"I see. Then I may depend upon you to remain in charge of the house?

Whenever you are ready to give it up, pray do not hesitate to come to me.

I will release you, of course."

"I may possibly live to be ninety," he said, encouragingly.

She stared. "You mean-that you will stay on until you die?"

"Seeing that you cannot legally sell the house,-and you will not live in it,-I hope to be of service to you to the end of my days, madam. Have you considered the possibility of some one setting up a claim to the property on account of your-er-violation of the terms of the will?"

"I should be very happy if some one were to do so, Wade," she replied with a smile. "I should not oppose the claim. Unfortunately there is no one to take the step. There are no disgruntled relatives."

"Ahem! Mr. Braden, of course, might-er-be regarded as a-"

"Dr. Thorpe will not set up a claim, Wade. You need not be disturbed."

"There is no one else, of course," said he, with a deep breath of relief.

"No one. I can't even _give_ it away. I shall go on paying taxes on it all my life, I daresay. And repairs and-"

"Repairs won't be necessary, ma'am, unless you have a complaining tenant.

I shall manage to keep the place in good order."

"Are your wages satisfactory, Wade?"

"Quite, madam." Sometimes he remembered not to say "ma'am."

"And your food, your own personal comforts, your-"

"Don't worry about me, madam. I make out very well."

"And you are all alone there? All alone in that dark, grim old house? Oh, how terribly lonely it must be. I-" she shivered slightly.

"I have a scrub-woman in twice a month, and Murray comes to see me once in awhile. I read a great deal."

"And your meals?"

"I get my own breakfast, and go down to Sixth Avenue for my luncheons and dinners. There is an excellent little restaurant quite near, you see,-conducted by a very estimable Southern lady in reduced circ.u.mstances.

Her husband is a Northerner, however, and she doesn't see a great deal of him. I understand he is a person of very uncertain habits. They say he gambles. Her daughter a.s.sists her with the business. She-but, I beg pardon; you would not be interested in them."

"I am glad that you are contented, Wade. We will consider the matter settled, and you will go on as heretofore. You may always find me here, if you desire to communicate with me at any time."

Wade looked around the room. Anne's maid had come in and was employed in restoring a quant.i.ty of flowers to the boxes in which they had been delivered. There were roses and violets and orchids in profusion.

Mrs. Thorpe took note of his interest. "You will be interested to hear, Wade, that my sister-in-law is expecting a little baby very soon. I am taking the flowers up to her flat."

"A baby," said Wade softly. "That will be fine, madam."

After Wade's departure, Anne ordered a taxi, and, with the half dozen boxes of flowers piled up in front of her, set out for George's home. On the way up through the park she experienced a strange sense of exaltation, a curious sort of tribute to her own lack of selfishness in the matter of the flowers. This feeling of self-exaltation was so pleasing to her, so full of promise for further demands upon her newly discovered nature, that she found herself wondering why she had allowed herself to be cheated out of so much that was agreeable during all the years of her life! She was now sincerely in earnest in her desire to be kind and gentle and generous toward others. She convinced herself of that in more ways than one. In the first place, she enjoyed thinking first of the comforts of others, and secondly of herself. That in itself was most surprising to her. Up to a year or two ago she would have deprived herself of nothing unless there was some personal satisfaction to be had from the act, such as the consciousness that the object of her kindness envied her the power to give, or that she could pity herself for having been obliged to give without return. Now she found joy in doing the things she once abhorred,-the unnecessary things, as she had been pleased to describe them.

She loved Lutie,-and that surprised her more than anything else. She did not know it, but she was absorbing strength of purpose, independence, and sincerity from this staunch little woman who was George's wife. She would have cried out against the charge that Lutie had become an Influence! It was all right for Lutie to have an influence on the character of George, but-the thought of anything nearer home than that never entered her head.

