(ill0rttcn ItttttBraitg ffiibrarg 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 BENNO LOEWY LIBRARY 
 
 COLLECTED BY 
 
 BENNO LOEWY 
 
 18S4-19r9 
 BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
^-_JL 
 
 Cornell University Library 
 PS 1792.H6 
 
 His daughter first. 
 
 ^ 1924 021 969 005 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021969005 
 
^oofeB bp JHr. ^arJjp. 
 
 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST. A Novel. Crown 8vo, 
 Ji-so. 
 
 THE WIND OF DESTINY. A Novel. i6rao, 
 ti.25. 
 
 BUT YET A WOMAN. A Novel. i6mo, $1.25. 
 
 PASSE ROSE. A Novel. i6mo, $1.25. 
 
 JOSEPH HARDY NEESIMA. A Biographical 
 Sketch. With Portraits. Crown 8vo, gilt top, 
 ^2.00. 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, 
 Boston and New York. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 BY 
 
 ARTHUR SHERBURNE JARDT 
 
 AUTHOB OF " BUT YET A WOMAN," 
 "PASSE ROSE," ETC. 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YOKE 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 1903 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1902, 1903, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY ARTHUR SHERBURNE HARDY 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 Published, May, iqo3 
 
 Y>lA>il^).l' 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 The train was late and the station was dark. 
 A single employee with a lantern stood on the 
 platform. There were no lights, nothing to indi- 
 cate the presence of a village or even a house. 
 
 Paul walked forward for his portmanteau, and 
 then followed the platform to the rear of the station, 
 where a sleigh was waiting. 
 
 " Is this Mrs. Kensett's carriage ? " he asked. 
 
 The coachman touched his hat and Paul took his 
 seat, turning up the collar of his coat and drawing 
 the robe close about his feet, for the night was 
 bitterly cold. 
 
 " How far is it ? " he asked. 
 
 " About a mUe, sir." 
 
 The road followed the bank of the river, invisible 
 under its double covering of ice and snow. A long 
 slope of dark pines shut out the eastern horizon, 
 but on the west the plain, broken only by the 
 straight lines of the fences with their fringe of leaf- 
 less bushes, stretched as far as the eye could see. 
 
2 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 white and silent under the winter stars. Nowhere 
 a sign of life, nor any sound save the monotonous 
 singsong of the sleigh-bells and the sharp crunch- 
 ing of the hardened snow under the hoofs of the 
 horse. 
 
 Paul was wondering whether his cousin DoUy had 
 changed since she had become Mrs. Cecil Kensett. 
 
 " Think of Dolly a mother and a widow ! " he 
 said to himself. 
 
 The road curved sharply into a covered bridge, 
 cHmbed a long hill through a dark gorge, and then 
 emerged upon a wide undulating plain. The sky 
 was clear, yet one could not see far. A fine crys- 
 tal mist, that winter haze which only the North 
 knows, crisp as the frozen snow and glittering with 
 myriad points of light, filled the silent air. A few 
 isolated farmhouses, white and naked as the fields, 
 were passed; then, in the distance, huddled like 
 sheep in a storm, the houses of a village became 
 visible. 
 
 In her letter of invitation Dolly had said Miss 
 Frazer was stUl with her, — Margaret. DoUy was 
 always writing about Margaret, with that reiterated 
 note of admiration which finally provokes resent- 
 ment. How enthusiastic DoUy always was about 
 people for whom she cared ! 
 
 As they neared the village the outlines of a low 
 ridge detached themselves from the background 
 of distant hills, and from one of the dark clusters 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 3 
 
 of pines which patched its surface shone a glare of 
 lights, blurred by intervening branches and reflected 
 by the snow. 
 
 " That must be the house," thought Paul ; and 
 then his mind reverted again to Miss Frazer, of 
 whom he had unconsciously formed that mental pic- 
 ture which grows up about the name of a person we 
 have never seen. Now that he was nearing his des- 
 tination he began to wonder whether he should see 
 her to-night. The train was two hours late, — it 
 was already after midnight. Dolly of course would 
 be at the door. " No, probably not," he said half 
 aloud, thinking of Miss Frazer again. 
 
 " Sir ? " said the coachman, turning on his seat. 
 
 " Is that the house ? " asked Paul. 
 
 " Yes, sir, on the hiU." 
 
 At the foot of the ridge there was a wide gate- 
 way, like the entrance to an Italian viUa, with 
 curved wiug-waUs, and high posts surmounted by 
 large balls ; then a long driveway that seemed to 
 wander in an aimless fashion between the pines and 
 hemlocks, until it suddenly disclosed the white gam- 
 brel-roof ed house with its broad piazzas and Ionic 
 portico. One cannot always tell what is in men or 
 houses which on the first approach seems to say, 
 " Ah, it is you ! I was expecting you, and I am 
 glad," — a certain warmth of welcome, which does 
 not, however, descend to familiarity. Paul felt this 
 at the first glimpse of the brightly lighted windows, 
 
4 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 even before the door opened and lie heard Dolly at 
 the head of the stairs crying, — 
 
 " Paul, Paul, is it you, is it you ? " 
 
 "No," he thought, " she has not changed; she is 
 the same dear DoUy." She had her arms about him 
 before he could reply, n 
 
 " Yes, it is I. The train was fearfully late, Dolly. 
 I thought you woidd be in bed." 
 
 " I, in bed ! what an idea ! We have been waiting 
 for you for two hours. Come up to your room, 
 there 's hot tea there. Oh, how glad I am you are 
 here ! " she cried, turning to look back at him as he 
 followed her up the stairs. 
 
 Dolly was not beautiful. Her hair was too light, 
 her face too colorless. But her blue mobile eyes 
 and sudden snule atoned for all that was lacking in 
 color and form. She could not keep the warmth of 
 her heart out of that smile or its quick impulses out 
 of those eyes. 
 
 "Margaret has gone to bed," she said, as she 
 opened his door. " She knew we would have such 
 a lot of things to talk over. Are you cold? " 
 
 "No, not in the least, but this fire is just the 
 thing ! " he exclaimed, crossing the room to the 
 blazing hearth, beside which the tea was smoking 
 in its silver urn. " Who is Margaret ? " 
 
 DoUy looked at him with one of her quick, 
 reproachful smiles. The question seemed to give 
 him back to her more than his actual presence. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 5 
 
 " How like you ! You know perfectly well who 
 Margaret is. But take off your coat, Paul," she 
 added, unbuttoning it with her own fingers. " And 
 you have not yet asked me how I am." 
 
 " You don't give me any time, Dolly. Besides, 
 you are always well, and — happy too ? " he said 
 inquiringly, stooping to kiss her hair. 
 
 " Oh, how good it is, how good it is to see you ! " 
 she murmured, paying no attention to this last sen- 
 tence. 
 
 " And Dorothy, she is well ? How old is she 
 now, Dolly ? " 
 
 " Five. You shall see her to-morrow. Sit down, 
 Paul ; I just want to look at you." 
 
 He laughed and dropped into the easy-chair 
 drawn up before the fire, watching her as she 
 poured the tea. Her hands trembled a little, and 
 something very like tears was shining in her eyes. 
 Yes, she had changed. She was a little older, of 
 course; and there was something in her manner 
 which made him observe her sharply, although he 
 put it down to the excitement of his arrival. Dolly 
 used to be as clear as day. 
 
 A servant had brought in Paul's portmanteau 
 and taken it into the adjoining room, through whose 
 open door Paul could see his cousin moving about, 
 silently inspecting the bed and toilet-table, as if to 
 see that everything was in order, and as if she had 
 not already done so a dozen times during the day. 
 
6 HIS DAUGHTER FIEST 
 
 " I wanted you near me, Paid. This is my own 
 parlor," she said, coming back to sit down on the 
 arm of his chair. And then she began to tell him 
 about Dorothy, and to question him about his jour- 
 ney and plans. But there was an air of constraint 
 in all she said. 
 
 " Margaret said we should have so much to talk 
 over," she explained, as though aware that he was 
 conscious of her manner ; " so we have. I thought 
 we should begin now, before the fire. I have been 
 looking forward to it every minute of the day. And 
 now that you are here," — she drew a long sigh, — 
 " that is enough." She lingered a moment. There 
 was apparently much to say which she did not say. 
 When the moment of meeting comes one does not 
 always plunge into aU one anticipated. 
 
 " I am so happy that you are here," she said, 
 when she bade him good-night. 
 
 Paul remained sitting before the fire a long time 
 after she had gone. Though he had scarcely looked 
 about him, everything in this room seemed familiar. 
 For some reason that he could not have explained 
 it satisfied him, — as a woman's dress satisfies the 
 eye that is not afterwards able to describe it. 
 Was it because it was so comfortable, because he 
 felt the touches of a hand he had so long missed ? 
 Or simply because he himself was so glad to be 
 there ? He felt as if it were his own room, in 
 which he had lived for a long time. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 7 
 
 " It Is like home," he thought. 
 
 Above the fireplace hung the portrait of a young 
 girl in a large hat with a black plume. He watched 
 the firelight shadows flickering on the wall and pass- 
 ing like a caress over the face in the dark Flor- 
 entine frame, — a face with something more than 
 mere beauty in it, for mere beauty can even repel. 
 No, beauty was not the word, but fascination, — the 
 confiding smile about the mouth, the fearlessness 
 in the earnest gray eyes, and the indescribable 
 charm of modesty with which the hand held the 
 green drapery over the breast. He wondered who 
 it was, as rousing himself at last he began to un- 
 pack his valise and undress. 
 
 From his window he looked out upon the fields 
 and hills, gaunt and bare, over which the newly 
 risen moon spread a cold, even light. It was a pic- 
 ture without color or feeling or depth, such as a 
 savage might have drawn in outline on the sand. 
 Nature herself seemed to have died out of this 
 white world, but his heart warmed and responded 
 to it. It seemed to say to him : " You have seen 
 other lands, the fluent shadows, the murmuring life, 
 the mystery and lure of other nights. But you were 
 born here, in my arms. You are my child, and I 
 only can touch your heart." 
 
 On the way to her room Dolly stopped at Miss 
 Frazer's door. 
 
 " Margaret, are you asleep ? " 
 
8 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " No, come in. Did your cousin come ? I heard 
 the sleigh-bells." 
 
 " Yes, the train was two hours late. I am so 
 happy, Margaret. I just came to tell you that. I 
 don't expect you to like Paid," she added, after a 
 pause. 
 
 " It is of no consequence whether I do or not," 
 said Margaret, " but I shall not quarrel, Dolly dear, 
 with any one whom you love." 
 
n 
 
 When Paul came down to the breakfast-room 
 the morning after his arrival the winter landscape 
 was radiant with sunshine. It poured in through 
 the deep window which, extending out upon the 
 piazza, seemed to take in a part of the outside world, 
 and to bring into the room the light and freedom 
 of the sky. There are windows which are merely 
 holes in a wall, which make one feel a prisoner, and 
 shut out all they reveal. 
 
 A bowl of roses stood in the centre of the break- 
 fast-table, and the butler who brought in the coffee 
 said he was to call Mrs. Kensett when breakfast 
 was served. Dolly came in almost immediately, as 
 radiant as the world outside. 
 
 " It seems too good to be true to see you sitting 
 here ; I shall never get used to it," she said, hover- 
 ing about the table in search of unsupplied wants. 
 
 " Sit down, sit down, DoUy," remonstrated Paul ; 
 " are n't you going to eat any breakfast yourself ? " 
 
 " Oh, I had my breakfast long ago. I really 
 did n't sleep much last night. What I am hungry 
 for is a talk, a long, long talk. But it 's not easy 
 to begin. Think! it is years since we saw each 
 
10 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 other." She was sitting opposite him, her chin on 
 her hands and her elbows on the table. " I suppose 
 starving people feel as I do, — they can't satisfy 
 themselves in an orderly manner. They just want 
 to — to cram." 
 
 "Well, there is no hurry, Dolly; and hurry 
 always wastes. Where is Dorothy ? " 
 
 " She has gone to school. There is a very excel- 
 lent school here, and Margaret often goes with her. 
 We shall have just ourselves this morning. Which 
 would you rather do ? sit here, or shall we take a 
 walk ? It 's a perfect day." 
 
 " A walk by aU means. I am glad you have n't 
 forgotten how to walk. Some people always give 
 up a lot of things when they marry, — some things 
 that made them attractive." 
 
 " Yes, I know. But perhaps it 's age, not mar- 
 riage. I 'U go and get my furs. You will find 
 some cigars there in the cabinet. They were Ce- 
 cil's. He used to think them good." And Dolly 
 smiled at him as she closed the door. 
 
 It would have been thought by any observer 
 that these two were brother and sister rather than 
 cousins ; and such they were in sympathy and affec- 
 tion, though not by blood. Left an orphan at an 
 early age, Paul had been promptly received into the 
 family of his uncle, who never shirked a duty as he 
 never confessed a fault. In his new environment 
 Paul had acquired a deadly aversion for many things 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 11 
 
 excellent in themselves, and in Ms revolt had 
 reached the extreme which generally follows a sur- 
 feit or infelicitous compound, whether in morals or 
 food. He never heard a church-beU now without 
 experiencing that sense of dreariness which had 
 characterized his childhood Sunday, and certain 
 profane melodies which had been appropriated by 
 the hymnal brought what used to be called the 
 meeting-house, with its slow-passing hours, so viv- 
 idly before him that he shuddered when he heard 
 them on the stage. Morning prayers had been too 
 often connected with bodily punishment for the 
 derivation from either of whatever good they might 
 have contained for him had they been less fre- 
 quent, less inevitable, and less intimately associ- 
 ated ; and the mere gurgle of water poured into a 
 glass was enough to transport him back to the 
 awful stiUness of the communion hour, when, sit- 
 ting beside his uncle in the green-upholstered pew, 
 he used to watch the deacons make their silent 
 round, and wonder what it was all about. What 
 solemn deserts of the Incomprehensible his little 
 feet had traversed ! 
 
 It is not well to speak ill of the dead. But Mr. 
 Graham was one of those past realities in the 
 shadow of which Paul still walked. Much good 
 might be said of him in all things wherein the 
 opinions of other people did not conflict with his 
 own, and it must be admitted that a rigid con- 
 
12 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 seientiousness had often led him to the verge of 
 heroism under circmnstances in which the worldly 
 wise would have beaten a retreat. Paul was of 
 another nature, but cast in the same mould of self- 
 will ; and being happily not altogether held down 
 by the chains of dependence, on reaching his ma- 
 jority had quickly packed his trunk and set out to 
 make his own way. 
 
 It had not been quite so easy for DoUy to eman- 
 cipate herself. She had a real and genuine affec- 
 tion for Mr. Kensett when that gentleman asked 
 her to share his life, but it would have been as idle 
 to deny that the thought of freedom had not had 
 its weight as to assert that her husband was the 
 master-hand to sound all the deeper chords of her 
 nature. After her mother's death she had pre- 
 sided with admirable tact and sweetness over her 
 father's house, in which she counted for everything 
 so long as she agreed with its head and nothing 
 when she did not. Mr. Graham was one of those 
 fathers in whose eyes children never grow up. 
 DoUy had had many suitors, but either she was too 
 young to marry, in the estimation of the man who 
 had married a girl of eighteen, or the suitors them- 
 selves were always affected with moral disorders 
 and deficiencies which placed them outside the pale. 
 Mr. Kensett, however, had proved a lover whom 
 discouragement did not discourage ; and although 
 the framework of Mr. Graham's mental and moral 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 13 
 
 system grew more rigid with age, like his physical 
 one it grew more brittle, less enduring against im- 
 portunity, and finally snapped under Dolly's and 
 Cecil's united pressure. Paul, who had in the 
 mean time obtained a position as engineer in a South 
 African mining company, returned for the wed- 
 ding ; and now again, after a career whose success 
 he regretted his uncle was not alive to witness, had 
 come back once more, to find all these things but 
 memories and Dolly alone in her big house at 
 Cedar Hill. 
 
 He had needed no invitation to make his home 
 with her during his stay in America. His first 
 and immediate thought had been to visit her, who, 
 much to his surprise, and for the first time since 
 her husband's death, was passing the winter iu the 
 country. She was by no means dependent upon 
 society, yet Paul could not help wondering what 
 influences had decided her to prolong her usual 
 summer sojourn at Westford into the winter, and 
 why her well-known hospitality had contented itself 
 with a single guest. 
 
 He was thinking over these things when with one 
 of Cecil's cigars he stepped out upon the piazza. 
 With one of those sudden changes common to a 
 New England winter, an almost spring air had 
 succeeded the still cold of the previous day, and 
 the sun had already begun to undo the work of the 
 night. The trees stirred with a suggestion of re- 
 
14 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 newed life, and their branches, relieved one by one 
 of their icy coverings, seemed to be stretching 
 themselves for the first time after a long sleep. 
 "It's a glorious view," he said, as Dolly joined 
 him on the porch, " but are you not beginning to 
 long for a street of shops ? " 
 
 "No," she said. "I love this quiet and soli- 
 tude. I quite agree with Dorothy, who is allowed 
 to play anywhere in the grounds on condition that 
 she does not go outside the gate alone. The other 
 day we found her in the road, and when I reminded 
 her of her promise she said with perfect sincerity, 
 ' I was n't alone, mamma. I was with myself.' " 
 Paul laughed, and there was a little pause, which 
 Dolly appeared to be utilizing in preparation for a 
 more important communication. " But I am not 
 so contented with myself, Paul," she resumed, " and 
 have been waiting for you to talk to. You know 
 there is no one but you, — and I am glad you have 
 come." 
 
 " Is it anything serious, Dolly ? " asked Paul, 
 looking at her quickly. 
 
 " No, not exactly, — that is, I think not. There 
 are several things. First, some business. You 
 must listen patiently, and not form any judgments 
 imtil you have heard me through. I am not sure 
 whether you know Mr. Heald. No? Well, I 
 wasn't sure. He was one of Cecil's business 
 friends, — that is, he says he was. I never met 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 15 
 
 Mm until last year, — at a house party in Lenox, — 
 and we naturally spoke of Cecil. He said he used 
 to be associated with Cecil in certain enterprises, 
 enterprises which always turned out well ; that he 
 owed his start and much of his success to my hus- 
 band, and that he regretted that he had never been 
 able to discharge the debt. I can't put it all as he 
 did, and what I am saying sounds very crude and 
 abrupt, I know. But it sounded very natural at 
 the time." 
 
 " What did ? " asked Paul, as she paused for a 
 moment. 
 
 " Well," pursued Dolly, who had nerved herself 
 to her task and could not be diverted from her 
 orderly narration by unexpected questions, "not 
 then, you know, but later, and with a great deal of 
 delicacy, he told me he had been concerned in the 
 development of some copper properties in Arizona, 
 and that if Cecil had been alive he should have 
 proposed their working together. He said the 
 mines had turned out quite beyond his expecta- 
 tions, that they were paying twenty per cent on the 
 investment, that in fact he was making more money 
 than he knew what to do with, and that if I had 
 any funds for investment and would permit him, as 
 a matter of sentiment and gratitude, he would be 
 very glad to give me some of the stock at par. He 
 gave me all the details and showed me all the 
 papers. The par value of the stock was twenty- 
 
16 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 five dollars, and it had been issued at ten. There 
 had been two assessments of two dollars and a half, 
 which made the amount paid in fifteen dollars a 
 share. That was very plain, was n't it ? The 
 shares were selling then, as I saw in the papers, at 
 sixty. He said they were sure to go to twice or 
 perhaps three times that, even after the issue of 
 some treasury stock which insiders were to have at 
 par ; and that if I consented he would like to put 
 a part of his share of the new issue in my name " — 
 
 " You to pay for it." 
 
 " Of course," assented Dolly. " I could n't ac- 
 cept a gift." 
 
 " How much did you present him with ? " snapped 
 Paul, foreseeing the end of such romances. 
 
 "You promised to hear me through." Paul 
 remembered no such promise, but shut his teeth 
 and held his peace. " It 's nothing very serious, as 
 I told you, only — but let me tell you in my own 
 way. I had a good deal of money in the bank, 
 and I took a thousand shares, — twenty-five thou- 
 sand dollars. I was n't thinking so much of myself, 
 for you know Cecil left me aU I can ever possibly 
 need. I was thinking of Margaret. You know 
 she has n't a great deal " — 
 
 " I know nothing whatever about Miss Frazer," 
 Paul retorted shortly. 
 
 " Don't get angry, Paul, please." 
 
 " I am not getting angry, but " — 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 17 
 
 "Everything has turned out just as he said," 
 continued Dolly. " I have had twelve hundred and 
 fifty dollars every quarter in dividends " — 
 
 " Since when ? " interrupted Paul. 
 
 " Since a year ago last September." 
 
 " But how does this concern Miss Frazer ? " 
 
 " Well, in the summer I spoke to Margaret about 
 it. She is very proud, and of course she would not 
 accept a gift in money from me " — 
 
 " Any more than you would from Mr. Heald." 
 
 " No, certainly not," acquiesced DoUy tranquilly. 
 "But she said she would put some of her own 
 money into my hands if I wished her to, and that it 
 was not necessary for her to say that she trusted 
 me impUcitly." 
 
 Paul refrained from further comparisons which a 
 like confidence on Dolly's part suggested, content- 
 ing himself with an impatient sigh. 
 
 " So I wrote Mr. Heald I would take another 
 thousand shares if he could spare them," — Paul 
 groaned inwardly, — " and I had them put in Mar- 
 garet's name." 
 
 " Did Mr. Heald let you have them on the same 
 generous terms ? " 
 
 " Nearly. He said the stock was selling at eighty 
 then, but he could get me what I wanted for forty. 
 Margaret sold some bonds she had which were pay- 
 ing her only about thj-ee and one half per cent, but 
 I insisted upon guaranteeing her the twenty per 
 
18 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 cent on the Argonaut shares, and had an agreement 
 drawn up to that effect by her lawyer. So you see 
 Margaret is perfectly safe." 
 
 " What did Jack Temple say to all this ? " asked 
 Paul dryly. 
 
 "He knows nothing about it," replied Dolly. 
 " Cecil told me before he died that so far as money 
 was concerned I need not worry, and that in all that 
 related to it I could trust Mr. Temple as I would 
 have trusted him. So after a time I went to see 
 him, — naturally I had to see him frequently then, 
 — and I said to him frankly this : ' Mr. Temple, you 
 know I have absolutely no knowledge of business, 
 and can only trust my affairs to you as implicitly as 
 my husband told me to do. What I have to pro- 
 pose is this : I wish you to manage all my invest- 
 ments, and to deposit my income, subject to your 
 commissions, to my credit. On the other hand I 
 shall draw all my checks through you and not di- 
 rectly on the bank. Then you wiU know exactly 
 what I am spending, and I shall feel, whenever I 
 cash my check, that I have a perfect right to do with 
 it just as I please without consulting you. Of course 
 you will send me statements from time to time of 
 my balances, but if ever you think I am spending 
 more money than I can afford, I wish you to return 
 my check and tell me so frankly, as my husband 
 would have done.' This he has never done yet." 
 
 Paul smiled at the simplicity and ingenuousness 
 of this arrangement. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIEST 19 
 
 " I begin to think you know tke essentials of 
 business after all," he said, somewhat relieved. 
 
 " It seems to me business is perfectly simple if 
 you are dealing with people whom you can trust, 
 I mean as to their judgment as well as their hon- 
 esty," replied Dolly. "And that is just it. I am 
 not worried, because I have paid for the Argonaut 
 shares out of my income, and I am sure Mr. Temple 
 would have warned me had there been any need. 
 But, as you see, of the particular uses to which I 
 put what I draw he knows nothing. He knows 
 I have been making some improvements at Cedar 
 Hill, and I suppose he thinks, if he thinks about it 
 at all, that the money has gone there. If it should 
 be lost it would be lost, and that would be the end 
 of it. For myself I am not concerned. But Mar- 
 garet's case is different. I should be bound to re- 
 turn her forty thousand doUars if the worst should 
 come. But I think, if that did come, I should not 
 do so. It would be dreadfully hard for her to go 
 back from twenty to three and a half per cent, and 
 I think the best way would be to continue paying 
 her the Argonaut income and say nothing more 
 about it." 
 
 " Deceiving her in the mean time," said Paul. 
 
 " There are some things which are quite right to 
 do if people do not know that you do them," rephed 
 DoUy resolutely. " And that is just what I am 
 worried about, — that she would find out." 
 
20 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " Certainly she would. But we wiU talk about 
 tliat later. Finisli your story first." 
 
 " About two weeks ago," continued Dolly, " 1 
 noticed the shares were going down. I never took 
 any interest in such things before, but naturally 
 I looked in the papers once in a while to see what 
 was happening to Argonaut shares. I thought I 
 should sell them when they were very high, — to 
 make a lot of money for Margaret, without giving 
 it to her, you know. But after a while they began 
 to go down, very slowly, first to seventy, and then 
 to fiity. And then I wrote Mr. Heald and asked 
 him the reason. I will show you his letter. He 
 said I was not to be troubled in the least ; that the 
 f aU in the stock was due to what he called general 
 market conditions, and had nothing to do with the 
 mine itself ; that, on the contrary, they were en- 
 larging the plant, and that possibly there would be 
 another assessment of five dollars for new machin- 
 ery ; that under ordinary circumstances an assess- 
 ment for a new mine which had passed its trial 
 period would not affect much, if any, the price of 
 the stock, as it meant that the outlook justified in- 
 creasing the working equipment ; but that just now 
 — I am repeating exactly what he wrote " — " and 
 
 you are doing it remarkably well," thought Paul, 
 
 " there was a falling off in the foreign demand, and 
 that speculators were taking advantage of lower 
 prices for the metal to hammer the market, as he 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 21 
 
 called it, and to secure control. But that I must 
 just sit still and all would come out right." 
 
 " There are always two parties to a speculation, 
 DoUy, and one of them generally finds it difficult 
 to sit still." 
 
 " I don't call it a speculation, Paul. Mr. Heald 
 said it was an investment." 
 
 "Well, call it an investment. What did you 
 reply ? " 
 
 " Nothing. What could I ? " Mrs. Kensett ejacu- 
 lated, with an explanatory wave of her sable muff. 
 "I tmderstand everything he tells me, — nothing 
 more. But, as I told you, about two weeks ago the 
 stock fell suddenly, to forty, and I am beginning to 
 be frightened — on Margaret's account." 
 
 They walked on in silence, Dolly stealing an oc- 
 casional rapid and inquiring glance at Paul's face. 
 He flung away his cigar at length and stopped short, 
 facing her. 
 
 " You have asked my advice. Are you prepared 
 to take it?" 
 
 " Certaialy, Paul dear. That is precisely what I 
 wish to do." 
 
 " Well then," he said, " I shall go directly to 
 Jack, tell him the whole story, and see what can be 
 done." 
 
 " I was prepared for that, for I thought that was 
 what you woidd probably decide," DoUy said sim- 
 ply, taking Paul's arm in her affectionate way, and 
 
22 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 inwardly thanking him for not having told her she 
 should have done so long ago herself. " I should 
 have seen him had you not been coming home, only 
 it would have hurt my pride, and it was ever so 
 much easier to speak to you. You know I never 
 could speak to father without " — " without a row," 
 thought Paul, as Dolly left her sentence in the air 
 — " and I never want to feel that I cannot come to 
 you with everything — everything," she repeated a 
 little tremulously. 
 
 Paul stooped and kissed her, in the broad sun- 
 shine, and took the hand in the sable muff in his 
 own. 
 
 " That 's right, DoUy dear. You are not in 
 very deep, and we '11 see what can be done. It 
 may be all right, but I 've heard such stuff as this 
 Heald has been giving you before. As lambs go 
 you have been remarkably prudent, and now that 
 you have confessed you will feel better." 
 
 The hand in the muff grasped his more tightly. 
 
 " I am not quite through yet, Paul." 
 
 He stopped short again, and looked at her 
 gravely. 
 
 " Oh, it 's not about money," she added quickly, 
 coloring a little and avoidiag his gaze. And then, 
 with evident relief for the respite, and running 
 ahead to meet two figures which had just turned a 
 bend in the road, " Why ! there 's Dorothy and 
 Margaret." 
 
Ill 
 
 A New England country road in winter per- 
 mits only two to walk abreast. " Come with 
 mamma, Dorothy dear," said Dolly, after the first 
 words of greeting and presentation were over. But 
 Dorothy, with a child's not unusual preference for 
 male society, clung shyly to her new acquisition, 
 and Paul found himself following the tall, slender 
 figure of Miss Frazer with a small mittened hand 
 in his. 
 
