he is innocent, he probably hasn't a tenth of
that amount in the world. In his hands! That's like a woman."

Gertrude, who had been pale and despairing during the early part of the
conversation, had flushed an indignant red. She got up and drew
herself to her slender height, looking down at me with the scorn of the
young and positive.

"You are the only mother I ever had," she said tensely. "I have given
you all I would have given my mother, had she lived--my love, my trust.
And now, when I need you most, you fail me. I tell you, John Bailey is
a good man, an honest man. If you say he is not, you--you--"

"Gertrude," Halsey broke in sharply. She dropped beside the table and,
burying her face in her arms broke into a storm of tears.

"I love him--love him," she sobbed, in a surrender that was totally
unlike her. "Oh, I never thought it would be like this. I can't bear
it. I can't."

Halsey and I stood helpless before the storm. I would have tried to
comfort her, but she had put me away, and there was something aloof in
her grief, something new and strange. At last, when her sorrow had
subsided to the dry shaking sobs of a tired child, without raising her
head she put out one groping hand.

"Aunt Ray!" she whispered. In a moment I was on my knees beside her,
her arm around my neck, her cheek against my hair.

"Where am I in this?" Halsey said suddenly and tried to put his arms
around us both. It was a welcome distraction, and Gertrude was soon
herself again. The little storm had cleared the air. Nevertheless, my
opinion remained unchanged. There was much to be cleared up before I
would consent to any renewal of my acquaintance with John Bailey. And
Halsey and Gertrude knew it, knowing me.

CHAPTER XI

HALSEY MAKES A CAPTURE

It was about half-past eight when we left the dining-room and still
engrossed with one subject, the failure of the bank and its attendant
evils Halsey and I went out into the grounds for a stroll Gertrude
followed us shortly. "The light was thickening," to appropriate
Shakespeare's description of twilight, and once again the tree-toads
and the crickets were making night throb with their tiny life. It was
almost oppressively lonely, in spite of its beauty, and I felt a
sickening pang of homesickness for my city at night--for the clatter of
horses' feet on cemented paving, for the lights, the voices, the sound
of children playing. The country after dark oppresses me. Th