s of
practical life. "That's right, dear," said she. "A man or a woman can't
be too honorable. Still, I should not wish you to make her and yourself
unhappy. And I know both of you would be unhappy if, by marrying, you
were to spoil each other's careers. And your father would not be able
to allow or to leave you enough to maintain an establishment such as
I've set my heart on seeing you have. Mr. Ranger has been acting very
strange of late--almost insane, I'd say." Her tone became constrained
as if she were trying to convey more than she dared put into words. "I
feel even surer than when I wrote you, that he's leaving a large part
of his fortune to Tecumseh College." And she related--with judicious
omissions and embroideries--her last talk with Hiram, and the events
that centered about it.

Ross retained the impassive expression he had been cultivating ever since
he read in English "high life" novels descriptions of the bearing of men
of the "_haut monde_." "That's of no consequence," was his comment, in a
tone of indifference. "I'm not marrying Del for her money."

"Don't throw yourself away, Ross," said she, much disquieted. "I feel
sure you've been brought up too sensibly to do anything reckless. At
least, be careful how you commit yourself until you are sure. In our
station people have to think of a great many things before they think of
anything so uncertain and so more or less fanciful as love. Rest assured,
Adelaide is thinking of those things. Don't be less wise than she."

He changed the subject, and would not go back to it; and after a few
minutes he telephoned Adelaide, ordered a cart, and set out to take her
for a drive. Mrs. Whitney watched him depart with a heavy heart and so
piteous a face that Ross was moved almost to the point of confiding in
her what he was pretending not to admit to himself. "Ross is sensible
beyond his years," she said to herself sadly, "but youth is _so_
romantic. It never can see beyond the marriage ceremony."

Adelaide, with as much haste as was compatible with the demands of so
important an occasion, was getting into a suitable costume. Suddenly she
laid aside the hat she had selected from among several that were what the
Fifth Avenue milliners call the "_dernier cri_." "No, I'll not go!" she
exclaimed.

Ever since her father was stricken she had stayed near him. Ellen had his
comfort and the household to look after, and besides was not good at
initiating conversation and ca