 As often happens before taking a single step 
 toward any real knowledge of a new acquaintance, 
 he was instantly conscious of liking Miss Frazer. 
 She had given him her hand cordially, and greeted 
 him with a frank snule from her gray, fearless eyes, 
 but her whole manner was instinct with a quiet 
 dignity, — the reserve which attracts rather than 
 repels. But his thoughts were still occupied with 
 DoUy's affairs, and had he never seen Miss Frazer 
 again he would probably have said that she made 
 no particular impression upon him. 
 
 A branch road sloped steeply down to the plain 
 below where, veiled in the bluish smoke from its 
 chimneys and the mist of the morning sim, lay 
 
24 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Westford ; and from the deep valley beyond, where 
 the river ran hidden from view, came the shrill 
 whistle of an engine. 
 
 " Dolly," said Paul suddenly, " I have some 
 rather important matters to talk over with Temple. 
 What should you say to my inviting him up for 
 the night ? " Dolly turned and looked at him 
 hesitatingly. " There 's a train that leaves New 
 York at three o'clock which would bring him here 
 for dinner. That will give him time enough, if 
 the telegram finds him and he can come." 
 
 " Why certainly," Dolly replied, recovering her- 
 self. " We will hurry back and send to the office 
 at once." 
 
 " No, if you don't mind I will go myself now. 
 It win save time, and there 's none to lose. I 
 woidd ask you to go with me," he said, glancing 
 from Dolly to Miss Frazer, " but these little legs 
 of Dorothy's hardly more than mark time." 
 
 " Margaret, you go with Paul," Dolly suggested. 
 " Dorothy can come with me." 
 
 " I should like the walk very much," said Miss 
 Frazer, " if Mr. Graham does not intend to run all 
 the way." 
 
 " We can come back as slowly as you please," 
 he laughed, taking out his watch ; " but we shall 
 have to hurry, — and we '11 see what there is for 
 little girls down there," he said, waving his hand to 
 Dorothy. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 25 
 
 They set off side by side, in the narrow lanes 
 traced by the runners of sleighs and horses' feet, at 
 a brisk walk quite different from Dolly's rather 
 indolent pace. The road dipped sharply into a 
 hollow where a small brook, fringed with willows, 
 bubbled under the ice ; rose again to the plain, 
 and, after passing a few straggling houses whose 
 slovenly appearance and untidy yards proclaimed 
 their occupants to be residents of what Westford 
 called the " back street," opened upon a long wide 
 avenue of magnificent elms, bordered by comfort- 
 able looking and in some instances strikingly large 
 and well-proportioned houses, from which, however, 
 life seemed to have ebbed away in some distant 
 past like a receding tide, leaving them to all ap- 
 pearances empty and silent amid their lilacs and 
 pines. The wide grass-grown spaces bordering 
 the road between the double lines of elms were 
 forsaken in winter, although a snow-plough had 
 evidently made an attempt to find the paths. Pe- 
 destrians, sleighs, and sledges shared alike the main 
 road, which stretched like a narrow ribbon of dirty 
 yellow down the broad expanse of white. At its 
 extremity rose the square white tower of the church, 
 looking down with its air of proprietor and guardian 
 upon the common, — around which were gathered 
 whatever signs of life Westford possessed, — its 
 pointed spire above the square belfry overshad- 
 owing in silent disdain the small Gothic chapel 
 
26 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 which, summer visitors had erected for their own 
 use. 
 
 Paul and Margaret took the diagonal path trav- 
 ersing this open space toward the corner where 
 the brick hotel, enlarged for the summer population 
 with scant recognition of what the summer visitor 
 demands, marked the centre of the village. Here 
 were the few shops which ministered to the needs 
 of the surrounding country, and the post office with 
 the town hall above, before which were drawn up a 
 few empty sleighs and wood-laden sledges. 
 
 Having sent his telegram, Paul looked about for 
 the most promising of the shop windows. 
 
 " Do you suppose we can find anything for 
 Dorothy here ? " he asked. 
 
 " It will be over there if anywhere," said Mar- 
 garet, indicating what appeared to be a Doric 
 temple on the opposite side of the street. 
 
 "I probably made a rash promise, but you must 
 help me out. It wiU never do to go back empty- 
 handed. Dorothy's imagination has doubtless been 
 at work ever since we left her, though she must 
 have everything money can buy already. Shall 
 we try?" 
 
 They crossed the street, stopping for a moment 
 under the dingy portico of piUars before the win- 
 dows ; but they did not prove very alluring. 
 
 "What a collection!" exclaimed Paul, as his 
 eye searched the motley array of hardware, gro- 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 27 
 
 ceries, dry goods, and crockery. " I am afraid it 
 is hopeless." 
 
 " I happen to know exactly what Dorothy wants," 
 suggested Margaret. "Just a common wooden 
 three-legged stool. It 's perfectly absurd, I know," 
 she added, " but she has been crazy over a milking- 
 stool she found in the barn. She wants it in the 
 nursery, and I am sure she wiQ think more of it 
 than of the finest Nuremberg toy." 
 
 " I never should have selected that, certainly, but 
 I shall take your advice, and put all the blame on 
 you if it proves bad." 
 
 " I am willing to risk it," said Margaret, and a 
 moment later he emerged, carrying his ridiculous 
 purchase by one of its three clumsy legs. 
 
 Now and then as they retraced their way, a 
 passer-by greeted Margaret with an awkward nod 
 of recognition, as if half ashamed of his politeness, 
 salutations which she acknowledged by a quick 
 "good-morning," with the result of stiU further 
 increasing the embarrassment of those to whom it 
 was addressed. 
 
 "What a strange people they are," she said. 
 " A word of courtesy is such an effort, but an act 
 of chivalry would be a mere matter of course." 
 
 "It is shyness, isn't it?" said Paul, "and a 
 rugged sort of independence. They greet one an- 
 other in precisely the same manner, out of a corner 
 of the eye." 
 
28 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 A jingle of bells caused them to step aside to 
 allow the passage of an empty wood-team approach- 
 ing from behind. 
 
 " It 's Mr. Pearson," said Margaret. " He al- 
 ways gives me a ride." And, in fact, the horses 
 slackened their pace as they came up, and a rough 
 voice exclaimed, — 
 
 " Be yer goin' my way? I 'U give yer a lift as 
 fur as the gate." 
 
 The speaker was a thin, wiry little man, with 
 weather-tanned face and tangled reddish beard, 
 clad in a beaver cap pulled down over the ears, a 
 long, faded blue army overcoat, and water-soaked 
 boots. 
 
 " Shall we ? " asked Margaret, looking at Paul. 
 
 " Oh, there 's room enough for two," said Mr. 
 Pearson cheerily. " It ain't so clean as it might 
 be, but chips and bark don't hurt nobody." 
 
 Paul helped Miss Frazer into the low box, open 
 behind and boarded at the sides, above which pro- 
 jected stout poles festooned with chains. A bright 
 color of health and amusement shone on her cheeks, 
 and she laughed at Paul as she swayed to the mo- 
 tion of the runners on the uneven road. A haunt- 
 ing recollection of something seen before had come 
 to him with every look into her face. Now he 
 remembered. It was the child's face in the Flor- 
 entine frame in Dolly's parlor. 
 
 "That's a mighty handy stool o' your'n," re- 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 29 
 
 marked Mr. Pearson, inspecting Paul's purchase 
 critically. " Cows givin' much milk up your way ? " 
 
 " I am afraid I can't give you much information 
 about Westford cows," laughed Paul. " I am a 
 stranger here." 
 
 " Oh, be ye," said Mr. Pearson, who knew it all 
 the time, but whose curiosity generally approached 
 its quarry indirectly. " Come from fur ? " 
 
 " From South Africa," said Paul. 
 
 " Yer don't say ! " exclaimed Mr. Pearson, 
 regarding him with evidently increased interest. 
 " They 're a mighty long time a-gittin' through 
 their fightin' down there." 
 
 " So were we," Paul replied, glancing at the 
 army coat. 
 
 " That 's so, so we were," Mr. Pearson assented. 
 " I had a hand ui it myself and oughter know. 
 I 've been a-drawin' o' my pension this very day." 
 
 " How much do you get ? " inquired Paul. 
 
 " Forty-five dollars the fust of every quarter." 
 
 "That's pretty good pay for thirty years of 
 peace," Paul said. 
 
 " Waal, 'tain't enough to need a guardeen," re- 
 marked Mr. Pearson, whipping up his horses. 
 
 Paul saw that he was trenching on delicate 
 ground and changed the subject. 
 
 "You have a good pair of horses there, Mr. 
 Pearson." 
 
 " So they be. I raised the off one myself. The 
 
30 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 nigli one ain't so much account. I took him from 
 a feller as could n't pay his board when 1 kept the 
 tavern." 
 
 Mr. Pearson did not have exactly the air of a 
 hotel proprietor, and Paul expressed his surprise. 
 
 " That was afore they fixed the tavern up. When 
 the city folks began to come I sold out. They 
 did n't understand my ways, and I did n't under- 
 stand their'n. I had to take all the bells out the 
 rooms, — they kept o' ringin' of 'em so there warn't 
 no peace," explained Mr. Pearson. 
 
 " Then you are a farmer now, I suppose ? " Paul 
 said, exchanging a smile with Miss Frazer. 
 
 " Yaas. Farmin' siunmers and loggin' winters. 
 What sort of a country is it down there in Afriky ? 
 Mostly grazin' land, I hear, — not much timber." 
 
 " That depends upon where you are. Africa is a 
 big country ; " and Paul described the veldt, its baked 
 khaki-colored earth, rocky lulls, and long thin lines 
 of green along the chocolate-hued streams. Mr. 
 Pearson listened attentively, but seemed to be pur- 
 suing his own line of thought. 
 
 " Them pious people are a hard lot to tackle," 
 he remarked at the first pause. " Yer can't drive 
 notions so easy as yer can horses." 
 
 "Mr. Pearson," said Margaret, as they drew 
 near the gate, " won't you come in and warm your 
 feet ? Your boots are soaked through." 
 
 Mr. Pearson contemplated the articles in ques- 
 tion as if they had no connection with himself. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 31 
 
 " They be sorter moist," he confessed. " I ain't 
 had them boots ofE fer a week, and won't most likely 
 as not fer another. Yer see, boots ain't like traps, 
 — yer gets out of 'em easier 'n yer gets in," he 
 chuckled, reining up at the entrance to Cedar HiU. 
 
 " Then you won't come in ? " asked Margaret. 
 
 " No, thank ye, I guess I 'U be gettin' on towards 
 home," he replied in an off-hand manner which hid 
 a sudden attack of bashfulness. 
 
 " We are much obliged to you for the ride, at 
 any rate," said Paul. 
 
 " Yer welcome," was the reply. " If it had n't 
 been fer them forty-five dollars yer might n't a had 
 it." And with this parting shot he chirruped to his 
 smoking horses and went jogging on under the firs. 
 
 Dolly had returned with Dorothy in that tran- 
 quil frame of mind which results from unburdening 
 the conscience, and, it must be added, from a some- 
 what indefinite knowledge of the ways of the busi- 
 ness world, fortified by the underlying conviction 
 that aU would come out right in the fend. As she 
 had said to Paul, her disquietude arose less from 
 the fear of personal loss than from that of having 
 prejudiced her relations with Margaret. Above all 
 things to be dreaded were money difficulties with 
 one she loved. 
 
 Margaret's mother had died when her little girl 
 was but ten years old, and thereafter Mr. Frazer 
 had married for the second time. Margaret pos- 
 
32 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 sessed a miniature of her mother painted shortly 
 after the latter's marriage, when she still retained 
 the charm of the yomig girl in the dignity of the 
 young mother. The face was admirably suited to 
 that delicate art. A complexion of dazzling bril- 
 liancy, a small arched mouth, sweet blue eyes full 
 of intelligence, a pure forehead under brown hair 
 that curled like the tendrils of the vine, and withal 
 an air of gentle reserve indicating a nature both 
 vivacious and sincere. To Margaret, who remem- 
 bered only smiles in those eyes and loving words 
 from those lips, it had often been a happiness to 
 find her own childish recollections confirmed by her 
 mother's friends, who always spoke of her in affec- 
 tionate enthusiasm when they saw their old friend 
 and playmate living again in her child. 
 
 Mr. Frazer's second marriage cannot be said to 
 have been an unhappy one, partly perhaps because 
 he did not long survive it. But Margaret, with 
 a natural tact which never deserted her, had lived 
 with her stepmother more happily, in view of their 
 different natures, than might have been expected. 
 Mrs. Frazer, on returning from the short journey 
 which followed the wedding, had said to the little 
 girl of twelve in a decisive tone intended to avoid aU 
 discussion, " You will call me mother, dear ; " and 
 the little girl had replied with an equally quiet de- 
 cision, " I will call you mother, and I will call my 
 own mother mamma," — a reply which gave the 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 33 
 
 keynote to their subsequent relations. It was to 
 Margaret's credit that, as years went on, though her 
 new connection often jarred and sometimes morti- 
 fied her, she never betrayed it. In a certain way 
 she was genuinely fond of her, although companion- 
 ship was out of the question. Mrs. Frazer was de- 
 voted to dress, with very imperfect conceptions of its 
 propriety ; to people, whom, however, she criticised 
 unmercifully; and, while generally satisfied with 
 herself, was never content with her own society. 
 
 After Mr. Frazer's death she had roamed the 
 known world over, in independent masculine fash- 
 ion, in search, now of variety and adventure, now 
 of rest, as she termed it, and finally of the altitude, 
 climate, and waters suited to her constitution. It 
 was strange that the Creator, who had somewhere 
 provided these things for her own peculiar use, 
 should have omitted to indicate where they were to 
 be found. Fortunately Margaret had been left in 
 sufficiently independent circumstances to free her 
 from the necessity of following her stepmother's ec- 
 centric manceuvres. That lady, with all her faults 
 and foibles, possessed the redeeming quality known 
 as a good heart. Her unusual candor was with- 
 out malice, her peculiarities amused rather than 
 offended, and her independence of character and 
 movement rarely interfered with those of her im- 
 mediate neighbors. One is tolerant of people who 
 are a law unto themselves provided they do not 
 
34 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 attempt also to be a law for others. Moreover her 
 angles had worn down with time, a fact which be- 
 trayed" itself not so much in her forms of speech, 
 which were still as abrupt as ever, as in the good 
 offices which were often in such flat contradiction 
 with her utterances. All her offending was on 
 first acquaintance. She wore well. 
 
 DoUy, somewhat prone to take up people with 
 sudden enthusiasms, but on the other hand stead- 
 fast as such enthusiasms rarely are, had taken Mar- 
 garet to her heart at their first meeting, and the 
 visit — which began after Mr. Frazer's death, when 
 Mrs. Frazer started off on one of her periodical 
 voyages of discovery, and DoUy, herself in mourn- 
 ing, was in need of companionship — had been 
 indefinitely prolonged. At certain periods of the 
 year, with great fimmess on Margaret's part and 
 some embarrassment on DoUy's, mysterious money 
 transactions were effected between them which 
 Margaret contended were absolutely necessary to 
 her peace of mind. Women rarely take business 
 as a matter of course. 
 
 " You are an amazing couple," once wrote Mrs. 
 Frazer to Margaret from Biarritz. " I could not 
 tolerate such a pretty girl as you in my house." 
 
 But jealousy was not one of Dolly's faults. 
 
 She met Paul and Margaret in the avenue as 
 they returned from the village, and Dorothy, after 
 delaying progress to the house by insisting at fre- 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 35 
 
 quent intervals on sitting down on her beloved 
 stool, was with difficulty persuaded to renounce it 
 during luncheon. 
 
 "The mail came while you were away," said 
 Dolly at the table ; " there was nothing for you, 
 Paid, but I had a letter from the Bishop, who has 
 been preaching at Lemington, and who writes he is 
 coming to spend the night with us. As the Bishop 
 is to be here, and probably Mr. Temple, I thought 
 I would ask the Fishers to dinner. I have just 
 telephoned them, and they have accepted. I shall 
 send the carriage for them. Mr. Fisher is a pro- 
 fessor in Lemington College. I must ask Thomas 
 about the horses. I don't understand why horses 
 should be so lame every other day. It 's most ex- 
 traordinary. When I do not want them Thomas 
 says they must be exercised, and then they frighten 
 me to death, they are so frisky. And when I want 
 them dreadfully, they are lame and cannot stir a 
 step." 
 
 The butler entered, as she spoke, with two yellow 
 envelopes which he handed to Mrs. Kensett. 
 
 " Why," exclaimed Dolly, " here are two tele- 
 grams ! One is for you, Margaret. I suppose this 
 is from Mr. Temple." 
 
 " Yes," said Paul, opening it. " He will be here 
 at seven." 
 
 Margaret meanwhile passed her message to Dolly 
 with a queer smile. 
 
36 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " Mercy ! " cried Dolly, reading it hurriedly and 
 looking at Margaret. " What a woman she is ! " 
 
 The message was less laconic than Mr. Temple's, 
 but equally precise. Dolly read it again, aloud. 
 
 WUl arrive by evening train. Do send plenty 
 of robes. Such a dreadful cold country. 
 
 LATTEIlirDA. 
 
 " It 's just like mother," laughed Margaret. 
 " Her last letter was from Nice, and she said no- 
 thing about returning. There is no address," she 
 added, taking up the telegram ; " so I suppose she 
 is on the way now." 
 
 " Certainly she is ! " exclaimed DoUy. " One 
 might as well try to stop a bombshell, and I have 
 no inclination to. She and the Bishop will amuse 
 each other famously," — and Dolly looked at Mar- 
 garet with unfeigned amusement. " Paul dear, it 
 is from Mrs. Frazer. I am dreadfully glad you 
 are here. You and the Bishop must entertain her. 
 You will tell her all about South Africa. But I 
 must talk this over with Margaret, and shall leave 
 you with your coffee and cigar. Your trunks came 
 this morning, and you will find the papers in the 
 library. Have you everything you want, dear?" she 
 said, kissing his forehead gently, — "everything?" 
 and without waiting for a reply she vanished with 
 Margaret to discuss the unexpected news. 
 
IV 
 
 The dming-room at Cedar Hill was large, rather 
 dimly lighted by windows overshadowed by a broad 
 piazza, and for that reason not used in winter on 
 ordinary occasions, Dolly preferring the sunny 
 breakfast-room that faced the south and east. In 
 summer, however, its four low windows were open 
 to the piazza, itself a summer drawing-room of gen- 
 erous proportions, to which all the life of the house 
 inevitably gravitated. Originally this piazza had 
 been the usual old-fashioned narrow platform where 
 sun and rain disputed possession with any one who 
 risked the danger of falhng off its unprotected edge. 
 But DoUy had changed all that. Widened to an 
 extent which had been a source of bitter controversy 
 between the architect and the local builder, bor- 
 dered by a low wall and parapet from which the 
 nasturtiums talked to the roses that raised their 
 heads to its level from the border beyond, screened 
 from the sun by awnings, and furnished with in- 
 numerable divans and easy-chairs in bright colors, 
 whence long vistas of blue hills opened between the 
 trees on the lawn, it lacked nothing, as DoUy said 
 when she surveyed her completed work, but the 
 
38 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 shimmer and motion of the sea to make it perfect. 
 On this winter night, when the windows were closed 
 and the table with its glass and silver shone in the 
 softened light of shaded candles, and the black oak 
 paneling winked back at the firelight leaping in 
 the chimney recessed under the Spanish altar-piece 
 Dolly had bought in Toledo, one forgot the simuner 
 altogether. 
 
 Dolly's guests had arrived just before the dinner 
 hour. The Bishop, a frequent visitor, had gone 
 directly to his room. Paul had met Temple at the 
 station, and after having put Mrs. Frazer into a 
 carriage, had walked back with Jack for the sake 
 of the air and a preliminary talk after years of 
 separation. Professor Fisher and his sister ap- 
 peared just before dinner was announced. The 
 Professor was a young man of unmistakably aggres- 
 sive temperament, which betrayed itself immedi- 
 ately, even before he uttered a word. It was diffi- 
 cult in this respect to name the chief offender 
 among the visible elements of his personality. It 
 may have been his manner of easy assumption, as 
 if he were thoroughly at home in all subjects and 
 under all circumstances ; it may have been his 
 voice, which had a peculiar rasping quality ; or the 
 fluency of his speech, which never lacked the right 
 word, and ran on with an irritating monotony and 
 exasperating precision like a perfectly oiled ma- 
 chine ; it may have been his eye, which looked you 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 39 
 
 directly in the face from behind a very large pair 
 of round glasses. Dolly declared it was his nose, 
 which had a wavelike outline terminating in a sud- 
 den upward slant altogether unexpected, and giving 
 the face an expression of constant interrogation. 
 Dolly had invited him to meet the Bishop because 
 he was a, most zealous churchman, the Bishop's 
 right-hand man in a college community of rigid 
 Congregationalism, — bishops, hke the Creator, 
 having often need of weaker vessels to carry on the 
 affairs of this world. Miss Fisher, whose thin 
 brown hair was brushed smoothly over her fore- 
 head, had apparently ceded to her brother all claims 
 to notice. No art of the modiste could have sur- 
 mounted the difficulty presented by her person, 
 a difficulty arising from an unobtrusiveness of form 
 as remarkable as her timidity of character. But 
 her face was gentle and her voice low, and there 
 was something quite touching in her evident devo- 
 tion to her brother. 
 
 Mrs. Frazer, arrayed in a suit of mail of spar- 
 kling jet with a nodding white ostrich plume in her 
 wig and a wonderful necklace of diamonds, stared 
 at the Fishers through her lorgnette with great 
 interest as she took Mr. Temple's arm to dinner. 
 
 " You have such lovely silver, Dolly dear," she 
 said, taking off her gloves and laying them with 
 her fan beside her plate. It was her habit to 
 address such of her friends as she particularly fan- 
 
40 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 cied by their Christian names, utterly regardless of 
 any reciprocity of sentiment. " It is very bad 
 taste," she said, turning to the Bishop, " to make 
 such comments. But I like to have people praise 
 my things, and I find it a safe rule to say what you 
 like to hear." 
 
 " A siLver edition of the golden rule," said the 
 Bishop, who was fond of his little joke. 
 
 "You have just returned from abroad, Mrs. 
 Frazer?" said the Professor, who was quite fasci- 
 nated by that lady, notwithstanding what he con- 
 sidered the very impertinent use of her lorgnette. 
 
 " I am always returning from abroad. I have 
 to, in order to go abroad again. One can't stay in 
 one place all the time, you know." 
 
 Professor Pisher, whose acquaintance with Eu- 
 rope was confined to the pilgrimage made in his 
 Sabbatical year, saw his cue and took it immedi- 
 ately. 
 
 " One of the great sources of superiority of the 
 Anglo-Saxon race," he rejoined, " is, it seems to 
 me, the abstract, I might almost say the spiritual 
 way in which it looks upon home and country. 
 Think of the conditions of the last century in these 
 colonies : two or three millions, of different origins, 
 customs, characters, scattered along the seacoast in 
 widely separated settlements, mutually jealous, — 
 behind them the wilderness and the savage, con- 
 fronting them the organized power of England. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 41 
 
 Refugees and emigrants themselves, surely the idea 
 of country was to them an abstraction. But the 
 Anglo-Saxon does not look upon the fatherland 
 from a material point of view. He loves his acre, 
 yet is not rooted to it. He relies upon his spiritual 
 inheritance, his personal initiative, not upon tradi- 
 tional institutions " — 
 
 "Quite so, quite so," interposed the Bishop. 
 "You might remind some of the over-zealous de- 
 fenders of the Constitution of that fact, — don't 
 you think so, Mr. Temple? " 
 
 " The Constitution was certainly written under 
 conditions radically different from those of to-day," 
 replied Jack, with his accustomed brevity and 
 directness. " It was a remarkably well-made suit 
 of clothes at the time, — for a boy, — but is a 
 rather uncomfortable fit for a grown man." 
 
 " You are quite right, Mr. Temple," said Mrs. 
 Frazer, her white plume nodding approvingly. " It 
 reminds me of my grandfather's wiU.. He gave 
 his negro servant to his son with the proviso that 
 if he was freed the whole estate was to revert to a 
 theological seminary, and the seminary was to lose 
 it also if ever the creed was modified by a comma. 
 A pretty mess he made of it, trying to tie up pos- 
 terity ! " 
 
 " And who got the estate finally ? " inquired the 
 Professor. 
 
 " I did," said Mrs. Frazer, with a snap of satis- 
 faction. 
 
42 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " Nevertheless, I hold it to be a very lamentable 
 feature of modern life," pursued Professor Fisher, 
 " this disregard for the sanctity of written docu- 
 ments. The individual " — 
 
 Here Mrs. Frazer cut the general conversation 
 short by asking DoUy what she paid her cook, 
 whom she pronounced a treasure, and the Professor 
 was left to finish his sentence to Margaret. 
 
 Indeed it seemed to Paul that the Professor's 
 remarks were addressed quite as much to Margaret 
 as to the company at large, and he felt a nervous 
 irritation as he glanced across the table to see 
 her evincing so much interest in his conversation. 
 " How can she talk to such a cad ! " he thought. 
 Unless an occasional monosyllable and snule of 
 assent can be called conversation, this was precisely 
 what Margaret was not doing. An attempt to 
 elicit some information about Hfe in Lemington 
 from Miss Fisher, who had fallen to Paul's lot in 
 the dinner distribution, had ended in a plaintive 
 description of the difficulties of housekeeping in 
 that community, to which Paul listened sufficiently 
 to enable him to make appropriate replies, arguing 
 with himself the while that it could make no possi- 
 ble diEference to him whether Margaret liked the 
 Professor's society or not. Suddenly his eyes met 
 hers, flashing so quick a smUe of comprehension 
 upon him that the whole atmosphere of the room 
 was changed as by magic, and for the first time 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 43 
 
 lie saw how really beautiful she was. To be sure, 
 Dolly had said so in her every letter, but to-night 
 the vision Dolly's pen had so often tried to paint 
 was before him. It had certainly been only a 
 glance of frank amusement, a gleam from her 
 sense of humor, — yet it seemed to create a bond 
 of mutual understanding which was strangely plea- 
 sant to him; and that momentary smile, bright 
 itself as a light against the dark shadows of the 
 oak wainscoting, was destined long afterwards to 
 form one of those few vivid pictures which Memory 
 selects to sum up for us the total of the years. 
 
 " One must be greatly fatigued after such a long 
 journey," Miss Fisher was saying to Paul as Mrs. 
 Frazer finished a description of her winter passage. 
 
 " Tired ! not a bit, my child," cried that lady, 
 whose quick ear lost nothing. " The ocean 's no- 
 thing more than a parlor car nowadays. I rode all 
 through Armenia once, not on a sidesaddle, either." 
 
 "A most interesting country," interposed the 
 Professor. 
 
 " A most interesting country and a most detest- 
 able people, — much worse than the Turk. People 
 who settle the affairs of Armenia in Faneuil Hall 
 had better go there first." 
 
 " How could you manage a man's saddle ! " said 
 Dolly, scenting danger and turning the subject. 
 
 " It is only the first step that costs," smiled the 
 Bishop. 
 
44 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " Entirely so, a mere prejudice. A sidesaddle 
 on a rock staircase looks as absurd as an Easter 
 bonnet in midwinter." 
 
 " Mrs. Frazer," said Paul, " I am going to dis- 
 close a state secret. DoUy was afraid you would 
 be bored at Cedar Hill, and commissioned me to 
 aid tbe Bishop in entertaining you. You are steal- 
 ing our role." 
 
 Mrs. Frazer laugbed good-bumoredly. "We 
 all love flattery, don't we ? " she said to the Bishop, 
 taking Mr. Temple's arm as Dolly rose. " Oh, I 
 forgot, — it 's not Continental fashion, and we are 
 to leave you gentlemen to finish your wine." 
 
 " Jack," said Paul after the ladies had gone, " I 
 want a little talk with you." 
 
 "AU right. The Bishop always goes to bed 
 early," replied Jack. " There '11 be plenty of time. 
 No, thank you," to the butler who was passing 
 what DoUy, who knew much of vintages, called 
 the Bishop's port. 
 
 " Whiskey and soda, sir ? " 
 
 " No, nothing." 
 
 " You have n't changed your habits. Jack. Come 
 over here where we can talk quietly," said Paul, 
 seeing the Bishop fast in the Professor's net. 
 " That idiot drives me mad." 
 
