"I-you see, I thought it would be nice if Mr. Sheridan took Lily home.

And a little while ago I was talking to Mr. Buchanan who brought the Deacons here. He was sitting outside, and he seemed awfully tired and sleepy, and kept saying that late hours were bad for young and old; and then I said that-that the Deacons weren't going back with him. And he didn't wait a minute. He just got into his sleigh, and went off like Santa Claus. And now, it looks as if Mr. Sheridan and Lily were mad at each other-and if Mrs. Deacon finds out that I told Mr. Buchanan to go-I don't know _what_ to do!"

"Well!" said Paul, "I suppose you're about the _coolest_-rascal I ever met in my life. I don't think I've ever even heard of anyone like you."

"What shall I do?"

"Do? Why, to be perfectly consistent with your kind, after having gotten everything into a sweet kettle-of-fish, just wash your hands of it.

Leave it to Providence-and hike for the tall timber." Then he began to chuckle, hugging himself, and shaking up and down, in a rapture of mirth.

"Oh, don't bother about it. They'll get home all right-"

"I'm not bothering about that. I'm thinking about what'll happen if Mrs.

Deacon finds out that I sent Mr. Buchanan away."

"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. She hasn't found out yet."

"I wonder why Mr. Sheridan and Lily are mad at each other." Then she jumped up.

"What are you going to do now?" demanded Paul.

"I'm going down."

"Take my advice and stay where you are." But Jane was already on her way down the ladder.

The party was beginning to break up. The wild tooting of horns, the shrill notes of whistles, and showers of confetti announced the New Year. Jane made her way through the tangles of colored streamers, and the knots of merry-makers toward the huge chimney-place where a group of older people were standing, watching the picturesque scene.

"Ah-ha, here's my girl again!" cried Mr. Webster. "Come here and watch the fun with your old G.o.d-father."

With his big hands on her shoulders, Jane leant against him, and looked on as placidly as if there were not a care in the world troubling her peace of mind. When the noise had subsided a little, she looked round and up at Mr. Webster's face, and raising her voice a little so that it was impossible for Mr. Sheridan not to hear what she said, remarked,

"Mr. Buchanan has gone home, and left the Deacons here."

"What? What is that?" said Mr. Webster hastily. Jane repeated her remark, glancing furtively at Mr. Sheridan, whose face had suddenly grown rather red. But he stared straight ahead and pretended not to have heard her.

"Ah, well, Sam can hitch up our sleigh in a moment," said Mr. Webster.

"I daresay he'll be only too glad to take Lily home." And he chuckled slyly.

For some reason, Mr. Sheridan was able to hear _this_ remark quite distinctly. He looked around, and after a momentary hesitation said,

"There is no reason for that. Mrs. Deacon and her daughter are near neighbors of mine, and I-I'd be delighted to take them home." And without giving his host a chance to argue the point, strode off hastily in the direction of the majestic dowager.

By this time the old lady, undergoing the process of being wrapped up in a dense coc.o.o.n of furs and mantles, while the two Webster boys clamored for the pleasure of putting on her carriage boots, was quite besieged by young men begging to be allowed to drive her home. Lily stood behind her chair, smiling, but a little tired-looking.

Mr. Sheridan worked his way deftly and determinedly through the group.

"Will you let me drive you home, Mrs. Deacon?" He did not look at Lily, and Lily dropped her eyes.

"I am taking Miss-Mrs. Deacon home," said Sam Webster firmly, unconsciously grasping that dignified lady's plump foot more tightly, as if he intended to hold her by it, should she attempt to evade him.

Now Mr. Sheridan _did_ look, at Lily. Would she or would she not prefer to go with him?

"Why, if Mr. Sheridan has-has room for us, we needn't trouble Sam, mamma," said Lily, demurely. "That is-"

"It's no trouble," interrupted Sam,-which was quite true-"and I've got the sleigh already hitched up"-which was not true. He sent an almost belligerent glance at Mr. Sheridan, who ignored it.

Mr. Sheridan felt extraordinarily jubilant. Nothing should prevent his taking Lily home-not if he had to slaughter this mob of impertinent young men in cold blood.

Then Mrs. Deacon, extricating her foot from Sam's convulsive grip, rose up. There was a warm light in her eye, the peculiar, benevolent beam which enlivens the glance of the far-sighted mamma as it rests upon an eligible young man.

