! Read it, Ros! read it!”

He handed me the envelope. It bore my name. I tore it open—took out the sheet of notepaper which it inclosed, and read as follows:

“Dear Mr. Paine:

“Father is very ill, and I am in great trouble. I think you, perhaps, can help us both. Will you come over at once? PLEASE do.

“Hastily yours,

“MABEL COLTON.”

“And—and—” panted Lute, “she told me to tell you to please hurry. And you'd ought to seen her face! She—”

I heard no more. I did not wait to get my hat, as the excited bearer of the note had urged me to do. Bareheaded, I hurried out of the dining-room and along the path toward the Colton mansion.