 " Who, the Professor ? You must let such fel- 
 lows talk themselves out." 
 
 " Talk themselves out I I wish he could. He 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 45 
 
 ■began with me on Pretoria and Cape Town, as if 
 they were suburbs. One doesn't forget Chicago 
 and New York are a thousand miles apart, if one 
 ever knew it." 
 
 Jack laughed. " Never put the lid on a boiling 
 kettle, Paul. He began with me too, on free trade, 
 before dinner, — and he knows a lot about it, — 
 only, as Mrs. Frazer remarked, he hasn't been 
 there." 
 
 "Jack," said Paul abruptly, "do you know 
 Heald?" 
 
 " Heald, Heald ? " replied Jack, watching the 
 smoke as it curled from the end of his cigar. " I 
 know who you mean. No, I don't know him per- 
 sonally." 
 
 " What sort of a man is he ? " 
 
 " He goes everywhere," said Jack non-commit- 
 tingly. 
 
 "What does the street think of him?" 
 
 " Well, I don't think he is taken very seriously. 
 Why ? Do you know him ? " 
 
 " You remember a while ago Dolly drew a rather 
 large check on you." 
 
 "Yes. Mrs. Kensett and I have a somewhat 
 peculiar arrangement between ourselves, you know. 
 She mails me her checks, and if her account can 
 stand it I send her the money." 
 
 "Yes, I know. Dolly told me about it; and a 
 very sensible arrangement it is, too. Did you ever 
 hear of the Argonaut mine ? " 
 
46 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " The Argonaut ? Never." 
 
 " Are n't its shares listed ? " 
 
 " They may be. I don't pretend to follow every 
 wildcat scheme op the market." 
 
 " Then it is a wildcat scheme, is it ? " 
 
 " Now look here," said Mr. Temple, settling him- 
 self back in his chair, " tell me what you are driving 
 at." 
 
 " Well," said Paul, " the long and the short of it 
 is this : this fellow Heald has invested the money 
 you sent in Argonaut shares for Dolly. He pre- 
 tends he was a great friend of Kensett's, and a lot 
 of that rubbish. The shares have gone down and 
 DoUy is scared. She told me the whole story this 
 morning, and I told her I should advise with you. 
 That is why I asked you up." 
 
 " I know nothing about Argonaut. This is the 
 first time I have heard the word since I was at 
 school. But I wiU look into it directly. The money 
 I sent Mrs. Kensett was income, and she can afford 
 to lose it. Of course I should not have advised her 
 to throw it away if she had consulted me. I told 
 Kensett I would look after her capital as I would 
 my own, — which means, you know, in such a case, 
 better." 
 
 " Yes," said Pa,ul, " but she has invested other 
 people's money too." Jack looked up quickly. 
 " You won't ask me whose, for although she bound 
 me to no secrecy, I know she would rather not have 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 47 
 
 any names mentioned at present. The facts are 
 these," — and Paul gave the details of DoUy's morn- 
 ing confession. 
 
 Temple listened without a word, and when Paul 
 concluded smoked on in silence. 
 
 " He 's been cutting a wide swath lately," he said 
 at last ; " automobile, yacht, and all that sort of 
 thing. He 's not my style, you know. But I have 
 absolutely nothing against him. Are you staying 
 here?" 
 
 " Por the present. I shall have a lot to do when 
 the war is over, but just now I 'm in a dead calm." 
 
 " Well," as the Bishop rose, " I shall go down 
 to-morrow. There is a directors' meeting I must 
 attend. You wiU. hear from me iu a day or two, 
 and if I want you I will wire. You might give me 
 a memorandum of the number of shares and what 
 they cost." 
 
 " One thousand at twenty-five, and one thousand 
 at forty." 
 
 Paul expected to see Jack wince a little at these 
 figures, but his face expressed nothing. 
 
 " Shall we join the ladies ? " smiled the Bishop. 
 And they went upstairs into the drawing-room. 
 
 Paul had often declared to himself that, what- 
 ever else he might be capable of, he would never 
 struggle with a rival over a woman. There was a 
 brutal reminder of the origin of the race in such 
 rivalry that revolted him. This resolve did not 
 
48 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 occur to 'him now, nor did Mrs. Frazer's suggestion 
 at the dinner-table that one's opinion of a subject 
 sometimes changed on a nearer view of it. But it 
 did occur to him as the Professor with his blandest 
 manner joined Margaret, who was talking with his 
 sister in a distant comer, how utterly lui protected 
 a woman was against the presumption of a bore. 
 
 " Come here and sit down by me," cried Mrs. 
 Frazer, as he stood for a moment hesitating in the 
 doorway. " What have you been doing with your- 
 self all these years?" — readjusting her volumi- 
 nous train to make room for him beside her on 
 the sofa, — " making money I suppose. Have you 
 reached the stage where you are going to retire 
 and be a good-for-nothing ? I hope not. There is 
 nothing so lamentable as a man who takes off his 
 harness and gives himself over to elegant leisure. 
 It is of no use to try unless you began as a baby 
 at the bottle. Leisure is quite bad enough for a 
 woman, for a man it is poison. Look at me ! I am 
 bored to death. But why don't you marry, eh ? Are 
 there no pretty faces in Bui — Bulawayo? You have 
 such queer names down there." 
 
 " Why are you women so anxious to marry off 
 everybody ? " Paul retorted, laughing. " We should 
 not think of it if you did not put the idea into our 
 heads. Are n't we well enough off as we are ? " 
 
 " Decidedly not. Much more interesting, I grant 
 you. But we women are quite unselfish in the mat- 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 49 
 
 ter. Moreover we know much better than you, I 
 assure you, the real mea.mng of life." 
 
 " Perhaps so, — ■ you who have seen a good deal 
 of it." 
 
 " No, aU of us, who know nothing about it," re- 
 joined Mrs. Frazer, with her customary disdain for 
 logical consistency. " Now listen to me. Woman 
 has an instinctive knowledge of what she was in- 
 tended for, — mixed up, naturally, with all sorts of 
 foolish dreams and ideals, mere air bubbles on the 
 placid depths of her consciousness. She knows bet- 
 ter than you what completes life, what is life, and 
 she would rather live it as it was meant to be lived, 
 live it as the plant lives it through frost and drought, 
 from bud to seed, with all seedtime means, than to 
 know and feel and suffer nothing, like a rose in a 
 greenhouse. You may take my word for it. Are 
 we not always rushing into danger more unconcern- 
 edly than you ? " 
 
 " I doubt if we do think so much of these things 
 as you do, if that 's what you mean," said Paid, 
 looking over at the Professor. 
 
 " What possesses Dolly to ask such people here ? " 
 said Mrs. Frazer, following his gaze. " That man 
 positively maddens me. I feel constantly tempted 
 to do something outrageous to shock him." 
 
 " Do you ? " said Paul, laughing in spite of him- 
 self, " so do I." 
 
 " I never could tolerate people I do not like," she 
 
50 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 pursued, taking a cigarette from a small jeweled 
 case and lighting it unconcernedly. " When we 
 dislike people in a novel we shut up the book. It 
 is a pity we cannot do so in society." 
 
 "What is it we cannot do in society?" asked 
 Temple, joining them. 
 
 " What we please. But I am not speaking of 
 you. You are an extraordinary exception. You 
 have nothing to say to us and we all adore you. 
 You never accept invitations and every one keeps 
 on inviting you. You are like the Sphinx, — every- 
 body would make a journey to hear you speak, and 
 you say nothing." 
 
 Jack's face did not change under this compli- 
 ment. He detested open praise. 
 
 " I have made a good many enemies in my life," 
 he said quietly. 
 
 " I am quite content to have the people I dislike 
 for enemies if they will confine their enmity to let- 
 ting me alone," declared Mrs. Frazer incisively. 
 
 The Bishop, who had been meanwhile laying 
 before Mrs. Kensett his plans for the mission 
 church in Lemington, rose to say good-night. 
 
 " You must not think," said Dolly, " that I am 
 not interested in what you have been saying. But 
 I must have time to consider it and to consult with 
 Mr. Temple." Her inclinations ran to individuals ; 
 charity in the mass appealed less quickly to her 
 sympathies. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 51 
 
 "Certainly, most certainly," acquiesced the 
 Bishop. "I would not press it upon you under 
 any consideration, and I leave the matter wholly 
 in your hands. You have been most generous, and 
 I assure you I am not always coming to Cedar HiU 
 in the guise of a beggar." 
 
 " You wiU always be welcome in any guise, my 
 dear friend," Dolly replied. " Are you going to 
 take that horrid early train ? " 
 
 " I must," he said, taking her hand, " and you 
 will let me steal away as usual." 
 
 He bade each one good-night, and DoUy followed 
 him to the door. 
 
 " You wiU hear from me soon," she smiled. 
 
 Then the carriage for the Fishers was announced, 
 and every one rose. 
 
 " Did I hear the Bishop say he was leaving by 
 the early train? " asked Jack of Mrs. Kensett. " I 
 don't like to run off so early, but there is a busi- 
 ness meeting which I must attend to-morrow " — 
 
 He looked away as he spoke. "That is an 
 excuse for going," thought Dolly. 
 
 "What would happen now, I should like to 
 know, if you played truant for once, Mr. Temple ? " 
 interrupted Mrs. Frazer. 
 
 "Nothing very serious, I dare say. Mabel 
 would lose her gold eagle for one thing." 
 
 " Mr. Temple gives all his attendance fees to 
 Mabel, you know," explained Dolly. 
 
52 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " No, I did not know it, but I do know he will 
 spoil that child," declared Mrs. Frazer emphati- 
 cally. 
 
 And then Dolly sent for her fur cloak, which 
 she insisted upon Miss Fisher's wearing home, the 
 night was so cold ; and Miss Fisher thanked her 
 for a " most delightful evening," and the Professor 
 shook hands ceremoniously, expressing his great 
 pleasure at having met every one, and the ladies 
 said good-night, and Paul went down with Jack to 
 the biUiard-room for' a final smoke and talk before 
 going to bed. 
 
It was nearly midnight when Paul, after leaving 
 Jack in his room, knocked at Dolly's door. 
 
 " Have you gone to bed, Dolly ? " 
 
 " No, come in," she said. " We have been hold- 
 ing an adjourned meeting. Margaret and Mrs. 
 Frazer have just gone." 
 
 " It is late," said Paul, sitting down before the 
 fire in one of the chairs evidently just vacated. 
 " Are you tired ? " 
 
 " No, not a bit. Jane, I shall not need you any 
 more," and DoUy, with two long braids hanging 
 down over her blue silk peignoir, ensconced herself 
 in one of the two chairs opposite her cousin with 
 her slippered feet on the fender. " How like old 
 times this is ! Do you remember how yon used to 
 come up in my room, — when we were children ? " 
 she sighed. 
 
 " I have been talking with Temple about Heald," 
 said Paul, after a pause. " Jack knows nothing 
 about Argonaut, but he has promised to investigate 
 it and to teU me what he may learn. I thought 
 you would like to know, although there is little to 
 be said at present." 
 
54 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Dolly changed her position and put up one hand 
 to screen her eyes from the firelight, but made no 
 reply. 
 
 " You said you had something more to tell me, 
 DoUy." 
 
 " Yes," she replied slowly. " You know I hesi- 
 tated at first this morning, when you proposed 
 asking Mr. Temple here. It was not because — 
 because of — Mr. Temple has asked me to marry 
 him." 
 
 In the imexpectedness and incompleteness of 
 this announcement Paul found nothing to say. 
 
 " You are probably as much astonished as I was," 
 DoUy went on, speaking to the fire. " A woman 
 is not generally unprepared for such a declaration, 
 but you know how different he is from most men. 
 I had never dreamed of it. He was Cecil's best 
 friend, and I — I really cannot explain how I felt 
 toward him, — something as I feel toward you, 
 Paul. You are not my brother, and you are not 
 like an ordinary cousin. It would be absurd to say 
 I looked upon him as a father, or a brother, — but 
 can't you understand ? Without a father, or a mo- 
 ther, or a brother, and you gone, Paul, he seemed to 
 be something of everything without being anything 
 in particular. I always felt as much at ease with 
 him as I do with you. And he is so kind, so un- 
 selfish, I would not hurt his feelings for the world. 
 When he spoke to me I could not answer him." 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 55 
 
 " But you did answer him, Dolly," said Paul. 
 
 " No, I did not answer him," she said, at length. 
 " I just cried. He said I was not to think of it 
 again . . . that he understood "... DoUy hesi- 
 tated and her voice trembled — " hut I do not think 
 he did understand — I do not think I understood 
 myself — I thought it was just surprise and pity, 
 but" — her voice was very low now — "I do care 
 for him." 
 
 Paul leaned forward and took her hand in both 
 his own. 
 
 " You ought to teU him so, then," he said. She 
 shook her head slowly, but did not speak. " Non- 
 sense, Dolly," he began impatiently. But she 
 seemed to shrink from what he was about to say, 
 and he continued gently, " Why not ? if you are 
 sure of yourself, if you know your own heart. Life 
 is not a play in which misunderstandings must be 
 kept alive for the sake of the last act. There are a 
 hundred ways in which you could teU him with- 
 out — without his knowing that he had not discov- 
 ered it himself." 
 
 "Hush, Paul, you do not know what you are 
 saying." 
 
 " I know so well what I am saying that if you 
 persist in such foUy I " — 
 
 She drew away her hand and lifted her eyes to 
 his with such a look that he stopped short. 
 
 "Dolly, you are keeping something back." 
 
56 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " No, I shall keep nothing back from you, Paul. 
 I have been waiting too long for some one to speak 
 to for that." 
 
 She rose as she spoke, and going to her desk 
 unlocked a drawer from which she took a letter 
 which she handed to him. He opened it, saw that 
 it was in a woman's handwriting, glanced at the 
 signature, and then began to read : — 
 
 Deak Mes. Kensett, — I am so glad papa took 
 me with him to Cedar Hill, where I had such a de- 
 Ughtfol visit. He is always going away on iusiness, 
 and it is so dreadfully stupid to be left alone with 
 Miss Gaimt. Dear papa ! I am quite decided never 
 to let him go off by himself again. You have 
 such a lovely house at Cedar Hill, and I think 
 Miss Frazer is charming. It is no wonder you are 
 tempted to pass the winter in the country in such a 
 home, and I suppose the season in town is a very 
 old story to you. To me it is enchanting, and I am 
 having such a gay time. Papa is very good and 
 goes with me everywhere, though I know he is 
 sometimes terribly bored. But I mean to be very 
 good to him. We went to the Daytons' wedding 
 yesterday. I think it is perfectly horrid for a 
 woman to marry a second time, don't you ? If any 
 one should ever think of marrying my papa how I 
 should hate her ! He is such an unsuspecting dear. 
 That is a point on which I am quite decided. I 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 57 
 
 don't know why I am writing all this to you, dear 
 Mrs. Kensett. I only intended to thank you for 
 the lovely time you gave me. 
 
 Sincerely yours, 
 
 Mabel Temple. 
 
 Paul read this letter through slowly, and then 
 again a second time, as if not quite sure that he had 
 at first comprehended it. It did seem quite clear, 
 and the emphasis took on a new significance on a 
 second reading. Yet he made an effort not to think 
 so. " Axe you sure you are not reading between 
 the lines?" he asked at length, looking up into 
 Dolly's face. 
 
 " Quite sure, Paul." 
 
 " What a detestable little cat ! " he cried. " One 
 would think you were going to commit a crime. 
 It 's despicably impertinent and deadly selfish." 
 
 " Oh yes, Paul, I know all you can say," said 
 DoUy wearily, turning her head away and leaning 
 her cheek upon the chair. " How I have thought 
 over it! till I can think no more." Paul rose, walk- 
 ing back and forth behind her chair. " Do you 
 remember," she went on, " how papa forbade us to 
 play even solitaire ? and you to smoke ? Why did 
 we obey ? There was nothing wrong in doing these 
 things. We sacrificed — how much 1 — to avoid 
 conflict, the unhappiness that would have followed 
 if we had not yielded. We were always giving up 
 
58 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 innocent things, submitting to tyranny, while papa 
 was alive, — for the sake of peace. There was no 
 reason why you should not smoke except that you 
 were forbidden to, and there is no reason why I 
 should not marry Mr. Temple except the same in- 
 superable one, — the unhappiness it would cause." 
 " Cause whom? " interrupted Paul. " Not him, 
 not you, not a living soul except this little tyrant. 
 And why her ? You are not going to injure her. 
 Why should you sacrifice the real happiness of two 
 decent people to the pretended happiness of this — 
 this egoist ? " he said, restraining himself. " I tell 
 you what, Dolly," he continued, stopping in front of 
 her, " if I were to live my life over again I should 
 live it very differently. What did we gain by sur- 
 rendering our natural rights to egoism and tyranny ? 
 Peace, you say. The peace of slaves and cowards ! " 
 " Hush, Paul dear. Mr. Temple loves Mabel." 
 " He wouldn't if he knew her better." 
 " Would you wish me to open his eyes ? " 
 Paul found this question hard to answer. 
 " No," he said at last, resuming his walk to and 
 fro behind her chair, " perhaps not. You love him, 
 Mabel loves herself. That's just the difference. 
 And you would not hurt him for the world. But 
 if he knew you loved him, which would hurt him 
 most? Mabel's selfishness or your silence? Yes, 
 I understand," replying to her gesture, " he does 
 not know it. You have refused him. He is n't 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 59 
 
 much the happier for that, I suppose. He may 
 never find you out, but I warrant you he wiU find 
 her out. Are you willing to have him suspect some 
 day what he lost and why he lost it ? Forgive me, 
 Dolly dear," he said, bending over her chair, for he 
 heard the low sobs she tried in vain to stifle ; " for- 
 give me, but I don't believe in mysteries and si- 
 lence. If I were you I would go straight to Jack and 
 tell him the truth, whatever it is. You said this 
 morning it was right to do some things if no one 
 knew you did them. I don't believe it. Tell him 
 you cannot marry him, if you cannot. But teU him 
 you love him, that you cannot marry him because 
 you love him. Let him have the consolation of 
 knowing that. He is a man, with sense and judg- 
 ment. Trust him as having a little of both, — as 
 much as you have. I have never been in love, — 
 perhaps I am all wrong, — but if ever I am in love 
 I hope I shall not lose the judgment of sane people 
 who are not." 
 
 There was silence for a moment, and then DoUy 
 lifted her face to his and touched his cheek with 
 her lips. Her eyes were wet, but she had gTown 
 quite calm again. 
 
 " I must decide all this for myself, Paul. I knew 
 it before I spoke to you, but it is a relief to have 
 spoken. When you know what love is, as you will, 
 you will know if it has no judgment it has instincts, 
 — instincts stronger than any reasonings. I have 
 
60 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 been trying to reason, and I am tired, bewildered, 
 — but I always come back to the same point." 
 
 " Have you seen much of her ? do you know her 
 well ? It is hardly fair to judge a girl by a single 
 letter." 
 
 "I could love any one who would let me," DoUy 
 said, staring into the fire. " It is not easy to de- 
 scribe Mabel, she changes so. But she interests and 
 fascinates me. I was just beginning to be really 
 fond of her, when this came." 
 
 " Have you answered it ? " he asked, as she took 
 the letter from his hand. 
 
 " No, and now that you have seen it, I shall de- 
 stroy it." 
 
 She went to the fire and dropped it on the coals. 
 " If I could bum the memory of it as easily," she 
 thought, as it burst into flame and shriveled into a 
 little heap of black ashes. 
 
VI 
 
 The Bishop and Jack, having been called in the 
 early morning, had their coffee together by candle- 
 light in the small breakfast-room, and were driven 
 to the shivering little station in the valley as the 
 sun came up over the Westford hiUs. The Bishop 
 thought it a good occasion to explain his projects 
 for the mission church at Lemington, for Mr. 
 Temple was one of his stanchest props in under- 
 takings of this nature. He also had much to say 
 in praise of Mrs. Kensett, and inquired kindly for 
 Mabel as he shook his companion's hand warmly 
 at the junction where he left the express to take a 
 local train. 
 
 The Bishop had known John Temple from boy- 
 hood, and was gifted with more than ordinary 
 penetration and sagacity; yet, in common with 
 many who in the battle of life thought they had 
 fathomed Jack and had foimd themselves to their 
 discomfiture mistaken, had discovered in the latter's 
 even temper a reason for much perplexity. He 
 remembered this morning, after bidding him good- 
 by, and as he walked to and fro on the platform 
 waiting for his train, how profoundly astonished 
 
62 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 the world had been at the time of Jack's marriage 
 ■with Gladys Ferguson, and with what greater 
 astonishment it beheld the ominous prophecies to 
 which that event gave rise fail of fulfillment. It 
 had been conceded that Gladys had not married 
 him for love, and it had been equally clear that she 
 had ended by admiring him immensely. It was 
 not thought on the whole that she managed him, 
 unless a very quick intuition and a very delicate 
 tact can be called management, especially as no 
 one had ever managed Jack on Wall Street. It 
 was contended, too, that he must have been des- 
 perately in love with Gladys, for his sudden mar- 
 riage, though quite in accord with his habit of 
 never taking the world at large into his confidence, 
 betrayed a lack of judgment so wholly at variance 
 with his reputation for that quality that no other 
 explanation was possible. And yet this marriage 
 had remained a mystery. It was an open question, 
 much discussed among their friends of Gladys's sex, 
 whether he seconded her every wish, or whether 
 she deftly suppressed aU wishes he did not second. 
 Although so uniformly successful that men con- 
 sulted him in doubtful matters as they did the 
 barometer in doubtful weather, Jack had been known 
 to make mistakes, mistakes which he bore with 
 a phlegm, or retrieved with a stubbornness which 
 would have done credit to the imperturbability 
 of the conventional gambler ; so that his own even 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 63 
 
 demeanor rendered conclusions drawn from out- 
 ward indications unreliable and misleading. And 
 then had suddenly occurred that tragedy which 
 brought his domestic structure down in ruins. 
 
 At the time it had proved, like his marriage, a 
 fruitful source of controversy and gossip. Gladys's 
 friends asserted that her suicide was an act com- 
 mitted in the delirium of fever, and had had nothing 
 to do with her cousin Rowan ; while her enemies, 
 who had always denied her possession of any such 
 depth of nature as that in which great passions 
 are supposed to floiu?ish, could only reconcile their 
 past and present innuendoes by taking refuge in the 
 confession that human nature was an altogether 
 unknown and unknowable quantity. 
 
 It was with a somewhat similar generalization 
 that the Bishop's musings came to an end. Jack's 
 marriage was not the only mysterious one that had 
 fallen under his observation. The human race, he 
 said to himself, is so highly differentiated that the 
 points of contact and attraction are oftenest hidden 
 and unknown. Moreover all this was an old and 
 forgotten story, and if the Bishop's thoughts re- 
 verted to the past as he walked back and forth 
 that morning on the frosty platform, they were only 
 like the thoughts of the child on events which took 
 place before it was born. The mystery remained, 
 but it was no longer before the eyes, and the world 
 forgets what it does not see. 
 
64 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 The effect of the tragedy upon Jack had been 
 evident to all his friends. Something passed from 
 among the outward signs by which men knew him, 
 as the color leaves the face on a wound ; but if he 
 had been hard hit, no one knew exactly where. 
 None were quicker or more efficient than he in 
 practical sympathy for others, yet it was impossible 
 for any one to render such to him. If he had as 
 much need of it as other men, there were also many 
 to give it ; but that was his nature, — to bleed 
 internally, — and if wounds there were, they were 
 beyond the touch of ministering hands. Men, and 
 women too, brought him their perplexities and 
 troubles, sought his advice and took his cheer, 
 finding him as accessible, as shrewd, as good-natured 
 as ever, a little more abstracted, the old dry humor 
 a little less quick of flow, but he himself no less 
 ready to listen. Experience may rob us of our 
 illusions, but it leaves us our heritage of common 
 sense, if we ever possessed such, and in Jack's 
 practical world it was common sense, not illusions, 
 which was in demand. 
 
 Shortly after parting from the Bishop he got the 
 morning paper. He turned to the stock list and 
 saw that Argonaut shares were selling at thirty- 
 eight. Then he folded the paper and watched the 
 winter landscape as the train rolled on. At the 
 first stop he called the porter and sent a telegram 
 to Mabel, to the effect that he would dine that 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 65 
 
 night at the Club, and that Miss Gaunt, the gov- 
 erness, might take her to the Opera, where he 
 would join them. The porter, who evidently had 
 had some previous experience with Jack's fees, 
 performed his errand with alacrity, and took the 
 loose change with a "Thank you, Mr. Temple," 
 which left no doubt of his willingness to serve that 
 gentleman in any further capacity whatever. 
 
 " I suppose that fellow thinks I have everything 
 I want," thought Jack, picking up his paper again. 
 "I wonder what he wants. I could make him 
 happy for life with less than the Bishop asks for 
 his church." Unconscious of his proximity to such 
 good fortune, the porter began to set the folding 
 table in its place and brought the menu. " But 
 the Bishop is right," thought Jack. 
 
 On reaching New York he sent his portmanteau 
 to the house and, calling a hansom, drove down town 
 to his office. He went directly to his private room, 
 glanced over the memoranda of callers, listened to 
 such explanations of their visits as had been left 
 with his secretary, and then stepped to the telephone. 
 
 " Is this Brown & Sons ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am Mr. Brown." 
 
 « "Which Mr. Brown ? I am Mr. Temple." 
 
 " Oh, good-morning, Mr. Temple. It 's Mr. 
 Brown senior." 
 
 " Good-morning. Can you drop over to the 
 office in the course of the afternoon ? " 
 
66 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " Certainly, Mr. Temple. Now, if you wish." 
 
 " Very weU, now, if you please." 
 
 A few minutes later Mr. Brown was ushered in. 
 
 " Brown," said Jack, " what do you know about 
 the Argonaut mine ? " 
 
 " Nothing, personally. It lies in a good tract, 
 has good company. It 's a new property, sir." 
 
 " Can you send me the last report ? " 
 
 " You would n't get much information from their 
 reports, sir. They don't publish details." 
 
 "They? who are they?" 
 
 " Mr. Heald is the only director I know. I think 
 he is president. The other officers are not known 
 here." 
 
 " I see it is not listed on the New York Exchange, 
 Is it listed anywhere? " 
 
 " I think not. It has been a curbstone football 
 on the street." 
 
 Jack looked out the window for a moment in 
 silence. 
 
 " Brown," he said at length, " I want a thor- 
 oughly reliable man to investigate and report upon 
 that property. Not here, on the street, but at the 
 mine. Have you any one in your office you can 
 recommend ? " 
 
 " There is no one I can recommend better than 
 my son, sir," replied Mr. Brown after a moment's 
 reflection. 
 
 " That 's the man I have in mind," said Jack, 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 67 
 
 with a twinkle In his eye. " But I was n't sure you 
 thought as well of him as I did. He could go right 
 away ? " 
 
 " To-night, if necessary." 
 
 " It is n't necessary, but I am in something of a 
 hurry." 
 
 " All right, sir, it 's to-night, then." 
 
 " WiU you send him over to me ? I shall be 
 here till six. And by the way. Brown, this is con- 
 fidential." 
 
 " Certainly, Mr. Temple, certainly." 
 
 Within fifteen minutes Mr. Brown, Jr., was 
 standing where Mr. Brown, Sr., had stood, await- 
 ing instructions. 
 
 " Sit down, Mr. Brown, sit down," said Jack, 
 wheeling round in his office chair. " I want you 
 to go down to — Where are the Argonaut work- 
 ings ? " 
 
 " In Arizona, sir." 
 
 " I want you to go down to Arizona and find out 
 all about the Argonaut mine, — from garret to 
 cellar." 
 
 « Yes, sir." 
 
 " About the mine, you understand, not the Com- 
 pany." 
 
 " I understand, sir." 
 
 "How many doUars it costs to get a dollar's 
 worth of copper, and how many dollars' worth of 
 copper are there." 
 
68 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 « Yes, sir." 
 
 " I could get the last report of the Company, if 
 there is one, here in New York. I should n't send 
 you to Arizona to get that." 
 
 " Certainly not, sir." 
 
 Jack paused, turned to his desk, and took up his 
 pen. 
 
 " You may jBnd the information difficult to get, 
 and you may not, Mr. Brown." 
 
 " Very likely, sir." 
 
 " And when you get it you will report to me in 
 person." 
 
 Jack pressed the electric button on his desk. 
 
 " Give Mr. Brown the money on this check," 
 he said to his secretary, " and charge it to my pri- 
 vate account." 
 