"Mr. Sheridan, I thank you. I accept your pusillanimous offer," she said, in the full, bell-like tone of a public official. "Samuel, we shall not emburden you."

In vain did Sam a.s.sure her that he would be only too happy, that there was nothing he would like to do more; meanwhile sending at Lily reproachful looks fit to melt a heart of stone. Lily simply did not see them. In cool triumph, Mr. Sheridan escorted the two ladies to his sleigh.

An hour later,-it was after one o'clock-he entered his library, where Peterson had kept the fire burning, threw off his coat, and sat down to try to work out the puzzle of Lily's conduct. On the way home, they had exchanged hardly six words. But if Lily had been silent, the same could not be said for her mamma. Even now he seemed to hear the incessant, rich tones of Mrs. Deacon's voice ringing in his ear, as they say the booming of the sea echoes in certain sh.e.l.ls. He could not remember whether he had ever answered her or not. But Lily? It seemed evident to him that she had not wanted to talk with him or to dance with him during the party. It seemed equally evident that she _had_ wanted to drive home in his sleigh. Now what was the meaning of behavior like that?

By two o'clock he had come to the conclusion that she was a coquette, that he was a donkey, and that the best thing he could do was to tell Peterson to pack up and be ready to pull up their stakes the day after to-morrow. He had been acting like an awful fool anyway. He was twenty-five years old; too old to be acting like a schoolboy. How in the world had Mary Abbott been able to-

By three o'clock he had come to another conclusion. He wasn't going to go away at all. He'd be hanged if he'd be chased around the earth by _women_. He was going to stay where he was. He was going to go in for farming. He liked the quaint old town, he liked the solid, intelligent, industrious, practical people. He liked Mr. Webster for instance, and Mrs. Webster, and Dolly, and old Mr. Pyncheon, and he quite loved that little Janey Lambert, and he liked-well, already the list had grown to a fairly respectable length for a confirmed misanthrope.

At half past six, Peterson coming into the library to see that everything was in order, discovered his master sleeping placidly in the huge armchair, surrounded by, almost buried under books, pamphlets and almanacs which had never been taken down from their shelves since the late Major had been a young and hopeful devotee of farming. He picked one up, and holding it at arm's length read the t.i.tle, "Fertilizers and Fertilization." The old man drew a deep, long-suffering sigh.

"Lord, it was bad enough before," he thought despondently, looking down at Mr. Tim, and shaking his head slowly. "It can't be that he's goin' in to be a useful citizen. Whatever would the Major say to that?"

Then he suddenly remembered the old Major's invariable reply to such propositions. Quite undisturbed, and in the most astounding French, he used to say, "Searchez le Femme."

CHAPTER X-PAUL AND CARL

Paul, in his heavy canvas ap.r.o.n, his sleeves rolled up, flour in his hair, on his eyelashes, and on the end of his nose, sat on a three-legged stool in front of the door of the big oven. There was an expression of such dogged concentration on his face, such fierce intensity in the grim frown between his eyebrows, that one might have thought he was expecting to draw forth a new universe, remodelled nearer to his heart's desire, from the roasting bakeoven. The event he was antic.i.p.ating was indeed of great moment not only to him but to at least four other members of the household who had gathered in the kitchen-Aunt Gertrude, Jane, Elise, and ruddy little Anna, the bouncing little a.s.sistant cook and shop-keeper, who never could watch Paul's culinary struggles without going into a fit of giggling.

"It's been in twenty minutes," announced Jane, glancing at the clock.

Paul raised his head and glowered at her.

"Can you or can you not hold your tongue?"

"I can not," answered Jane, frankly.

"Who's making this cake?"

"Come, Janey, leave Paul alone and don't bother him," said Elise. "Come over here and let me try this sleeve to see if it fits." Elise was engaged in making over one of her mother's gowns into a school-dress for Jane. Jane obediently stood through the process of a fitting, but craning around to keep her eye on Paul.

Suddenly, taking hold of the hot handle of the oven-door with his ap.r.o.n, he flung it open; and reaching in, pulled forth the huge cake pan.

"There! Now, Aunt Gertrude, come and look at this fellow! How's _that_ for a blooming success?" His face simply beamed with pride as a chorus of "Oh's" and "Ah's" greeted his first real triumph. Five big disks of cake, delicately, perfectly browned, light as a feather, he turned out onto the wooden board.