"It isn't meant for payment, Mrs. Carr," the girl went on, her big blue eyes fixed upon Dorothy, "but you're to take it from me just as I've taken this lovely Summer from you. You took in a stranger, weak and helpless and half-crazed with grief, and you've made her into a happy woman again."

Before Dorothy could answer, d.i.c.k lounged in, frankly sleepy. "Second call in the dining car?" he asked, taking Mrs. Dodd's place, across the table from Elaine.

"Third call," returned Dorothy, brightly, "and, if you don't mind, I'll leave you two to wait on yourselves." She went upstairs, her heart light, not so much from reality as from prescience. "How true it is," she thought, "that if you only wait and do the best you can, things all work out straight again. I've had to learn it, but I know it now."

"Bully bunch, the Carrs," remarked d.i.c.k, pushing his cup to Elaine.

"They're lovely," she answered, with conviction.

The sun streamed brightly into the dining-room of the Jack-o'-Lantern and changed its hideousness into cheer. Seeing Elaine across from him, gracefully pouring his coffee, affected d.i.c.k strangely. Since the day before, he had seen clearly something which he must do.

"I say, Elaine," he began, awkwardly. "That beast of a poem I read the other day----"

Her face paled, ever so slightly. "Yes?"

"Well, Perkins didn't write it, you know," d.i.c.k went on, hastily. "I did it myself. Or, rather I found it, blowing around, outside, just as I said, and I fixed it."

At length he became restless under the calm scrutiny of Elaine's clear eyes. "I beg your pardon," he continued.

"Did you think," she asked, "that it was nice to make fun of a lady in that way?"

"I didn't think," returned d.i.c.k, truthfully. "I never thought for a minute that it was making fun of you, but only of that--that pup, Perkins," he concluded, viciously.

"Under the circ.u.mstances," said Elaine, ignoring the epithet, "the silence of Mr. Perkins has been very n.o.ble. I shall tell him so."

"Do," answered d.i.c.k, with difficulty. "He's ambling up to the lunch-counter now." Mr. Chester went out by way of the window, swallowing hard.

"I have just been told," said Miss St. Clair to the poet, "that the--er--poem was not written by you, and I apologise for what I said."

Mr. Perkins bowed in acknowledgment. "It is a small matter," he said, wearily, running his fingers through his hair. It was, indeed, compared with deep sorrow of a penetrating kind, and a sleepless night, but Elaine did not relish the comment.

"Were--were you restless in the night?" she asked, conventionally.

"I was. I did not sleep at all until after four o'clock, and then only for a few moments."

"I'm sorry. Did--did you write anything?"

"I began an epic," answered the poet, touched, for the moment, by this unexpected sympathy. "An epic in blank verse, on 'Disappointment.'"

"I'm sure it's beautiful," continued Elaine, coldly. "And that reminds me.

I have hunted through my room, in every possible place, and found nothing."

A flood of painful emotion overwhelmed the poet, and he buried his face in his hands. In a flash, Elaine was violently angry, though she could not have told why. She marched out of the dining-room and slammed the door.

"Delicate, sensitive soul," she said to herself, scornfully. "Wants people to hunt for money he thinks may be hidden in his room, and yet is so far above sordidness that he can't hear it spoken of!"

Seeing Mr. Chester pacing back and forth moodily at some distance from the house, Elaine rushed out to him. "d.i.c.k," she cried, "he _is_ a lobster!"

d.i.c.k's clouded face brightened. "Is he?" he asked, eagerly, knowing instinctively whom she meant. "Elaine, you're a brick!" They shook hands in token of absolute agreement upon one subject at least, and the girl's right hand hurt her for some little time afterward.

Left to himself, Mr. Perkins mused upon the dread prospect before him. For years he had calculated upon a generous proportion of his Uncle Ebeneezer's estate, and had even borrowed money upon the strength of his expectations. These debts now loomed up inconveniently.

The vulgar, commercial people from whom Mr. Perkins had borrowed filthy coin were quite capable of speaking of the matter, and in an unpleasant manner at that. The fine soul of Mr. Perkins shrank from the ordeal. He had that particular disdain of commercialism which is inseparable from the incapable and unsuccessful, and yet, if the light of his genius were to illuminate a desolate world, Mr. Perkins must have money.

He might even have to degrade himself by coa.r.s.e toil--and hitherto, he had been too proud to work. The thought was terrible. Pegasus. .h.i.tched to the plough was nothing compared with the prospect of Mr. Perkins being obliged to earn three or four dollars a week in some humble, common capacity.

Then a bright idea came to his rescue. "Mr. Carr," he thought, "the gentleman who is now entertaining me--he is doing my own kind of work, though of course it is less fine in quality. Perhaps he would like the opportunity of going down to posterity as the humble Maecenas of a new Horace."

