"Yesh! thas what I shaid! That Morris chair met me at the door and barked every shin I've got. Get out of here!" he roared at the two servants who had entered from the kitchen. "Selah, where've you been?"

"I'm up here, father. I didn't know it was so late. I'll be down in a minute."

To lie is not the nature of women, but it is often their necessity.

"Bring the arnica with you, me dear-- I'm a wounded man! But I'm glad you were at home. I've been nervous 'bout you all day; there's something wrong in this town!"

All that had happened an hour ago. The Colonel was now peacefully snoring with both feet bandaged and elevated upon pillows; and Selah was waiting upon the veranda. She was evidently waiting. When a young and beautiful woman is not waiting for a lover, she does not look so calmly, sweetly indifferent. She is restless. She rises and looks at the moon.

Now the moon was looking at Selah, embroidering her white dress with the fairy shadows of leaves, covering her face with a soft splendour, glistening like a crown of light upon her dark hair. That was the difference.

Footsteps sounded upon the gravel. The figure of a man, tall, slender, regnant, was swinging up the walk. Selah did not move. She was that fairest thing in a darkened world, the presence achieved when a woman combines herself with silence, stillness, and moonlight.

The man sprang lightly up the steps.

"Hush!" she whispered, "don't ring the bell!"

"Selah!" he exclaimed, advancing to her. "What a vision you are!"

"Don't speak so loud," she whispered, motioning him to a seat beside her.

"I didn't, darling. I'd as lief shout before an altar as lift my voice in this chapel of the moon," he answered, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips.

"Father is not well. He's just dozed off!" she exclaimed.

"If I know anything about such dozing, it would take an earthquake to rouse him now!" he answered, laughing.

Selah sighed and withdrew her hand.

"If you do that, dear, I shall seize more!" he whispered, leaning forward and slipping his arm around her waist.

"Don't, Mr. Sasnett!" she said so coolly that he drew back and stared at her.

"'Mr. Sasnett,' and when did I cease to be Bob, pray? I've been Bob for a good many years to you, Selah. What's the matter? Have you seen me flirting with another girl? You have not! Have you heard of my calling on Mike Prim? You have not! Has some one told you of the last murder I committed? Certainly not! I haven't killed a man yet. Shall not do so until he becomes my rival in your heart. Now what is it? Why am I 'Mr.

Sasnett' upon this beautiful moonlight night when of all times I should be most tenderly Bob?"

"I can't explain," she answered.

"What is the matter with everybody in this town, especially the women?

It hasn't been an hour since mother came home and said _she_ couldn't explain when I asked her why she was so upset."

"She was upset then?" asked the girl curiously.

"Most awfully! She got out of the car like a flying squadron of rage, eyes blazing, face pale. And when I asked her what the trouble was she said I'd know soon enough. Now what did she mean?"

"You'll know soon enough," repeated Selah, smiling.

"Good heavens! What's the game, Selah?"

"We've drawn trumps at last," answered Selah.

"We! Who are we? Certainly not mother! As she dashed--really dashed, you know, and at her age!--upstairs to her room she informed me that she had resigned from the presidency of the Civic League and Cemetery a.s.sociation, and that never again would she be mixed up with women who had so far forgotten their dignity and womanhood. Then she banged the door."

"She did take it rather hard. I imagine your mother is a very old-fashioned woman."

"Well, she's quite the lady, if that's what you mean, and something of an autocrat. Did you depose her from the presidency this afternoon?"

"No, we dissolved the organization. There is no Civic League and Cemetery a.s.sociation now!"

"Then we'll all have weeds on our graves--and untidy streets!" he murmured between a sn.i.g.g.e.r and a sob.

"Was that all your mother said?" asked Selah.

"Not quite. The fact is that's why I came over to-night. She's got her neck feathers up at you, too, it seems. I asked her through the door if we were to come by and pick you up for the drive we had planned, and she----" he hesitated.

"Well?"

"She said, 'Don't mention Selah Adams to me, Robert,' just like that, as if she'd seen you leading a riot or addressing a mob!"

"Yes, I know. You are a dramatist, Bob, better than you suspect!"

answered Selah.

"Thanks for the 'Bob,' anyway. Now let's forget it. Mother will come around all right. She really loves you. She's only ruffled over some of your cat-scratching politics in the league. Now be a good girl and kiss me, dear!" he pleaded.

"I can't, Bob."

"You mean you won't; well, I can and will," he exclaimed, placing his palms upon either side of her face and drawing her to him.

"You must _not_!" she objected, evading him.

"Why? Aren't we engaged?"

"We were engaged," she answered with a sob.

"Who's broken it? Not I?"

"You will, when you know! Besides, I wish to be released from--from----"

"Say it! You'd as well to say it as to wish it!" he exclaimed with sudden pa.s.sion.

"I don't want to say it, but I must give you your liberty, dear."

"Well, I'll not have it so long as you call me 'dear' in that tone!" he cried.

"But I want mine!" she said, looking at him gravely.

"Don't you love me, Selah?"