To-Day and To-Morrow
The house was very still. Outside, a belated cricket kept up his cheery fiddling as he fared to his hidden home. Sometimes a leaf fell and rustled down the road ahead of a vagrant wind. The clock ticked monotonously. Second by second and minute by minute, To-Morrow advanced upon Barbara; that To-Morrow which must be made surely right by the deeds of To-Day.
"If I could go," murmured Barbara. She was free of the plaster and she could move about in bed easily. Ironically enough, her crutches leaned against the farther wall, in sight but as completely out of reach as though they were in the next room.
Barbara sat up in bed and, cautiously, placed her two tiny bare feet on the floor. With great effort, she stood up, sustained by a boundless hope. She discovered that she could stand, even though she ached miserably, but when she attempted to move, she fell back upon the bed. She could not walk a step.
Vanishing Hopes
Faint with fear and pain, she got back into bed. She knew, now, all that the red-haired young man had refused to tell her. He was too kind to say that she was not to walk, after all. He was leaving it for Doctor Conrad—or Eloise.
Objects in the room danced before her mockingly. Her crutches were veiled by a mist—those friendly crutches which had served her so well and were now out of her reach. But Barbara had no time for self-pity. The dominant need of the hour was pressing heavily upon her.
With icy, shaking fingers, Barbara rang her bell. Presently Miriam came in, attired in a flannel dressing-gown which was hopelessly unbecoming. Barbara was moved to hysterical laughter, but she bit her lips.
"Aunt Miriam," she said, trying to keep her voice even, "father has a letter of mine in his coat pocket which I should like to read again to-night. Will you bring me his coat, please?"
Miriam turned away without a word. Her face was inscrutable.
"Don't wake him," called Barbara, in a shrill whisper. "If he is not asleep, wait until he is. I would not have him wakened, but I must have the coat to-night."
From his closed door came the sound of deep, regular breathing. Miriam turned the knob noiselessly, opened the door, and slipped in. When her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she found the coat easily. It had not taken long. Even Barbara might well be surprised at her quickness.
Perhaps the letter was not in his coat—it might be somewhere else. At any rate, it would do no harm to make sure before going in to Barbara. Miriam went into her own room and calmly lighted a candle.
The Letter Recovered
Yes, the letter was there—two sheets: one in ink, in Constance's hand, the other, in pencil, written by Barbara. Why should Barbara write to one who was blind?
With her curiosity now thoroughly aroused, Miriam hastily read both letters, then put them back. Her lips were curled in a sneer when she took the coat into Barbara's room and gave it to her without speaking.
The girl thrust an eager hand into the inner pocket and, with almost a sob of relief, took out her mother's letter and her own version of it.
"Thank you, Aunty," breathed Barbara. "I am sorry—to—to—disturb you, but there was no—other way."
The Letter Destroyed
Miriam went out, as quietly as she had come, carrying the coat and leaving Barbara's door ajar. When she was certain that she was alone, Barbara tore the letter into shreds. So much, at least, was sure. Her father should never see them, whatever he might think of her.
Miriam was standing outside the blind man's door. She fancied she heard him stir. It did not matter—there was plenty of time before morning to return the coat. She took it back into her own room and sat down to think.
Her mirror reflected her face and the unbecoming dressing-gown. The candlelight, however, was kind. It touched gently upon the grey in her hair, hid the dark hollows under her eyes, and softened the lines in her face. It lent a touch of grace to her work-worn hands, moving nervously in her lap.
After twenty-one years, this was what Constance had to say to Barbara—that she loved another man, that Ambrose North was not to know it, and that she did not quite trust Miriam. Also that Miriam had loved AmbroseNorth and had never quite forgiven Constance for taking him away from her.
Out of the shadow of the grave, Miriam's secret stared her in the face. She had not dreamed, until she read the letter, that Constance knew. Barbara knew now, too. Miriam was glad that Barbara had the letter, for she knew that, in all probability, she would destroy it.
