Shirley came back presently and handed her brother the letter. He read it through carefully. "By Jove!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, and looked at his sister.

"I had to leave s.p.a.ces for the words you used that I had never heard,"

said she. "I did n't think of it before, but there must be a lot of such words in your correspondence. Would you mind making me out a list of them, or giving me a catalogue? Next time I 'll know them."

"I'll warrant you will. Except for them, you 've practically every word just as I gave it to you. See here, when have you done it? You have n't had time to accomplish so much. It takes at least six months to make a respectable stenographer. You 've been at it but four. Come here and let me look at you. By rights you ought to have grown thin. No, I can't see that you have."

"Of course I have n't. I 've never been so happy in my life."

"Miss Henley, who is in the office, is going to be married in October."

He studied her face keenly.

She looked at him with eager eyes. He laughed.

"If you were a pauper with a family to support, you could n't look more appealing," he said. "Well, keep pegging away, and I 'll recommend you to father."

Mrs. Harrison Townsend did not come home at all that autumn. Instead, she sailed for Italy, taking Olive with her. From Europe Mrs. Townsend wrote Murray a letter which he showed to no one, but which gave him no little discomfort of mind.

"I am much better away," she wrote, "where I shall not be in the throes of the revolution which has overtaken my household. With Jane refusing many of her most important invitations, Forrest away, and Shirley casting herself into the business world, like any poor man's daughter, I should be too distressed to be able to play my own part with composure.

I hear that Jane is not keeping up her calling list as conscientiously as she should do. Please try to impress her with her duty to our friends, even if she does not care to make them hers. When I return, I shall wish to take up my social life where I left it, and if I should find my friends alienated by the eccentricity of my daughter-in-law, I should feel that a wrong had been done which it would be difficult to overlook."

"About the hardest thing in the world," thought Murray, as he pondered these lines, "seems to be for one woman to get another's point of view.

Here 's Jane, staying at home all summer to keep me company, when she might have gone off to the seaside or the mountains with Olive. She 's tackling big problems every day in the management of the house, to say nothing of looking after all mother's social correspondence. She 's entertained relatives of ours from in town and from out of town, to say nothing of making father's evenings pleasant and seeing to her own family. Yet because some woman on mother's list writes her that Jane has failed to pay a call within the required limit of time, the poor girl is 'eccentric.' Well, she shall not be taxed with it, if I can help it."

Feeling that Jane, although unconscious of the elder woman's dissatisfaction with her endeavours, should have amends made her after some fashion, Murray arranged to take her with him upon a week's business trip, a flying journey half-way across the continent and back.

In the absence of Mrs. Townsend and Olive, this left Shirley and her father quite alone for a week.

One of the evenings of that week Mr. Townsend spent with Joseph Bell--as was now his frequent custom. On this evening Shirley settled down with a book before the library fire. She had been working harder and harder to perfect herself for the position which she had been a.s.sured should be hers upon the resignation of Miss Henley, a fortnight hence. And she had at last arrived at that state of confidence in her own powers which permitted an occasional indulgence in an idle evening without a twinge of conscience.

The book proved so entertaining that an hour pa.s.sed, during which she took no note of time. She could not have told whether it was late or early, when a slight stir in the hall brought her attention to the fact that somebody was there, awaiting her recognition. She looked up to see Peter Bell standing in the doorway, his face so grave and worn that she gave a little cry of amazement.

"Why, Peter!" she said, and came forward to give him her hand. He looked down at her almost as if he did not see her. His hand was cold.

"You 've been out in the wet--you 're chilled," she said, eagerly drawing him toward the fire. "Why, you 're very wet! You did n't have an umbrella."

"I believe I did n't," Peter answered, glancing at his coat-sleeve, which was, indeed, almost dripping with dampness. "I 've been walking a long way--I don't know how far."

He took the big armchair which she offered him, but she stood regarding his moist condition with concern. His visits were too few to make her willing to run the risk of losing this one by suggesting that he ought not to sit down in his wet coat; and after a moment she ran away and came back with a house coat of Murray's.

"Please put this on," she said.

Peter protested that he had no need of taking such precautions, but Shirley persisted until he obeyed her and donned the coat, throwing his own upon a chair, whence she rescued it and hung it where it might have a chance to dry.

"Now rest and be comfortable," said she, drawing her own small chair into a friendly nearness to the big one, "and tell me what's wrong. It needs to be told at once, I know--or I 'd try to talk about something else first."

"I'm afraid I couldn't talk about anything else first," said Peter.

"Yet I don't know that I can talk about this. But--I had to come. There was no one else I could go to. I 've stood all the rest by myself, but this----"

He stopped short, as if he could not go on. Something about his appearance made Shirley's heart begin to beat fast with apprehension.

It must be a very bad trouble indeed which could make Peter act so unlike himself, Peter the strong, the self-reliant.

Her mind went back in a flash to the day, weeks before, when he had half promised to give her his confidence in regard to matters which it was evident were bothering him. But he had not looked then in the least like this. It had been merely business care which was heavy on his shoulders at that time. This was trouble, or she did not know the signs. His set face, upon which her welcome had brought no hint of an answering smile, the lines about his mouth, the suggestion of pallor which was already succeeding to the colour which had been the result of the tramp in the rain, all made her sure of her conclusions.