 " I think he wiU do," he said to himself as the 
 door closed on Brown, Jr. " He did n't ask me 
 where Arizona was." 
 
 There was some work to be done with his secre- 
 tary, a few business callers to be seen, the directors' 
 meeting on the floor below, and then he took the 
 Elevated as far as Twenty-third Street, and walked 
 up through Madison Square and the Avenue to the 
 Club. 
 
 Jack was not a club man. With the exception 
 of the Yacht Club, — for he loved his boat, and 
 
 believed in vacations even down to the office boy, 
 
 he was a member of but one other, and was so rare 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 69 
 
 a visitor even in that one that he had a half-dozen 
 invitations to dinner before he got from the coat- 
 room to the dining-room. 
 
 " Look here," he said, as he reached the top of 
 the stairs, " I can't eat but one dinner, and the 
 only way out of it is for you gentlemen to dine 
 with me. Peter," he called to the head waiter, 
 " reserve the round table in the corner over there 
 for us. No, never mind the wine card, you know 
 what is good for us," — and Peter, susceptible to 
 flattery, went off in the best possible humor, much 
 honored, and more than ever persuaded the Club 
 was his own personal property. 
 
 There were some murmurs of dissent to Jack's 
 proposition, for it was customary to consider an in- 
 formal invitation to dinner as only a bid for one's 
 company, with equal division of costs. 
 
 " We 'U divide it all up if you say so," said Jack, 
 " but if you will listen to me now I will listen to 
 you at dinner." 
 
 During the evening a good many came to shake 
 hands with him, and to say how glad they were to 
 see him there, and over the coffee and cigars the 
 conversation turned upon the membership in gen- 
 eral. 
 
 " It 's not what it used to be," deplored one. 
 
 " That 's because you are no longer a youngster," 
 said Jack. " You have lost your bump of rever- 
 ence, and are one of the elect whom you used to 
 
70 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 look up to. I never admit the good old times are 
 gone while I am on deck myself. Let me see the 
 membership book," he said to the waiter. 
 
 " You are not going over the death roU, are you, 
 Jack ? This is n't an annual meeting." 
 
 " No," he laughed, " I '11 begin at the other end 
 and count the babies." 
 
 The party at the adjoining table broke up while 
 he was turning the pages, and one of the number, 
 stopping a moment as he passed by to speak with 
 one of Jack's guests, was introduced to him as Mr. 
 Heald. He was a man under middle age, of me- 
 dium height but weU formed, with black hair, teeth 
 of remarkable whiteness, and an engaging smile. 
 
 " He 's one of the lucky ones," said the previous 
 speaker ; " was barely two months on the waiting 
 list. He came from New Orleans, and had n't been 
 long enough in New York to make an enemy when 
 he was put up. If we were to go on the waiting 
 list again, Temple, we should stay there for- 
 ever." 
 
 " It would n't take as long as that to find out 
 enough to blackball me," said Jack. 
 
 " Oh, you are one of what the newspapers call 
 financial magnates. Heald 's a freebooter." 
 
 " What 's a freebooter ? " asked Jack. 
 
 " Probably the dictionary would say a robber. 
 I don't mean that, but a sort of privateer. He has 
 his letters of marque, flies the regular flag, and 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 71 
 
 doubtless observes tbe rules of war — I beg your 
 pardon, Jack — business." 
 
 " I have served on a good many Boards," observed 
 Jack quietly, " and I have found the standards of 
 morality as high on the business Board as on any 
 other — higher, in fact." 
 
 " Ever been on a hanging committee ? " queried 
 the artist of the company. ^ 
 
 " If I could make five dollars' worth of paint 
 worth five thousand by signing my name to it, as 
 you can, I should go out of business," replied 
 Jack. 
 
 " Funny, is n't it, how every well-to-do round peg 
 thinks he 's in a square hole," said the artist. " I 
 would swap my signature for yours in a minute." 
 
 Jack smiled and threw away his cigar. His 
 business ship had seen many a gale, but its keel 
 had never touched bottom. He was proud of that 
 fact. 
 
 " I am going to give you gentlemen something 
 to growl over right away," he said, rising. " I have 
 got a little girl at the Opera and must go and take 
 her home." 
 
 All his friends knew of his devotion to Mabel. 
 " Do you know," some one hazarded after he had 
 gone, "I don't believe Jack Temple loves that 
 daughter of his. He 's discharging a duty." 
 
 " Nonsense," was the reply. " He is perfectly 
 
72 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 infatuated over her, — if a man can be said to be 
 infatuated with his own child." 
 
 " Well, I did n't say he was n't," remarked the 
 first speaker. " Obme, let 's go down and hare a 
 game of pool." 
 
VII 
 
 Jack took a cab from the Club, drove to tbe 
 house, and dressed hurriedly, reaching the Opera 
 at the close of the second act of Hoffmann's Tales 
 as Julietta's gondola glided under the balcony to 
 the music of the barcarolle. The two occupants of 
 the box were so absorbed as he entered that he 
 stood for a moment unnoticed in the doorway. 
 Mabel's interest was centred on the boxes rather 
 than the stage. Miss Gaunt, her eyes fixed upon 
 the gondola disappearing on the lagoon, was evi- 
 dently in Venice with Hoffmann. 
 
 At what she had then considered the very ma- 
 ture age of twenty Miss Gaunt had exchanged the 
 duties of an assistant in a young ladies' boarding- 
 school for those of governess in Mr. Temple's 
 family. Having been educated — in an institution 
 exclusively devoted to the elevation and emancipa^ 
 tion of her sex — to a degree which made self- 
 support a duty she owed to her superior advantages, 
 and having in the process been withdrawn during 
 her sentimental period from the dangers of foolish 
 and romantic attachments, it seemed quite logical 
 after graduating with high honors that she should 
 
74 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 immediately put her stores of learning to some 
 practical account. She was one of a large family 
 in moderate circumstances, whose head had deemed 
 it incumbent upon himself to provide for his daugh- 
 ter a means of self-help in the event of a future 
 necessity. In the case of Miss Gaunt a first effort 
 had been made to develop a special aptitude for 
 music, but the foundations for anything beyond a 
 modest accomplishment in this direction proved 
 lacking, and the attempt had been abandoned. 
 Attention had then been turned to languages, with 
 the result that Miss Gaunt could speak two living 
 ones with grammatical rigidity and an original 
 accent, and read two dead ones with much hesi- 
 tancy and the aid of a dictionary. Mathematics 
 had, however, proved her forte, and her progress 
 in functions was a source of mingled pride and awe 
 to the Gaunt family. 
 
 Considerable discussion arose over the question 
 what to do with Miss Gaunt when her education 
 was completed. Not to do something, to permit 
 her merely to live on at home in meek acceptance 
 of destiny, as other girls had done before the days 
 of superior advantages, was not to be thought of. 
 Moreover her college life had stimidated her ambi- 
 tion, and introduced an element of discontent into 
 her composition. The offer of an engagement as 
 assistant in a fashionable New York school pre- 
 sented itself therefore as a natural sequence to her 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 75 
 
 preparatory training and as the proper reward of 
 her devotion to her studies, and was embraced ac- 
 cordingly. 
 
 In the acquisition of four languages, elliptic 
 functions, and her other accomplishments, however, 
 Miss Gaunt had not lost the feminine point of 
 view ; for all her teachers had been of her own sex, 
 and however good a point of view of history or 
 literature or discipline a woman's may be, it is not 
 the same as that of a man. Nor had anything in 
 her daily round of duty in college halls given her 
 any real insight into the struggle for life for which 
 she was ostensibly preparing herself. Gradually, 
 and much to her surprise, it dawned upon her that 
 her experience in her new position was not alto- 
 gether satisfying. To almost the same extent as 
 her pupils she found herself a subordinate wheel in 
 a machine, and the responsibility of performing a 
 definite number of revolutions per day was not that 
 of which she had been dreaming. However modest 
 had once seemed to her the authority and dignity 
 of a simple mistress of a home, she began to realize 
 that wives and mothers possessed at all events cer- 
 tain attributes of power, freedom, and consideration 
 which, as prizes in the struggle for Hfe, were other- 
 wise less easily attained and, when conquered, 
 promised to prove less satisfying. 
 
 It must also be noted that in acquiring her 
 superior advantages Miss Gaunt had not lost any 
 
76 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 of those natural ones with which nature had en- 
 dowed her. They had not destroyed her oval face, 
 her rich black hair, her graceful carriage, or her 
 knack of making the most of any slender resource 
 in dress, and her large brown eyes had not been 
 reduced in the pursuit of functions to the necessity 
 for artificial aids to vision. In short the functions, 
 the two living and the two dead languages were 
 only of those things which " shall be added unto 
 you." But it required some time for her to realize 
 that she had been utilizing these excellent things 
 to a dubious end. What the right end was she 
 had not fully determined, but when Mr. Temple 
 proposed her transfer from the school-room to 
 Gramercy Park she did not hesitate a moment. 
 
 Mr. Temple had hesitated when she was first 
 presented to him. She was both younger and 
 prettier than he expected, or than even she herself at 
 that time considered herself to be. But her family 
 was irreproachable, her recommendations unim- 
 peachable, her accomplishments and character duly 
 vouched for by diploma, and, most conclusive of 
 all, Mabel had taken a great fancy to her at their 
 very first meeting. A good judge of men is not 
 always a good judge of women. There had been 
 Gladys to prove it. Moreover Mr. Temple, except 
 in strictly business matters, was always more shy 
 and embarrassed with women than his outward 
 manner indicated. With his usual prudence, how- 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 77 
 
 ever, he had asked Miss Gaunt to present herself 
 at his office for the final interview ; and there, in 
 an atmosphere where he felt thoroughly at home, 
 after some preliminary details he said : — 
 
 " Before we settle our arrangements finally. Miss 
 Gaunt, there are some things which I wish you to 
 understand. If you accept my offer it is as my 
 daughter's governess and companion, not as mine." 
 He looked up from his desk, but Miss Gaunt' s 
 brown eyes betrayed no emotion. " You will have 
 your own parlor, and your meals will be served 
 there. I do not mean to imply " — he had in 
 mind to say " any social inferiority," but paused, 
 and went on as if he had said it, — "in fact, if you 
 are as sensible as I take you to be, you will see 
 that I am thinking quite as much of your own inde- 
 pendence of life as of my own. You must be 
 happy in your environment or my daughter will 
 not be. Your chief responsibility will be her hap- 
 piness and education. Of the servants you will 
 have no care, but should you have complaints or 
 observations to make you will make them to me. 
 Mabel understands that she is to obey you, and 
 you will have absolute authority. Your task will 
 not be a difficult one if you win her respect and 
 love. I suppose your own experience has told you 
 that they are the only foundations for real obedi- 
 ence." 
 
 It was under these conditions and a tempting 
 
78 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 increase in remuneration that Miss Gaunt had 
 assumed her new duties, and the temporary arrange- 
 ment for one year had been indefinitely renewed as 
 the years went by until its continuance ceased to 
 be a subject of discussion. 
 
 Her mother had indignantly rebelled against cer- 
 tain provisions of " dear Helen's " contract with 
 Mr. Temple, but Helen had assured her she would 
 not feel as she did if she knew Mr. Temple better, 
 and it soon became evident that in spite of the 
 relegation to obscurity of the elliptic functions 
 Helen was most advantageously placed and most 
 happy. On those rare occasions when she made 
 a visit home it was discovered that she had visibly 
 changed. She had never despised dress, but she 
 now gave more thought to it than before. She no 
 longer appeared concerned for economy, or brought 
 her savings to her father for investment as formerly. 
 On the contrary, she always came loaded with 
 presents and a purse which afforded exceptional 
 opportunities for the entertainment of the younger 
 members of the Gaunt family ; and she was quite 
 ready when her visit was over to say good-by. 
 
 It was curious that Miss Gaunt should have 
 found herself regarding her former ambitions much 
 in the same light as, when under their influence, 
 she had regarded her present mode of life ; and it 
 was an undoubted fact that at twenty-nine, after 
 nine years in Gramercy Park, she considered her- 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 79 
 
 self younger than when at twenty she presided over 
 a class of young ladies. 
 
 On her arrival she had been looked upon by 
 Mabel from a child's point of view and classed 
 with all grown up people, but as time went by 
 governess and pupil seemed to approach each other, 
 the difference in their ages to grow less, until now, 
 when the pupil, who matured rapidly, had passed 
 her eighteenth birthday, the governess had become 
 the companion to an extent never contemplated in 
 the contract, — had, indeed, become Helen instead 
 of Miss Gaunt. 
 
 Mabel was Gladys's reincarnation. She pos- 
 sessed her mother's coloring, features, and figure, a 
 pair of violet eyes deeper and more speechful than 
 even Gladys's blue ones, her mobility and quick- 
 ness of intelligence, but not her tact or, as yet, her 
 depth of nature. Decidedly Miss Gaunt's inferior 
 in solidity of mental equipment, but with much 
 more beauty and force of character, she had never 
 entertained the slightest jealousy of her companion, 
 whom she respected just enough to be at first a 
 little in awe of her, and whom in time she grew to 
 reaUy care for as much as she had yet cared for 
 any one except her father. She was not vain, but 
 very self-reliant, with an unconscious daring which 
 carried her straight to the core of things and per- 
 sons calculated to inspire awe in a way that dispelled 
 all their awesomeness. Helen had found her a 
 
80 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 willful, sometimes peevish, and often selfish, child. 
 Gladys had devoted much thought to her dress, 
 and had successfully utilized her as a decorative 
 feature. Seated beside her in the landau, or brought 
 in with the dessert, she was most effective, and 
 very early in life Mabel had learned that for real 
 genuine affection as she viewed it, affection which 
 rarely said no, and which was bent upon gratify- 
 ing, not denying, her wishes, she must appeal to 
 her father. Gladys passed out of her life, leaving 
 only the sentimental memory belonging to a very 
 lovely vision very rarely seen, and it was only in 
 later years, and under the touch of an imagination 
 which works best at a distance, that Mabel evoked 
 her memory with any real feeling. Gladys herself 
 would have been astonished if she could have seen 
 her own picture as painted by her child's fancy, 
 and the reality of this post-mortem affection would 
 hardly have atoned for the fact that its object was 
 but a phantom of the original. 
 
 Mr. Temple had never had reason to complain of 
 his daughter's progress. Mabel possessed a certain 
 brilliancy which might well have blinded his indul- 
 gent eyes, were not the eyes of affection blind 
 enough already. She could gallop through a waltz 
 by Chopin in a way which delighted him and scan- 
 dalized her teacher. What she had learned as a 
 child, as the French and German acquired by ear 
 from her nursery governesses, she had learned 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 81 
 
 quickly and well, but in all that required appli- 
 cation, perseverance, conscientiousness, she was su- 
 perficial and depended upon her marvelous memory, 
 to the detriment of all thoroughness and accuracy. 
 It pleased Jack tremendously after hearing a new 
 opera to listen to her embroidery of the score — 
 without notes ! He had been trained in the school 
 of experience, and what he knew he knew well. 
 What he did not know he set all the more store 
 by, but, not knowing it, was easily impressed and 
 an indifferent critic. 
 
 Miss Gaunt saw more clearly, but it was a very 
 Tmgracious, not to say hopeless, task to set Mr. 
 Temple right, and it was very difficult to be severe 
 with Mabel. For all her waywardness and care- 
 lessness and selfishness, she was in so many ways 
 lovable, and substituted so adroitly her lovable 
 qualities for her unlovely ones when a reprimand 
 was impending that she always broke its force. 
 It would have been much easier to deal with Jack's 
 patient, persistent wiU, or even with Gladys's 
 subtle, persuasive one, than with Mabel's blend of 
 imperiousness and capriciousness, and Miss Gaunt's 
 early efforts at discipline became more and more 
 fitful and gentle. Moulding character, for good at 
 least, was a far more difficult process than teaching 
 the French irregular verbs or the Latin declen- 
 sions in a fashionable boarding-school. 
 
 Then, too, Miss Gaunt was learning as well as 
 
82 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 teaching. She was learning how delightful it was 
 to be able to order a carriage, even though it was 
 not her own ; how delightful it was to shop without 
 calculating the cost, even though she was shopping 
 for another ; how delightful it was to have her own 
 apartments, to be waited upon at her own table, 
 even though it was a solitary grandeur. She could 
 console herself, too, for the neglect of the elliptic 
 functions with the fact that in conversing with 
 Mabel in French during the morning, and in Ger- 
 man during the afternoon, her accent in the living 
 languages was rapidly improving. AU the advan- 
 tages were not on Mabel's side. 
 
 It had often occurred to Miss Gaunt that this 
 state of affairs could not go on forever, and on one 
 occasion Jack had intimated as much to Mabel. 
 But Mabel had rejected the suggestion with such 
 emphasis that it had never been renewed. For 
 whUe Miss Gaunt had reached the limit of her 
 capacity as instructress, she was altogether too 
 valuable as chaperon to be dispensed with. When 
 Mabel passed from short to long dresses, abandoned 
 her braids, and began to preside at her father's 
 table,, she canceled the clause of the contract which 
 related to Miss Gaunt's ostracism from the dining- 
 room. " It is quite too absurd to think of Helen's 
 eating alone," she had said ; and Jack thought so 
 too. He acquiesced because he really liked Miss 
 Gaunt. She never bothered him, never "hung 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 83 
 
 around," presumed, intrigued, complained, or did 
 any of those things which would have caused him 
 annoyance, anxiety, or constraint. Gradually, and 
 more and more, through her presence at table and 
 as Mabel's chaperon at functions for which Mr. 
 Temple could not spare the time, she came to 
 know Mabel's friends intimately. She was stylish, 
 pretty, well-bred, unpretending, with a touch of 
 timidity highly out of place in a governess but 
 quite winning in itself. Mabel never reminded 
 her of the drawbacks incident to her position, or 
 gave her any encouragement to exercise its preroga- 
 tives, and it was very easy for Helen to glide thus 
 insensibly from the relation of governess to that of 
 companion and friend, — to sit, as it were, like 
 Lady Bess, the cat, on the bearskin before the fire 
 in the drawing-room instead of watching for mice 
 in the pantry. 
 
 It might have been better for Miss Gaunt had 
 the struggle with life, for whose possible advent 
 her education had been planned, actually come. 
 It might have completed the work imperfectly 
 begun and crushed out the tendency to admire the 
 princes in fairy tales whose acquaintance she made 
 before she began to integrate functions. It was 
 true she had never met these fascinating creations 
 of the story-book in real hfe, and she would have 
 resented the suggestion that she ever expected to. 
 Mabel, however, had not been long in discovering 
 
84 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 the romantic vein under the surface of demureness. 
 It was the demureness of shyness rather than of 
 severity. Mabel delighted in shocking her, be- 
 cause it was so easy. She was never shocked 
 herself, and learned life's lessons so rapidly, and 
 with such quick intuition, that Helen always seemed 
 to her as stupid and naive in worldly wisdom as 
 she was clever in the wisdom of books. She could 
 be teased, made to blush, and, in case of necessity, 
 blindfolded, — a very precious power to wield over 
 a governess. Mabel reflected impressions like a 
 mirror, whose picture vanishes with the object it 
 reflects ; Helen stored them away somewhere Kke a 
 sensitized plate, cherishing little things which Mabel 
 accepted as a matter of course, and waiting, as 
 some women will wait, all the functions of Laplace 
 notwithstanding, for the sun that can transform 
 the latent impression into a living reality. 
 
VIII 
 
 " Mabel, your father is here," said Helen, as 
 Jack came forward. 
 
 Mabel rushed to the rear of the box and threw 
 her arms impulsively about his neck behind the 
 curtains. She was sure she was tremendously fond 
 of him. 
 
 " The music is entrancing to-night. You dear 
 papa, to think of me ! Where have you been ? 
 You did not teU me." 
 
 " I had a telegram from Paul Graham about 
 some business," said Jack, disengaging himself from 
 Mabel's white arms and hanging up his fur-lined 
 coat beside her blue velvet opera cloak. " So you 
 have been enjoying yourself ? " 
 
 " Immensely ! " cried Mabel, leading the way 
 back to her seat. 
 
 Miss Gaunt rose as Mr. Temple entered, and 
 moved aside. 
 
 " No, keep your seat, Miss Gaunt. I will sit 
 behind Mabel." 
 
 "Who is Paul Graham, papa?" asked Mabel. 
 " I never heard you speak of him before." Her 
 hand stole back into his below the crimson rail, but 
 
86 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 her eyes were wandering over the house as if in 
 search of some one. She wore a gown of white 
 satin and tulle with a string of fine pearls. Jack 
 might well be proud of her. Her beauty varied 
 with her mood, and sometimes, when things went 
 wrong, there was a suggestion of sharpness in her 
 clear-cut, delicate features. She had all her mo- 
 ther's taste in dress and her inimitable way of wear- 
 ing things. Her figure was faultless, and she 
 seemed happy to-night to the very tips of her white- 
 slippered feet. 
 
 " Perhaps not. He has been away for years in 
 South Africa. He used to know you when you 
 were a little girl. He is a cousin of Mrs. Ken- 
 sett's." 
 
 " Is he nice ? " asked Mabel. 
 
 "A lot nicer than some of the men who lead the 
 cotillion with you." 
 
 " You foolish papa ! don't you know I care no- 
 thing for them ? I only love to dance. Is he in 
 town ? " 
 
 " No, he is at Cedar Hill, — tiU the war is 
 over." 
 
 A shadow passed over Mabel's face, but vanished 
 as quickly as the shadow of a bird's flight. 
 
 " If he comes to town we must have him to see 
 us," she said absent-mindedly. 
 
 " We will, certainly," Jack assented. 
 
 A man, standing up in the fourth row of the 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 87 
 
 orchestra chairs, and who had just entered, howed 
 simultaneously with Mabel's smile of recognition. 
 
 " Who is that, Mabel ? " asked Jack, taking out 
 his glasses. 
 
 " That man ? Mr. Heald." 
 
 Then two pretty girls in the adjoining box began 
 an animated conversation with her around the bar- 
 rier, and Mabel finally rose and joined them. 
 
 It was the last thing that could be said of Jack 
 that he was superstitious, but like many a hard- 
 headed man of the business world who is beyond 
 the influence of mere coincidences, they sometimes 
 haunted him. It was strange, he thought, that 
 this man Heald should be thrust upon him three 
 times within twenty-four hours. 
 
 " Where did Mabel meet Mr. Heald, Miss 
 Gaunt ? " he asked abruptly. 
 
 Miss Gaunt had often observed that Jack failed 
 to see the most obvious things, although he en- 
 deavored to add Gladys's duties to his own in look- 
 ing after Mabel. So that while the question was a 
 natural one, there was a directness about it quite 
 unusual, and which appealed to her sense of respon- 
 sibility. Either because she had grown a little 
 rusty in the exercise of this function or for some 
 other reason she hesitated. 
 
 " I think at the Wendells' dance last faU, the 
 first time." 
 
 Mr. Heald had evidently recognized Jack, for as 
 
88 HIS DAUGHTER FIEST 
 
 the bell rang for the last act he appeared at the 
 box door, 
 
 " I had the pleasure of being presented to you 
 this evening, Mr. Temple," he said, with a smile 
 which showed his white teeth, " and I came to ask 
 permission to call on your daughter." 
 
 " Certainly," replied Jack. " My daughter is 
 at home on Thursdays." 
 
 There was nothing else to be said and no reason 
 for saying less. 
 
 " Are you enjoying the music, Miss Gaunt ? " 
 
 "Very much," she answered, scarcely turning 
 her head. In spite of all she could do the color ran 
 to her cheeks. She was leaning forward on the rail 
 watching the musicians as they came in. Mr. Heald 
 took the seat behind her, bowing to Mabel, of whom 
 he caught a glimpse in the next box. 
 
 With an effort at composure Helen sat back in 
 her chair. 
 
 " The music is lovely to-night. One gets so tired 
 of Faust and Carmen and Cavalleria. It 's nice to 
 hear something new." 
 
 " It is not a new opera, Miss Gaunt. It was 
 the one given in Vienna at the Eing Theatre years 
 ago when so many lives were lost by fire, and has 
 been on the black list ever since." 
 
 She was conscious that Mabel was observing her, 
 and moved her chair forward, leaning on the rail 
 again and speaking rather loudly. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 89 
 
 " The ballad in the prelude is very original," said 
 Mr. Heald. 
 
 "Very." 
 
 " And the minuet is a gem." 
 
 "Yes, it is." 
 
 " And the scene with the automaton was very 
 cleverly managed." Helen was silent. 
 
 " I wish 1 had the secret of making automatons 
 speak," he said in a low voice. 
 
 She made a quick movement as if some one had 
 touched her. "They are going to begin," she 
 said. 
 
 The conductor was opening the score and rap- 
 ping with his baton. Mr. Heald rose, and as he 
 went out bowed again to Mabel, who was humming 
 the strain of the opening air, tapping the rail with 
 her white fingers. 
 
 " Is n't it lovely ! " she cried, smiling at him. 
 
 " Hush ! " said some one in the orchestra chairs 
 below. 
 
 "What did Mr. Heald want, papa?" asked 
 Mabel when she had resumed her place. 
 
 " Permission to call on you. I told him you 
 were at home Thursdays." 
 
 " Rather late in the day," she said to herself ; 
 and then aloud, indifferently, " He is dreadfully 
 old, but very good looking. Don't you think so ? 
 and very entertaining. You might ask him to 
 dinner some evening, papa." 
 
90 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " I don't know him well enough for that," Jack 
 replied, thinking of the Argonaut mine. 
 
 " Oh, Helen," called Mabel that night through 
 the open door of their conununicating rooms, " I 
 forgot ; papa asked me to write a note to Bishop 
 Stearns inviting him to dinner Monday. Do write 
 it for me, wUl you, please." 
 
 She was sitting before her fire, while her maid 
 was brushing out her long yellow hair. 
 
 " Sit down at my desk and I will tell you what 
 to say." 
 
 Helen came in, opened Mabel's portfolio, and 
 began a search for note paper. Order and system 
 were unknown to Mabel's possessions. 
 
 " ' My dear Bishop,' " she began, " ' papa desires 
 me to say ' — Are you ready ? " 
 
 " Yes dear, go on." 
 
 " — ' papa desires me to say — that he should be 
 very glad — to talk over with you — the plans for 
 the church at Lemington ' — I wish that old Bishop 
 would let papa alone ! what was I saying, Helen ? 
 Read me what you have written, please." 
 
 Helen read the first sentence aloud, and Mabel 
 went on. 
 
 " — 'on Monday evening. He suggests — that 
 if you have no engagement for that evening — you 
 come in and dine with us — informally — at eight 
 o'clock. He hopes this will suit your convenience — 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIEST 91 
 
 and I need not add — that it will give great plear 
 sure — to his daughter Mabel ' — what a fib ! I 
 think he is stupid. WiU that do, Helen ? " 
 
 Helen thought it would, and was folding the 
 written sheet, preparatory to inclosing it in the 
 envelope, when she saw that the reverse side had 
 been written upon. It was a rough scrawl in 
 Mabel's hand, without address or signature; and 
 while this did not give her the right to read it, she 
 had involuntarily glanced at it before she was con- 
 scious that she was violating any propriety. When 
 that consciousness dawned upon her she had seen 
 more than she cared to, and having none of Mabel's 
 quick self-possession, she was embarrassed and con- 
 fused. 
 
 " What are you doing, Helen ? Can't you find 
 an envelope ? " 
 
 " I have blotted it and must write it over again," 
 Helen said, hurrying into the first lie that came to 
 hand. She re-wrote the note, sealing and directing 
 it rapidly. It was impossible to leave the first one 
 in Mabel's portfolio, for Mabel would know she 
 had seen it, and would suspect her of having done 
 what Mabel certainly would have done herself under 
 like circumstances. She started to tear it up, in- 
 tending to throw it in the grate, when Mabel 
 dismissed her maid and stood up before the fire for 
 a last look at her pretty self before extinguishing 
 the lights. So Helen thrust it guiltily in the pocket 
 of her dressing-gown and said good-night. 
 
92 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Once in her room there was a battle royal 
 between the powers of light and darkness. Unfor- 
 tunately and unintentionally she knew the substance 
 of Mabel's letter to Mrs. Kensett already. She 
 might, in her hurried glance, have misconstrued it. 
 At all events she could not take that hurried glance 
 back or undo what had been done. Then she was 
 to a degree responsible for Mabel's good behavior. 
 It was not a pleasant thing to do, to read a letter 
 not intended for her ; it was underhanded and 
 mean, — that is, it would be if she were not in 
 a position of responsibility. Her personal prefer- 
 ences had nothing to do with a question of duty. 
 Either it was her duty or it was not. She decided 
 that it was, waited till Mabel's room was dark, 
 took the letter from her pocket, and read it through. 
 
