ad reached the portico of the big brick house. He told
himself, dumbly, that if the world would ever listen to Mirabelle, it
would certainly reform. Not necessarily in contrition, but in
self-defence.

And yet when he sat opposite her, at lunch, his expression was as calm
and untroubled as though she had fashioned for him an ideal existence.
He was seeing a vision of Mirabelle as a soap-box orator; he was
seeing humorous stories about her in the newspapers; he was
shuddering at all the publicity which he knew would be her portion,
and yet he could smile across the table at her, and speak in his
normal voice. Physically, he was distressed and joyless, but he found
it easier to rise above his body than above his mind. His smile was a
tribute to a dual heroism.

"Got a little present for you," said Mr. Starkweather, suddenly. He
tossed a slip of paper to her, and watched her as she examined it.
"There's a string to it, though--I want you to hold it awhile."

She looked up, sceptically. "Suppose it's good?"

"Oh, it's perfectly good. Mix is all right. Only I don't want you to
press him for awhile. Not for three, four months, anyhow." He pushed
away his dessert, untasted. "You know why I'm givin' you these little
dibs and dabs every now and then, don't you? So if anything ever
happens to me, all of a sudden, you'll have somethin' to draw on.
Let's see, I've put about forty in the little trust fund I been
buildin' up for you, and given you twelve--" He broke off abruptly;
his own symptoms puzzled him. As though somebody had tried to
throttle him.

His sister had already been sitting bolt upright, but now she achieved
an even greater rigidity. "Did you take my advice about your will? I
don't suppose you did."

"I made some changes in it this morning," said Mr. Starkweather,
uncomfortably.

"Did you do what I told you to--about Henry?"

He was struggling to keep a grip on himself. "Well, no--not exactly."

"Oh, you didn't?" she said tartly. "Well, what _did_ you do?"

"Mirabelle," said her brother, "don't you think that's--just a little
mite personal?"

"Well--I should hope so. I meant it to be. After the way Henry's
acted, he don't deserve one bit of sympathy, or one dollar from
anybody. And if _I_'ve got anything to say, he won't get it, either."

Mr. Starkweather's round, fat face, wore an expression which his
sister hadn't seen before. He stood up, and held the back of his chair
for support. "Mirabelle, you