"Thought over that bill of fare, Zuby?" he shouted, after a time.

More thumps and threats; tears as well. Daniel began to feel pity instead of triumph.

"Hadn't you better, Labe," he began. Mr. Ginn waved him to silence.

"How about supper, Zuby?" he called. "Oh, all right, all right. I don't know as I'm as hungry as I was, anyway. Appet.i.te's kind of pa.s.sin' off, I cal'late. You stay in there and think till mornin', and we'll have it for breakfast."

Silence--actual silence--for a moment. Then Azuba asked, in a half-smothered but much humbler voice, "Oh, Labe! WON'T you let me out?"

"Sure thing--if you've thought up that supper for me and Cap'n Dan'l."

"But I did so want--oh, if I could only tell you! It was SO necessary for me to go to that meetin'. You've spiled everything, and just as 'twas goin' so nice. What Gertie'll say I don't know."

Daniel developed a new interest.

"Gertie?" he repeated. "Hush, Labe! wait a minute. What's Gertie got to do with it?"

"Nothin', nothin'. Oh, Labe, PLEASE."

"Well, I tell you, Zuby: it's close to nine now, and that's too late for you to be cruisin' out to meetin's. Sorry you have to miss the speeches and things, but--Say, I tell you what I'll do. If it's a sermon you want I'll preach you one, myself. Make it up while you're settin' the table.

Ready to come out and be good? That's right. Now, I bet you she's thought up somethin' that'll make our mouths water, Cap'n."

The crestfallen housekeeper emerged, blinking, from her thinking place. She removed her coat and, without even a glance at her employer, proceeded to adjust the dampers of the stove. Captain Dan rose from his chair.

"I'm afraid I can't stop to have supper with you, Labe," he said. "I've got an--an errand to do outside, myself. I'll eat at a restaurant or somewhere. You'll stay here to-night, of course. I'll see you in the mornin'. Good-night! Good-night, Zuby!"

Azuba did not reply. Laban shouted protests. What was the sense of going just when supper was being made ready at last? Daniel, however, did not stay to listen. He climbed the back stairs to the hall, put on his overcoat and hat and went out. He had been too tender-hearted to remain in the kitchen and gloat, or appear to gloat, over a "free woman's"

humiliation. Nevertheless, he astonished the waiter at the restaurant where he ate dinner by bursting into laughter at intervals, and with no obvious cause. The waiter suspected that the old gentleman from the country had been drinking, and the size of the tip he received helped to confirm his suspicion.

His dinner eaten, Captain Dan walked slowly home. Unlocking the front door with his latchkey he tiptoed through the hall and listened at the head of the back stairs. There was a steady murmur of voices in the kitchen. He heard a ba.s.s grumble from Mr. Ginn and Azuba's shrill reply.

Then the pair burst into a laugh. Evidently some sort of understanding on a peaceful basis had been reached. Still chuckling, the captain went up to his bedroom, removed his outer garments and his shoes, put on his bathrobe and slippers, and settled himself, with the evening paper, to await his wife's return. He resolved to be awake when she did return; he had news for her. Filled with this resolution, he read for three-quarters of an hour steadily, then at intervals between naps, and at last dropped into a sound sleep, the paper in his lap.

Gertrude and Serena came home at a surprisingly early hour. Not that the committee meeting was over; it was not. In fact, the elaborate dinner spread before her supporters by the grateful Mrs. Black had scarcely reached its last course when Gertrude suddenly rose from the table and hastened to her mother's side. She had been watching the latter with increasing anxiety all the evening.

"What is it, Mother?" she asked. "What is it?"

Serena, sitting with her elbow on the table, her hand to her forehead, and her untasted ice before her, looked up in a bewildered way.

"What--why, what do you mean, Gertie?" she stammered. "What--I don't think I understood you."

"What is the matter, Mother?" repeated Gertrude. "Don't you feel well?"

Still Mrs. Dott did not seem to understand. She tried to smile, but the vague uncertainty of the smile caused even Annette, who had been deep in discussion of a plan for securing the vote of a still doubtful member, to cease speaking and regard her guest with surprise.

"What is it, Mother?" urged Gertrude. "You look so strange. Are you ill?"

