McGregor smiled,--a smile it had cost him twenty years of service in the best families to acquire,--a smile which expressed respectful appreciation of the facetiousness intended without any personal share in it. He never allowed himself to be more amused than a butler should be.

Winifred Anstice dropped into the chair which he held for her, and took up, one by one, the letters which lay on the silver tray by her side. They proved a strange medley, as the morning mail of a New York woman always is,--a dozen "At Home" cards, Receptions, Teas, "days" in December, all put aside after a pa.s.sing glance for future sorting; an appeal for aid, by a widow who had done washing for the family twenty years ago, and was sure for the sake of old times Miss Anstice would lend her a small sum, to tide over the cruel winter when her son could get no work; a note from Mrs. De Lancey Jones, stating that a few excellent seats for a performance to be given for the benefit of the "Manhattan Appendicitis Hospital" could be had from her; there was a great rush for the tickets, but she wanted if possible to keep a few for her friends, and would Miss Anstice kindly let her know at once if she desired any?

Miss Anstice smiled a sceptical smile, which deepened into a laugh when she picked up the next note, which stated that Mrs.

Brown-Livingston was also holding back a number of the same much-sought tickets for her friends, but would part with a few to Miss Anstice if informed at once.

"What frauds these mortals be!" exclaimed Winifred, laying both requests aside to amuse her father later.

At the next envelope she colored hotly, for she recognized the handwriting instantly. Indeed it was an easily recognizable superscription and of very distinct individuality,--a back-hand which at first glance gave the impression that it must be held up to the mirror to be read, but on closer scrutiny looked plainer than the upright round hand of the copy-books. It did not need the "F" upon the seal to tell Winifred Anstice from whom it came. She opened it, as she opened all sealed doc.u.ments, with a hairpin, though two paper-cutters of silver and ivory lay at her hand on the tray.

The note was brief. It was dated "University Club, Midnight," and had no beginning, as if the writer could think of none befitting his feeling.

"I am distracted," it began abruptly, "with the contest of fears and hopes, regret and satisfaction. If I seem to have unloaded upon you a burden of responsibility which was justly mine, I beg you to believe that I did it only because I could see no other way, and even then I meant only to ask you to share it. In place of this, with characteristic generosity you insisted upon a.s.suming the whole. This must not be. Pray name some hour when I may come to you, and let it be to-morrow. You don't know how far off that seems."

Only that, and then the signature. It was a strange note from a lover; but to Winifred Anstice it was full of the a.s.surance that the man to whom she had given her heart (for she admitted it to herself now) was of a nature large enough to put himself and his own feelings aside and to believe that she too was capable of the larger vision, the renunciation of present happiness for pressing duty. The highest plane upon which those who love can meet is this of united work and united self-sacrifice.

Winifred's eyes glistened as she read, and when she had finished, she slipped the note into her pocket for a second reading. As she did so, Miss Standish entered.

"I declare, Winifred, you get more morning mail than a Congressman."

"Yes," said Winifred, "and my const.i.tuents make larger demands."

"It seems to me," said Miss Standish, "that you engage in too many projects. You do not give yourself time to attend to your own needs at all."

"Oh, never fear for that!" answered Winifred. "One's own needs pound at the door; the needs of others only tap. How did you sleep last night?"

"Finely. I was so tired after that picture exhibition that I could hardly keep my eyes open. I was glad enough to creep off to bed by nine o'clock; but do you know I had a confused dream of voices in the room next mine,--the little one with the green and white hangings. I thought I heard your voice, and then a stranger's, and I seemed to catch the word 'Nepaug.' Isn't it curious how dreams come without any reason whatever?"

"H'm! Sometimes it is, as you say, very curious; but in this particular instance there was nothing very miraculous about it, since you did hear voices and you very likely caught the word 'Nepaug,' for it was certainly mentioned."

"How's that?" questioned Miss Standish, sharply. She did not relish the idea of having missed any unusual happenings.

Winifred was a little vexed by the note of curiosity in her voice, and she answered without undue haste, "Yes, it was I and Tilly Marsden; you remember her, perhaps,--the daughter of the inn-keeper."

There were two things most exasperating to Miss Standish,--one to be supposed to know what she did not and thereby to be cheated of acquiring the information, the other to be suspected of not knowing what she remembered perfectly.

"Not know Tilly Marsden! Well, you must think I am losing my faculties. I wish you would not waste your time in telling things I know as well as you do; but what I would like to hear is how she came to be in this house."

"Mr. Flint brought her," answered Winifred, with unkind brevity.