 It was a rough draft of the letter DoUy had 
 shown to Paul, a letter which Mabel had clearly 
 not dashed off impromptu, but had considered of 
 sufficient importance to indite with care. To do 
 Miss Gaunt justice it must be stated that she 
 thought it horrid, but all clear ideas of what her 
 further duty was vanished after the duty of reading 
 it was consummated. It might never have been 
 sent. She had not accompanied Mabel on her 
 visit to Cedar Hill, but she knew Mrs. Kensett, 
 who had always been very kind to her and whom 
 she greatly admired. She finally destroyed the 
 letter and went to bed, with a very disagreeable 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIE8T 93 
 
 feeling toward Mabel, a renewed sympathy and 
 increased admiration for Mr. Temple, and the con- 
 viction that for the present there was nothing for 
 her to do. She did not fall asleep as quickly as 
 she generally did, and dreamed very disquieting 
 dreams of a rupture with Mabel, in which Mr. 
 Heald took her part, and of returning to a very 
 shabby room in Boston, whose closets contained 
 nothing but calico dresses, and whose windows 
 looked out upon a very small and dingy back yard 
 decorated with the week's washing. 
 
 After Mabel and Helen had gone to bed Jack 
 sat in the library far into the night with his cigar. 
 He was very regular in his habits, usually retiring 
 and rising early, a mode of life to which Gladys 
 had never accustomed herself. But to-night the 
 tall clock in the corner sounded its quarter hour 
 chimes iueffectuaUy. 
 
 He had never been a great reader. Publishers 
 sent him editions de luxe and reprints of rare old 
 books, which he bought with the same judicious 
 taste that regulated his purchase of other objects 
 of art, for which he had a natural but untrained 
 appreciation. In things of this sort he trusted to 
 a good lieutenant, and did not affect a discrimina- 
 tion he did not possess. Charts and maps, the 
 strategy of campaigns and the tactics of battle 
 were, however, his delight. Novels he never read, 
 except now and then a good detective story. But 
 
94 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 he was not reading to-night. He was thinking of 
 the porter in the railway carriage, leaning against 
 the door and staring at him with envious respect 
 as a man who had everything to be desired. Jack 
 did not consider himself unreasonable or grasping. 
 He had taken life as he found it, doing methodi- 
 cally and earnestly the thing his hand found to do. 
 A full house and an empty heart was the sum of 
 it all. 
 
 He went back in thought to Gladys, a past which 
 was far enough away now to look at cooUy, dis- 
 passionately. That had been a sort of Monte Carlo 
 adventure. He did not know she had come more 
 than halfway to meet him. Her beauty, her wit, 
 her nonchalant ease had gone to his head, and never 
 having lost his head before, even in champagne, he 
 had — made a fool of himself ? No, Jack never 
 admitted that. A mistake ? Yes. A kind of 
 negative mistake, which might have proved a posi- 
 tive disaster had Gladys been purely selfish, less 
 clear in her perception of how far she could go 
 without compromising her retreat. Jack really 
 admired her, her finesse, her intelligence, her as- 
 sumption of superiority in her sphere, and her 
 tactful surrender to him in his. It was a pity she 
 had never told him how much she admired him. 
 
 And he had begun by loving her. But while 
 one may go on for all time desiring the unattained, 
 solitary loving after possession is not among the 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 95 
 
 possibilities. At first he did not notice that he 
 got back nothing solid, and never admitted it. He 
 would have resented the charge that he did not 
 love his wife as quickly as a girl denies the first 
 emotions of her young love, and with an equally 
 positive belief in his sincerity. He had been all 
 his life the soul of honor in his business relations, 
 and it did not for a moment occur to him to be 
 other than loyal in love, — loyal not only in the 
 common meaning of the word, but in his persistent 
 endeavor to believe that if love, like money, did 
 not bring all the happiness that was attributed to 
 its possession, the fault was not Gladys's. As a 
 busy man, occupied in affairs which absorbed his 
 attention and demanded all his thought, he had no 
 time to brood. Gladys never caused him tangible 
 unhappiness, and, above all, always seemed happy 
 herself, — a fact which made him ashamed of him- 
 self when he felt inclined to be otherwise. When 
 decisions were necessary he was ready for them, 
 clear-headed and prompt in action; but he was 
 prone to put away and ignore aU the interrogation 
 points of only a speculative value. The whence, 
 the why, and the wherefore of life sometimes per- 
 plexed him as they do all the thinking sons of 
 woman ; but when these riddles oppressed him, or 
 his second self undertook to cross-examine him and 
 to ask if he was happy, and if not, why not, he 
 telephoned the captain of the Vixen and went on a 
 cruise. 
 
96 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 When his friend Cecil Kensett died he had 
 found it necessary to see a good deal of Mrs. Ken- 
 sett, and Dolly, quite unconsciously, had revealed 
 to him all that other side of womanhood, of genuine 
 seH-forgetfulness, of disinterested thoughtfulness, 
 of tranquil domesticity, for which he had yearned. 
 There was no glamour about DoUy. The vision 
 she opened was one of peace, — peace and rest. 
 And the sweeter and clearer this vision grew, the 
 clearer became his realization of how empty his 
 heart was and had always been, how slowly and 
 surely it was filling with the happiness and longing 
 of a great love. 
 
 Too late, he thought, flinging his cigar into the 
 ashes. The rest of his life must be given to Mabel. 
 
 And yet Jack never relinquished easily a quest 
 on which he was determined. He said " Too late," 
 but the decision of a woman's heart was not abso- 
 lutely final, and it was only to the inevitable or 
 accomplished fact that he was accustomed to resign 
 himself. He was inclined to trust others, a trait 
 which, taken in connection with his shrewd judg- 
 ment of character, explained much of his success. 
 But he felt a little at sea with a woman's mood. 
 Good or bad, false or true, he was never quite sure 
 that it was a steady wind, or that his boat would 
 not yaw in the most favoring breeze. It was not 
 distrust, but uncertainty. Down town he probed 
 uncertainties, when he could, to the bottom. But 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 97 
 
 he could not ransack a woman's heart like an office 
 pigeonhole, or force her hand as it was often neces- 
 sary to force the hand of a business rival. For 
 the woman he loved he had only gentleness and 
 patience, and neither Dolly's "no" nor his own 
 " too late " ever wholly banished from the back- 
 ground of his hope the picture of her blue eyes and 
 winning smUe. 
 
rs 
 
 "Maegaeet," said Mrs. Frazer, looking up 
 from her game of solitaire as they sat together in 
 the breakfast-room the morning after Jack's depar- 
 ture, " what is the matter with DoUy Kensett ? " 
 
 "What is the matter with Dolly?" repeated 
 Margaret, surprised by the abrupt question. 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "I mean what I say. Something is wrong. 
 What is it?" 
 
 " You may mean what you say, mother, but I do 
 not know what you mean." 
 
 " You never did have the slightest penetration, 
 child," said Mrs. Frazer impatiently. " It would 
 be perfectly evident to a blind man." 
 
 Margaret laughed. " You are surely mistaken. 
 Dolly would certainly have told me if anything, as 
 you say, were the matter." 
 
 "No, she would not," replied Mrs. Frazer. 
 "You are altogether too unsympathetic and re- 
 served for confidences, and you never know what 
 is going on about you." 
 
 Margaret laughed again. "Then why do you 
 come to me for information? What makes you 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 99 
 
 think sometliing is wrong? " she asked after an 
 interval of silence. 
 
 Mrs. Frazer was laying down the cards in pro- 
 voking tranquUlity, quite conscious of Margaret's 
 rising curiosity. 
 
 " You did not observe that Mr. Temple avoided 
 Dolly last evening as if she were poison ? " 
 
 " No, I did not observe it," said Margaret, open- 
 ing her eyes wide. " I do not think it is true." 
 
 " You may think what you please, but I have a 
 habit of observing what goes on under my eyes." 
 
 " I do not see why Mr. Temple came here at all 
 if he wished to avoid DoUy. Why should he avoid 
 her?" 
 
 " Why indeed ! My dear chUd, you are a sim- 
 pleton." 
 
 " Evidently I am. But Dolly has always been 
 very frank with me, and I certainly should not 
 dream of asking her for what she did not choose 
 to give of her own accord." 
 
 "Margaret," said Mrs. Frazer reprovingly, 
 " you know I never interfere with other people's 
 affairs. But I see what I see. Dolly is not happy, 
 and Jack Temple knows more about the reason 
 why than you do. I have not been at Cedar Hill 
 twenty-four hours for nothing. Moreover I will 
 tell you something else." She laid down her cards 
 and looked straight into Margaret's eyes. " Paid 
 Graham is falling in love with you." 
 
100 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " Mother dear," replied Margaxet, flushing, " this 
 is too ridiculous. Mr, Graham has been here ex- 
 actly twenty-four hours longer than you." 
 
 "WeU?" 
 
 " People do not fall in love with each other in 
 twenty-four hours." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! I have seen that miracle accom- 
 plished in five years, — and in five minutes." 
 
 " I am very sorry," pursued Margaret, paying 
 no heed to the scorn in Mrs. Frazer's reply, " that 
 you have put any such idea in my mind. I liked 
 Mr. Graham the moment 1 saw him. He is frank 
 and straightforward, without the least seK-con- 
 sciousness, and makes no insincere speeches. I 
 said to myself at once, ' Here is some one I shall 
 have for a friend.' Now you have made it impos- 
 sible for me to be natural. I shall think of what 
 you have just said whenever we meet " — 
 
 " Margaret dear," interrupted Mrs. Frazer, " you 
 will do nothing of the kind. You have much more 
 self-control than I, and are far less natural in con- 
 sequence. You will be vastly more natural if you 
 do think of it. What I have said is quite simple 
 and proper, for you will find it quite true. What 
 is the use of ignoring facts and beatiag about every 
 bush! Paul is an excellent and very successful 
 man, and is becoming interested in you. There is 
 nothing remarkable in that. I am not at all sorry 
 to have spoken, for you needed to be put upon 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 101 
 
 your guard. You may have him for a friend if 
 you wish, but he will have you for more if he can." 
 
 " Mother, will you please not speak to me of 
 this any more." 
 
 " Certainly not. If that is your wish I am not 
 likely to. I referred to it simply as one refers 
 to the rising moon, — as a phenomenon which ob- 
 truded itself on my attention and which wiU take 
 care of itself. I am not intending to get in its 
 path, but I hope I may be pardoned for seeing it." 
 
 Margaret covdd but smile in spite of her vexa- 
 tion, and at that moment a step was heard on the 
 piazza and Paul appeared at the window. 
 
 " Miss Frazer, will you come for a walk ? " 
 
 Her first impulse was to say no. But one thinks 
 rapidly at such times, and before he could detect 
 any hesitation she had said : — 
 
 " Yes, I should hke to." 
 
 She glanced at her mother as she left the room, 
 but Mrs. Frazer appeared to have lost interest in 
 everything but her game. Going upstairs for her 
 boots and hat, she resolved, notwithstanding what 
 she had just declared, that she would forget all her 
 mother had said, and allow no sign of embarrass- 
 ment or constraint to escape her. No, she did not 
 believe a word of it, yet the world could not be 
 quite the same if a man loved her, — even though 
 it were a man for whom she did not care. No, she 
 would not believe a word of it. She would never 
 
102 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 have exchanged that smile across the table had she 
 dreamed of such a thing. It was too absurd for 
 another thought, and she would not give it a single 
 one. But what did her mother mean in regard to 
 DoUy? She had not noticed anything unusual. 
 Was she then so reserved and unsympathetic ? It 
 was true people never came to her with their 
 troubles and gossip as they did to DoUy, and she 
 had often observed how much more Dolly always 
 knew of what was going on about her. She stopped 
 at Dolly's door as she went down, to tell her she 
 was going out with Paul. DoUy nodded and 
 smiled, and hoped it would not snow. 
 
 " I am glad you wanted to go," Paul said, as she 
 appeared at the door. " I am so used to an out-of- 
 door life I should have had to go alone. You have 
 good warm overshoes on," he said, glancing at her 
 feet. " That 's sensible. The weather does n't 
 look very promising, but I think it will be only a 
 snow squall. I have been studying that road wind- 
 ing up that side hill. Do you know it ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is the short way to Lemington. The 
 main road follows the valley." 
 
 " There ought to be a splendid view up there. 
 Is it too much of a pull for you, do you think ? " 
 
 " Oh no, indeed," said Margaret. " And I think 
 we might take the dogs." 
 
 " By aU means," exclaimed Paul. " I did n't 
 know Dolly had any." 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 103 
 
 " Will you get them, while I go for my riding 
 whip ? I don't use it, but they mind better when 
 I have it." 
 
 He came back with three Irish setters wild with 
 joy at the prospect of an outing. 
 
 " Then you ride ? " he said, as they went down 
 the driveway under the pines. 
 
 " I did, until the snow came." She felt relieved 
 at his off-hand manner and quite herself again. 
 
 " That 's good. We must have some rides when 
 the roads are free. I have lived in the saddle 
 these last years. There 's nothing like it to clear 
 the cobwebs out of the brain." 
 
 " Is it a hard life, in Africa, — at the mines, I 
 mean ? " 
 
 " Hard ? Oh no, but free. It rather unfits one 
 for any other. Any other seems a prison after- 
 wards. I don't mean it is lawless, but simple. 
 When people herd together laws become necessary 
 and complicated, and freedom disappears. Do you 
 understand what I mean ? " 
 
 " Oh yes. I used to go into the Adirondacks 
 with papa every year. We had a camp aU by our- 
 selves at first. The whole lake was ours. There 
 was not another camp within ten miles. Then some 
 people from New York built one at the head of the 
 carry, and others came in with servants instead of 
 guides, and brought furniture and ranges, and be- 
 gan to make visits, and the whole charm was gone. 
 
104 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 There is a steamboat now on the lake, and a hotel, 
 ■with people who dress for the piazza as if they were 
 really in the woods, — like the people who carry 
 ice-axes when they go up the Gorner Grrat in the 
 railway." 
 
 Paul smiled. " Yes, I know those people. Then 
 you must shoot, too." 
 
 " I used to with papa. Do you ? " 
 
 " I did n't tiU I went to Africa. You know my 
 uncle was a crank. He ate game ; I don't know 
 ■why he did n't want it shot. His principles never 
 did agree. I suppose Dolly has told you about 
 him. He bullied us with his principles tiU — But 
 that 's past and gone, and I don't like to talk about 
 it. It is a hard thing to say that any one's death 
 was a relief, but his was. If ever any one had 
 cause to remember a date DoUy and I have. But 
 the date of my uncle's death is the only anniversary 
 in the family we never can recollect. You must 
 not let me speak about him, or you will want to 
 shoot me for a bear." 
 
 " I am not such a Nimrod as that," said Margaret, 
 laughing. Then they went on in silence for a time 
 in the sombre pine woods through which the road 
 wound ; but the constraint she had feared did not 
 come. 
 
 " Tell me about your camp life. Miss Frazer. 
 Did you ever shoot a real bear ? " 
 
 " No indeed ! Papa always went in long before 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 105 
 
 the season was open, and we only shot for camp 
 supplies. Except for the guides we were all 
 alone, so I went everywhere with him. I shot my 
 first deer at night, floating, with an old coffee pot 
 with two candles in it on my head for a ' jack.' It 
 isn't considered very sportsmanlike, I know, but 
 it 's thrilling. Papa taught me to use a fly, and to 
 set the hooks for the big trout in the lake when we 
 could not troU, — and a great many things girls are 
 not supposed to like to do. But I was young and 
 enjoyed it tremendously. And oh, how delicious 
 the hunger and fatigue of the woods are ! to go to 
 sleep at night with the great logs blazing before the 
 tent door. Papa had a lean-to, just like the guides ; 
 but he took in a tent for me, with a clean board 
 floor." 
 
 " So you could keep house." 
 
 " Keeping house is rather nice, I admit. It is 
 our province, you know." 
 
 " Then I judge you had none of the difficulties 
 with servants Miss Pisher told me about last 
 night." 
 
 " Did she ? " asked Margaret, glancing at his 
 face. 
 
 " She got me on a subject I did n't know much 
 about," said Paul, " and I was floimdering around 
 most miserably when I caught your eye. She seems 
 a nice little thing, but I must confess I think her 
 brother 's a cad. I am quite unreasonable about 
 
106 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 some things I had a surfeit of when a boy, — ser- 
 mons and speeches, among others." 
 
 " You will like Professor Eisher better when you 
 come to know him. He has an unfortunate sense 
 of inferiority with strangers, and tries to make up 
 for it by being pompous. I am sure you will find 
 he improves on acquaintance." 
 
 Margaret was thinking as she spoke of what her 
 mother had said, and so far from being made shy 
 by the recollection of it, she was emboldened half 
 unconsciously to take the opportunity of testing her 
 mother's statement by seeing what effect such praise 
 would have. 
 
 " I dare say you are right. The best in us does 
 not always show up at the first touch." 
 
 His reply reassured and pleased her. She was 
 as certain as he had been the night before that she 
 disliked the petty jealousies of lovers. 
 
 The road climbed steadily through the woods, 
 which shut out the horizon. As they emerged from 
 imder its last trees and saw the storm sweeping 
 down the line of hills, Paul stopped. 
 
 " I don't think we had better go on," he said. 
 " The wind is coming up, and that cloud has ice in 
 it. It wiU be short but sharp, like a thunderstorm 
 in summer. If we turn back through the woods 
 we shall have shelter." 
 
 " It is too bad to give up when we are so neai 
 the top," said Margaret. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 107 
 
 The sun was still shining gloriously, and only 
 here and there a hurrying mist of surface snow 
 told of the rising wind. 
 
 " Do you think it will come this side the hill ? 
 It can only last a few minutes. But we will go 
 back if you think best." 
 
 "We can try it," said Paul, who disliked to 
 preach prudence to her courage. " As you say, it 
 cannot last long." 
 
 So they went on. A thin crust overlaid the 
 snow, shining under the sun like a burnished mirror. 
 To the west and south the sky was clear, while far 
 away to the north, under the ragged line of cloud, 
 a yellow light showed the limits of the storm. 
 Swaying to the wind like the drapery of some 
 mighty unseen figure, the veils of falling snow swept 
 up the further slopes of the hill. There was still 
 a chance that its rocky buttresses might shoulder 
 them off into the valley beyond. One could see 
 from the smokelike clouds of driven snow drifting 
 away from the summit that the fight was on, and 
 that the wind was sweeping the crest bare. 
 
 " How magnificent ! " cried Margaret. " It is 
 worth coming to see. Shall we wait here till it 
 passes ? There will be no view up there now." 
 
 They were still in the sunshine and scarcely felt 
 the wind, but the words were hardly out of her 
 mouth when sun and sky were blotted out in a fu- 
 rious rush of whirling sleet. It required all her 
 
108 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 strength to keep her feet, to breathe, and the sharp 
 crystals stung her face and neck like the lashes of 
 whips. She had instinctively turned her back to 
 the blast, but could neither see nor speak, when 
 suddenly everything became black, she felt some- 
 thing warm and thick over her head and shoidders, 
 and heard Paul's voice: "Walk straight ahead. 
 I 'U keep you in the path. It will be over in a 
 minute." 
 
 She stumbled on through the drifts, steadied by 
 the push of the guiding hand on her shoulder. 
 The relief was so great that she could not protest. 
 
 " There ! it 's all over. It was nothing but a 
 bluff," said Paul, di-awing back the coat he had 
 thrown over her. She was far more beautiful now 
 than in the candlelight of yesterday, — struggling 
 for her breath, her cheeks aflame, her hair and 
 lashes white with the sleet. He saw there were 
 two brown splashes in her eyes. "Were you 
 frightened ? " 
 
 " Frightened ? No," she gasped. " I had n't a 
 faculty left. It was so sudden." 
 
 " It was a bit sudden," laughed Paul, putting 
 on his coat. " I thought you were going to be 
 blown away." 
 
 " I think I should have been if " — 
 
 "But you are aU right now," he interrupted. 
 " You can see the house down there in the sun. 
 We might go on but for the drifts." 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 109 
 
 He brushed tlie snow from her neck and hair 
 with his handkerchief and turned up the collar of 
 her jacket as he spoke. It was the first time in 
 her life a man's hand had cared for her, and she 
 felt the strength and gentleness of its touch all the 
 homeward way. 
 
 " You have the right to say ' I told you so,' " 
 fshe said, as they started back again. "It was 
 quite my fault." 
 
 " There 's no blame where there 's no harm. 
 You see, one never can tell in the valley what is 
 going on on the heights. I am glad I was with 
 you. Are you warm now ? " 
 
 " Oh, quite. Are you? " 
 
 « Quite." 
 
 After conquering the hill bastion the storm 
 swept down on the defenseless plain, blotting out 
 the houses of Westford, racing southward; and 
 before Paul and Margaret reached the wood they 
 were under blue skies again. 
 
 " How would you like to have one day with the 
 grouse. Miss Frazer ? It is late, but there are two 
 weeks yet before the season is over." 
 
 " Is not the snow too deep in the woods ? If 
 not, I should like it very much." 
 
 " I don't think it is. The pastures are bare in 
 places." 
 
 " You might ask Mr. Pearson," suggested Mar- 
 garet. "He is the local authority. He used to 
 
110 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 go out -witli Mr. Kensett. He lives just there in 
 the hollow, where you see the smoke. We can go 
 home that way." 
 
 " That 's a good idea ! " exclaimed Paul. " I 
 remember seeing the road as we came out of the 
 woods. I wonder if there is a light gun for you in 
 Cecil's outfit." 
 
 " There is DoUy's. I can use that." 
 
 " Dolly's ? " 
 
 " Oh, Dolly would not touch a gun for worlds," 
 laughed Margaret. She felt a strange exhilaration 
 and stepped on air. Was it the struggle with the 
 storm? "Mr. Kensett hoped she would learn, 
 and bought her a hammerless beauty. I think she 
 fired it once." 
 
 " I am surprised she even did that," said Paul. 
 " She never was fond of powder." 
 
 " Perhaps it is not true of men, but if women do 
 not begin early with such things they never take 
 them up at all. Dolly rides well, you know, but I 
 am sure she would not begin now if she had not 
 learned as a girl." 
 
 At the edge of the wood they turned into the 
 lane leading to Mr. Pearson's. 
 
 " Are you a good rider ? " Margaret looked up 
 quickly, but he went on in his matter-of-fact tone. 
 " Only a good rider knows what good riding is." 
 
 " I really do not know," she replied frankly. 
 " I have always had horses that suited me, that I 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 111 
 
 knew and loved. I might not pass the test in a 
 trial of strength with a brute." 
 
 "Would you try?" 
 
 " I might, if there were no critics about," 
 
 " You ought not to. Never take a needless risk," 
 he said abruptly. 
 
 Margaret made no reply, but she thought he did 
 not look like one who would practice what he 
 preached. 
 
 At the top of the rise they saw the Pearson 
 homestead, and Mr. Pearson himself, who, with the 
 assistance of his son Jim and a sorrel horse which 
 plodded dejectedly along its endless treadmill path, 
 was sawing wood for the Westford market. 
 
 " It 's purty late in the year," he remarked in 
 answer to Paul's query. " "What do you say, 
 Jim?" 
 
 Jim said he guessed there were birds enough for 
 them as knew where to find 'em. 
 
 " They 're mighty well scattered now," continued 
 Mr. Pearson. "I seed a few lone ones ia the 
 run when I come through with this load of wood. 
 They 're mostly in the runs now, or on the edges 
 where the sun lies. They come right down here 
 to the house o' nights, buddin' in them yaller 
 birches and apple-trees." 
 
 There was a pause much appreciated by the 
 sorrel, during which Jim stared hard at Margaret. 
 
 " Miss Frazer and I would like to get a shot," 
 
112 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 said Paul. " Could you take the dogs with us, say 
 to-morrow, if the weather is fine ? " 
 
 Mr. Pearson sat down on a log and deliberated. 
 
 " Fact is," he said at length, " I ain't done much 
 shootin' since Mr. Kensett quit. But you can have 
 Jim most any day. His eyesight 's better 'n mine." 
 
 " Well, then," said Paul, turning to Jim, " what 
 do you say to to-morrow ? " 
 
 " AE right," assented Jim. " I guess I can find 
 some." 
 
 "What about the snow, Mr. Pearson?" asked 
 Margaret. " Is it deep ia the run ? " 
 
 " Waal, I reckon it ain't none too deep fer them 
 as wants ter go, Miss Frazer." 
 
 So it was arranged that Jim should be at Cedar 
 Hill at seven the following morning. 
 
 " That 's a mighty nice girl, Jim, that Frazer 
 girl," said Mr. Pearson, as Paul and Margaret 
 went up the lane. " What 's more," he added, in 
 the intervals between the buzzing of the saw, 
 " there 's more folks than you and me thinks so." 
 
 " It really seems as if the dogs know what we 
 have been talking about," said Margaret, as they 
 turned into the driveway of Cedar Hill. " See 
 how happy they are." 
 
 " I think they do," Paul replied absent-mindedly. 
 
 They went on in silence under the firs. A sudden 
 constraint had fallen on them both. She was 
 slightly in advance, and as he looked at her slender 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 113 
 
 figure in the black jacket with its collar still turned 
 up under the dark brown hair he kept repeating to 
 himself, " Who are you ? "Who are you ? " 
 
 "What are you thinking of?" he asked sud- 
 denly, aloud. She turned her large gray eyes full 
 upon him in a sort of bewilderment. She felt her 
 throat swelling, yet her voice was perfectly steady. 
 
 " I do not know," she said slowly. 
 
 They went on through the short open space with- 
 out another word. Dolly nodded to them from 
 the window where she sat writing and met Mar- 
 garet at the door. When Paul came in, after tying 
 up the dogs, she was at her desk again. 
 
 " Did Miss Frazer tell you of our plan for to- 
 morrow ? " he asked. 
 
 " No," said Dolly, " what plan ? " 
 
 Paul told her. " Will you go too ? " he asked. 
 He knew very well she would not. 
 
 "I? I wouldn't touch a gun with my little 
 finger. But I teU you what we can do," She 
 laid down her pen. " You are going up the run 
 behind the Pearson farm ? that is where Cecil used 
 to go. There is a sugar camp at the head of the 
 run in the maples. It is an old log house, but 
 there is a chimney in it, and I wOl send out in the 
 morning and have a fire built. We will meet you 
 there for luncheon, then you can go on in the after- 
 noon if you wish to." 
 
 " Can you drive there ? " 
 
114 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " Easily." 
 
 " Then you might send a sleigh for us later. I 
 don't know how Miss Frazer wiU stand an all day's 
 tramp. However, we can decide that at luncheon." 
 
 DoUy had it on her tongue's end to ask him if 
 he did not like Margaret, but refrained. He was 
 vaguely conscious that she wished him to. Twenty- 
 four hours ago, had she intimated as much, he 
 would have laughed at her. Now he would have 
 liked to have her speak of Margaret. But she 
 was discreetly silent. He wandered about the 
 room restlessly for a while, glanced over the New 
 York evening papers on the table, and finally de- 
 clared he would go and have a look at the guns. 
 While engaged in their inspection he tried to 
 remember what he had said to Miss Frazer. So 
 far as he could recollect — nothing. Many a time 
 afterwards he endeavored in vain to recall that 
 nothing. Not to remember the beginning! the 
 beginning of all that changed the current and 
 meaning of life. 
 
 When Margaret reached her room, of all they 
 had said and talked about just one sentence re- 
 mained. It came back when other thoughts were 
 uppermost ; it came back when she refused to think 
 at all. " I am glad I was with you." As a yoimg 
 girl she had assumed as a matter of course, but 
 without thinking over-much about it, that she 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIEST 115 
 
 would be married, as most of her school friends 
 had been, before reaching what seemed then that dis- 
 tant milestone of twenty. She had had more than 
 her share of admiration, but none that had touched 
 her heart. She possessed none of those lesser am- 
 bitions which sometimes persuade a woman that 
 they and the heart's wishes are in accord, and too 
 much rectitude and sincerity of nature to drift into 
 false situations. Gradually and insensibly, with a 
 logic as irrational as had been her early conAdction 
 to the contrary, she came to believe she would not 
 marry at all. She was too healthful of mind and 
 body to be swayed by such a belief from normal 
 living ; although sometimes, after her father's death, 
 life looked a little lonely and sad. And now, sud- 
 denly, a whole world of glorious possibility opened 
 to her. Was it to be hers after aU? Did she 
 wish it ? Oh yes, she wished it, with all the pas- 
 sionate force of the thirst one spring only can 
 quench, and the consciousness of it forced its way 
 through every barrier, and wrung the admission 
 from her by virtue of its very truth. She took one 
 swift look at the wonderful vision, and then crushed 
 it out of sight and thought. 
 