"I want to hear," began Shirley, very gently, controlling the anxiety in her voice. Then, suddenly, as a startling thought occurred to her, "Peter, it's not--Murray--or Jane?--or mother?"

"No, no," said Peter, quickly, turning to her. "No, it's not your trouble, it's mine--ours. Only the others don't know it yet. They must n't know it till it--comes. That's why I came here. It' s not right to burden you with it, I 'm afraid. But, somehow I----"

Shirley impulsively put out her hand, as if to touch his. He did not see it, and she withdrew it again. She longed to give him comfort in some way. Yet, until the story was told, she could not tell what to do.

If only he would tell it quickly. But, plainly, it was hard to tell.

He drew a deep breath; then sat up straight, staring into the fire.

"There has been a long succession of misfortunes," he began, slowly. "I don't need to go into those, though I thought them bad enough--until now. Now--if it were nothing worse than those things, if I could just go back to them, I 'd shoulder them all gladly, and not mind. It was property business, all of it--foreclosure of a heavy mortgage threatening Grandfather Bell's farm, loss of the little money father had got together and put into stocks that have gone to pieces--that sort of thing. It was up to me to straighten it all out--and not much to do it with. And father--he seemed not very well--had two or three queer attacks of illness at the factory during the hot weather. I felt I could n't worry him with it. He seemed to be getting old--all at once.

Finally, yesterday----"

Peter paused; then he went on in a lower voice:

"Yesterday he had another of those attacks--much worse than before. A man near him sent for me, and I sent for a doctor. The doctor brought him round, but it took some time. To-day I made him go to another doctor--a specialist. He examined father, and told me what it was."

Shirley, in a breathless silence, waited.

"Any over-exertion, excitement, worry--anything--may end it at any time.

If he would give up and stay quietly at home, he might last a good while. But that's what he won't do. He knows it all--took it as coolly as if it were nothing at all, but won't give up. And he won't have anybody told. Says they 'd never know another happy moment--and that's true enough. He 'll just take his chances. It's brave of him, and I can understand how he feels, but the hard thing for me is--I 've got to keep still, and stand by, and--see it come."

With the last word Peter's voice almost broke. He turned his head away.

Shirley got up and went to him. She laid one hand on his shoulder, standing still beside him, her heart aching with sympathy, but finding not a word to say. In all his unhappiness, Peter recognised the light touch, and putting up his cold hand grasped the warm one. He held it tight for a minute, for the sense of comradeship and comprehension it brought him gave him courage to go on.

Shirley understood the warm and close relations which had always existed between Peter and his father. And she realised, with a pang, that which Peter had not mentioned, but which must add its share to the poignancy of his apprehension--the fact that with the loss of the head of the family, the burden of the support of that family must fall upon the son's shoulders. Money problems were not to be mentioned in the same breath with the threatened loss of a dear parent, but the anxiety they were bound to cause would make Peter's trouble immeasurably more serious.

When Peter spoke his voice was steady again.

"Of course I 'm facing nothing harder than other people have to face every day, in one way or another. I mean to stand up to it, like a man, if I can--it would n't be worthy of a chap with a father like mine to be bowled over by what he bears with such courage. But it seemed to me I must tell somebody, and you--something you said weeks ago, when we went riding together, made me sure you would care."

"I do care, very, very much," Shirley answered. "I 've wished ever so many times since then that I knew what was the matter. If you had told me that, it would have been easier for you to come to me with this, I think. I 'm so glad you did. I only wish--oh, how I wish--there were something I could do!"

"You can. You 're doing it now. Just knowing you know makes it easier.

If there were anything I could do myself I could bear it better."

She slipped out of the room. In a few minutes she came back, bearing a tray, upon which was a cup of chocolate with a little mound of whipped cream on top, and beside it a plate of sandwiches. She set her tray at Peter's elbow.

"Father is so fond of this, late in the evening, that Cook keeps a double boiler ready on the back of the range, and the rest of us make use of it," she explained. "You may not be hungry, but it will be good for you. Tell me, did you have your supper?"

"No, I haven't been home," he owned. "If a fellow could eat at all, he ought to be able to eat this."

To Shirley's satisfaction Peter consumed every one of the six thin sandwiches, and when she suggested a second cup of chocolate, he gratefully accepted it. He had been famishing, though he had not known it. The interview with the specialist had taken place before lunch time, and Peter had not remembered lunch at all.

Being human, and very weary, creature comforts did their part in strengthening him, in mind as well as body. When he had finished, and had spent another half-hour listening to Shirley's account of news from Forrest, who was in the West Indies now, he rose, a very different young man from the one who had come in out of the rain an hour before.

When he had exchanged the velvet house-coat for the rough tweed one, now dried by the fire, he stood before her, hat in hand. He looked down into her friendly uplifted face and something very appreciative showed in his own. He could summon only the suggestion of a smile, but his eyes were less heavy, his colour had come back, and resolution was once more in his bearing.