done until recently. All her life she believed that she had
thought, and to suddenly find, as she had lately, that her conclusions
were either wrong or confused made her humble.

Now there was Mary-Clare! Why, from her birth, Mary-Clare had been an
open book! Poor Polly shook her head. An open book? Well, if so she
did not know the language in which that book was written, for
Mary-Clare was troubling her now deeply.

And Larry? Larry had suddenly come into focus, and Maclin, and
Northrup. They all seemed reeling around her; all united, but in
deadly peril of being flung apart.

It was all too much for Aunt Polly and she unrolled her knitting and
set the needles to their accustomed task. Eventually Mary-Clare would
come to the inn and simply tell her story--full well Polly knew that.
It was Mary-Clare's way to keep silent until necessity for silence was
past and then calmly take those she loved into her confidence. But
there were disturbing things going on. Aunt Polly could not blind
herself to them.

At this moment Northrup's step sounded outside. He came hastily, but
making little noise.

"What's up?" he asked, starting back at the sight of Aunt Polly.

"Just me, son. Your dinner is scorched to nothing, but I wanted to
tell you where the cookie jar is."

Northrup came over to the sofa and sat down.

"You deep and opaque female," he said, throwing his arm over the
little bent shoulders. "Own up. It isn't cookies, it's a switch. What
have I done? Out with it."

Aunt Polly laughed softly.

"It's neither cookies nor switches when you come down to it," she
chuckled. "It's just waiting and not knowing why."

Northrup leaned back against the sofa and said quietly:

"Guessing about me, Aunt Polly?"

"Guessing about everything, son. Just when I thought I was nearing
port, where I ought to be at my age, I find myself all at sea."

"Same with me, Aunt Polly. We're part of the whole upheaval, and take
it from me, some of us are going to find ourselves high and dry by and
by and some of us will go under. We don't understand it; we can't; but
we've got to try to--and that's the very devil. Aunt Polly, I've been
on the Point, talking to some of the folks down there--there is a
fellow called Twombley, odd cuss. He told me he's tried to earn his
living, but found people too particular."

"Earn his living, huh!" Polly tried to look indignant. "He's a scamp,
and old Doctor Rivers was the ruination of him. The old docto