Mary went back to Boston the next day. She said it was fortunate, indeed, that Jane's nerves were so strong. For her part, she could not have stood it another day.

The days slipped into weeks, and the weeks into months. Jane took the entire care of her father, except that she hired a woman to come in for an hour or two once or twice a week, when she herself was obliged to leave the house.

The owner of the blue-gray eyes did not belie the determination of his chin, but made a valiant effort to establish himself on the basis of the old intimacy; but Miss Pendergast held herself sternly aloof, and refused to listen to him. In a year he had left town--but it was not his fault that he was obliged to go away alone, as Jane Pendergast well knew.

One by one the years pa.s.sed. Twenty had gone by now since the small boy came with his fateful summons that June day. Jane was fifty-five now, a thin-faced, stoop-shouldered, tired woman--but a woman to whom release from this constant care was soon to come, for she was not yet fifty-six when her father died.

All the children and some of the grandchildren came to the funeral. In the evening the family, with the exception of Jane, gathered in the sitting-room and discussed the future, while upstairs the woman whose fate was most concerned laid herself wearily in bed with almost a pang that she need not now first be doubly sure that doors were locked and spoons were counted.

In the sitting-room below, discussion waxed warm.

"But what shall we do with her?" demanded Mary. "I had meant to give her my share of the property," she added with an air of great generosity, "but it seems there's nothing to give."

"No, there's nothing to give," returned Edgar. "The house had to be mortgaged long ago to pay their living expenses, and it will have to be sold."

"But she's got to live somewhere!" Mary's voice was fretful, questioning.

For a moment there was silence; then Edgar stirrad in his chair.

"Well, why can't she go to you, Mary?" he asked.

"Me!" Mary almost screamed the word.

"Why, Edgar!--when you know how much I have on my hands with my great house and all my social duties, to say nothing of Belle's engagement!"

"Well, maybe Jane could help."

"Help! How, pray?--to entertain my guests?" And even Edgar smiled as he thought of Jane, in her five-year-old bonnet and her ten-year-old black gown, standing in the receiving line at an exclusive Commonwealth Avenue reception.

"Well, but--" Edgar paused impotently.

"Why don't you take her?" It was Mary who made the suggestion.

"I? Oh, but I--" Edgar stopped and glanced uneasily at his wife.

"Why, of course, if it's _necessary_," murmured Mrs. Edgar, with a resigned air. "I should certainly never wish it said that I refused a home to any of my husband's poor relations."

"Oh, good Heavens! Let her come to us," cut in Fred sharply. "I reckon we can take care of our 'poor relations' for a spell yet; eh, Sally?"

"Why, sure we can," retorted. Fred's wife, in her soft Southern drawl.

"We'll be right glad to take her, I reckon." And there the matter ended.

Jane Pendergast had been South two months, when one day Edgar received a letter from his brother Fred.

Jane's going North [wrote Fred]. Sally says she can't have her in the house another week. 'Course, we don't want to tell Jane exactly that--but we've fixed it so she's going to leave.

I'm sorry if this move causes you folks any trouble, but there just wasn't any other way out of it. You see, Sally is Southern and easy-going, and I suppose not over-particular in the eyes of you stiff Northerners. I don't mind things, either, and I suppose I'm easy, too.

Well, great Scott!--Jane hadn't been down here five minutes before she began to "slick up," as she called it--and she's been "slickin' up" ever since. Sally always left things round handy, and so've the children; but since Jane came, we haven't been able to find a thing when we wanted it.

All our boots and shoes are put away, turned toes out, and all our hats and coats are s.n.a.t.c.hed up and hung on pegs the minute we toss them off.

Maybe this don't seem much to you, but it's lots to us. Anyhow, Jane's going North. She says she's going to visit Edgar a little while, and I told her I'd write and tell you she's coming. She'll be there about the 20th. Will wire you what train.

Your affectionate brother

FRED

As gently as possible Edgar broke to his wife the news of the prospective guest. Julia Pendergast was a good woman. At least she often said that she was, adding, at the same time, that she never knowingly refused to do her duty. She said the same thing now to her husband, and she immediately made some very elaborate and very apparent changes in her home and in her plans, all with an eye to the expected guest. At four o'clock Wednesday afternoon Edgar met his sister at the station.

"Well, I don't see as you've changed much," he said kindly.

"Haven't I? Why, seems as if I must look changed a lot," chirruped Jane.

"I'm so rested, and Fred and Sally were so good to me! Why, they tried not to have me do a thing--and I didn't do much, only a little puttering around just to help out with the work."

"Hm-m," murmured Edgar. "Well, I'm glad to see you're--rested."

Julia met them in the hall of the beautiful Brookline residence. Lined up with her were the four younger children, who lived at home. They made an imposing array, and Jane was visibly affected.

"Oh, it's so good of you--to meet me--like this!" she faltered.

"Why, we wished to, I'm sure," returned Mrs. Pendergast, with a half-stifled sigh. "I hope I understand my duty to my guest and my sister-in-law sufficiently to know what is her due. I did not allow anything--not even my committee meeting to-day--to interfere with this call for duty at home."

Jane fell back. All the glow fled from her face.

"Oh, then you did stay at home--and for me! I'm so sorry," she stammered.

But Mrs. Pendergast raised a deprecatory hand.

"Say no more. It was nothing. Now come, let me show you to your room.

I've given you Ella's room, and put Ella in Tom's, and Tom in Bert's, and moved Bert upstairs to the little room over--"

"Oh, don't!" interrupted Jane, in quick distress. "I don't want to put people out so! Let me go upstairs." Mrs. Pendergast frowned and sighed.

She had the air of one whose kindest efforts are misunderstood.

"My dear Jane, I am sorry, but I shall have to ask you to be as satisfied as you can be with the arrangements I am able to make for you.

You see, even though this house is large, I am, in a way, cramped for room. I always have to keep three guest-rooms ready for immediate occupancy. I am a member of four clubs and six charitable and religious organizations, besides the church, and there are always ministers and delegates whom I feel it my duty to entertain."

"But that is all the more reason why I should go upstairs, and not put all those children out of their rooms," begged Jane.

Mrs. Pendergast shook her head.

"It does them good," she said decidedly, "to learn to be self-sacrificing. That is a virtue we all must learn to practice."

Jane flushed again; then she turned abruptly. "Julia, did you want me to--to come to see you?" she asked.

"Why, certainly; what a question!" returned Mrs. Pendergast, in a properly shocked tone of voice. "As if I could do otherwise than to want my husband's sister to come to us."