 If it had been any other rightful prize of life she 
 could have taken every rightful step to possess her- 
 self of it. But from love, the dearest prize of all, 
 she could only shut her eyes and bar her thought. 
 Yet the tide of a new joy ran deep in her heart. 
 
It was natural for Dolly to lean. When her 
 course was plain she went her way resolutely, but 
 she was not one to grapple with uncertainties or 
 hew a path through perplexities with instant deci- 
 sions. She loved straight roads. At the crossways 
 she faltered. Her natural instincts were so simple, 
 and generally so true, that complexity of any kind 
 took her by surprise. She was continually looking 
 at life as it ought to be, and continually finding 
 cause for indignation that it was otherwise. Her 
 own had been so free from obstacles that when 
 they presented themselves in an uncompromising 
 form she recoiled. She had appealed to Paul, but 
 he had not convinced her. Before taking auy step 
 she always wanted everything perfectly plain and 
 clear, — as few things ever are. It was this long- 
 ing for a straight road out of pei-plexity that im- 
 pelled her to seek counsel, and she still felt that 
 desire for companionship which leads the patient to 
 surround himself with friends upon going to an 
 operation he knows he must in the end face alone. 
 If we could only take chloroform for difficult tasks 
 and wake to find them done ! 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 117 
 
 On the sliglatest provocation she would have un- 
 bosomed herself to Margaret, in the vague hope 
 that Margaret would see some course she could not 
 discern herseK. But dear as Margaret was to her, 
 she did not invite confidences of this sort. The 
 more DoUy reflected on Paul's advice to speak to 
 Jack the less it commended itself to her. She felt 
 that it was with Mabel she had to do, not with 
 Jack ; and while Paul was inspecting Cecil's guns 
 in the billiard-room, this thought took concrete 
 form. 
 
 She was still bending over her desk when he 
 came back, and the distress in her blue eyes as she 
 looked up at him caused him to stoop and kiss her. 
 He knew what she was thinking of. 
 
 " I wish I could help you, DoUy dear," he said. 
 
 She folded the sheet on which she had been 
 writing, and answered him with a smile. 
 
 " I am not going to take your advice, Paul ; but 
 what you said has suggested something which I 
 think is better. I love Mr. Temple, — so much 
 more than I thought." Her voice was low, but 
 her eyes bright with conviction. " I am going to 
 see Mabel." 
 
 "To see Mabel?" 
 
 " Yes. If I cannot conquer her before I cannot 
 expect to afterwards." 
 
 Paul thought for a moment. The implication in 
 DoUy's "before " and " afterwards " amused him. 
 
118 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " And if you do not conquer her ? " 
 
 " I shall," said Dolly. Decision had brought 
 relief and the courage of action. 
 
 " Do you mean you are going to New York ? " 
 
 " No, I shall ask her here." 
 
 Paul inwardly approved of fighting battles on 
 one's own ground, but did not say so. 
 
 " Suppose she declines ? " 
 
 " I do not think she will," repKed Dolly slowly. 
 
 " Do you mean you have any reason for thinking 
 so?" 
 
 " Only a woman's reason. I want you to be 
 very nice to her, Paul, and to forget what I have 
 told you." 
 
 " Of course I shall be nice to her, for your sake. 
 But I should like to give her a good shaking. She 
 deserves to be told how desperately mean and 
 selfish she is, how utterly unwarranted and imper- 
 tinent her interference has been, and made to realize 
 what consequences it might have had, — and may 
 have yet." 
 
 " Then you approve of my plan ? " Dolly said 
 after a pause. 
 
 " Why yes, I approve of it ; I approve of any- 
 thing except sitting still and being ridden over. 
 As I told you last night, I should have gone straight 
 to Jack " — Dolly shook her head — " but you are 
 perhaps the best judge of that. You may be sure 
 of one thing though, Dolly, — that I shall not see 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 119 
 
 Jack Temple again without being tempted to tell 
 him the whole story, and put him out of misery. 
 You think it would pain him to know about Mabel. 
 What 's that, against the happiness of knowing 
 you love him ! " 
 
 " Misery? " repeated Dolly. 
 
 " Well, I should call it misery to be told by the 
 woman I loved that she did n't care for me." 
 
 "Would you, Paul?" 
 
 " Certainly I should," he said, going to the win- 
 dow and drumming on the pane impatiently. 
 
 Dolly looked at him as he stood with his back 
 toward her and smiled inscrutably. 
 
 " Would you like to read my note ? " she asked 
 at length. 
 
 Paul turned and took the folded sheet from her 
 outstretched hand. 
 
 Mt deae Mabel (it began) : I am inviting a 
 few friends for the Christmas holidays to Cedar Hill. 
 It would please me very much if you would be 
 among them, with Miss Gaunt. My cousin Mr. 
 Graham is with me now, and Margaret's mother. 
 I am not asking your father, for this is to be a 
 young people's party, and if there are any among 
 your friends whom you would like me to invite, do 
 give me the pleasure of adding them to my list. 
 Sincerely yours, 
 
 Dorothy Kensett. 
 
120 HIS DAUGHTER FIEST 
 
 " I don't believe she will come," said Paul 
 tersely. 
 
 « We shall see." 
 
 " What do you propose to say to her ? " he 
 asked, handing back the note. 
 
 " I don't know yet — that is, I know what I 
 shall say, but not how I shall say it." 
 
 And then Mrs. Frazer came in with her solitaire 
 and began to spread the cards on the large library 
 table. 
 
 Mabel found Dolly's note beside her plate at the 
 breakfast-table. She was late, as she usually was 
 on all occasions, being one of those who avail them- 
 selves of every day or minute of grace. She 
 recognized the handwriting on the envelope at 
 once with a secret flutter of excitement, — was it 
 to be peace or war ? — and honored the pale blue 
 missive from Cedar Hill by selecting it from 
 among her other letters for first perusal. She 
 read it through twice carefully, and decided that it 
 was war. Its friendly tone did not deceive her an 
 instant. Mrs. Kensett was not stupid, and could 
 by no possibihty have misunderstood her. She 
 handed it carelessly to Helen, and asked her if she 
 would like to go. Jack, who had finished his 
 breakfast, was buried in the morning paper. 
 
 " It is very nice of Mrs. Kensett to invite us so 
 soon again," said Mabel, who seemed to forget that 
 Helen had not gone before. 
 
HIS DAUGHTEE FIRST 121 
 
 " Very," said Helen ; and then, after a momen- 
 tary hesitation, " Shall you go, Mabel?" 
 
 " Go ? of course. We had great fun there the 
 last time. Besides, I want to see the South Afri- 
 can." 
 
 Helen was bewildered and said nothing. She 
 entirely disapproved of Mabel's conduct, but she 
 could not help a certain guilty admiration for her 
 easy self-confidence in a matter which, had she her- 
 self dared the same interference, would have cost 
 her endless tears and anxiety. She had encountered 
 at the very outset Mabel's air of indulgent su- 
 periority. At first it had amused her, but as the 
 child grew into the woman it annoyed her. It was 
 not a malicious or supercilious assumption, and so 
 did not positively hurt, but it did often produce in 
 her that disagreeable feeling of not being at her 
 best. She had not resented it, chiefly because 
 Mabel did not entertain the slightest idea of pos- 
 sible opposition, but the mere consciousness of 
 Mabel's stronger wiU embarrassed her when there 
 was no other cause for embarrassment whatever. 
 
 "Papa," remonstrated Mabel, "do put down 
 your paper. Mrs. Kensett has asked Helen and 
 me to a Christmas party at Cedar Hill. Here is 
 her note." 
 
 Jack read it and said Mrs. Kensett was very 
 kind. It was the same comment which Mabel 
 herself had just made, but Helen observed that a 
 
122 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 faint smile of mingled amusement, pity, and scorn 
 passed over Mabel's face. 
 
 " I don't like to leave you all alone, papa dear," 
 Mabel said doubtfully. 
 
 " I would mucb ratter have you go than not," 
 was his reply. (" Would you," thought Helen, " if 
 you knew? ") " I shall take the opportunity to go 
 down to the Island and see the Yixen. The skip- 
 per says she needs a lot of overhauling." 
 
 " Whom would you ask Mrs. Kensett to invite, 
 papa ? " 
 
 " Oh, I leave that to you, as she did." 
 
 " Suggest some one, Helen," said Mabel. 
 
 Helen thought for a moment. " There is Flor- 
 ence WUson " — 
 
 Mabel made a pout of decided disapproval. 
 
 " We can ask one man and one girl, don't you 
 think so, papa ? There is plenty of room at Cedar 
 HiU." 
 
 " I should write Mrs. Kensett that in sending 
 any names you are carrying out her own suggestion, 
 but that " — 
 
 " Certainly, certainly," Mabel broke in. 
 
 " How about Spencer Willis ? " suggested Jack. 
 " He 's a nice fellow." 
 
 " I think he is horrid ! " exclaimed Mabel. 
 
 Jack laughed. He did not mind how horrid she 
 thought him. " Settle it among yourselves, then," 
 he said, " it is not my party. But I must be off." 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 123 
 
 He stooped to kiss her before going. " Good-by, 
 dear. Good-morning, Miss Gaunt." 
 
 " I tell you wbom we will ask," said Mabel when 
 the door was closed : " Mr. Heald and Constance 
 Montrevel. She 's tremendously amusing with her 
 little snub nose and French accent. WiU you 
 please write for me, Helen? No, on second 
 thought, I will write myself. It will be more 
 polite. You are n't eating anything this morning, 
 Helen. Pass me the rolls, please." 
 
 No, Helen was not eating anything. She was 
 feeling miserably. It was all very well when Mabel 
 was a little girl to tamper with the Dresden clock 
 and tease Queen Bess, but it was quite another 
 thing, having reached years of discretion, to trifle 
 so light-heartedly with serious things. Moreover 
 she had an appointment for that afternoon of which 
 she had said nothing to Mabel. Why, she knew 
 weU. There was an exhibition at the Academy, 
 and Mr. Heald had asked her to go with him. He 
 had called Thursday, and Mabel, in her most ca- 
 pricious mood, had been alternately alluring and 
 elusive. Sometimes she believed Mabel had no 
 heart at all, and at others a chance word or gener- 
 ous mood reversed this estimate, and made her feel 
 there was a very big heart slumbering under the 
 surface and biding its time. Mabel's treatment of 
 Mr. Heald had mystified her. She had a good 
 deal to say against him. That was not to the point, 
 
124 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 but rather that she talked of him at all. She 
 always gave him the dances he asked for, and he 
 had led the cotiUion with her at the "Wendells'. 
 Now she had secured his invitation to Cedar HiU. 
 At one time Helen had been sure Mabel cared for 
 hira, and this had caused her no little anxiety ; for 
 while there was nothing clandestine in their meet- 
 ings, Mr. Heald was not then a caller at Gramercy 
 Park nor a friend of Mr. Temple's. Mabel had 
 never given her any clue to her real feelings, and 
 she had never dared to question her. 
 
 But this was not what made Helen miserable. 
 Lately, and for the first time in all her relations 
 with Mabel's friends, Mr. Heald had in some inde- 
 finable way made her feel that he was looking at 
 her over Mabel's shoulder ; that there was some- 
 thing between them, something no one knew, — 
 what, she did not know herself, — but somethinff, 
 — something which made the one waltz she gave 
 him more than all the dances he had on Mabel's 
 card, and sent her to bed after the Wendells' ball 
 with a fluttering joy in her heart which made her 
 close her eyes to shut out what she did not dare to 
 see. And when they were shut she had the most 
 extravagant and improbable dreams, of independ- 
 ence and freedom from all the luxury that was not 
 her own, of surprising the family ia Boston with a 
 tremendous piece of news, of turning the last page 
 of the book of being nobody, of having something 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 125 
 
 of her own, her very own, — and then her heart 
 leaped and her eyes opened wide in the darkness, 
 and she turned over on her piUow and tried to per- 
 suade herself that she was very silly. 
 
 With the morning light the dream moved a little 
 farther into the background, but it was still there. 
 She took a new interest in the most insignificant 
 things, above all in herself, in the long hair she 
 was brushing before the mirror, in the face looking 
 back at her, beyond which, in the mirror's depths, 
 was the dream. 
 
 It was Monday. Mr. Heald had called Thurs- 
 day. She had known he would, for she had heard 
 him ask permission on the night of the opera. To 
 Mr. Temple he had said " on your daughter," but 
 that was not what the words meant to her. And 
 he had asked her to meet him to-day at the Acad- 
 emy, and she had consented. She was pouring tea 
 for Mabel, as she usually did. He had said no- 
 thing to her — indeed, she had avoided him — un- 
 til he asked her for a cup of tea. But his presence, 
 in the room even, made her nervous. She knew 
 he was coming, just as a dozen others had come 
 during the afternoon, — yet not as the others, - — ■ 
 and her voice trembled when she asked him the 
 conventional " Cream or lemon ? " She did not 
 remember now which it had been. He had put 
 her quite at her ease, however, and they had talked 
 about Boston, the new Public Library, and the 
 
126 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Puvis de Chavannes frescoes, and so of the pictures 
 at the Academy. 
 
 And then she had promised to go. 
 
 What troubled her now was that she had not 
 said anything to Mabel. She was not obliged to 
 consult her about her comings and goings, but she 
 always had. Why not now ? She had the guilty 
 conscience of concealment, and of stepping into 
 Mabel's place. Still she had kept sUence. To 
 admit any obligation to tell Mabel where she was 
 going, that it would be more fair-minded, would be 
 to admit a great deal more than she was prepared 
 to. In the sunlight the dream had almost faded 
 out of sight. Yet she was miserable. Objects 
 which disappear in a glare of sun are not annihi- 
 lated. 
 
 What did he mean by making automatons 
 speak ? AU the significance of that sentence was 
 in its tone, and his manner Thursday afternoon at 
 the tea-table had been quite natural and ordinary. 
 The recollection of this was like a draft of cold 
 air. But that lasted only a second. She hnew, 
 and she went to the Academy for the sheer joy of 
 knowing more. 
 
 She dressed herself with unusual care. Mabel 
 had told her that her hat with the black plumes 
 was the most becoming one she had ever had ; so 
 she wore that, with a dress of soft dove gray, and 
 a turquoise star set in diamonds Mr. Temple had 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 127 
 
 given her Christmas. She did not look twenty- 
 nine, and she did not feel so. 
 
 She told Mabel she was going out for a walk. 
 They were going to a dance that evening, and 
 Mabel was lying down. 
 
 " Remember the Bishop is coming to dinner to- 
 night," Mabel called out to her as she closed the 
 door. 
 
 It was early and she walked through to Broad- 
 way to consume time, looking in at the shop win- 
 dows. It seemed as if every one who looked at 
 her knew where she was going. Turning into 
 Twenty-third Street her heart began to beat. Then 
 she told herself she was a little fool, and quickening 
 her pace went up the steps, pushed aside the green 
 baize door, and went in. 
 
 The Exhibition had been open for some weeks, 
 and there were but few persons present. No one 
 whom she knew. She walked through the first 
 room and turned into a side one. There was no 
 one there except a little old, near-sighted man with 
 his nose in the catalogue. She sat down on the 
 circular seat in the centre of the room and waited. 
 The thought that he might not come occurred to 
 her, first as a relief, then, as the minutes went by, 
 with a dull pain. There was a large picture on 
 the opposite wall representing a procession in the 
 streets of old Rome, — perhaps a general returning 
 from Gaul or Parthia with his victorious legions, 
 
128 HIS DAUGHTEE FIRST 
 
 erect in his chariot behind four prancing horses, 
 and preceded by slim young girls in floating drar 
 peries, dancing and strewing flowers. The sunlight 
 was so strong, the tones so clear, the atmosphere of 
 joy and triumph and force so real, that it created 
 a sort of illusion, making the room seem dingy, the 
 streets she had just walked commonplace, and life 
 sordid and mean. She had bought a catalogue in 
 the vestibule, and she opened it in search of the 
 explanation, when a voice behind her said : — 
 
 " Ah, here you are. What do you think of the 
 pictures ? " 
 
 " I have just come." 
 
 " And I have been looking for you everywhere." 
 
 She had been startled after aU, and her cheeks 
 were hot with color. His eyes were full of admira- 
 tion, and no wonder. There was something just 
 short of beauty in her face, something charming 
 and appealing, a perfect foil to Mabel's imperious- 
 ness. 
 
 "Have you? I came directly here, and then 
 this picture fascinated me. I was trying to find 
 it in the catalogue." 
 
 " You have stumbled on the worst one in the 
 whole collection." 
 
 " The worst ? " She looked up at him inquir- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Not the worst painted, — I think it is the 
 best, — but the worst ethically." 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 129 
 
 He had thrown her off her guard and interested 
 her. 
 
 " Ethically? " she repeated. 
 
 " Yes, the triumph of brute force, the saturnalia 
 of victory." 
 
 " I like it. I don't understand you." 
 
 " No, you were not moralizing, you were feel- 
 ing." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Listening to the songs of joy. Any kind of 
 intense joy is uplifting." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "And it made modem humdriun New York, 
 teas and dances and receptions, all the petty round, 
 seem commonplace and shabby." 
 
 " Yes, that is what I was thinking." 
 
 " I don't wonder. It is commonplace and tire- 
 some." 
 
 " I did n't suppose you would think so," she said, 
 looking up into his face again with interested sin- 
 cerity. 
 
 He laughed. "WeU, you mustn't teU. You 
 are the only one who knows it." 
 
 " But you do." 
 
 " Decidedly. And so do you." 
 
 " I hadn't thought of it before," she said, turn- 
 ing to the picture again. 
 
 " No one knows what one really thinks, or feels, 
 till a picture, a something, — or a somebody, — 
 
130 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 comes to tell us. Then the curtain of the common- 
 place we have been staring at contentedly rolls up 
 and the real play begins." 
 
 Her eyes went back to his, smiling. " Oh, but 
 that is the play, the illusion." 
 
 " Are n't illusions better than most realities ? " 
 
 " No, — not real illusions." 
 
 He laughed again. " You like best the illusions 
 that turn out to be realities. So do I." 
 
 She laughed too. " You are talking nonsense 
 now," she said. 
 
 " No, I was only asking you not to ring down 
 the curtain. We shall be back in New York again 
 soon enough." 
 
 " Yes," she said. " The Bishop is coming to 
 dinner, and we are going out this evening." 
 
 « To the WendeUs' ? " 
 
 " Yes. It 's their last dance. They are going 
 abroad." 
 
 " So am I." 
 
 " Are you ? " She started imperceptibly and 
 looked up at him. 
 
 " To the WendeUs', not abroad. I wish I 
 were." 
 
 There was silence, and Helen, looking intently 
 down the long Eoman street, saw her dream advan- 
 cing beyond the dancing feet and waving hands, 
 the rods of the lictors and the soldiers' helmets. 
 And then something daring flashed upon her, and 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 131 
 
 the silence pushed her on, and she took the 
 leap. 
 
 " If teas and receptions and balls bore you " — 
 
 " I did n't say they bored me. I said they dis- 
 gusted me." 
 
 " It 's the same thing." 
 
 " No, it 's not the same thing, it 's more. But 
 it's true. They do. You were saying " — 
 
 She had been going to retreat. His question 
 brought her back. 
 
 " That I know of one ordeal before you of which 
 you are ignorant." 
 
 "KeaUy?" 
 
 She was laughing again now, looking at him over 
 her muff. 
 
 " Yes. You are going to a house party at Mrs. 
 Kensett's." 
 
 " How do you know ? " he asked, surprised. 
 
 " Because I do." 
 
 " I shall not be bored by that," he said, " but I 
 am surprised. I have n't seen Mrs. Kensett for 
 an age, since last summer in fact. I don't know 
 why she should invite me." 
 
 " I did n't say she had, as you say," said Helen 
 maliciously. 
 
 "I don't understand you, as you say," he re- 
 torted. 
 
 She had taken the plunge and there was no 
 retreat now. 
 
132 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 "Mrs. Kensett asked Mabel to send her the 
 names of some people she would like to have in- 
 vited, and she sent yours." 
 
 She endeavored to speak unconcernedly, but the 
 steadiness of her voice was a forced one, and the 
 eyes above her muff were shining. She was fright- 
 ened now, and felt her face growing hot. If she 
 had expected to see his brighten with pleasure at 
 the announcement of how Mabel had used her 
 privilege she was mistaken. Before she knew what 
 was happening he had seized her wrist and dragged 
 the muff away from her face. 
 
 " Helen, you don't think I care for " — 
 
 She struggled to free herself and he let go. 
 
 « Helen — Helen " — 
 
 The little old man in the corner coughed. He 
 was looking on in amazement. She was hurrying 
 from the room, down the stairs, which were full of 
 people. She thought it was terror. It was the 
 terror of sudden joy. 
 
 He caught her on the sidewalk. "Helen — 
 Miss Gaunt " — 
 
 " You had no right," she half sobbed, " please 
 go — 
 
 " I will, when you have forgiven me." 
 
 " Yes, I forgive you — but I hate you." 
 
 He stood stiU. She felt as if she had struck 
 him a blow, and hurried on. She did not stop tiU 
 she was within sight of the door, and when, breath- 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 133 
 
 less, as if still pursued, she took her latch-key from 
 her pocket, she was hating herself more than him. 
 The dream had come true, but she had not done 
 what she expected to do when it came. She had 
 played with fire, and it had scorched her. Yet 
 she was glad, glad, glad. 
 
XI 
 
 As was expected, the Bishop came to dinner. 
 Mabel and Helen were in evening dress. They 
 were going to the Wendells'. Both were looking 
 exceptionally lovely. 
 
 On her return from the Academy Helen had 
 gone directly to her room, and had had an hour to 
 think before Mabel opened her door to ask her 
 what dress she was going to wear. Her mind was 
 a tumult of conflicting thoughts. She had no suffi- 
 cient reason to offer for not going to the Wendells'. 
 She could invent no excuse which Mabel, who was 
 bent upon going, would accept. She both dreaded 
 and longed to go ; dreaded to, because she did not 
 wish her next meeting with Mr. Heald to take 
 place in a crowded room where the inevitable ex- 
 planations would have to be suppressed, — she was 
 in no mood for conventional talk; dreaded to, 
 because feeling might break through the barriers 
 under Mabel's observing eyes. But her longing 
 was stronger than her dread. It was invincible, 
 and she knew it to be so the while she argued. 
 Fate was waiting for her, her own fate, and she 
 could not keep away. For the first time in her 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 135 
 
 orderly Hfe she was excited and reckless. With a 
 whole hour to think she had not been able to think 
 at all, every reason conjured up by her old-fashioned 
 ideas of propriety, by her natural timidity, by her 
 fear of taking a false step, disappearing before the 
 undercurrent of her desire. Her meeting with 
 Mr. Heald had been far more decisive than she 
 had expected, and after the first shock was over 
 there came an ecstasy of exhilaration. She had 
 made an overwhelming discovery. He did not care 
 for Mabel. There was a corollary to this proposi- 
 tion which she hardly dared yet to put into words — 
 he loved Tier, Helen. 
 
 The Bishop reflected during dinner on the Provi- 
 dence which in taking the wife had left this charm- 
 ing daughter to brighten a lonely fireside and 
 had given this daughter so charming a friend and 
 companion. He remarked to Jack, after the chil- 
 dren as he termed them were gone, on the blessing 
 of children in general. Jack said Mabel was a 
 good girl ; he had at times felt the responsibility 
 of guiding one who had no mother ; he would 
 have known better how to manage a son, but he 
 was satisfied. For he had observed that there were 
 three dangerous periods in a business man's career : 
 when he began and knew nothing, a little later 
 when he thought he knew everything, and when 
 his sons came of age. He had at aU events escaped 
 the last. 
 
136 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 The Bishop laughed over his wine at Jack's 
 escape from disaster, and then they adjourned to 
 the library, where plans and elevations were spread 
 upon the table. Jack gave a polite attention to 
 these details, but made no comment, not being as 
 he said an expert in church architecture, and asked 
 bluntly what the estimates called for. 
 
 The Bishop coughed and replied that he was 
 gratified to be able to say that the necessary amount 
 had been already subscribed, but that at the sugges- 
 tion of Professor Fisher, a most excellent, sagacious 
 man, it was proposed, in order to promote a closer 
 connection between the church and the college, to 
 establish a fund to be known as the Church Aid 
 Foundation, to assist such worthy young men as 
 were intending to enter the ministry ; and that, as 
 the money required for the church had been already 
 provided, he wished to suggest that whatever amount 
 Mr. Temple had felt disposed to contribute should 
 be applied in this manner. He also explained that 
 he had had some general conversation with Mrs. 
 Kensett on the subject, and that he thought a word 
 from her business manager and adviser would prob- 
 ably lead to good results. 
 
 "No," said Jack decisively, "I can't do that. 
 I make it a rule in the management of other peo- 
 ple's property never to advise them how to give it 
 away. My business is to care for it and increase 
 it, if I can." 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 137 
 
 " I can quite understand that," replied the 
 Bishop. On the other hand, it was quite possible 
 that Mrs. Kensett might ask his advice. 
 
 "That's another thing," said Jack. "I shall 
 send you a check to-morrow for five thousand dol- 
 lars, provided you can apply it to the church, and 
 can divert an equal amount from what has been 
 subscribed for that object to the Aid Fund. I am 
 not in sympathy with wholesale aid of that kind on 
 organized lines. Why not help the doctors or the 
 lawyers? When I find a good man who needs 
 assistance I am wiUing to give him a lift " — 
 
 " That is precisely " — began the Bishop. 
 
 " But I take his note," continued Jack, " and 
 make him pay it. Make education as good, as 
 cheap, and as universal as possible, but don't en- 
 courage a man to expect to get it for nothing. If 
 you do, he will expect to get his living for no- 
 thing." 
 
 The Bishop listened attentively. 
 
 " Help individuals, not classes," Jack went on. 
 "I don't know why ministers should be coddled. 
 You are suffering to-day from a system which has 
 landed men in the pulpit who could n't earn their 
 salt in any other profession. The men you can 
 bait with free tuition and half-price rates are not 
 the men you want." 
 
 The Bishop admitted it was very difficult to 
 administer aid intelligently. He came back to the 
 
138 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 point, however, by remarking that he thought there 
 would be no difficulty in obtaining the consent of 
 some of the donors to a transfer of their gifts from 
 the church to the Aid Fund. 
 
 "There is Mr. Heald, for example, who has 
 given one thousand dollars, and who would doubt- 
 less have no objection." 
 
 " Mr. Heald ? " said Jack. " I did n't know he 
 was fish for your net. Bishop." 
 
 The Bishop felt called upon to explain. It was 
 an excellent sign, he said, when the successful young 
 men of the country showed so substantially their 
 appreciation of the serious needs of the community 
 and their own obligations to society. 
 
 Jack did not argue the question. He was will- 
 ing to meet Mr. HeaJd in his own way and at his 
 own time, but it irritated him thus to keep running 
 up against a man of whose existence he had barely 
 heard a week ago. He recognized, too, his duty to 
 help the world along and up so far as he could, but 
 he was glad that was not his sole business, as it was 
 the Bishop's. " I should have to wink at too many 
 thiugs," he thought while the Bishop was explain- 
 ing Mr. Heald's contribution, "or else kick the 
 whole kettle of fish over." 
 
 After the Bishop had gone he picked up a book 
 and settled himself to read. He was glad Mabel 
 was having a good time. He was pleased that Mrs. 
 Kensett should have been so kind to her. How 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 139 
 
 good she was ! His book was the personal narra- 
 tive of a war correspondent with the English in 
 Africa. Paul had sent it to him with his own 
 marginal comments. He had been reading some 
 time before he discovered he had not taken in a 
 single word. He threw away his second cigar with 
 the idea that he was smoking too much, and began 
 again at the first page. It did not hold him long, 
 for he soon found himself asking how old he was — 
 he was bom in '48, — two, and fifty, and two — 
 that made fifty-four, — not too much time to 
 lose, — to wait. He closed the book, and as he 
 laid it on the mantel noticed that his temples were 
 tinged with gray. Then he decided to look in at 
 the Wendells' and bring Mabel borne. 
 