Serena gazed at her for a moment, rose, stood looking about in the same hesitating, uncertain manner, and then, throwing her arms about her daughter's neck, burst into hysterical sobs.

The alarmed guests cl.u.s.tered about them, asking questions, exclaiming, and offering suggestions.

"What IS it?" demanded Annette. "My DEAR! What IS it?"

Serena, still clinging to Gertrude, continued to sob.

"I--I don't know," she moaned. "I--I feel so strange. I'm--I'm tired, I guess. I'm--I'm worn out. I--oh, Gertie, take me home. Take me home--please."

"Yes, yes, Mother, dear. We will go home at once. Come."

She led her into the next room. Annette, hastening with a gla.s.s of wine and the smelling salts, caught the young lady's arm.

"She isn't going to be ill, seriously sick, is she?" she demanded. "You don't think she is. It would be dreadful if she was."

Gertrude shook her head.

"I don't know," she answered. "I certainly hope not. Will you call a carriage, Mrs. Black?"

"Yes, yes, I'll call one right away. Oh, I hope she isn't going to be sick. It would be dreadful--just now. The election is only two weeks off, and without her I--we should be almost certain to lose. I know we should. Oh, Serena, DEAR! you WON'T be sick, will you? for my sake!"

It did not seem to occur to the agitated Annette that her friend might not care to be ill, for her own sake. But it was evident that Gertrude was thinking just that. The young lady's tone was sharp and decidedly cold.

"She is tired out," she said. "She has worn herself out working for her--for her friends, Mrs. Black. Will you call the carriage?"

"Yes, yes. They are calling it now. I'm so sorry the chauffeur--or--or Phelps--is out. If he--if they were not you could use our car. But, oh, Serena--"

Serena looked up. She was calmer now, she had heard, and loyally she answered.

"Don't worry, Annette," she said. "I am not going to be sick. I won't.

You can depend on me. Oh, Gertie, I'm SO tired! My poor head!"

The carriage came and she and Gertrude were driven home. Annette did not offer to accompany them. It was such an important meeting and there were so many things to talk about, she explained. She would call the very next day. Serena thanked her; Gertrude said nothing.

Serena seemed better on the way home. When they reached the house she announced bravely that she was all right again; all she needed was a night's rest, that was all. Gertrude insisted on accompanying her to her room. They found Daniel asleep in the chair, and to him his daughter explained the situation. The captain was too greatly disturbed to think of his "news," the news of Mr. Ginn's arrival and Azuba's subjection.

"You get right into bed, Serena," he ordered. "Gertie, you call the doctor."

But his wife would not hear of the doctor. "Nonsense!" she declared. "I don't need any doctor. I want to go to bed. I'm tired--tired. I won't see the doctor or anybody else. Go, Gertie, please go. Your father will be with me. Please go! I am all right now."

Gertrude went, but she whispered to the captain that she would wait in the library and, if they needed her, he was to be sure and call.

In the library she took a book--one of Aunt Lavinia's legacies--from the shelf and tried to read, but that was impossible. She could not read, she could only think, and thinking was most unpleasant. Her conscience was troubling her. Had she been wrong? Had she gone too far? She had meant well, her plan had seemed the only solution of the family problem, but perhaps she had made a mistake. She loved her mother devotedly. Oh, if anything serious should happen--if, because of her, her mother should be ill--if--if she should. She could not think of it. She would never forgive herself, never. It had been all wrong from the beginning, and she had been wicked and foolish. It had cost her so much already; her own life's happiness. And yet--and yet, she had meant to do right. But now, after that misunderstanding and consequent sacrifice, if her mother should--

She broke down and was very, very miserable.

Someone was at the front door, fumbling with a latchkey. Gertrude hurriedly sprang from her chair, wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and was on her way to the hall when the door opened. The hall was dark; she had turned off the light when she came downstairs; and for a moment she could not see who it was that had entered. She, however, was in the full glow from the electrolier in the library and Mr. Hungerford saw her.

"Ah, Gertrude," he said cheerfully. "Is that you? Don't go. Don't go."

He was at the doorway before she could reach it. He had been dining out with some masculine friends--"old college chums," he had explained when announcing the situation--and was in evening dress.