of Dorfield, for the Conants are "old
inhabitants." Right next them stands a more modern and expensive, if
less attractive, mansion, with grounds twice as large and a velvet lawn
that puts the Conants' carelessly-cropped grass to shame. But the two
families are neighbors and friends nevertheless, for in the new house
lives Colonel James Hathaway and his granddaughter Mary Louise Burrows.
At least, they live there when at home and, although they seem
persistent ramblers, they are glad to have this refuge to return to
when wearied with traveling and sight-seeing.

One morning in June Mr. Conant was just seating himself at the
breakfast table when a messenger-boy delivered a telegram--a "night
letter" from New York. The lawyer, a short, thick-set man of middle
age, with a stern countenance but mild blue eyes, laid aside his
morning paper and read the telegram with his usual deliberation. Mrs.
Conant silently poured the coffee, knowing any interference would annoy
him. Irene, the niece, was a cripple and sat in her wheeled chair at
the table, between her uncle and aunt. She was a pleasant-faced, happy
little maid, consistently ignoring her withered limbs and thankful that
from her knees up she was normal and that her wheeled chair rendered
her fairly independent of assistance in all ordinary activities.
Everyone loved Irene Macfarlane because of her brave and cheery
acceptance of her misfortune, and her merry speech and spontaneous
laughter rendered her, as "Aunt Hannah" often declared, "the light of
the house." Irene was, moreover, an intimate and highly valued friend
of her next door neighbor, Mary Louise Burrows.

Mr. Peter Conant, sipping his coffee reflectively, read the lengthy
telegram a second time. Then he said, somewhat irritably and chopping
his words into distinct syllables, as was his habit at all times:

"I wonder why people imagine a lawyer's duties cover every phase of
life? My clients use me as a real-estate agent, a horse trader, a
purchasing agent, a father confessor, an automobile expert, a medical
adviser, and sometimes--in their simplicity--as a banker!"

"What's wrong now, Peter?" inquired Mrs. Conant with wifely sympathy.

"Colonel Hathaway wants to know--"

"Oh, is Mary Louise coming back?" cried Irene eagerly.

He frowned at her.

"What does the Colonel wish to know, Peter?"

"I object to this unwarrantable cross-examination," said he. "It is
customary to first allow one to state his case