Borne to the library in the rush of this attractive idea, Mr. Perkins opened the door, which Harlan had forgotten to lock, and without in any way announcing himself, broke in on Harlan's chapter.

"What do you mean?" demanded the irate author. "What business have you b.u.t.ting in here like this? Get out!"

"I--" stammered Mr. Perkins.

"Get out!" thundered Harlan. It sounded strangely like the last phrase of "dear Uncle Ebeneezer's last communication," and, trembling, the disconsolate poet obeyed. He fled to his own room as a storm-tossed ship to its last harbour, and renewed the composition of his epic on "Disappointment," for which, by this time, he had additional material.

Harlan went back to his work, but the mood was gone. The living, radiant picture had wholly vanished, and in its place was a heap of dead, dry, meaningless words. "Did I write it?" asked Harlan, of himself, "and if so, why?"

Like the mocking fantasy of a dream as seen in the instant of waking, Elaine and her company had gone, as if to return no more. Only two chapters were yet to be written, and he knew, vaguely, what Elaine was about to do when he left her, but his pen had lost the trick of writing.

Deeply troubled, Harlan went to the window, where the outer world still had the curious appearance of unreality. It was as though a sheet of gla.s.s were between him and the life of the rest of the world. He could see through it clearly, but the barrier was there, and must always be there.

Upon the edge of this gla.s.s, the light of life should break and resolve itself into prismatic colours, of which he should see one at a time, now and then more, and often a clear, pitiless view of the world should give him no colour at all.

Presently Lawyer Bradford came up the hill, dressed for a formal call. In a flash it brought back to Harlan the day the old man had first come to the Jack-o'-Lantern, when Dorothy was a happy girl with a care-free boy for a husband. How much had happened since, and how old and grey the world had grown!

"I desire to see the distinguished author, Mr. Carr," the thin, piping voice was saying at the door, "upon a matter of immediate and personal importance. And Mrs. Carr also, if she is at leisure. Privacy is absolutely essential."

"Come into the library," said Harlan, from the doorway. Another interruption made no difference now. Dorothy soon followed, much mystified by the way in which Mrs. Smithers had summoned her.

Remembering the inopportune intrusion of Mr. Perkins, Harlan locked the door. "Now, Mr. Bradford," he said, easily, "what is it?"

"I should have told you before," began the old lawyer, "had not the bonds of silence been laid upon me by one whom we all revere and who is now past carrying out his own desires. The house is yours, as my letters of an earlier date apprised you, and the will is to be probated at the Fall term of court.

"Your uncle," went on Mr. Bradford, unwillingly, "was a great sufferer from--from relations," he added, lowering his voice to a shrill whisper, "and he has chosen to revenge himself for his sufferings in his own way.

Of this I am not at liberty to speak, though no definite silence was required of me later than yesterday.

"There is, however, a farm of two thousand acres, all improved, which is still to come to you, and a sum of money amounting to something over ten thousand dollars, in the bank to your credit. The mult.i.tudinous duties in connection with the practice of my profession have prevented me from making myself familiar with the exact amount.

"And," he went on, looking at Dorothy, "there is a very beautiful diamond pin, the gift of my lamented friend to his lovely young wife upon the day of the solemnisation of their nuptials, which was to be given to the wife of Mr. Judson's nephew when he should marry. It is sewn in a mattress in the room at the end of the north wing."

The earth whirled beneath Dorothy's feet. At first, she had not fully comprehended what Mr. Bradford was saying, but now she realised that they had pa.s.sed from pinching poverty to affluence--at least it seemed so to her. Harlan was not so readily confused, but none the less, he, too, was dazed. Neither of them could speak.

"I should be grateful," the old man was saying, "if you would ask Mr.

Richard Chester and Mrs. Sarah Smithers to come to my office at their earliest convenience. I will not trespa.s.s upon their valuable time at present."

There was a long silence, during which Mr. Bradford cleared his throat, and wiped his gla.s.ses several times. "The farm has always been held in my name," he continued, "to protect our lamented friend and benefactor from additional disturbance. If--if the relations had known, his life would have been even less peaceful than it was. A further farm, valued at twelve thousand dollars, and also held in my name, is my friend's last gift to me, as I discovered by opening a personal letter which was to be kept sealed until this morning. I did not open it until late in the morning, not wishing to show unseemly eagerness to pry into my friend's affairs. I am too much affected to speak of it--I feel his loss too keenly. He was my Colonel--I served under him in the war."

A mist filled the old man's eyes and he fumbled for the door-k.n.o.b. Harlan found it for him, turned the key, and opened the door. Mrs. Dodd, Mrs.

Holmes, Mrs. Smithers, and the suffering poet were all in the hall, their att.i.tudes plainly indicating that they had been listening at the door, but something in Mr. Bradford's face made them huddle back into the corner, ashamed.