g to Ann Penhallow. At
last she rose and excused herself, saying, "Another cup? My niece will
give it to you."

"One moment," he returned--his face became grave. "I shall operate early
this morning. You must go out-of-doors--the porch--I suggest the porch.
I shall send down Dr. McGregor to tell you frankly the result of my
operation. I want Captain Penhallow, and with him and the two McGregors
we shall care for my patient. I hope the doctors will let you see the
Colonel in a week. I shall trespass on your hospitality for two days
more."

"I could wish it were a week. I shall do precisely what you desire."

John Penhallow caught some signal of amused surprise in Leila's looks. He
checked his own smile of partnership in mirth at Ann Penhallow's sudden
subjugation, feeling that with Leila the intimacies of mirth were at an
end.

Ann took her knitting and went out upon the back porch. "How many rows
can I knit until I hear? No, Leila--I want to be alone. Here is a note
from Mr. Rivers. The Bishop met him at Harrisburg and carried him off to
Philadelphia. I hope there is no scheme to take him away. Now go, dear."
She heard the voices of the McGregors as they went upstairs. She sat
alone and waited.

Among the friends who know me only through my summer-born books, there
must be many who can recall such hours of suspense as Ann Penhallow
endured. The clock in the hall struck ten. A little later her keen sense
made her aware of the faint odour of ether from the open windows on the
second floor. She let fall her work, went down the garden path, and
walked with quick steps among the firstlings of June. Then came Tom
McGregor swiftly, and in his smiling face she read good news.

"It is all right," he said; "it is over. There was a fracture of the
fragile inner layer of the bone--a piece was pressing on the brain--it
was easily removed. The doctor is very much pleased. Oh, my dear Mrs.
Penhallow, there are better days ahead for you and him. Now, I must go
back."

"Thank God!" she said, "and--and you--and--John. God forgive me, I have
been a fool!"

The next two days went by without incident. Askew rode, walked, and had
no news for her except, "He is doing well." He would say no more. What
hours of doubt, of watchful fear, he had, she never knew. On the morning
of the third day, while the carriage waited to carry him away, Mrs.
Penhallow led him into her library.

"Now," she said, with her cheque-book open before her, "w