A Crumbling Structure
The elaborate structure of deceit which they had so carefully reared around the blind man was crumbling, even now. If he recovered his sight, it must inevitably fall. He would know, in an instant of revelation, that Miriam was old and ugly and not beautiful, as she had foolishly led him to believe, years ago, when he asked how much time had changed her. She looked pitifully at her hands, rough and knotted and red through untiring slavery for him and his.
She and Barbara would be sacrificed—no, for he would forgive Barbara anything. She was the only one who would lose through his restored vision, unless Constance might, in some way, be revealed to him as she was.
"I do not quite trust Miriam. She loved your father and I took him away from her."The cruel sentences moved crazily before her as in letters of fire.
The letter was gone. Ambrose North would never see the evidence of Constance's distrustof her, nor come, without warning, upon Miriam's pitiful secret which, with a woman's pride, she would hide from him at all costs. None the less, Constance had stabbed her again. A ghostly hand clutching a dagger had suddenly come up from the grave, and the thrust of the cold, keen steel had been very sure.
Scheming Miriam
For twenty years and more, she had been tempted to read to the blind man the letter Constance had written to Laurence Austin just before she died. For that length of time, her desire to blacken Constance, in the hope that the grief-stricken heart might once more turn to her, had warred with her love and her woman's fear of hurting the one she loved. To-night, even in the face of the letter to Barbara, she knew that she should never have courage to read it to him, nor even to give it to him with her own hands.
In case he recovered his sight, she might leave it where he would find it. She was glad, now, that the envelope was torn, for he would not be apt to open a letter addressed to another, even though Constance had penned the superscription and the man to whom it was addressed was dead. His fine sense of honour would, undoubtedly, lead him to burn it. But, if the letter were in a plain envelope, sealed, and she should leave it on his dresser, he would be very sure to open it, if he saw it lying there, and then——
Miriam smiled. Constance would be paid at last for her theft of another woman's suitor, for her faithlessness and her cowardly desertion. There was a heavy score against Constance, who had so belied the meaning of her name, and the twenty years had added compound interest. North might not—probably would not—turn again to Miriam after all these years; she saw that plainly to-night for the first time, but he would, at any rate, see that he had given up the gold for the dross.
Miriam got her work-box and began to mend the coat lining. She had not known that it was torn. She wondered how he would feel when he discovered that the precious letter was lost. Would he blame Barbara—or her?
It would be too bad to have him lose the comfort those two sheets of paper had given him. Miriam had seen him as he sat alone for hours in his own room, with the door ajar, caressing the written pages as though they were alive and answered him with love for love. She knew it was Constance's letter to Barbara, but she had lacked curiosity as to its contents until to-night.
The Plot
The letter to Laurence Austin was written on paper of the same size. There was still some of it, in Constance's desk, in the living-room downstairs. Suppose she should replace one letter with the other, and, if he ever read it, let him have it all out with Barbara, who wastrying to save him from knowledge that he should have had long ago.
The coat slipped to the floor as Miriam considered the plan. Perhaps one of them would ask her what it was. In that case she would say, carelessly: "Oh, a letter Constance left for Laurence Austin. I did not think it best to deliver it, as it could do no good and might do a great deal of harm." She would have the courage for that, surely, but, if she failed at the critical moment, she could say, simply: "I do not know."
She crept downstairs and returned with a sheet of Constance's note-paper. Neither she nor Barbara had ever been obliged to use it, and it was far back in a corner of a deep drawer, together with North's check-book, which had been useless for so many years.
As she had expected, it exactly matched the other sheet. She folded the two together, with the letter to Laurence Austin inside. North would not be disappointed, now, when he reached into his pocket and found no fond letter from his dead but still beloved Constance. Barbara could not change this, by rewriting into anything save a cry of passionate love.