 The Wendell house was built aroimd three sides 
 of an open court separated from the street by an 
 iron grille. A long line of carriages extended on 
 either side of the gateway when Mabel and Helen 
 arrived. A half-hundred people on the sidewalk 
 without braved the cold to catch a fleeting glimpse 
 of the toilettes as the carriage doors were opened 
 under the porte-cochere. Above shone the bril- 
 liantly lighted windows of the ball-room, whence 
 came the sound of music and the hum of voices to 
 mingle with the rattle of wheels over the pavement 
 and the shouts of policemen regulating the circula- 
 tion. 
 
140 HIS DAUGHTEE FIRST 
 
 The pillared hall was a garden of palms and 
 flowering shrubs, and a continuous stream of guests 
 from the dressing-rooms was ascending the broad 
 stairway between garlands of smilax and roses 
 wreathed along the white balustrades. 
 
 The dancing was in full swing, and Mabel had 
 hardly exchanged a word with her hostess in the 
 reception-room at the head of the stairs before she 
 was claimed by her partner for the waltz just 
 begun. 
 
 Contrary to her usual habit, Helen accepted 
 every partner who offered himself. Dancing had 
 not occupied a prominent place in her academic 
 training, and when she first began to go out with 
 Mabel she had sacrificed the appetite which comes 
 with eating to what she thought the inferiority of 
 her social position demanded. But aU this austerity 
 and shyness had long since retired with the elliptic 
 functions into the background. To-night, move- 
 ment was a necessity to her. The fever of the 
 dance matched her own. The partner for whom 
 her eyes swept the room in the whirl of the waltz 
 had not come, but not for an instant did the cer- 
 tainty of her expectation fail. He had said he was 
 to be there. 
 
 The surprise of the evening was a minuet in cos- 
 tume and masks at midnight. At a quarter to 
 twelve the music ceased. The size of the room 
 limited the number of couples in the minuet, and 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 141 
 
 the fortunate ones, selected by lottery, retired to 
 the dressing-rooms. At twelve o'clock the card 
 parties in the smoking-room had broken up, and 
 those whom fortune had not favored filled the doors 
 and lined the sides of the ball-room as spectators. 
 Then, to the music of a march, the dancers entered, 
 advancing from opposite doors, the ladies in pink, 
 the gentlemen in black dominos. Each lady carried 
 a black fan with ribbons to match the bow on the 
 black domino of her partner. No one was to know 
 ■who his partner was till the minuet was over, when 
 all were to unmask and go in to supper. 
 
 A few moments of confusion and subdued laugh- 
 ter followed the entrance, while the black dominos 
 were searching for the fan whose colors corresponded 
 with their own. Then the stately music of the 
 minuet began. Helen recognized it at once. It 
 was the minuet of the first act of Hoffmann's 
 Tales. Should the automaton speak or keep 
 silence ? 
 
 Her partner had bowed to her, but had not 
 spoken. For the first few measures not a word 
 was uttered ; then the voice for which she had been 
 waiting said, — 
 
 " Is it New York, or Kome ? " 
 
 " Kome," she whispered. 
 
 It was not possible to converse, only to exchange 
 a word now and then, to answer a question after 
 an interval of separation and waiting. 
 
142 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 The mystery and protection of her mask gave 
 her assurance. She had looked forward to possibly 
 a few hurried words of explanation ; an awkward 
 meeting under observing eyes, or, worse still, a 
 forced and embarrassing silence. She had felt that 
 whatever the result of her first meeting with Mr. 
 Heald might be, that first meeting must be a shock, 
 a pain, a moment when things would be said which 
 were not meant, or perhaps more would be meant 
 than could be said. Her mask and domino were 
 both a shield and a weapon. They hid the beating 
 of hearts and the eloquence of eyes. She could be 
 as near or as far as she pleased. 
 
 " And everything is forgiven ? " 
 
 "Forgiven — not forgotten." 
 
 A murmur of approval greeted the termination 
 of the first movement. 
 
 " And the hate is gone ? " 
 
 « No." 
 
 " That is unjust " — 
 
 Then the music recommenced. 
 
 " How does your bow happen to match my 
 fan?" 
 
 " Which is stronger, hate or curiosity ? " 
 
 " Curiosity, — now." 
 
 " I bribed a tiring-maiden. Am I forgiven that, 
 too ? " 
 
 The movement of the dance separated them. 
 Then she was beside him again. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 143 
 
 "You are in constant need of absolution." 
 
 " I am content with my confessor." 
 
 Another pause. Then — 
 
 " Yes, I will forgive you — on one condition — 
 in a moment we shall unmask " — 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Promise me " — 
 
 " Everything." 
 
 " To forget, as I have forgiven, that we " — her 
 voice trembled and softened over the pronoun — 
 "were ever in Eome." 
 
 " I cannot. One can promise to forgive, not to 
 forget. It is not in our power. You have just 
 said so yourself." 
 
 " TUl I remind you of it, then." 
 
 There was a silence. 
 
 " Quick ! we are almost through — it is my first 
 request." 
 
 " Yes, I promise." 
 
 The music ceased, the doors of the supper-room 
 were thrown open, and there were exclamations of 
 surprise and ripples of laughter. 
 
 " You ! " he exclaimed, as the masks fell. " I 
 did not dream." 
 
 "Nor I," she said, slipping her hand through 
 his arm. It held her fan, and he took it from her. 
 
 " How pretty ! May I keep it ? " 
 
 " Why do you want it ? " she asked, forcing 
 herself to speak indifferently. 
 
144 HIS DAUGHTER FIEST 
 
 " It will be my — my passport to Rome." 
 " I did not know you were going abroad." 
 " I did not know you were such a coquette." 
 Then their eyes met, they both laughed, and 
 went in with the throng to supper. 
 
 It was served at small tables and there was no fur- 
 ther opportunity for confidences or mystery. The 
 cotillion began immediately after, and Helen was 
 claimed by her partner. Of Mr. Heald she saw 
 no more. She was almost glad, although she was 
 constantly looking for him. She was excited and 
 talked at random. Nothing seemed worth talking 
 about any more. She wanted to go home, to be 
 alone, to think, and was relieved when Mabel sig- 
 nified her readiness to leave. 
 
 In the carriage Mabel's high spirits jarred upon 
 her. Her gayety seemed forced and frivolous. In 
 the awakening of her own heart, and the sudden 
 concentration of its feeling into a single channel, 
 life had become serious as well as beautiful, and 
 Mabel's frivolity grew to such proportions that she 
 almost despised her. As the carriage rolled on, 
 after Jack had asked a few questions, Mabel lapsed 
 into silence, — a silence which in Helen's nervous 
 and excited state seemed ominous. She essayed a 
 beginning of conversation, but Mabel replied in 
 monosyllables. Occupied with her own happiness, 
 she had forgotten Mabel entirely; now, the old 
 thought that Mabel had cared for Mr. Heald came 
 back again. She tried to remember why she had 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 145 
 
 ever thought so. Mabel cared generally so much 
 more for herself than for any one else, her moods 
 were so contradictory and her remarks so often 
 inconsequential and purposeless, that she really 
 did not know why she had ever imagined such a 
 thing. But with the silence had come a complete 
 revulsion of feeling. Did Mr. Heald reaUy care 
 for Tier, Helen ? Amid the lights, the flowers, and 
 the music, the banter in which they had indulged 
 had been delicious to her. In the gloom of the 
 carriage rattling over the stones it seemed un- 
 substantial. To him it might be all banter. She 
 possessed nothing, she was nobody. Why should 
 he love her ? She had asked the question before, 
 once almost indifferently, as she might have asked 
 a question affecting some third person. Now it 
 made her heart beat with a dull pain. She was 
 glad when the carriage stopped, glad when Mr. 
 Temple had said good-night, glad when Mabel's 
 door was shut. They usually had to talk such 
 evenings over. To-night, when she pleaded fatigue 
 and a headache, Mabel advised her to go to bed at 
 once. She undressed quickly, and then, lying in 
 the darkness and stillness, she went over every 
 incident, repeated every sentence. And it was not 
 the light words exchanged in the ball-room, when 
 she was so happy, which were dearest, but that 
 moment of surprise and anger when he had torn 
 her hand from her face, and looked into her eyes 
 with all for which she hungered in his own. 
 
xn 
 
 A SUCCESSION of dull, stormy days had necessi- 
 tated the postponement of the plans for a morning 
 with the grouse. Then, too, Dolly had unexpect- 
 edly decided to go to New York for a day on mat- 
 ters incident to her projected house party. There 
 were various orders to be given for supplies not to 
 be found in Westford's Doric Emporium, — sup- 
 plies which required DoUy's personal selection and 
 supervision. And Margaret was going with her. 
 
 Mabel's note of acceptance had been received 
 and the invitations had been issued. 
 
 " It seems you were right," Paul said, as he read 
 Mabel's opening sentence. " At any rate she is no 
 coward. And Heald, too I " reading on, — " well, 
 I should like to meet him." 
 
 The evening before they started a letter came 
 from Jack which read as follows : — 
 
 Deak Paul, — Argonaut is quoted to-day at 
 45. Two thousand shares at 45 means 190,000. 
 Deducting cost, one thousand shares at 25 and one 
 thousand at 40, net profit, less commissions, 
 125,000. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 147 
 
 If Mrs. Kensett's chief concern is for her friend, 
 she can turn over to said friend this profit, together 
 with the 140,000 cost of original investment, and 
 get her own 125,000 back whole. 
 
 A good four per cent bond can be had at about 
 par, and four per cent on $65,000 is 12600. This 
 would put her friend on a safe basis with an in- 
 come of 12600, instead of $1400 as before the 
 exchange of the three and one halE per cent bonds 
 for Argonaut. 
 
 I have as yet no information about the latter, 
 but I should advise sale as above. Wire me l£ 
 sale is decided, and send certificates by early mail 
 for delivery. Yours, 
 
 John Temple. 
 
 Paul took the letter at once to Dolly. 
 
 " You ought to be thankful to get out of it as 
 well as that. Certainly Miss Frazer cannot com- 
 plain." 
 
 Dolly thought wistfully of the prediction that 
 the shares would go to one hundred and fifty, but 
 her ambition to make money for Margaret had re- 
 ceived a chiU. She agreed without a word. The 
 certificates were in the silver safe in the dining- 
 room. She would go and explain it all to Margaret 
 at once. 
 
 " It is n't necessary to tell her all the profits are 
 not hers, is it, Paul ? " 
 
148 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " A little while ago you were going to teU her 
 aU the losses were yours," said Paul, laughing. 
 " You must settle that with your own conscience. 
 Have Miss Frazer assign her stock to Jack. You 
 can take it down with you." 
 
 "No," said DoUy, " I do not want to meet Mr. 
 Temple — yet. We can send it by registered 
 mail." 
 
 " If Mrs. Frazer would n't mind being alone for 
 a day or two I would go down with you." 
 
 " Do, do ! " cried Dolly. " I had thought of it 
 myself, but I did not suggest it for the same rea- 
 son. After all, it will be for only two nights and 
 a day. I will go and ask her." 
 
 On inquiry Mrs. Frazer declared she would like 
 nothing better than to be alone. She would call 
 it a rainy day and catch up with her correspond- 
 ence. So Paul wired Jack to sell, and the Wal- 
 dorf for rooms. 
 
 They reached New York the evening of the 
 Wendells' baU. The following day Mrs. Kensett 
 and Margaret were to be occupied with their pur- 
 chases, and it was agreed that they should lunch 
 out and aU meet for dinner. Paul rose early. He 
 had nothing in particular to do, but he wished to 
 deliver the certificates at once and get them off his 
 mind and hands. There were but two persons in 
 the breakfast-room, and he found a vacant table 
 at one of the Avenue windows. While eating his 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 149 
 
 breakfast he became absorbed in the morning paper. 
 There were rumors of peace negotiations which, 
 if confirmed, would necessitate his return to Lon- 
 don and South Africa. 
 
 On leaving the table after finishing his breakfast 
 he overheard a gentleman inquiring at the desk for 
 Mrs. Kensett. The clerk informed him that Mrs. 
 Kensett had not yet come down, whereupon he left 
 a letter, asking that it be sent to her room at once. 
 The stranger's face struck Paul as one he had seen 
 somewhere before, where he could not remember, 
 but the incident made no particular impression 
 upon him, and without thinking any more of it he 
 started down town for Jack's office. 
 
 The gentleman was Mr. Heald. He had left the 
 Wendells' that morning at one o'clock, immediately 
 after supper, and had gone directly to his bachelor 
 apartment at the Carleton. There were two letters 
 on his writing-table, one bearing an Arizona post- 
 mark, the other that of Westford. 
 
 He opened the former, readiag it through slowly 
 and holding it afterwards a long time in his hand, 
 plunged in thought. At last, laying it down with 
 a shrug of the shoulders, he took up the second 
 letter, — Dolly's note of invitation to Cedar Hill. 
 To this he wrote at once a brief reply as follows : 
 
 Mt deak Mrs. Kensett, — I have just re- 
 ceived your invitation to come to Cedar HiU on the 
 
150 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 twenty-third instant, — an invitation which I accept 
 with the greatest pleasure. It is most kind of you 
 to include me among your friends, and I appreciate 
 deeply the honor you do me. I have not had the 
 pleasure of seeing you since we met at Lenox, and 
 before I had read your note this morning I had in- 
 tended to write you and to advise you, in the same 
 spirit in which a year ago I suggested the purchase 
 of the Argonaut shares, to sell them without delay. 
 I shall ask you to treat this letter as confidential, and 
 I shall, on seeing you, explain the reasons for this 
 advice, as also for my not giving them here in detail. 
 With renewed thanks for your kind invitation, 
 I am, most sincerely yours, 
 
 Reginald Heald. 
 
 Then he sealed the letter, directed it, and went 
 to bed, leaving orders to be called at seven. 
 
 At seven o'clock his man brought him his mail 
 and coffee. In a morning paper he saw among the 
 hotel arrivals the name of Mrs. Kensett at the 
 Waldorf. He dressed with his usual care, put the 
 letter to Mrs. Kensett in his pocket, and walked 
 over to the hotel. Mrs. Kensett's name was on 
 the register, but the ladies, he was told, had not 
 yet breakfasted. He hesitated a moment, finally 
 decided not to wait, changed the address of the 
 letter, asking that it be sent up to Mrs. Kensett's 
 room, and left immediately. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 151 
 
 Paul found Jack at the office, though it was 
 barely nine o'clock when he sent in his card. 
 " Holloa ! " said Jack, " I didn't expect to see 
 
 you." 
 
 Paul explained that he had had no idea of com- 
 ing until he had received Jack's letter. The state- 
 ment was not literally exact, for while Jack's letter 
 had had its influence, the idea of accompanying 
 Dolly had been conceived when he found Margaret 
 was going with her. He did not, however, say any- 
 thing to Jack about DoUy's being in New York. 
 
 " I brought down the stock," he said, taking it 
 from his inside pocket. " I suppose it is sold. You 
 got my telegram ? " 
 
 " Yes. As I wrote you, I had no reasons except 
 prudential ones. I sent a man out to Arizona to 
 investigate " — 
 
 " You did ? " exclaimed Paul. 
 
 — ^"but when I saw the stock at forty-five I 
 thought it better not to wait. You see, I am 
 rather bound to look pretty carefully after Mrs. 
 Kensett." He smiled as he spoke and looked out 
 of the window. 
 
 " Quite right. Dolly was a little fool." 
 
 " We aU do foolish things once in a while," said 
 Jack. 
 
 " It is n't every one learns his lesson on a rising 
 market, though," Paul replied. "What do you 
 suppose possessed the man ? " 
 
152 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 "Who, Heald? I don't know. One is natu- 
 rally suspicious of men who advise women to put 
 money in such things. But it may be all right. 
 What are you doing to-day ? " 
 
 "Nothing, till dinner. I have an engagement 
 for this evening, and shall go back to-morrow unless 
 there is something in this peace news. What do 
 you think of it ? " 
 
 " I don't believe a word of it. London does n't 
 either. The market always gets the first news." 
 
 " Nor I," said Paul. " Besides, I should have a 
 cable if there was anything in it. But you are 
 busy, and I won't bother you." 
 
 "WiU you lunch with me?" asked Jack, as 
 Paul turned to go. 
 
 " Of course I will." 
 
 " Well, to-day is Saturday and I lunch at home. 
 I would rather like to have you meet Mabel." 
 
 " Certainly, I should like to." 
 
 " At one o'clock, then. I wiU telephone her you 
 are coming. Good-by." 
 
 When Paul was shown into the reception-room 
 at Gramercy Park a young girl came forward to 
 meet him who reminded him instantly of Gladys, or 
 rather of what Gladys might have been at her age. 
 
 "This is Mr. Graham? I am Mabel. Papa 
 has not come home yet. I believe he is never late 
 at business appointments, but I cannot say as much 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 153 
 
 for him at home. This is my friend, Miss Gaunt. 
 Mr. Graham, Helen." 
 
 There was something very winning and gracious 
 in Mabel's manner, and Paul thought she was not 
 so bad as she painted herself. 
 
 "I suppose people talk to you about South 
 Africa," she went on, " till you are tired of the very 
 sound of the name. I resolved, when papa told me 
 you were coming, not to say a word about it." 
 
 " It is n't a place many people are interested in, 
 Miss Temple, aside from the war." 
 
 " Oh, but I am interested in it," cried Mabel, 
 " only it sounds much the same as Patagonia, or 
 Kamchatka. I don't think I should like to Uve 
 there. I don't care for places which only have 
 futures. I like best those that have a present. 
 You can't live on a future, can you ? " 
 
 " Only those who have no satisfactory present 
 need try to," replied Paul. " I live a lot in the 
 future." 
 
 " Certainly. In one sense we all do. But you 
 do not appear so very discontented." 
 
 Helen, sitting in the window seat with her em- 
 broidery, smiled. Until she went to the Academy 
 and found her new world she had always been very 
 matter of fact, and it amused her now to see how 
 quickly Mabel touched the personal note of conver- 
 sation. 
 
 "No, I am not," said Paul, " and I would not 
 
154 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 tell you so if I were. I am not fond of people who 
 trail their personal grievances before the world." 
 
 " Are n't they detestable ! " assented Mabel. 
 "And yet," she added, smiling at him with her 
 violet eyes, " I hope you are not perfectly satisfied. 
 I shall not like you if you are." 
 
 Paul was determined not to like Mabel, and 
 cared little whether she liked him or not. But 
 like most men in whom women show an interest, 
 her interest in him interested him in her. She 
 changed the subject, however, immediately. 
 
 " You are stayiug at Cedar Hill, are you not, 
 Mr. Graham ? It is such a lovely spot, and Mrs. 
 Kensett is such a lovely woman." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " said Paul, looking at her. 
 
 " Indeed I do. Everybody does. There is no 
 minority of opinion on that subject. You need 
 not feel obHged to feign surprise just because you 
 are her cousin," she said, laughing back into his 
 eyes ; " or don't you agree with me ? " 
 
 " Certainly I do. Dolly is one of the dearest 
 women in the world. But not every one shows his 
 liking in the same way." 
 
 Helen held her breath. She was sure Paul 
 kne^. But Mabel was smiling. 
 
 " I show mine by going to Cedar HiU next week. 
 Did you know that ? " she said, fastening a rosebud 
 from the flowers on the table in her corsage. 
 
 " Yes. Mrs. Kensett told me." 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 155 
 
 " Helen dear, will you please see if that is papa ? 
 Of course, she naturally would," she resumed care- 
 lessly, after Helen had gone. The smile had faded 
 from her face, and a light came into her eyes. 
 " Does she tell you everything ? " 
 
 " No, indeed," said Paul, resolving to keep away 
 from dangerous ground ; " we have a lot of secrets 
 we do not teU." 
 
 "Have you? How do you manage to keep 
 them ? It 's so hard to keep a secret if it 's worth 
 telling." 
 
 Paul was thinking it was very hard to keep one's 
 friends if one did not conceal one's resentments, 
 when Miss Gaunt came in with a telegram. 
 
 " It 's from papa," said Mabel, tearing open the 
 envelope and reading aloud : " ' Sorry. Detained. 
 Don't wait.' How provoking ! " she exclaimed. 
 " But you will not lose your luncheon, Mr. Graham ; 
 that is the most important thing, is n't it ? And 
 we shall not lunch alone, Helen, which is more im- 
 portant still. Every one thinks himself the only 
 one who asks for papa's time and money," — she 
 led the way into the dining-room, — " the result is, 
 poor papa will have little of either left. There 
 ought to be a society for the protection of — will 
 you take this seat, Mr. Graham — of papas like 
 mine." 
 
 " "Would n't you be the first to come under its 
 operation ? " asked Paul. 
 
156 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " Oh, but I don't count. Papa belongs to me, 
 and I am his diversion." 
 
 " Yes, but by and by, when you do as all young 
 ladies do — what then ? " 
 
 " You mean when I marry ? " said Mabel, with 
 a disdainful shrug of her pretty shoulders. " You 
 talk like the Bishop, and you are not old enough 
 for that — or does life in South Africa make one 
 preternaturally old and serious ? " 
 
 " I don't need to be a bishop to make a predic- 
 tion of that kind. I was only generalizing in the 
 mildest and safest manner possible." 
 
 Mabel laughed. " That is just what the Bishop 
 is always doing. He 's a dear good soul. He 
 never singles you out, or makes you feel worse than 
 other people. Do you know him, — Bishop Stearns, 
 I mean ? " 
 
 " He was at Cedar HiU last week." 
 
 " And Mrs. Frazer is there, too, is n't she ? I 
 have always wanted to meet her. Is n't she very 
 eccentric ? She has such a wonderful name — 
 Lauxinda ! It sounds Uke a sword flashing from 
 its scabbard — en garde I " 
 
 Paul was amused and fell in with her mood. 
 "You wiU have the opportunity of exchanging 
 opinions and crossing swords with her soon. I 
 heard her say you were a spoiled child." 
 
 " Did she ? Eeally ! How interesting. Then 
 you were forewarned. What do you think now ? " 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 157 
 
 " Oh, my opinion is n't worth anything. I can't 
 give it on hearsay evidence." 
 
 " Well " — her expressive face became earnest — 
 " you will have the occasion to observe me at Cedar 
 Hill next week. I challenge you to tell me what 
 you think then." She was leaning forward with 
 one elbow on the table, a half -serious, half -provoking 
 light behind her lashes. " Ah, now you are beating 
 a retreat. Please don't. It will be so interesting. 
 Papa is such a poor judge, and Helen — she never 
 says what she really thinks of me." 
 
 " "Why, Mabel," protested Helen. 
 
 "Will you, will you?" she persisted, heedless 
 of Helen's protest ; " not a polite, commonplace 
 opinion, like the Bishop's sermons, but a real, 
 sober, serious " — 
 
 " I warn you I shall be terribly blunt and out- 
 spoken." 
 
 " Of course, otherwise it will be good for no- 
 thing. Then it 's agreed. The night before I 
 leave Cedar HiU I shall hold you to your promise. 
 And for once," she said, drawing herself up tri- 
 umphantly, "we shall have the truth, the sweet, 
 naked truth. I can bear anything, — you will 
 have found that out in making up your opinion." 
 
 " Mabel," said Helen, after 7?aul had gone, " I 
 wish you would let me speak tj you without being 
 offended." 
 
158 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 They were in Mabel's room upstairs, and Mabel 
 was pinning on her hat before the mirror. She 
 turned, with her hands still adjusting her hat, look- 
 ing at Helen with an expression of benevolent 
 curiosity. Helen was bending over her embroidery. 
 
 " Well, I am waiting." 
 
 Helen looked up with a reassuring smile, as if 
 she were propitiating an idol. 
 
 " I don't mean to say anything that would hurt 
 you in any way " — 
 
 " Say it, say it, Helen. Don't keep me in sus- 
 pense so. When you have anything horrid to say 
 you always begin in that way." 
 
 " I don't wish to say anything horrid," protested 
 Helen. 
 
 " Helen, you are as transparent as glass. Don't 
 you suppose I know when you disapprove of me ? 
 You were scolding me all through luncheon while I 
 was talking to Mr. Graham." 
 
 " No, I was not," said Helen, asserting herself. 
 " But I was thinking you were doing yourself an 
 injustice. I \don't like to see you do that. It 
 sometimes seeil^s as if you were determined to pre- 
 vent any one from — from " — 
 
 " From what "> " 
 
 " From being your friend." 
 
 " In other words?, I am unnatural, insincere, re- 
 pellent " — , 
 
 " Mabel ! " brokt. in Helen pleadingly. " Be 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 159 
 
 just. Did I say that ? Is n't it just because you 
 are none of these things that I dislike to see you 
 appear " — 
 
 " Then I do appear so, do I ? " 
 
 " Don't question me so, Mabel. You put words 
 into my mouth. I was simply saying that you 
 sometimes assume a manner, a way of speaking, 
 that wrongs you in the eyes of those who do not 
 know you as I do." 
 
 " Are you sure you know me ? " 
 
 Leaning back in her chair, Helen looked up into 
 Mabel's face. " I thought I did," she began, try- 
 ing to smile and struggling with the beginning of 
 tears. But the coldness in Mabel's eyes changed 
 her to stone. "I am sorry I spoke," she said. 
 " I was not trying to be profound. Perhaps neither 
 of us knows the other. We certainly do not under- 
 stand each other now." It was on her lips to say : 
 it makes a difference who tells you the truth, — 
 but she restrained herself. 
 
 Mabel was drawing on her gloves. She was 
 conscious of the sudden revulsion in Helen's feel- 
 ings, and her own softened. She often see-sawed 
 with Helen in this way. 
 
 She stooped quickly to Helen's hair and kissed 
 it. " Forgive me, but don't scold me. I am made 
 as I am. If I am ever to change it will be by " — 
 she paused and laughed — " by something great, 
 a crisis, a catastrophe, something volcanic — which 
 
160 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 is not likely." Helen went on witli her embroidery 
 in silence. " Are n't you going to forgive me ? " 
 The continued silence reversed the current of her 
 feeling again. " This is play. We may have 
 something real to forgive some day." She moved 
 toward the door, buttoning her gloves. " Tell papa 
 we entertained Mr. Graham as well as we could." 
 She was at the door now. " And Helen, Helen — 
 look at me — love me a little, wiU you ? " 
 
 Helen started forward, disarmed. But the door 
 had closed and Mabel was gone. 
 
xin 
 
 Paul had left immediately after luncheon on the 
 plea of important business. It did not appear to 
 be very pressing, or to require his presence in any 
 particular place, for he wandered in an aimless 
 fashion out of the quiet of Gramercy Park into the 
 roar of Broadway and up Fifth Avenue, looking 
 into the shop windows with the eager but vacillating 
 gaze of a Christmas shopper searching for he knows 
 not what. Yet it was a very important business 
 he had in hand. He wanted to give something to 
 Margaret. 
 
 The idea had come to him that morning ; it had 
 haunted him all day, and could not be dislodged. 
 He had said to himself twenty times that if he had 
 a reason for giving Miss Frazer anything it was 
 not one he could adduce. A gift to her could not 
 mean what an ordinary g^ft means, and certainly 
 the reason for such a gift did not exist ; their ac- 
 quaintance was too short for that. But he did not 
 reason this out. It was not an ordinary gift. 
 The only question was to find something she could 
 accept. It was not a gift at all, but only a way of 
 telling her what was not yet to be told in words. 
 
162 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 The streets were filled with holiday throngs bent 
 on similar errands, and windows glittered with 
 every temptation. He elbowed his way through 
 the crowds, conscious all the while that what he 
 was seeking was not to be found in any shop win- 
 dow. It must be something personal, — personal to 
 him, — and then he stopped on the curbing, lost in 
 thought. A woman can give an old glove, a flower, 
 but a man has nothing. There was a florist's 
 across the street, and he went over. The window 
 was a garden in miniature, — flowering shrubs in 
 rare old china pots, clusters of roses tied with 
 broad ribbons, orchids of strange shapes, and 
 bunches of violets of royal size. No, that would n't 
 do. It was all too rich, almost vulgar, as bad as 
 diamonds. A wild flower from the hillside slope 
 above Cedar Hill, that could lie between the leaves 
 of a cherished book, was infinitely better. Yet he 
 could not rid himself entirely of the idea of value. 
 Nothing was too good for her. Did the whole 
 world contain nothing which held what a woman 
 gives with a worn glove or a faded flower? 
 
