She made her connections in New York without any difficulty, after having wired Clifford what hour she expected to arrive in Washington the following morning. He was at the station to meet her when the train rolled into it, and welcomed her most cordially; indeed, a great burden rolled from his heart the moment he caught sight of her strong, honest face, for he felt that she was equal to the responsibilities awaiting her.

To her inquiries regarding the squire's condition, he replied that he was pretty sick and had been delirious all night, but had fallen asleep a few moments before he left him to come to her.

"Who's been taking care of him?" Maria questioned.

"Well, he has not needed much care until yesterday and last night, and I've done what I could," Clifford modestly returned.

Then he told her about his accident and of his narrow escape from being burned to death, although he made as light as possible of his own agency in these matters; but Maria learned all about it later, when she had made the acquaintance of the landlady, who could not say enough in praise of him.

For three weeks Squire Talford was a very sick man, and even Maria found her powers of endurance taxed to the utmost, in spite of the aid of Clifford, who insisted upon sharing her vigils at night and doing all that he could besides out of business hours. He pulled through, however, though it was a hard pull; yet when he began to convalesce he mended very rapidly.

Five weeks after Maria's arrival he was able to be up and dressed; his appet.i.te had returned, and he said he felt as if he had "been made over new."

One morning, after she had served him a nice breakfast and put his room to rights, Mrs. Kimberly seated herself directly opposite her patient, with a very determined look on her honest face.

"Well, what is it, Maria?" the squire questioned, for he always knew that matters of importance weighed heavily on her mind when she looked like that.

"I've got something to tell you," she replied, and coming directly to the point.

"I thought so. What is it? Go ahead."

"Waal, I expect you won't like it very well, but it's got to be told,"

the woman observed, and flushing slightly. "When I was cleanin' the attic, after you left, I took that little hair trunk o' your'n up to move it, dropped it, and smashed the lid off."

The squire started and shot a quick look at her at this.

"Of course, everything tumbled out," she pursued, "and I had to pick 'em up and put 'em back. I suppose I don't need to tell you that I found among the mess a box belonging to Cliff."

She glanced up as she concluded, to find that her companion had lost some of his recently recovered color during her recital.

There was a moment of awkward silence, then the man curtly remarked:

"Well?"

"Waal, the box had come apart in the smash, and I found a lot of letters directed to Cliff's mother and--to his father. I found, too, the papers that told about Mis' Faxon's marriage and Cliff's christening."

"Well?" questioned the squire again as she paused, but with white lips.

"Of course, I didn't read the letters. I thought 'twas none o' my business what was in 'em, but when I saw them certificates I made up my mind that a burnin' wrong had been done that boy--a wrong that must be righted, squire; so, when I got his message to come to take care o' you, I brought that box along with me."

"You did!" exclaimed Squire Talford, in a startled tone. "What have you done with it--have you given it to Cliff?"

"No, sir! You don't ketch Maria Kimberly doin' anything underhanded if she knows it," responded the woman, with considerable spirit. "As long as I found the things in your trunk, I made up my mind I'd tell you about it first and see what you'd do before I went any farther."

"That shows your good sense and honesty, Maria," said the squire appreciatively. "I suppose, however, you think the boy ought to have the papers," he added thoughtfully.

"Of course I do, and that ain't all he oughter have, either," his companion retorted, with stout-hearted frankness.

"What do you mean?" demanded the squire, with well-a.s.sumed surprise.

Maria sniffed significantly and tossed her head.

"I suppose you imagine I don't know who Cliff's father was," she said, with a wise smile. "I suppose you think I never heard that story about Belle Abbot, who, after she was engaged to one man, fell in love with another and jilted the first one. But I never suspected that the man she married was anything to you--I never heard that part of it--until just afore I came to Washington. I was dustin' the books in that old secretary in your bedroom, and came across that old Bible your mother used to like because the type was so clear. I'd seen it a hundred times, but never took any notice of the family record till that day, when I found the same name, among a lot of others, that I saw on Belle Abbot's marriage-certificate.

"You could have knocked me over with a feather, for I always believed Cliff's mother married a man by the name o' Faxon--and she did, too, for that was one of the names. I never could understand afore why you hated the boy so; but now I see through it. You knew he didn't know anything about his father; you pretended to be a friend to Mis' Faxon after she came back from the West, influenced her to bind the boy to you when she was dyin', and managed, some way, to get hold o' them papers and have kep' 'em hid from him ever since, for you didn't mean he should ever have his rights if you could help it."

"Don't you think you are getting pretty sharp and familiar in your talk, Maria?" the squire demanded shortly, as she paused for breath, but the hand that was fingering an envelope trembled visibly.