"Ah!" commented Miss Standish, with an upward inflection, "and did he explain how it happened that she was under his protection?"

"I did not insult him by inquiring," flashed Winifred, "and I will not have him insulted in my presence."

Miss Standish looked at the girl over her gla.s.ses, as if she suspected her of having lost her wits. We are all of us surprised by a response which seems to us vehement beyond the proximate cause of the present occasion; we fail to allow for the slow-gathering irritation, the unseen sources of excitement which collect in the caverns of the mind like fire-damp ready to explode at the naked flame of one flickering candle. Winifred had the grace to be instantly ashamed of her impulsive irritability. She had already set before herself the standard of self-control which she saw and reverenced in Flint.

"Excuse me," she said. "I was awake almost all night, and am tired and nervous. Mr. Flint met Tilly Marsden by accident in the street. She did not know where to go, and so he brought her here. My father approved," she added a little haughtily.

"But why did she appeal to Mr. Flint?" pursued Miss Standish, who clung to her inquiries like a burr.

"Because she was in love with him," blurted out Winifred, irritated beyond the power of silence. "Can't you see! _This_ was why I asked him to leave Nepaug last summer."

"Tilly Marsden in love with Mr. Flint!" echoed Miss Standish, amazed beyond the desire to appear to have suspected it all along. "I can't understand it."

"I can," said Winifred; "I can understand it perfectly. Poor girl! I am heartily sorry for her."

"Well, you needn't be," responded Miss Standish, with an asperity born of impatience at her own lack of astuteness. "For my part, I have no doubt she has enjoyed the situation thoroughly from beginning to end.

No, don't talk to me. I know those hysterical people. All they care about is making a sensation and being the centre of attention. It is my opinion that she has made fools of you and Mr. Flint too. As for her being in love with him, nonsense! She would have fallen in love with a wax figure at the Eden Musee, if it wore better clothes than she was accustomed to. It tickles her vanity to fancy herself in love with a gentleman. It is the next best thing to having him in love with her."

"Don't you think you're a little hard on her?" asked Winifred, whose feelings were unusually expansive this morning.

"I think you are entirely too soft about her," Miss Standish answered.

"It is sickly sentimentalism like yours which is filling the hospitals with hysterical patients. Let 'em alone and they'll come round fast enough."

"How do you account for my sickly sentimentalism when I have no heart, as you told me the other day?" commented Winifred demurely, with downcast eyes.

"Most natural thing in the world," said Miss Standish, rising to an argument like an old war-horse to the sound of a trumpet.

"Tenderheartedness is touched by the sufferings of others.

Sentimentality is touched by your feeling for them, which is the most enjoyable form of sadness."

At this point McGregor, who with admirable discretion had retreated to the pantry, reappeared, served Miss Standish with coffee and eggs, and again vanished, closing the door behind him.

"Really," cried Winifred, half laughing, half vexed, "you're as bad as Mr. Flint, with your fine-spun differences."

"There, Winifred, you've said enough. Whatever the provocation, you could not have hit back harder,--to say I am like Mr. Flint."

"It _was_ rather more than the truth warrants," answered Winifred, with a little spot of color flaming up in her cheeks like a danger-signal.

"I hope so," Miss Standish continued, oblivious of the red flag. "I must say, Winifred, I think you let him come here too much."

"You don't like him?"

"No, I confess I don't."

"Then you needn't like me, either, for _I_ like him so much that I am going to marry him."

Miss Standish laid down her egg-spoon, and sat staring at Winifred.

"Well!" she exclaimed at length, "this does beat all."

Winifred opened her lips to reply, when her attention was called to the maid who came hurrying into the room with her cheesecloth duster in one hand and a folded piece of paper in the other.

"The young woman, mum, as you said I was to call at nine,--well, she isn't in her room, and the bed doesn't look as if it had been slept in at all, and I found this on the bureau."

Winifred caught at the paper and read it breathlessly. It was addressed to herself.

"Good-by," it said, "and thank you for taking me in. I suppose I ought to be very grateful. I came here because I could not help it, and I am going away without taking a meal, or sleeping in your bed. I don't like being taken on charity. If it had not been for you, Mr. Flint might have cared for me, same as the hero did in 'The Unequal Marriage.' I saw last night it was you he was talking about when he said there was somebody he wanted to marry who wouldn't have him. My heart is broken; but I mean to have _some_ enjoyment, which I couldn't, if I stayed here with you and that poky Miss Standish. I think it was real mean of Mr. Flint to bring me here anyhow."

Yours truly, "MATILDA MARSDEN"