ell out to him and still have sufficient income
to live upon in comfort here in Trumet. You might sell out, retire, and
be a gentleman of leisure, one of the town's rich men. You could do that
perfectly well."

Daniel grunted in disgust.

"Don't talk that way," he repeated. "I've had enough gentleman of
leisure foolishness to last me through. What do you think I am; a
second-hand copy of Cousin Percy, without the gilt edges? _I_ might be
kissin' Zuba by mistake if I did that."

The story of that eventful evening and the "mistake" had been told him
by his daughter since the return home. Gertrude smiled.

"I guess not," she declared. "You are not in the habit of 'dining
out'--in Trumet, at any rate. Have you told Mother?"

"Yes, I told her. I don't think she was much surprised. She'd guessed as
much before, so I gathered from what she said."

"No doubt; the explanation was obvious enough. Well, Daddy, I did not
expect you would be contented to retire and do nothing. That is not your
conception of happiness. But, if you do take Mr. Bangs into partnership,
let him manage the entire business. You can be in the store as much as
you wish, and be interested in it, so long as you don't interfere. And
you and Mother can be together and take little trips together once in a
while. You mustn't stay in Trumet ALL the time; if you do you will grow
discontented again."

"No, no, I shan't. Serena may, perhaps, but I shan't."

"Yes, you will. You both have seen a little of outside life now, and it
isn't all bad, though you may think so just at this time. You
mustn't settle down and grow narrow like some of the people here in
Trumet--Abigail Mayo, for instance."

"Humph! I'd have to swallow a self-windin' talkin' machine before I
could get to be like Abigail Mayo. But you may be right, Gertie; perhaps
you are. See here, though, how about you, yourself? You've seen a heap
more of what you call outside life than your ma and I have. How are YOU
goin' to keep contented here in Trumet?"

"Oh, I shall be contented. Don't worry about me."

"But I do worry, and your mother is beginnin' to worry, too. There's
somethin' troublin' you; both of us see that plain enough. See here,
Gertie, you ain't--you ain't feelin' bad about--about leavin' that
Cousin Percy, are you?"

The young lady's cheeks reddened, but with indignation, not
embarrassment.

"DADDY!" she protested sharply. "Daddy, how can you! Cousin Percy!"

"Well, you know--"