Subtle Revenge
Miriam's whole being glowed with satisfaction. She thrilled with the pleasure of this subtle revenge upon Constance, who was fully repaid, now, for writing as she had.
"I do not quite trust Miriam. She loved your father and I took him away from her."
She repeated the words in a whisper, and smiled to think of the deeply loving, passionate page to another man that had filled the place. Let the Fates do their worst now, for when he should read it——
The Irony of Fate
Some way, Miriam was very sure that his sight was to be restored to him. She perceived, now, the irony of his caressing the letter Constance had written to Barbara. How much more ironical it would be to see him, with that unearthly light upon his face, moving his hand across the page Constance had written to Laurence Austin just before she died. Miriam well knew that the other letters had come first and that Constance's last word had been to the man she loved.
The hours passed on, slowly. The mist that hung over the sea was faintly touched with dawn before Miriam arose, and, taking the coat, went back to Ambrose North's room. She paused outside the door, but all was still.
She entered, quietly, and laid the coat on a chair. She started back to the door, but, before she touched the knob, the blind man stirred in his sleep.
"Constance," he said, drowsily, "is that you? Have you come back, Beloved? It has seemed so long."
Surging Hatred
Miriam set her lips grimly against the surging hatred for the dead that welled up within her. She went out hastily, and noiselessly closed the door.
Barbara did not mind lying in bed, now that the heavy plaster cast was gone and she could move about with comparative freedom. Every day, Aunt Miriam massaged her with fragrant oils, and she faithfully took the slight exercises she was bidden to take, even though she knew it was of no use. She was glad, now, that she had kept the crutches in sight, for they had steadily reminded her not to hope too much.
Bitterly Disappointed
Still, she was bitterly disappointed, though she thought she had not allowed herself to hope—that she had done it only because Eloise wanted her to. Perhaps the red-haired young man knew, and perhaps not—she was not so sure, now, that he had refrained from telling her through motives of kindness. But Doctor Conrad would know, instantly, and he and Eloise would be very sorry. Barbara wiped away her tears and compressed her lips tightly together. "I won't cry," she said to herself. "I won't, I won't, I won't."
Her father had gone to the city with thered-haired young man and the nurse. He had been gone more than a week, and Barbara had received no news of him save a brief note from Doctor Conrad. He said that her father had been to a specialist of whom he had spoken to her, and that an operation had been decided upon. He would tell her all about it, he added, when he saw her.
Day by day, Barbara lived over the last evening she and her father had spent together—all the fear and foreboding. She did not for a moment regret that she had taken his precious letter from him and destroyed it. She would face whatever she must, and as bravely as she might, but he should not be hurt in that manner—she had taken the one sure way to spare him that.
A Long Farewell
When he came back, and realised to the full how steadily she had deceived him, he could love her no more. When he said good-bye to her the morning he went away, it had been good-bye in more ways than one. It was a long farewell to the love and confidence that had bound him to her; an eternal separation, in spirit, from the child he had loved.
The tears came when she remembered how he had said good-bye to her. Aunt Miriam and the red-haired young man and the nurse had left them alone together for what might be the last time on earth, and was most surely the last time as regarded the old, sweet relationso soon to be severed—unless he came back blind, as he had gone.
The old man had leaned over her and kissed her twice. "Flower of the Dusk," he had said, with surpassing tenderness, "when I come back, the dusk will change to dawn. If the darkness lifts I shall see you first, and so, for a little while, good-bye."
He had gone downstairs quickly and lightly, as one who is glad to go. When she last saw him, he was walking ahead of the young doctor and the nurse, straight and eager and almost young again, sustained by the same boundless hope that had given Barbara strength for her ordeal.
Dr. Conrad Comes Again
It was almost two weeks before Doctor Conrad came down. He had been obliged, lately, to miss several Sundays with Eloise. When Aunt Miriam came and told Barbara that he was downstairs, she felt a sudden, sharp pang of disappointment, not for herself, but for him. He had tried so hard and done so much, and to know that he had failed— Even in the face of her own bitter outlook, she could be sorry for him.