As a peculiar-and not especially commendable-example of her present state of unselfishness, she stopped for luncheon with her pretty little sister- in-law, and either forgot or calmly ignored the fact that she had promised Percy Wintermill and his sister to lunch with them at Sherry's. And later on, when Percy complained over the telephone she apologised with perfect humility,-surprising him even more than she surprised herself. She did not, however, feel called upon to explain to him that she had transferred his orchids to Lutie's living-room. That was another proof of her consideration for others. She knew that Percy's feelings would have been hurt.

Lutie was radiantly happy. Her baby was coming in a fortnight.

"You shall have the very best doctor in New York," said Anne, caressing the fair, tousled head. Her own heart was full.

"We're going to have Braden Thorpe," said Lutie.

Anne started. "But he is not-What you want, Lutie, is a specialist. Braden is-"

"He's good enough for me," said Lutie serenely. Possibly she was astonished by the sudden, impulsive kiss that Anne bestowed upon her, and the more fervent embrace that followed.

That afternoon Anne received many callers. Her home-coming meant a great deal to the friends who had lost sight of her during the period of preparation that began, quite naturally, with her marriage to Templeton Thorpe, and was now to bear its results. She would take her place once more in the set to which she belonged as a Tresslyn.

Alas, for the memory of old Templeton Thorpe, her one-time intimates in society were already speaking of her,-absently, of course,-as Anne Tresslyn. The newspapers might continue to allude to her as the beautiful Mrs. Thorpe, but that was as far as it would go. Polite society would not be deceived. It would not deny her the respectability of marriage, to be sure, but on the other hand, it wouldn't think of her as having been married to old Mr. Thorpe. It might occasionally give a thought or two to the money that had once been Mr. Thorpe's, and it might go so far as to pity Anne because she had been stupid or ill-advised in the matter of a much-discussed ante-nuptial arrangement, but nothing could alter the fact that she had never ceased being a Tresslyn, and that there was infinite justice in the restoration of at least one of the Tresslyns to a state of affluence. It remains to be seen whether Society's estimate of her was right or wrong.

Her mother came in for half an hour, and admitted that the baby would be a good thing for poor George.

"I am rather glad it is coming," she said. "I shall know what to do with that hateful money she forced me to take back."

"What do you mean, mother?"

Mrs. Tresslyn lifted her lorgnon. "Have you forgotten, my dear?"

"Of course I haven't. But what _do_ you mean?"

"It is perfectly simple, Anne. I mean that as soon as this baby comes I shall settle the whole of that thirty thousand dollars upon it, and have it off my mind forever. Heaven knows it has plagued me to-"

"You-but, mother, can you afford to do anything so-"

"My dear, it may interest you to know that your mother possesses a great deal of that abomination known as pride. I have not spent so much as a penny of Lutie Car-of my daughter-in-law's money. You look surprised. Have you been thinking so ill of me as that? Did you believe that I-"

Anne threw her arms about her mother's neck, and kissed her rapturously.

"I see you _did_ believe it of me," said Mrs. Tresslyn drily. Then she kissed her daughter in return. "I haven't been able to look my daughter- in-law in the face since she virtually threw all that money back into mine. I've been almost distracted trying to think of a way to force it back upon her, so that I might be at peace with myself. This baby will open the way. It will simplify everything. It shall be worth thirty thousand dollars in its own right the day it is born."

Anne was beaming. "And on that same day, mother dear, I will replace the amount that you turn over to-"

"You will do nothing of the kind," said Mrs. Tresslyn sharply. "I am not doing this thing because I am kind-hearted, affectionate, or even remorseful. I shall do it because it pleases me, and not for the sake of pleasing any one else. Now we'll drop the subject. I do hope, however, that if George doesn't take the trouble to telephone me within a reasonable time after his child comes into the world-say within a day or two-I hope you will do so."

"Really, mother, you are a very wonderful person," said Anne, rather wide- eyed.

"No more wonderful, my dear, than Lutie Carnahan, if you will pause for a moment to think of what _she_ did."

"She is very proud, and very happy," said Anne dubiously. "She and George may refuse to accept this-"

"My dear Anne," interrupted her mother calmly, "pray let me remind you that Lutie is no fool. And now, tell me something about your plans. Where are you going for the summer?"