not be home to lunch." Emma gave one of her
sharp, baffled glances at him, then, having served the two men, she
tossed her head and went out. Nobody knew how much she wished to listen
at the kitchen door, but she was above such a course.

"Clemency and I had a bit of a tiff," James explained to Gordon. "She
seemed vexed because I would not tell her what you told me last night.
She is curious to know more about--that man."

"She must not know," Gordon said quickly. "Never mind if she does seem a
little vexed. She will get over it. I know Clemency. She is like her
mother. The power of sustained indignation against one she loves is not
in the child, and she must not know. It would be a dreadful thing for
her to know. I myself cannot have it. It is enough of a horror as it is,
but to have that child look at me, and think--" Gordon broke off
abruptly.

"She will never know through me," James said, "and I think with you that
her resentment will not last."

"She will be home this afternoon," said Gordon, "and the walk will do
her good."

But the two returned from their afternoon calls, and still Clemency had
not returned. Emma met them at the door. "Mrs. Ewing says she is worried
about Miss Clemency," she said. Gordon ran upstairs. When he came down
he joined James in the office. "I have pacified Clara," he said, "but
suppose you jump into the buggy, Aaron has not unharnessed yet, and
drive over to Annie Lipton's for her. It is growing colder, and Clemency
has not been outdoors much lately, and she has rather a delicate throat.
It is time now that she was home."

James smiled. "Suppose she will not come with me?" he suggested.

"Nonsense," said Gordon. "She will be only too glad if you meet her
half-way. She will come. Tell her I said that she must."

"All right," replied James.

He went out, got into the buggy, and drove along rapidly. He had the
team, and the horses were still quite fresh, as they had not been long
distances that day. There was a vague fear in the young man's mind,
although he tried to dispel it by the force of argument. "What has the
girl to fear now?" his reason kept dinning in his ears, but, in spite
of himself, something else, which seemed to him unreason, made him
anxious. When he reached Annie Lipton's home, a fine old house, overhung
with a delicate tracery of withered vines, he saw Annie's pretty head at
a front window. She opened the door before he had time to ring the bell,
and she looke