"Maybe," she coolly retorted. "I'd made up my mind that the right time had come for some 'sharp and familiar' talk to you, and I wasn't going to shirk my duty. I've lived with you, Squire Talford, nigh on to eighteen years, and I've tried to do my best for you and your'n all that time--'specially since Mis' Talford died, for I felt I owed her a lot for the pains she took to train me; then, of course, I wanted to feel that I earned the money you was payin' me, though I've never had a rise in my wages. So my conscience is clear on that score, and I don't think I've neglected anything except to speak my mind, and that I'm goin' to make up for now, if I never set foot in the old place again.

"I've had hard work to hold my tongue in the past when you was abusin'

Cliff as you used to, and you'd no cause to hate him as you seemed to, either. He never wronged you; he wasn't to blame for comin' into the world the son o' the other man instead o' your'n. A better, brighter boy never drew breath; he served you faithful as the day was long and you treated him shameful--worse'n a slave. I used to wonder how you could sleep nights after some o' those awful thrashin's you gave him. I never felt meaner in my life for anybody than I did for you when you let him go off to college without even a word o' kindness and encouragement, and if I knew then what I know now he'd never have gone away as empty-handed as he did."

"You are spreading it on pretty thick, Maria, and I think it is about time you stopped," the squire here interposed, and with a face that was now crimson with mingled anger and shame.

"Yes, I s'pose I am spreadin' it on thick," she composedly admitted, "and I tell you I'm downright glad of the chance for once. I reckon I am about through, though, only I'd like to ask what you propose to do for Cliff."

"I'm not sure that I propose to do anything," was the sullen reply.

"You don't," cried Maria, bridling again, "Well, then, I do. I propose to see that that young man gets his rights. I'm far from bein' a rich woman, but I've saved up a plump little sum out o' my wages and Cliff shall have every dollar of it to help him fight for his share of the fortune that his grandmother left, and if you was clothed and in your right mind you'd want him to have the rest of it when you're done with it.

"What are you thinking of, Squire Talford," she went on, glowing with indignation, "to nurse, at your time o' life, such a spite against such a splendid fellow like Clifford Faxon--a fellow that any man might be proud to own as a son? Haven't you any grat.i.tude for what he's done for you? You'd have been burned to a cinder and lyin' under them brick walls outside, but for him; he did what precious few men would have done that night o' the fire, to save a man he knew hated him and had abused him as you did when he was a boy.

"And that ain't all, neither; he gave up this nice room to you and has been sleepin' in a back room that's little better'n a closet, at the end o' the hall, so's he could be handy to spell me when I had to rest. And he's set up watchin' with you, night after night, just as faithful 's if you was his own father. I could never have done it alone; for, squire, you came mighty nigh slippin' over Jordan some o' them nights--mighty nigh. Man alive! haven't you got any heart? What are you made of, anyway? Waal," drawing a long breath and looking a trifle frightened as she began to realize that she had been holding forth with more vigor than discretion, "I guess I've said enough for now, and I'll leave you to think it over. I've got that box in my trunk, and if you don't see fit to do the square thing by Cliff I shall give it to him, tell him all I know and then you an' I'll settle our accounts."

The woman arose as she concluded and walked quietly from the room, leaving the squire to meditate, in no enviable frame of mind, upon a situation which he had never dreamed would overtake him.

Maria did not go near him again until luncheon-time, when she carried him a tray of daintily prepared viands that would have tempted an epicure.

She watched him out of the corners of her eyes while she arranged his table, and the thoughtful expression on his face appeared to afford her an immense amount of satisfaction, for two or three times, when she pa.s.sed behind his chair, she nodded her head with a gratified air which spoke volumes.

The man did not refer to the conversation of the morning, but there was that in his manner and in the tones of his voice whenever he addressed her, which a.s.sured her that he did not think any the less of her for the stand she had taken.

She kept out of his way during most of the afternoon, also, giving as a reason that she was going to be busy in the laundry, but at night, as at noon, his dinner was prepared with the greatest care and nicety.

"You are a good cook, Maria," he remarked as she brought him a second cup of coffee, the aroma of which pervaded the whole room, "and," he added gravely, "you have proved yourself to be a tip-top nurse."

"Thank you, sir," Maria respectfully responded and flushing with pleasure at the unusual praise; "I had a good woman to train me--Mis'

Talford made me what I am, and I'm not backward to give her the credit of it; she was a prime housekeeper and one o' the salt o' the earth."

Whether it was this reference to his wife, or whether some other matters were pressing heavily upon him, Maria had no means of knowing, but she was sure she heard him sigh and saw his lips contract spasmodically--signs of emotion which were very rare with him.

He finished his dinner in silence, but as she was about to leave the room with his tray he suddenly inquired:

"Maria, has Cliff come in yet?"

"Yes, sir; I met him in the hall as I was bringing up that last cup of coffee."

"Well, will you go to his door and ask him if he can spare me an hour this evening? Say that it is a matter of importance."