She had no housekeeping details to occupy her--Mrs. Pope had insisted upon a competent housekeeper; her duties were confined to signing checks, her pleasures, to enjoying Bobbie's delight in his surroundings.

His pony cart, the boat she had got for him, all his new experiences, made the child feel that he had suddenly entered heaven itself. His cough, his pale cheeks, his fretful nights were a thing of the past. He lived the life of a little savage and health flowed in upon him accordingly.

Mrs. Pope did not share her daughter's loneliness. The atmosphere in which she now lived and moved charmed her. With Alice and Edith at her side, a houseful of expensive and competent servants to gratify her slightest wish, with Donald on hand only over the week ends, she felt that her cup of blessedness was once more filled to the brim.

It was late Sat.u.r.day afternoon. The Sound lay sparkling in the hot August sunshine. Mrs. Pope came into the handsomely appointed hall of their new home, and sank heavily into a padded-leather chair. After all, she felt, this was indeed life in its fullest sense. She fanned herself languidly with a lace fan, regarding her elaborate gown, meanwhile, with much satisfaction. She glanced up as Edith entered the room, looking very lovely in a costume of white lace.

"Has Alice come back from the station yet, mother?" inquired Edith.

"Not yet, my dear. I'm waiting for her now. I suppose I am expected to welcome this young Hall--though I can't say I want to. I wish Alice had not invited him. If she would take my advice, she would send him about his business. Four thousand a year! Pooh! a beggar!"

"Well, mother, now that we have asked him, we must make him welcome. How do you like my dress?" She came around in front of her mother's chair.

Mrs. Pope observed it critically through her gold lorgnon. "Oh, it will do, my dear," she replied. "I should have preferred the Irish point."

"But, mother, it was five hundred dollars."

"What of it? Why shouldn't you look as well as possible? Of course, Donald would never care, but there are others. I heard several people at the hotel say last night that you were the best-looking and the best-dressed woman there."

"I don't care what they said, mother," replied Edith, selecting a rose from a jar on the table, and putting it in her bosom. "I'd rather please Donald."

Mrs. Pope sniffed audibly. "Oh, very well, my dear," she observed. "Have your own way. It's some satisfaction, at least, to know that you can buy a dress when you feel like it, without having to account to your husband for it. My poor, dear J. B. always gave me a most liberal allowance. I never could dress on less than three thousand a year."

"Well, mother, you know you did manage to get along on much less, the last few years."

Mrs. Pope a.s.sumed a deeply hurt expression. "Edith," she exclaimed irritably, "it is most unkind of you to remind me of my temporary poverty. Before my poor, dear J. B. died--"

"Frightfully hot this evening, isn't it?" Edith interrupted.

The mother glared at her daughter in annoyance. "Where's Donald?" she suddenly asked.

"In his room, mother."

"Didn't he get here on the five-o'clock train?"

"Yes."

"Then why doesn't he come downstairs? I hope he bought the afternoon papers."

"They're in the library. Donald says the trip down was terribly hot and stuffy. He's changing his things."

Mrs. Pope snorted. "If he would spend the summer down here with you, as a husband ought, instead of staying in town, fooling with that engineering work of his, he wouldn't have that hot trip to make every Sat.u.r.day."

"Nonsense, mother!" replied Edith. "Donald is perfectly right. I wouldn't want him to become an idler, living on his wife. He has too much spirit for that."

"Then if he must stay in town, why doesn't he get a decent place to live? I don't think it looks well for him to be staying at that cheap little flat, now that you have plenty of money to take your proper place in society."

"He likes the old place. He says he was happy there. He thought he might as well stay on till the lease expired."

"Well, there's no accounting for tastes. If you are satisfied, I see no reason why I should object." Mrs. Pope began to fan herself vigorously.

"I can get along very well without him."

Mrs. Rogers went to the door and looked down the long, shady drive.

"Alice seems to be gone a long time. I hope the machine hasn't broken down."

"The train is probably late. They generally are on this road. What room are you going to give Mr. Hall?"

"I thought I'd give him the one over the library," said Edith, as she resumed her chair. "It has a lovely view of the Sound. I know he'll be glad enough to see it again after being West over six months."

Mrs. Pope snorted indignantly. "I wish he had stayed there," she grumbled. "I cannot imagine what Alice sees in him to rave about."

"Donald tells me he's a very bright fellow. He knew him in college. She might do a great deal worse."

"Not much. Why can't she pick out a man of means, like poor Mr. West was? Think of what we owe that poor young man!"

"Don't, mother!" Edith cried. "Please!"

She rose and went to the fireplace, her face convulsed with emotion.

"Why is it, Edith, that you always seem annoyed whenever I speak of Mr.

West? You don't show proper feeling. Think of all you owe him. I don't see how you can let a day pa.s.s without thanking him from the bottom of your heart for all the happiness he has given you."

"I appreciate it very much, mother." Edith's voice trembled--there was a trace of a sob in it.

"You certainly do not act like it," pursued her mother relentlessly.

"Every time I mention his name you change the subject."

Edith turned, her face flushing. "Can't you see," she cried, "how it hurts me? I don't want to be reminded of his death every minute of the day. G.o.d knows, I wish he were alive again!"

"There's no use in wishing that, my dear," remarked her mother. "G.o.d, in His wisdom, orders all things for the best." She glanced about the richly furnished room with a satisfied smile.

Edith was about to reply, when the afternoon stillness was broken by the sound of wheels upon the gravel road, accompanied by the honk of an automobile horn. She hurried to the door, and, as she did so, Alice appeared, accompanied by a heavily built young fellow in blue serge, carrying a suit-case. Mrs. Pope rose.

"Well, mother, we're here at last," cried Alice. "The train was fifteen minutes late." She turned to the man behind her. "Mother, you know Mr.

Hall."

"My dear Mr. Hall, I'm so glad to see you!" said Mrs. Pope effusively, as she offered the newcomer her hand.

Mr. Hall shook hands. He was a genial, whole-souled sort of a fellow, and, as he turned to acknowledge his introduction to Edith, she felt an instinctive liking for him. He was telling Mrs. Pope how glad he felt to be East again, after six nights in a sleeping-car.

"Yes," he rattled on, in his breezy way, "I've come all the way from 'Frisco. We're building some docks there. Ever been in 'Frisco, Mrs.

Rogers?"

"No," replied Edith, "though I've always wanted to go."

"Great place. Nothing like it this side of the Rockies. Wide-open town, I can tell you."

"Do you like that kind of a town, Mr. Hall?" asked Mrs. Pope grimly.