"PIPPA PASSES"

The train for New York came along duly, and Flint clambered into it as
quickly as the impediment of his luggage permitted. He stowed away his
belongings in the car-rack,--his bag, umbrella, and the overcoat which
seemed a sarcasm upon the torrid heat of the car. A flat, square
package which formed part of his luggage he treated with more
respectful courtesy, giving it the window-seat, and watching with care
lest it slip from the position in which he had propped it.

When the engine ceased to puff, and the bell to ring, when the wheels
began to revolve and the landscape to move slowly out of sight, Flint
leaned out of the window for one more glance at the dull little
cluster of houses, beautiful only for what it connoted; then he drew
in his head, and settled himself against the cushions of wool plush to
which railroad companies treat their passengers in August.

He was not in an enviable frame of mind. He felt like a fool who had
been masquerading as a martyr. He had given up two weeks of vacation,
of rest and comfort and health-giving breezes fresh from the
uncontaminable ocean, to go back to the noisy pavements, the clanging
car-bells, the noisome odors of the city,--and all for what? Simply
because a jealous fisherman and a hysterically sympathetic young woman
chose to foist it upon him as his duty.

Duty? Why was it his duty? What was duty after all? Did it not include
doing to yourself as others would have you do unto them? Decidedly, he
had been a fool. As for Tilly Marsden--here a vague and--shall I
confess it?--not wholly uncomplacent pang smote him, as he remembered
her red eyes, and the trembling of her hand as she set the doughnuts
before him this morning. There was one who would for a day or two, at
least, genuinely regret his departure. Let that be set off against the
aggressive benevolence of Miss Standish's parting, indicating, as it
did, unalloyed satisfaction.

From Miss Standish, his thoughts wandered to the other inmates of the
White-House. Ben Bradford at this hour would be lounging over the golf
field, driver in hand, making himself believe that he was taking
exercise. Dr. Cricket, no doubt, was playing chess with Miss Standish
(beating her, he hoped); and Winifred Anstice--what was she doing?
Leaning back, perhaps, in the hammock, as he had seen her so often
lately, with one arm thrown over her head, pillowed against the mass
of cardinal cushions. Was she