as the freshet had his culvert, at
which MacFarlane smiled but made no reply.

Corinne also came to express her regrets, bringing with her a scrap of
an infant in a teetering baby carriage, the whole presided over by a
nurse in a blue dress, white cap, and white apron, the ends reaching to
her feet: not the Corinne, the Scribe is pained to say, who, in the old
days would twist her head and stamp her little feet and have her way in
everything. But a woman terribly shrunken, with deep lines in her face
and under her eyes. Jack, man-like, did not notice the change, but Ruth
did.

After the baby had been duly admired, Ruth tossing it in her arms until
it crowed, Corinne being too tired for much enthusiasm, had sent it
home, Ruth escorting it herself to the garden gate.

"I am sorry you are going," Corinne said in Ruth's absence. "I suppose
we must stay on here until Garry finishes the new church. I haven't seen
much of Ruth,--or of you, either, Jack. But I don't see much of anybody
now,--not even of Garry. He never gets home until midnight, or even
later, if the train is behind time, and it generally is."

"Then he must have lots of new work," cried Jack in a cheerful tone. "He
told me the last time I saw him on the train that he expected some big
warehouse job."

Corinne looked out of the window and fingered the handle of her parasol.

"I don't believe that is what keeps him in town, Jack," she said slowly.
"I hoped you would come and see him last Sunday. Did Garry give you my
message? I heard you were at home to-day, and that is why I came."

"No, he never said a single word about it or I would have come, of
course. What do you think, then, keeps him in town so late?" Something
in her voice made Jack leave his own and take a seat beside her. "Tell
me, Corinne. I'll do anything I can for Garry and you too. What is it?"

"I don't know, Jack,--I wish I did. He has changed lately. When I
went to his room the other night he was walking the floor; he said
he couldn't sleep, and the next morning when he didn't come down to
breakfast I went up and found him in a half stupor. I had hard work to
wake him. Don't tell Ruth,--I don't want anybody but you to know, but
I wish you'd come and see him. I've nobody else to turn to,--won't you,
Jack?"

"Come! of course I'll come, Corinne,--now,--this minute, if he's home,
or to-night, or any time you say. Suppose I go back with you and wait.
Garry's working too hard, that's it,--he