"Oh, no! You're quite right to go at once. I can get some one to do your work. But not to take your place. I shall--" Jonathan seemed deeply interested in the crystal paperweight on his desk. "We shall miss you very much."

"I haven't thanked you--"

"Please don't thank me for anything. I have done nothing any one could not have done. It is," he said huskily, "it is to my happiness, my great happiness, if I have been able to help you a very little."

Then he looked up and saw her face.

"Miss Summers! You look overtired--and I have kept you standing. You must sit down, and let me get you--"

"It is nothing at all." She forced a smile to her lips. "It is only the reaction from yesterday. The ride home in the car is all I need.

Good night, Mr. Radbourne."

"You are quite sure--"

"Oh, yes. Quite all right, Mr. Radbourne."

"Good night, Miss Summers."

And when she was gone, he sat down and took a small mirror from a drawer and looked long and sadly at what it recorded. Suddenly he dropped the mirror and bowed his head on the desk.

"Esther!" It was almost a sob. "If only I could help you now!" . . .

David walked the next morning from the station to Aunt Clara's house.

He walked slowly, because Aunt Clara lived on a hill and because he dreaded facing Shirley. But he did not have to face her at once. As he neared the house he saw an automobile, filled almost to overflowing, roll down the driveway and turn up the street; and Shirley was one of the party. She did not notice her unexpected visitor.

But as he turned into the grounds he met a little sailor-suited cherub in tow of a nurse who did not know David. He dropped his bag and squatted before the child.

"h.e.l.lo, old man! Aren't you going to shake hands?"

Davy Junior clung tightly to the nurse's skirt, put one chubby finger into his rosebud mouth and stared, round-eyed, at the big man.

"He's always that way with strangers," the nurse explained.

"Oh!" David winced and stood up. "He's forgotten me, then. When he has had his walk please bring him to the house. I'd like to get acquainted with him again. I'm his father, you know." He picked up his bag and went on to the house.

A few minutes later he was shown into Aunt Clara's sitting-room. She greeted him in astonishment and offered her cheek for a kiss.

"This is a surprise. Shirley's out, too. They're gone for a picnic and won't be back until dark."

"Yes. I saw them start out. How is she?"

"Shirley's quite well. And seemingly enjoying herself."

"I suppose so," he said.

"And the boy, too."

"Yes. I just saw him. He--" David cleared his throat. "He didn't know me."

"That's to be expected. Children forget easily. You're not looking well yourself."

"I've been working pretty hard of late."

"Are you on your vacation?" Aunt Clara was studying him curiously.

"No. I have just to-day. I came to get Shirley to come back."

"Are you out of debt then?"

"Not quite."

"You've had a raise? Or has something better turned up?"

"I've had one little raise. Nothing else has happened--that I can count on. But we can get along nicely now, thanks to your help."

"For which you're not thankful at all," she smiled grimly.

"It was a mistake."

"Humph!" she sniffed. "Have you lived with Shirley four years without learning that she can't stand--"

"Suppose," he interrupted quietly, "suppose we don't criticize Shirley.

I shan't criticize you, either. I blame myself for letting her come here. Now we're going to correct that mistake."

Aunt Clara sniffed again. "What has got into you? You used to have no more spirit than a mouse. Now you remind me of your late Uncle John in some of his moods. Suppose Shirley thinks it better--_sniff_--to stay here a while longer? If you're not out of debt you'll still have to pinch pennies and--"

He interrupted again, still quietly. "You must help to convince her it is best. She must come--before it is too late."

"What do you mean by that--'before it is too late'?"

"I mean--while I still want her to come."

"Eh?" Aunt Clara stared sharply at him. She put on her spectacles, that she might stare more effectively.

Then a light broke in on her, a light too incredible, too dazing even for Aunt Clara's confident mind. "Eh? David Quentin! Do you mean to tell me--do you mean--there is another woman? Who is she?"

He made no answer, but though his tired face went even whiter, steadily withstood her gaze.

"Such a thing never happened in our family before," Aunt Clara gasped weakly, "that I ever heard of. I don't know what to do about it."

"There is only one thing," he said steadily. "Shirley must come back at once."

Aunt Clara took off her spectacles, rubbed them mechanically and donned them again. Her hands fell nerveless to her lap.

"I don't know what to do," she repeated. "For the first time in all my existence. I--I have no precedents. You must leave me for a while until I can think this out."

He rose. "You can't think it out. I have tried."