ke you to think that. I
have always thought you liked Marian and saw how superb she is."

"Of course I like Marian," said Dan hastily. "My one hope is that both
of you will be happy; and the difficulties you have suggested only make
that more important. You will have to wait. I'm not sure but that you
had better keep this to yourselves for a while--maybe for a long time.
It would be wise for you to talk to Aunt Sally. She's a good friend of
yours, and one of the wisest of women."

It was not in Allen's eye that he sought wisdom. With him, as with most
people who ask advice, advice was the last thing he wanted. It was his
way to unbosom himself, however, and he forged ahead with his story,
with what seemed to Harwood a maddening failure to appreciate its
sinister import. "You remember that when we were up there on the
Kankakee, John Ware told a story one night--a mighty good story about an
experience he had once?"

"Yes; he told a lot of stories. Which one do you mean?"

"Oh, the best one of all--about the woman in the Adirondacks. You
haven't forgotten that?"

"No; I do remember something about it."

"You may not have noticed that while Ware was telling the story dad got
up from the bed in the corner and walked over to the stove, after Ware
had asked you--it was you, wasn't it?--to reach into the pocket of his
coat over your head and get the book he was talking about--it was you he
spoke to, wasn't it?"

"Yes; it comes back to me now," replied Dan, frowning.

"Well, I remember, because it struck me as odd that dad should be
interested; it was Emerson, you know; and dad looked at the book in the
light from the stove and asked me what the name was down in the inside
of the cover. It was the binder's name in small letters,--Z. Fenelsa.
Well, there's a long story about that. It's a horrible story to know
about any man; but dad had been trying to find something he could use on
Bassett. He's had people--the sort you can get to do such jobs--going
over Bassett's whole life to find material. Dad says there's always
something in every man's life that he wants to hide, and that if you
keep looking you can find it. You see--"

"I don't like to see," growled Harwood. "It's an ugly idea." And then,
with sudden scorn for Thatcher's views on man's frailty, he said with
emphasis: "Now, Allen, it's all right for you to talk to me about
Marian, and your wish to marry her; but don't mix scandal up in it. I'm
not for that. I don