But, when he came in, he did not seem to need anyone's sympathy. He was so magnificently young and strong, so full of splendid vitality. Barbara's failing courage rose in answer to him and she smiled as she offered a frail little hand.
"Well, little girl," said Doctor Allan, sitting down on the bed beside her, "how goes it?"
"Tell me about father," begged Barbara, ignoring the question.
The Main Trouble
"Father is doing very well," Allan assured her. "He has recovered nicely from the operation and we have strong hope for the sight of one eye if not for both. I can almost promise you partial restoration, but, of course, it is impossible to tell definitely until later. His heart is very weak—that seems to be the main trouble now."
Barbara lay very still, with her eyes closed.
"Aren't you glad?" asked Doctor Allan, in surprise.
"Yes," answered Barbara, with difficulty. "Indeed, yes. I was just thinking."
"A penny for your thoughts," he smiled.
"Are they going to take off the bandages there at the hospital?"
"Why, yes—of course."
"They mustn't!" cried Barbara, sitting up in bed. "Or, if they have to, I must go there. Doctor Conrad, I must see my father before he regains his sight."
"Why?" asked Allan. "Don't cry, little girl—tell me."
His voice was very soothing, and, as he spoke, he took hold of her fluttering hands. The strong clasp was friendly and reassuring.
"Because I've lied to him," sobbed Barbara.
"I've made him think we were rich instead of poor. He doesn't know that I've earned our living all these years by sewing, and that we've had to sell everything that anybody would buy—the pearls and laces and everything. He hates a lie and he'll despise me. It will break his heart. I'd rather tell him myself than to have him find it out."
"Little girl," said Allan, in his deep, tender voice; "dear little girl. Nobody on earth could blame you for doing that, least of all your father. If he's half the man I think he is, he'll only love you the more for doing it."
Barbara looked up at him, her deep blue eyes brimming with tears. "Do you think," she asked, chokingly, "that he ever can forgive me?"
A Promise
Allan laughed. "In a minute," he assured her. "Of course he'll forgive you. But I'll promise you that you shall see him first. As far as that is concerned, I can take the bandages off myself, after he comes home."
"Can you really? And will you?"
"Surely. Now don't fret about it any more. Let's see how you're getting on."
In an instant the man was pushed into the background and the great surgeon took his place. He went at his work with the precision and power of a perfect machine, guided by that unspoken sympathy which was his inestimable gift. He tested muscles and bones and turnedthe joint in its socket. Barbara watched his face anxiously. His forehead was set in a frown and his eyes were keen, but the rest of his face was impassive.
"Sit up," he said. "Now, turn this way. That's right—now stand up."
Barbara obeyed him, trembling. In a minute more he would know.
"Stand on this side only. Now, can you walk?"
"No," answered Barbara, in a sad little whisper, "I can't." She reached for her faithful crutches, which leaned against the foot of the bed, but Doctor Allan snatched them away from her.
"No," he said, with his face illumined. "Never again."
New Hopes
Barbara gasped. "What do you mean?" she asked, terror and joy strangely mingling in her voice.
"Never again," Doctor Allan repeated. "You're never to have your crutches again."
Barbara gazed at him in astonishment. She stood there in her little white night-gown, which was not long enough to cover her bare pink feet, with a great golden braid hanging over either shoulder and far below her waist. Her blue eyes were very wide and dark.
"Am I going to walk?" she asked, in a queer little whisper.
"Certainly, except when you're riding, or sitting down, or asleep."
"I can't believe it," she answered, with quivering lips. Then she threw her arms around Doctor Allan's neck and kissed him with the sweet impulsiveness of a child.
"Thank you," he said, softly. "Now we'll walk."
Walking Again
He put his arm around her and Barbara took a few stumbling steps. Aunt Miriam opened the door and came in.
