e got some matters to attend to, and----"

"What matters?" She shot him a glance of fierce skepticism.

"Are you packing to get out?"

"Cora!" he cried reproachfully, "how can you say things like that
to _me_!"

She shook her head. "Oh, it wouldn't surprise me in the least! How
do _I_ know what you'll do? For all I know, you may be just that
kind of a man. You _said_ you ought to be going----"

"Cora," he explained, gently, "I didn't say I meant to go. I said
only that I thought I ought to, because Moliterno will be needing
me in Basilicata. I ought to be there, since it appears that no
more money is to be raised here. I ought to be superintending
operations in the oil-field, so as to make the best use of the
little I have raised."

"You?" she laughed. "Of course _I_ didn't have anything to do with
it!"

He sighed deeply. "You know perfectly well that I appreciate all
you did. We don't seem to get on very well to-day----"

"No!" She laughed again, bitterly. "So you think you'll be going,
don't you?"

"To my rooms to write some necessary letters."

"Of course not to pack your trunk?"

"Cora," he returned, goaded; "sometimes you're just impossible.
I'll come to-morrow forenoon."

"Then don't bring the car. I'm tired of motoring and tired of
lunching in that rotten hole. We can talk just as well in the
library. Papa's better, and that little fiend will be in school
to-morrow. Come out about ten."

He started the machine. "Don't forget I love you," he called in a
low voice.

She stood looking after him as the car dwindled down the street.

"Yes, you do!" she murmured.

She walked up the path to the house, her face thoughtful, as with
a tiresome perplexity. In her own room, divesting herself of her
wraps, she gave the mirror a long scrutiny. It offered the picture
of a girl with a hard and dreary air; but Cora saw something else,
and presently, though the dreariness remained, the hardness
softened to a great compassion. She suffered: a warm wave of
sorrow submerged her, and she threw herself upon the bed and wept
long and silently for herself.

At last her eyes dried, and she lay staring at the ceiling. The
doorbell rang, and Sarah, the cook, came to inform her that Mr.
Richard Lindley was below.

"Tell him I'm out."

"Can't," returned Sarah. "Done told him you was home." And she
departed firmly.

Thus abandoned, the prostrate lady put into a few words what she
felt about Sarah, and, going to th