ped short at the sight of Roger.

"Hello, Poole," he said; "when did you arrive?"

"This morning."

They shook hands, but there was no sign of a welcome in Porter's face.

"Pretty stiff storm," he remarked, as the three of them stood by the
drawing-room window, looking out.

The rain came in shining sheets--the lightning blazed--the thunder
boomed.

"It is the first thunder-storm of the season," Mary said. "It will
wake up the world."

"In the South," Roger said, "the world is awake. You should see our
gardens."

"I wish I could; Cousin Patty asked me to come."

"Will you?" eagerly.

"There's my work."

"Take a holiday, and let me show you the pines."

Porter broke in impatiently, almost insolently.

"Mary needs companionship, not pines. I think she should go to
Constance. Leila and the General will go over as they planned in May,
and the Jeliffes----"

"There's more than a month before May--which she could spend with us."

Porter stared. This was a new Roger, an insistent, demanding Roger.
He spoke coldly. "Constance wants Mary at once. I don't think we
should say anything to dissuade her. Aunt Isabelle and I can take her
over."

And now Mary's head went up.

"I haven't decided, Porter." She was fighting for freedom.

"But Constance needs you, Mary--and you need her."

"Oh, no," Mary said, brokenly, "Constance doesn't need me. She has
Gordon and the baby. Nobody needs me--now."

Roger saw the quick blood flame in Porter's face. He felt it flame in
his own. And just for one fleeting moment, over the bowed head of the
girl, the challenging eyes of the two men met.

Aunt Frances, who came over with Grace in the afternoon, went home in a
high state of indignation.

"Why Patty Carew and Roger Poole should take possession of Mary in that
fashion," she said to her daughter at dinner, "is beyond me. They
don't belong there, and it would have been in better taste to leave at
such a time."

"Mary begged Cousin Patty to stay," Grace said, "and as for Roger
Poole, he has simply made Mary over. She has been like a stone image
until to-day."

"I don't see any difference," Aunt Frances said. "What do you mean,
Grace?"

"Oh, her eyes and the color in her cheeks, and the way she does her
hair."

"The way she does her hair?" Aunt Frances laid down her fork and
stared.

"Yes. Since the awful news came, Mary has seemed to lose interest in
everything. She adored Barry, and she's nev