"Look," cried Barbara. "I'm walking."
"So I see," replied Miriam. "I heard the noise and came up to see what was the matter. I thought perhaps you wanted something." She retreated as swiftly as she had come. Allan stared after her and seemed to be on the verge of saying something very much to the point, but fortunately held his peace.
"You'll have to learn," he said, to Barbara, with a new gentleness in his tone. "Your balance is entirely different and these muscles and joints will have to learn to work. Keep up the exercise and the massage. You can have a cane, if you like, but no crutches. Is there someone who would help you for an hour or so every day?"
"Roger would," she said, "or Aunt Miriam."
"Better get Roger—he'll be stronger. And also more willing," he thought, but he did notsay so. "Don't tire yourself, but walk a little every day, as you feel like it."
When he went, he took the crutches with him. "You might be tempted," he explained, "if they were here, and your father's cane is all you really need. Be a good girl and I'll come up again soon."
A Great Success
Eloise was watching from the piazza of the hotel, and, when he came in sight, she went up the road to meet him.
"Oh, Allan," she cried, breathlessly, as she saw the crutches. "Is she——?"
"She's all right. It's one of the most successful operations ever done in that line, even if I do say it as shouldn't."
"Of course," smiled Eloise, looking up at him fondly. "I knowthat."
They walked together down to the shore, followed by the deep and open interest of the rocking-chair brigade, marshalled twenty strong, on the hotel veranda. It was October and the children had all been taken back to school. The exquisite peace of the place was a thing to dream about and be spoken of only in reverent whispers.
The tide was going out. Allan hurled one of the crutches far out to sea. "They've worked faithfully and long," he said, "and they deserve a little jaunt to Europe. Here goes."
He was about to throw the other, but Eloise took it from him. "Let me," she suggested. "I'd love to throw a crutch over to Europe."
She tried it, with the customary feminine awkwardness. It did not go beyond the shallow water, and speared itself, sharp end downward, in the soft sand.
Allan laughed uproariously and Eloise coloured with shame. "Never mind," she said, with affected carelessness, "you couldn't have made it stick up in the sand like that, and I think it'll get to Europe just as soon as yours does, so there."
They sat down on the beach, sheltered from prying eyes by a sand dune, and directly opposite the crutch, which wobbled with every wave that struck it. "Think what it means," said Eloise, "and think what it might mean. It might be part of a shipwreck, or someone who needed it very much might have dropped it accidentally out of a boat, or the one who had it might have died, after long suffering."
"Or," continued Allan, "someone might have outgrown the need of it and thrown it away, as the tiny dwellers in the sea cast off their shells."
Thanks
Eloise turned to him, with her deep eyes soft with luminous mist. "I haven't thanked you," she said, "for all you have done for my little girl." She lifted her sweet face to his.
"If you're going to thank me like that,"said Allan, huskily, "I'll cut up the whole township and not even bother to save the pieces."
"You needn't," laughed Eloise, "but it was dear of you. You've never done anything half so lovely in all your life."
"It was you who did it, dear. I was but the humble instrument in your hands."
"Was Barbara glad?"
"I think so. She kissed me, too, but not like that."
"Did she, really? The sweet, shy little thing. Bless her heart."
"I infer, Miss Wynne," remarked Allan, in a judicial tone, "that you're not jealous."
"Jealous? I should say not. Anybody who can get you away from me," she added, as an afterthought, "can have you with my blessing and a few hints as to your management."
Really Glad
"Safe offer," he commented. "Are you really glad I've done what I have for Barbara?"
"Oh, my dear! So glad!"
"Then," suggested Allan, hopefully, "don't you think I should be thanked again?"
"I forgot to ask you about that dear old man," said Eloise, after a little. "Is he going to be all right, too?"
"Pretty much so, I think. We're very sure that he can see a little—he will not be totally blind. He will probably need glasses,but there will be plenty of time for that. His heart is the main trouble now. Any sudden excitement or shock might easily prove fatal."
"Of course he won't have that."
Will It Last?
"We'll hope not, but life itself is more or less exciting and you can never tell what's going to break loose next. I have long since ceased to be surprised at anything, except the fact that you love me. I can't get used to that."
"You will, though," said Eloise, a little sadly. "You'll get so used to it that you won't even look up when I come into the room—you'll keep right on reading your paper."
"Impossible."
"That's what they all say, but it's so."
"Have all your previous husbands changed so quickly that you're afraid to try me?"
"I've seen it so much," sighed Eloise.
A great light broke in upon Allan. "Is that why?" he demanded, putting his arm around her. "No, you needn't try to get away, for you can't. Is that why I'm sentenced to all this infernal waiting?"
Eloise bit her lips and did not answer.
"Is it?" he asked, authoritatively.
"A little," she whispered. "This is so sweet, and sometimes I'm afraid——"
"Darling! Darling!" he said, drawing her closer. "You make me ashamed of my fellowmen when you say that. But do you want the year to stand still always at June?"
"No," she answered. "I'm willing to grow with Love, from all the promise of Spring into the harvest and even into Winter, as long as the sweetness is there. Don't you understand, Allan? Who would wish for June when Indian Summer fills all the silences with shimmering amethystine haze? And who would give up a keen, crisp Winter day, when the air sets the blood to tingling, for apple blossoms or even roses? It's not that—I only want the sweetness to stay."
"Please God, it shall," returned Allan, solemnly. He was profoundly moved.
Bank of Life
"It shouldn't be so hard to keep it," went on Eloise, thoughtfully. "I've been thinking about it a good deal, lately. Life will give us back whatever we put into it. In a way, it's just like a bank. Put joy into the world and it will come back to you with compound interest, but you can't check out either money or happiness when you have made no deposits."
"Very true," he responded. "I never thought of it in just that way before."
"If you put joy in, and love, unselfishness, and a little laughter, and perfect faith—I think they'll all come back, some day."
A scarlet leaf from a maple danced along the beach, blown from some distant boughwhere the frost had set a flaming signal in the still September night. A yellow leaf from an elm swiftly caught it, and together they floated out to sea.
When?
"Sweetheart," said Allan, "do you see? The leaves are beginning to fall and in a little while the trees will be bare. How long are you going to keep me waiting for wife and home?"
"I—don't—know."
"Dear, can't you trust me?"
"Yes, always," she answered, quickly. "You know that."
"Then when?"
"When all the colour is gone," she said, after a pause. "When the forest is desolate and the wind sighs through bare branches—when Winter chills our hearts—then I will come to you, and for a little while bring back the Spring."
"Truly, Sweetheart?"
"Truly."
"You'll never be sorry, dear." He took her into his arms and sealed her promise upon her lips.
Alone in the Office
Fido had been in the office alone for almost three hours. The old man, who he knew was his master, and the young man, who was inclined to be impatient with him when he felt playful, had both gone out. The door was locked and there was nobody on the other side of it to answer a vigorous scratch or even a pleading whine. When people knocked, they went away again, almost immediately.
The window-sills were too high for a little dog to reach, and there was no chair near. He walked restlessly around the office, stopping at intervals to sit down and thoughtfully contemplate his feet, which were much too large for the rest of him. He chased a fly that tickled his ear, but it eluded him, and now buzzed temptingly on a window-pane, out of his reach.
It seemed that something serious must have happened, for Fido had never been left alone so long before. If he had known that theold man was conversing pleasantly with some fellow-citizens at the grocery store, and that the young one had his arm around a laughing girl in white, trying to teach her to walk, he would have been very indignant indeed.
Several times, lately, Fido had noticed, the young man had gone out shortly after the old one went to the post-office. It would be, usually, half a day later when his master returned with a letter or two, or often with none. The young man took pains to get back before the old one did, which was well, for there should always be someone in a lawyer's office to receive clients and keep dogs from being lonely.
Pangs of Hunger
The pangs of a devastating hunger assailed Fido, which was not strange, for it was long past the hour when the old man usually took a bulky parcel out of his desk, spread a newspaper upon the floor, and bade Fido eat of cold potatoes, meat, and bread. There was, nearly always, a nice, juicy bone to beguile the tedium of the afternoon. Fido and the old man seldom went home to supper before half past five, and Fido would have been famished were it not for the comfort of the bone.
He sniffed around the larger of the two desks. A tempting odour came from a drawer far above. He stood on his hind legs and reached up as far as he could, but the drawer was closed. So was every other drawer in theoffice, except one, and that was in the young man's desk. Probably there was nothing in it for a hungry dog—there never had been.
The Little Red Box
Still, it might be well to investigate. Fido laboriously climbed up on the chair and put his paws upon the edge of the open drawer. There was nothing in it but papers and a small, square, red box with a rubber band around it.
Fido took the box in his mouth and jumped down. He pushed it with paws and nose over to his own particular corner, sniffing appreciatively meanwhile. It took much vigorous chewing to get the rubber band off and to make a hole in one corner of the box, out of which rolled a great number of small, cylindrical objects. They were not like anything Fido had ever eaten before, but hungry little dogs must take what they can find. So he gulped them all down but one. This one refused to be swallowed and Fido quickly repented of his rashness, for it was distinctly not good. He ate the rubber band and all but a little piece of the red box before the taste was quite gone out of his mouth. Even then, a drink of fresh, cool water would have been very acceptable, but there was nobody to care whether a little dog died of thirst or not.
The bluebottle fly buzzed loudly upon the window-pane, but Fido no longer aspired to him. A vast weariness took the place of his former restlessness. He sat and blinked athis ill-assorted feet for some time, then dragged himself lazily toward his cushion in the corner. Before he reached it, he was so very sleepy that he lay down upon the floor. In less than five minutes, he was off to the canine dreamland, one paw still caressingly laid over the fragments of the little red box.
The Judge Returns
When the Judge came in, an hour later, he was much surprised to find the office locked and the cards of three valued clients on the floor under the door. There had been four, but Fido had eaten the first one. Two of them were marked with the hour of the call. It indicated, plainly, to a logical mind, that Roger had left the office soon after he did, and had not returned. It was very strange.
Fido slumbered on, though hitherto the sound of his master's step would awaken him to noisy and affectionate demonstrations. The Judge turned Fido over with a friendly foot, but there was no answer save a wide yawn. He brought the parcel of bread and meat and opened it, leaving it on the floor close by. Then he took a chicken bone and held it to the sleeper's nose, but Fido turned away as though from an annoying fly.
As the dog had never before failed to take immediate interest in a chicken bone, the Judge was alarmed. He picked up the fragments of the little red box and wondered ifanyone could have poisoned his pet. He brought fresh water, but Fido, hitherto possessed of an unquenchable thirst, failed to respond.
When Roger came in, belated and breathless, he found his explanations coldly received. Whether or not Barbara North ever walked was evidently a matter of no particular concern to the Judge. It was also of no immediate importance that clients had come and found the office empty, even though one of them, presumably, had intended to settle an account of long standing. The vital question was simply this: what was the matter with Fido?
Roger did not know. Though Fido's disdain of food and drink might be abnormal, his position on the floor and his deep breathing were quite natural.
An Inquiry
Then the fragments of the little red box were presented to Roger, and inquiry made as to the contents. Also, had Roger tried to poison the Judge's pet?
Roger had not. The box had contained a prescription for lumbago which Doctor Conrad had given his mother. It was in the drawer in his desk. He might possibly have left the drawer open—probably had, as the box was gone.
The Judge was deeply desirous of knowing why Mrs. Austin's lumbago cure should be kept in the office, within reach of unwary pets.After considerable hesitation, Roger explained.
The owner of Fido was highly incensed. First, he condemned the entire procedure as "criminal carelessness," setting forth his argument in unparliamentary language. Then, remembering that Roger had not really loved Fido, he brought forth an unworthy motive, and accused the hapless young man of murderous intent.
The Judge Commands
Roger would kindly borrow the miniature express waggon which was the prized possession of the postmaster's small son, place the cushion in it, with its precious burden, and convey Fido, with all possible tenderness, to his other and larger cushion in the Judge's own bedroom. He would take the cold chicken, too, please, for if Fido ever wanted anything again in this world, it would probably be chicken.
The Judge would follow as soon as he had written to his clients and expressed his regret that his clerk's numerous social duties did not permit of his giving much time to his business. And, the Judge added, as an afterthought, if Fido should die, it would not be necessary for Roger to return to the office. He wanted someone who could be trusted not to poison his dog while he was out.
Roger was too much disturbed to be conscious of the ludicrous aspect he presented to the public eye as he went down the main thoroughfare of Riverdale, dragging the smallcart which contained the slumbering Fido and his cushion. He did not even hear the pointed comments made by the young of both sexes whom he encountered on his interminable walk, and forgot to thank the postmaster for the loan of the cart when he returned it, empty save for a fragment of cold chicken and a faint, doggy smell.
On the Beach
For obvious reasons, he could not go to the office and he did not like to take his disturbing mood to Barbara. Besides, his mother, who now had long wakeful periods in the daytime, might see him and ask unpleasant questions. He went down to the beach, yearning for solitude, and settled himself in the shelter of a sand dune to meditate upon the unhappy events of the day.
He did not realise that the sand dune belonged to Eloise, and that she was wont to sit there with Doctor Conrad, out of the wind, and safely screened from the argus-eyed rocking-chairs on the veranda. He was so preoccupied that he did not even hear the sound of their voices as they approached. Turning the corner quickly, they almost stumbled over him.
"Upon my word," cried Eloise. "Sir Knight of the Dolorous Countenance, what has gone wrong?"
"Nothing," answered Roger, miserably.
"Anybody dead?" queried Allan, lazily stretching himself upon the sand.
"Not yet, but somebody is dying."
"Who?" demanded Eloise. "Barbara, or your mother? Who is it?"
"Fido," said Roger hopelessly, staring out to sea.
Allan laughed, but Eloise returned, kindly: "I didn't know you had a dog. I'm sorry."
"He isn't mine," explained Roger; "I only wish he were. If he had been," he added, viciously, "he'd have died a violent death long ago."
Miss Wynne's Plans
Little by little, the whole story came out. Allan kept his face straight with difficulty, but Eloise was genuinely distressed. "Don't worry," she said, sympathetically. "If Fido dies and the Judge won't take you back, I can probably find an opening for you in town. Your office work will pay your expenses, so you can go to law school in the evenings and be ready for your examinations in the Spring."
"Oh, Miss Wynne," cried Roger. "How good you are! I don't wonder Barbara calls you her Fairy Godmother."
"Barbara is coming to town to spend the Winter with me," Eloise went on, happily. "She's never had a good time and I'm going to give her one. As soon as she's strong enough, and can walk well, I'm going to take her, bag and baggage. It's all I'm waiting here for."
In a twinkling, Roger's despair was changed to something entirely different. "Oh," he cried, "I do hope Fido will die. Do you think there is any chance?" he asked, eagerly, of Allan.
"I should think, from what you tell me," remarked Allan, judicially, "that Fido was nearly through with his earthly troubles. A dose of that size might easily keep any of us from worrying any longer about the price of meat and next month's rent."
"Mother won't like it," said Roger, soberly. "She may not be willing for me to go."
"She should be," returned Allan, "as you've saved her life at the expense of Fido's. When I go up to see Barbara this afternoon, I'll stop in and tell her."