 And then he turned down the Avenue again, 
 suddenly, with a quick, decided step, walking 
 straight for the porch of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. 
 He had taken a room there the night of his arrival, 
 and had left in storage certain trunks and boxes 
 for which he had no immediate use. From one of 
 these he took a small package, and the important 
 business was done. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 163 
 
 It was five o'clock when he reached the Wal- 
 dorf. Dolly had said they might be back for tea, 
 but he was told by the elevator boy that the ladies 
 had not yet come in. He went to his room, locked 
 his door, and opened the package. It contained an 
 oblong black box of teak-wood, dug out in rough 
 uncouth fashion, like a log canoe. Within, wrapped 
 in a yellow cloth, of coarse fibre but soft as silk, 
 lay a long neck-chain of blood-red carnelians, 
 curiously cut in varying shapes, and separated by 
 gold beads cut through in patterns intricate and 
 delicate as lace. 
 
 He had bought it in Ceylon years ago — for no- 
 body. That was the satisfying thought. On leav- 
 ing for home he had put it in his trunk with a 
 vague idea of giving it to DoUy, but that idea did 
 not recur to trouble him now. What pleased him 
 now was that it was a personal possession, and that 
 he had not bought it for Margaret, but for Some- 
 body — not Dolly either — who was found. He 
 still had some doubts whether she would accept it, 
 whether she would not think it too much, and to 
 overcome as far as possible this objection he took 
 out his card and wrote on the back : — 
 
 " Eemember, the value of a friend's gift hes in 
 the giving." 
 
 This done, he wrapped the chain carefully in its 
 yeUow cloth, laid it with the card in the teak-wood 
 box, dressed for dinner, and began the long process 
 of waiting. Christmas, which was only a few days 
 
164 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 off, had first presented itself as an excuse, but had 
 been abandoned. Christmas had nothing to do 
 with it. 
 
 It was only six o'clock. There were two whole 
 hours yet before dinner, and time hung heavily on 
 his hands. And then he was aware of his restless- 
 ness and impatience, and an old-time resolve came 
 to him that if ever he loved a woman he would love 
 her straightforwardly, honestly, manfully, without 
 any nonsense ; and he determined to banish Mar- 
 garet from his mind and go down to the reading- 
 room to see what the evening papers had to say 
 about the peace rumors. 
 
 At a quarter to eight he had exhausted the even- 
 ing news and was dividing the time between watch- 
 ing the clock and the people going in and out from 
 the restaurant. He was beginning to grow cross 
 over Dolly's unconscionable delay when a hall-boy 
 asked him if he was No. 33, and, on receiving an 
 affirmative answer, announced that dinner was 
 served in No. 20. 
 
 No. 20 was a pleasant parlor with very little of 
 the hotel about it. Shaded candles were burning 
 on the dinner-table as Paul entered, and numberless 
 feminine belongings scattered about the room gave 
 it a homelike appearance. 
 
 " We were both tired," Dolly said, " and thought 
 we would dine here, unless you are anxious to dine 
 downstairs." 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 165 
 
 " You have n't tired yourselves out, I hope," 
 said Paul, looking at Dolly but speaking to Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 " Oh no," replied Dolly, " we have taken it very 
 leisurely. When you know just what you want 
 and just where to get it, it 's very easy." 
 
 Paul, remembering his recent shopping experi- 
 ence, thought the converse of the proposition 
 equally true. 
 
 And then with aU a woman's love for dainty 
 things and joy in their possession, amid innumer- 
 able excursions from the table in search of proofs 
 and exhibits, Dolly told the story of the day. 
 
 " You can smoke here, Paul," she said, as the 
 table was cleared away, " and, by the way, I want 
 to show you a letter I received this morning." 
 
 She disappeared for a moment and then came in 
 with Mr. Heald's note in her hand. 
 
 " I absolutely forgot," she said apologetically, 
 " it is marked confidential. I saw it at the time, 
 and then it passed entirely out of my head. It 
 was very stupid of me. I shall tell you all about 
 it some day." 
 
 Feeling that she was not concerned in the con- 
 versation, Margaret had drawn her chair up to the 
 fire and was cutting the leaves of a magazine. 
 
 "But I must answer it at once. You don't 
 mind, do you ? My writing materials are in my 
 room. It will take me only a minute." 
 
166 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Margaret was still sitting before the fire. Her 
 back was turned toward Paul, her head, bent for- 
 ward over her book, outlined against the back- 
 ground of firelight. He saw the wisps of brown 
 hair that could not be confined, from which he had 
 brushed the snow and frozen sleet, — he had 
 touched them once ! — and there rose from his 
 heart the certain knowledge that he wanted her, 
 just wanted her, without any afterthought or fore- 
 thought of what that meant. Whenever he had 
 thought of marriage before, the subject had in- 
 volved aU sorts of prudential considerations. Could 
 he afford it ? Would it interfere with his work ? 
 What woman would accept his life in South Af- 
 rica! Not one of these things occurred to him 
 now. But something else did, something that had 
 never crossed his mind before, ■ — that he would be 
 content to stand outside this woman's door for all 
 time if that was the condition she would impose. 
 He did not stop to reflect that no woman had ever 
 imposed such a condition, or could. His feeling 
 was only the inseparable part of that reverence 
 which is the dawn of all true human love. 
 
 The scratching of DoUy's pen came from the 
 adjoining room. He took the parcel from his 
 pocket and went softly forward. 
 
 " Miss Frazer." She turned, startled by his 
 voice. " Long ago, before I knew you existed, I 
 went shopping too, in Ceylon, for an unknown 
 
HIS DAUGHTEE FIRST 167 
 
 Somebody " — he put the black box in her hand — 
 " I want you to keep this — will you ? " — her 
 eyes turned from his to the strange-shaped box 
 and back again to his in evident surprise — " Don't 
 say no." 
 
 " For me ? " she said, a little confused ; " must 
 I look at it ? " 
 
 " I suppose you must." 
 
 She lifted the lid with trembling fingers, looked 
 up again with a shy, wondering smile, and then 
 back to the yellow wrapping, unfolding it slowly. 
 She glanced at the chain, — a woman's glance that 
 takes in everything, — then read the card. 
 
 " O Mr. Graham ! " She did not look up, and 
 the chain had fallen into her lap, but she held the 
 card in her closed hand. 
 
 " And we shall have our day with the grouse — 
 before the crowd comes ? " 
 
 " Yes," she whispered, " if you wish it." 
 
 " There ! " cried DoUy, coming in with her let- 
 ter, " now we can have a quiet talk. What have 
 you done with your day, Paul ? " She drew her 
 chair up beside Margaret's, whose magazine lay in 
 her lap, performing its new duty of guard and 
 shield. But nothing of all that was talked over 
 that evening had much interest for Paul, — a fact 
 quite evident to DoUy, who began to feel sure that 
 some day she could tell him she really had not 
 
168 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 written any letter at all, and that he would agree 
 with her that it was quite right not to do certain 
 things if people did not know you were not doing 
 them. 
 
xrv 
 
 From Dolly's point of view the day with the 
 grouse had proved a great success ; that is to say, 
 they had had a most delicious lunch before a blaz- 
 ing log fire in the sugar camp, and no one had 
 been hurt. Driving out with Mrs. Frazer to meet 
 the hunters, she had asked her whether Paul was 
 not becoming interested in Margaret, and had been 
 disconcerted by the reply that Margaret had been 
 sounded on that subject and had pronounced the 
 idea ridiculous. She had received a second check 
 when Margaret came down to dinner that evening 
 wearing a wonderful chain of unusual and exquisite 
 workmanship, which DoUy was imprudent enough 
 to declare she had never seen before. "Where 
 were your eyes ? " Margaret had said ; and the 
 quiet indifference of this answer had so effectually 
 closed all the avenues of further inquiry that DoUy 
 was almost persuaded she had seen it a hundred 
 times. 
 
 The dogs had proved worthless, not having been 
 shot over since Cecil's death, and having mean- 
 while been spoiled by feminine society. They were 
 wild beyond control, and vanished entirely after 
 
170 HIS DAUGHTEE FIKST 
 
 flushing the first bird, to reappear only at night 
 with bleeding feet, fagged out with their aU-day's 
 run after rabbits in the swamps and ravines beyond 
 what Mr. Pearson called the " mount'n." 
 
 Margaret had no appropriate costume except 
 such as she had improvised, — a pair of Cecil's 
 brown leggings over high moccasin shoes, a short 
 blue skirt and jacket with white flannel blouse, 
 and a blue veil knotted under a soft hat to keep 
 her hair from the spikes and twigs of the thickets. 
 Dolly thought she had never seen her look so beau- 
 tiful, and was still more of this opinion when Mar- 
 garet came into the glow of the leaping fire, flushed 
 with her tramp in the bracing air, — being so im- 
 pressed that she could not resist kissing her and 
 saying under her breath, " You dear, you are just 
 lovely." 
 
 Unable to beat off temptation, Mr. Pearson had 
 " guessed he 'd come along o' Jim." Between them 
 they knew every bit of cover on the hillside and 
 had hunted out a half-dozen stray birds, of which 
 Paul had got three and Margaret two, — good re- 
 sults for a half day in late December. In default 
 of the dogs' aid, thrown on their own resources, 
 they had been absorbed in their work. Oh, that 
 breathless listening, waiting, watching, in the wood 
 twilight, when one's heartbeat is the only sound, — 
 what is there like it ! 
 
 " Can you whistle ? " Paul had asked when they 
 started. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 171 
 
 Margaret laughed. " I can try." 
 
 " We may be out of sight of each other, you 
 know." And be had listened for that low caU of 
 hers through the woods more than for the whir of 
 beating wings. 
 
 When her maid knocked that morning at her 
 door an hour earlier than usual Margaret knew by 
 that token that the day was fair, that the day he 
 had asked for, the day she had given, was come. 
 Not for a moment had she doubted that it would, 
 and when the shutters were thrown open, and the 
 bright sun streamed in, it was no surprise. How 
 wonderful that such a day could be ! like other days 
 for all the rest of the world, yet created apart for 
 her. She dressed herself as in a dream. Not that 
 all was not real and sure, but too sweet and strange 
 for anything but dreams. Her heart worked like 
 her mind, straight and true, with the rectitude and 
 certainty of nature. Love had risen in it as the 
 sun in the sky, and there was no more night. Yet 
 not since the chain had fallen from her hands into 
 her lap in the parlor of the Waldorf, and she had 
 covered it from sight at DoUy's approach, had she 
 looked at it again. She had hurried it into its 
 black box without a glance and hidden it away. 
 For she had taken it as it had been given, not as a 
 g^ft, but as a message, a summons, and she could 
 not see it without seeing aU she had given in re- 
 turn. The sun was warm and gladdening, it was 
 
172 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 sweet to stand in its light and feel its strength, but 
 she could not look into its face yet. As she dressed 
 she heard the dogs barking in the yard, and Jim 
 was talking to Paul. He " reckoned the day was 
 just made on purpose, — the birds would be on the 
 edges in the sun, sartin." And then at the last 
 moment, after breakfast had been announced and 
 her maid had gone, she went to the closet, took the 
 black box from its dark corner under the contents 
 of her secretest drawer, and unfastening her white 
 flannel waist clasped the chain hurriedly about her 
 neck. 
 
 All through breakfast while DoUy was enlarging- 
 upon the importance of meeting promptly at noon, 
 explaining that luncheon would be ready at that 
 hour, and cautioning her to be careful of her gun, 
 she was living in another world, going to another 
 rendezvous. All through the morning Jim's pre- 
 sence at her elbow threw no doubt upon the issue 
 of the day; and when the luncheon-table was 
 cleared away, the horses unblanketed, and Paul 
 asked her if she was too tired to walk home, with 
 a beating heart she said unhesitatingly " No." 
 
 DoUy wanted the guns put into the sleigh, but 
 Paul objected ; they might get a chance shot on the 
 way home, — that was the reason for walking. Mr. 
 Pearson " guessed there would n't be no more 
 shootin' done unless they went clear over the ridge, 
 and said if he was n't wanted no longer, as he 'd 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 173 
 
 got the chores to do, he 'd take a short cut 'cross 
 lots." 
 
 " Yer can't miss yer way," he said to Paul. 
 " Jest foller the run down ter the pasture, and 
 then the cart track out ter the road," He watched 
 the pair after the sleigh drove off with Dolly and 
 Mrs. Erazer until they disappeared among the hem- 
 locks, then turning to Jim he said, " Come along, 
 Jim, they ain't goin' to git in no trouble." 
 
 No man who is not an egoist, or worse, is ever 
 sure of a woman's love till she has told it with her 
 own lips. Coming up in the train from New York, 
 while DoUy was reading the latest novel, Margaret 
 had told Paul something of her early life and of 
 her memories of her mother. She had been speak- 
 ing some time before she realized how little her 
 natural reserve counted when talking with him. 
 "I don't know why I should tell you of these 
 things," she said ; " I never have, I never could, to 
 any one." "I don't know why you should," he 
 replied, " so far as my being able to help you is 
 concerned. But I should like to." And conscious 
 only of the help that comes from giving dear and 
 long kept memories into trusted hands, she had 
 said, " You do — you do." On leaving the train 
 at the little Westford station, while Dolly was 
 superintending the transfer of numerous packages 
 to the carriage, Margaret had dropped her glove, 
 and he had stooped to pick it up. She had ex- 
 
174 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 tended her hand to take it with a word of thanks 
 ready. " No," he had said, " I want to keep it." 
 "Not that old" — "Yes, just that" — And' 
 then Dolly came. 
 
 And still, walking by her side in the silence and 
 solitude of the December woods, he was not sure. 
 He only knew that he had something of hers, warm 
 with the warmth and sweet with the breath of her 
 body, which said to him, " You do, you do." 
 
 " Do you know the people who are coming ? " 
 
 " Not all. Dolly told me their names. There 
 are several I do not know." 
 
 " You know Miss Temple, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, she has been here before." 
 
 "Do you like her?" 
 
 " Most people do. She is very pretty." 
 
 "But do you?" 
 
 " You should not ask me such questions." 
 
 " No, you are right. It was an impertinence." 
 
 " I did not mean that, but only that when one 
 puts vague feelings into words they sound harsh. 
 I do not like to speak ill of people." 
 
 " I am sure you do not." 
 
 The drainage of the snow -covered hills had 
 gathered into a little brook which grew larger as 
 they went on. 
 
 " We must cross here," said Paid. " Let me 
 have your gun. The stones are slippery." 
 
 " No," she replied. " Papa made it a rule when- 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 175 
 
 ever I went out witli him that I must do my share 
 of the work or stay at home." 
 
 But he took it from her, carrying it over with 
 his own. " Now come," and he held out his hand. 
 
 In a moment they had crossed to the other side, 
 but he did not let go the hand in his. "Mar- 
 garet " — it was like a new name — " Margaret." 
 She felt herself drawn to him by strong arms, but 
 they did not hurt, and she did not resist. " Mar- 
 garet — dear " — And then her life and soul went 
 out on her lips to his. 
 
 " Don't — dear," she murmured. 
 
 " But tell me you do." 
 
 She opened her eyes for one moment. 
 
 "Yes — I do." 
 
 In that homeward walk, when the winter world 
 took on such marvelous hues, and so many common 
 things became precious because they no longer 
 belonged wholly to one's self, it was decided that 
 with the exception of Dolly and Mrs. Frazer no 
 announcement should be made until after Dolly's 
 guests had gone. On returning home they found 
 Dolly had driven over to Lemington with Mrs. 
 Frazer to make calls, and there was no opportunity 
 to see either alone until after dinner was over. 
 Margaret would have spoken when Dolly ques- 
 tioned her about her chain, but the butler was 
 announcing dinner. The moment was not an aus- 
 picious one. 
 
176 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Dolly always went up to the nursery after dinner 
 to kiss Dorothy good-night, and after she had gone 
 Mrs. Frazer had the satisfaction of knowing she 
 was right. She refrained from all reference to her 
 previously expressed views on the subject, but 
 smiled so significantly when Margaret made her 
 explanation that words were unnecessary. 
 
 " It all seems very strange," Margaret said ; 
 " for when you spoke to me the other day I did 
 not dream of it." 
 
 " No, dear, I suppose not. Traps of this sort 
 are very cunningly set, and we generally walk into 
 them blindfolded." 
 
 Margaret made no reply. She was not disturbed 
 by this point of view. Her happiness was too real. 
 She hardly knew how the first few steps in her 
 new world had been taken, but she knew they had 
 been willing steps and that she was not blind. 
 
 " Have you told DoUy ? " asked her mother, as 
 Paul came in with his cigar. 
 
 " No, I shall now ; " and she left the room hur- 
 riedly to go upstairs. 
 
 Through the half-open nursery door she saw 
 Dolly sitting on the edge of Dorothy's bed, and 
 waited till the story which always preceded the last 
 kiss was finished. Then DoUy came forward, her 
 train in one hand, her lighted candle in the other. 
 
 " What is it, Margaret ? " she said softly, closing 
 the door gently behind her. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 177 
 
 Margaret's arm went about her waist. " Come 
 into your room," she whispered ; " I have some- 
 thing to tell you." 
 
 Of all secrets love is the most difficult to guard, 
 and before Margaret spoke DoUy knew. But with 
 the instinctive feeling that the knowledge of any 
 outside influence would be resented, that to claim 
 any share in bringing about this happiness would 
 mar it, she managed to wear a wonderful mask of 
 surprise. 
 
 "Do you remember, DoUy, the first night he 
 came, you said you did not expect me to like 
 him?" 
 
 " Did I ? " said Dolly innocently, her eyes half 
 full of tears. 
 
 "And I said I should not quarrel with any one 
 you loved?" 
 
 " Yes, dear, I think I do remember." 
 
 There was but one interpretation to put upon 
 Dolly's glistening eyes and subdued enthusiasm. 
 " All her happiness is in the past," thought Mar- 
 garet ; " all mine in the future." That Dolly was 
 glad was unmistakable ; but the note was not clear, 
 and its tremor could come only from the memories 
 which another's joy stirs in our own hearts. 
 
 "I will come down presently," she said, after 
 they had talked together awhile. But she did not 
 come down, and Mrs. Frazer, with some mumbled 
 words which were not intelligible, left the drawing- 
 room soon after Margaret's return. 
 
178 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 She went directly to Dolly's door and knocked. 
 On entering she saw at once that DoUy was embar- 
 rassed, like a child who being interrupted in the 
 performance of some mischief pretends to be doing 
 nothing at all. There was no light in the room but 
 a candle, and Dolly was standing in the middle of 
 the floor, holding it in her hand. 
 
 " Well ? " said Mrs. Frazer, seating herself on 
 the old-fashioned sofa drawn up near the fireplace. 
 
 Dolly put the candle down on the dressing-table. 
 " I was just coming down. Dorothy always pulls 
 my hair about so. Were you surprised ? " She 
 took up her comb and was smoothing out her hair. 
 
 "DoUy." The word was like a call to judg- 
 ment, and DoUy turned at once. " I have not 
 come to talk to you of Margaret. We both knew 
 all that ages ago." 
 
 " You have not come to talk about Margaret ? " 
 repeated Dolly, bewildered, her comb in mid-air. 
 And then, as Mrs. Frazer maintained silence, 
 " What have you come to talk about ? " 
 
 " You. Sit down." 
 
 Dolly sat down in a daze, her back to the 
 candle. 
 
 "You must n't be so astonished, dear. You were 
 not deceived by Margaret. I am not deceived by 
 you." 
 
 "By me?" Dolly repeated again, leaning for- 
 ward in the eagerness of her siirprise, and then 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 179 
 
 sinking back once more into the shadow. " By- 
 rne ? what do you mean, Laurinda ? " 
 
 " I mean that I am not stone blind. I am telling 
 you what I told Margaret a few days ago. She 
 was evasive, or obstinate. You are too sensible to 
 be either." Dolly made a gesture. "Don't say 
 you do not understand me. You do — perfectly. 
 If you wish me to go away and say nothing more 
 about it, I will. But if I am to be of any use to 
 you"- 
 
 Dolly was silent, staring at the carpet. 
 
 " I have known you and John Temple all your 
 lives ; " DoUy did not start at the name ; she knew 
 it was coming. " I do not know what is the trouble 
 between you, but I know there is some trouble. 
 Will you tell me what it is ? " 
 
 " There is no trouble," said Dolly faintly. 
 
 " Well, if there is none, there will be, and it 's 
 too bad. He has had enough trouble in his life. 
 Do you wish me to drop the matter where it is ? " 
 
 Dolly was recovering her self-control. " I would 
 rather not have spoken of it, but since you have 
 begun " — 
 
 " I began because I wished to be of some service 
 to you. You know I am not speaking from curi- 
 osity." A deprecatory gesture was the only answer. 
 " Whether you like it or not I saw there was some- 
 thing between you and John, something which was 
 causing you both unhappiness. It is n't money, I 
 
180 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 suppose? Of course not. A man may be very 
 self-contained, but he cannot altogether hide his 
 own feelings. He loves you, Dolly." 
 
 " Yes, it 's true, but " — 
 
 " And you ? " persisted Mrs. Frazer. 
 
 Dolly made no reply. 
 
 "Your silence means only one thing. If you 
 know that he loves you, then he has told you so ; 
 and if he has told you so, you must have answered 
 him — what ? I cannot understand." 
 
 " I answered him no," said Dolly in a low voice 
 that startled her questioner by its energy and 
 finality. 
 
 There were a few minutes of silence. 
 
 " I can only repeat that I do not comprehend it 
 at all," resumed Mrs. Frazer at length, smoothing 
 out the wrinkles of her dress with her lorgnette. 
 She was not given to caresses, nor was she a person 
 to whom one naturally offered them ; but her voice 
 was less abrupt than her words, and the sincerity 
 and kindliness of her purpose made themselves felt. 
 "I do not assume to say that you are suited to 
 each other. People have to find that out for them- 
 selves. But why, if you love each other, you should 
 not make the trial I cannot imagine. Do you care 
 to tell me ? " 
 
 " I should not have told you," said Dolly with a 
 resolute effort at steadiness. " Indeed — I did not 
 suppose — we hardly spoke to each other when he 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 181 
 
 was here — that any one " — She stopped before 
 her voice broke. 
 
 "My dear," said Mrs. Frazer gently, "I have 
 not the least right in the world to intrude upon 
 your privacy. But a third person sometimes sees 
 more clearly than we do. I cannot bear to see you 
 unhappy." 
 
 " There is nothing you can do," replied DoUy. 
 She had wholly recovered herself. " It is something 
 to be borne — for the present. Perhaps — in 
 time " — 
 
 " One has n't any time to throw away at any 
 age, — certainly not at yours. I shall not ask you 
 what the obstacle is, and I shall not feel aggrieved 
 if you do not confide it to me. But do you think 
 one always knows one's own affairs best ? It is a 
 very plausible theory, but it is not true." 
 
 " The obstacle between us is his own child," said 
 DoUy desperately. 
 
 Mrs. Frajzer looked up. 
 
 " Let me ask you one question. Does he know 
 it?" 
 
 DoUy shook her head. 
 
 " No. She wrote me a letter in the fall after 
 her visit — a very plain letter, in which she said 
 — it is too humiliating to repeat — I cannot." 
 
 Mrs. Frazer seemed taken quite unawares, yet 
 she said, " I might have known it. It is like 
 Gladys's child. But it is not like his." 
 
182 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 She remembered the imperiousness and willfuhiess 
 of the mother, her quiet pursuit of her own way, 
 her — 
 
 " He worships her," said Dolly wearily. 
 
 " And you ? He cares nothing for you ? " asked 
 Mrs. Frazer, recalling her thought from Gladys. 
 
 " You forget that he does not know, and that I 
 cannot tell him." 
 
 " I admit that would be a difficult thing for you 
 to do." 
 
 " For any one to do," said Dolly firmly. 
 
 " Yes, for any one." 
 
 Apparently sobered by the information she had 
 received, and at a loss for what to say, Mrs. Frazer 
 went on playing with the chain of her lorgnette. 
 
 " You see," said Dolly, rising and replacing the 
 comb on her toUet-table, " there is nothing to be 
 done." She took up the candle and stood holding 
 it in one hand. " We ought to go down. Marga- 
 ret and Paul wiU think it very strange." 
 
 " Have you consulted Paul ? " 
 
 " Yes, I told Paul. Not because I expected it 
 would do any good — I had to tell some one " — 
 Her voice began to waver again. 
 
 " Put your candle down, dear. They are not 
 thinking of us downstairs. What reply did you 
 make to Mabel's letter?" 
 
 " I asked her to make me a visit. She is coming 
 next week." 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 183 
 
 " With the purpose of speaking to her ? " 
 
 Dolly put down the candle again and took the 
 seat in the farther comer of the sofa. 
 
 " I could not let such a message pass unnoticed," 
 she said. " I am going to speak to Mabel myself. 
 I will not have her for an enemy if I can help it — 
 in any event." 
 
 " An enemy ! " exclaimed Mrs. Frazer wrath- 
 fuUy. " She is no one's enemy but her own. You 
 mean you are going to conciliate her ? " 
 
 " You may put it so if you choose. It is worth 
 the effort. I only want her to know me better. 
 I have thought it all over, and there is nothing but 
 my pride that stands in the way. I have put that 
 aside. If I cannot lead her to see things differently 
 before — by kindness — what could we do after- 
 wards — by force ? Paul wished me to tell Mr. 
 Temple. I know what that would mean, because 
 I know what I should do in like circumstances 
 myself. He would stand by me." 
 
 Mrs. Frazer listened in silence. 
 
 " Would you let me try my hand with Mabel ? " 
 she asked at length. 
 
 " I think that would hurt my pride stUl more," 
 said DoUy. " There are some things we cannot 
 delegate to others without losing our self-respect. 
 I should be thankful to put it all into some one 
 else's hands if I could — so thankful ! " 
 
 "I do not think Mabel is a girl to be cajoled," 
 Mrs. Frazer went on, pursuing her own thought. 
 
184 HIS DAUGHTER FIEST 
 
 *' I do not intend to cajole her," broke in Dolly 
 indignantly. 
 
 " Well, conciliate then. She is not in the 
 right, she is in the wrong — most decidedly in the 
 wrong — a selfish girl, to be brought to her senses. 
 You are not the person to do that, to say to her 
 the things that ought to be said. Her father might, 
 for he has authority on his side, — if she has an 
 ounce of love for him in her, — but not you. You 
 will find your pride alive the moment you speak, 
 and if not your pride, then your sense of injustice. 
 She needs a good shaking. Let me think this 
 over," she said, getting up and stooping to Dolly's 
 hair with her Hps. " We must make no mistakes." 
 There was something comforting in the plural pro- 
 noun. " Now bathe your face, dear, and come 
 downstairs. I wiU. go first and see what those two 
 children are doing in their paradise." 
 
 She took Dolly's hand in hers, patting it reassur- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Yes," said Dolly, "I wiU come in a moment." 
 Then rising impulsively she followed the retreating 
 figure to the door and kissed Mrs. Frazer's cheek. 
 " Thank you," she said softly, " I am glad you 
 spoke." 
 
XV 
 
 Jack put Mabel, Miss Gaunt, and the maid in 
 the train at Forty-second Street, and Mabel kissed 
 him good-by affectionately without a single pang 
 of conscience. It did not occur to her that her 
 father was seriously fond of Mrs. Kensett, and if 
 he were that was no reason why Mrs. Kensett 
 should invade her realm, or take her papa away 
 from her. She wanted her papa, as she did most 
 things, for herself. To like and to love were not 
 by any means the same, and love at Jack's age 
 was an utterly absurd and untimely emotion. Love 
 belonged to youth. Mrs. Kensett, barely thirty- 
 five, was one of the old people. It was almost 
 incredible that papas and mammas could ever have 
 been actors in that passionate, entrancing drama, 
 so mysteriously real as depicted in books, so ver- 
 ging on the ridiculous as observed in life. At all 
 events marriage at her papa's time of life was 
 neither a drama nor an idyl. It was a scheme, a 
 design, a convention, in whose arrangement the 
 principals were not the only parties to be con- 
 sulted. Being disposed to scheme herself, she saw 
 schemes in the most innocent events ; and being 
 
186 HIS DAUGHTER FIEST 
 
 confident of her power to twist Jack about her 
 finger for innocent purposes, it was natural to im- 
 pute the same power with evil designs to Mrs. 
 Kensett. Poor, dear papa ! 
 
 At the last moment Jack had given her a letter, 
 a long blue envelope of business-like appearance, 
 encircled by a rubber band, addressed to Mrs. 
 Kensett, which Mabel had observed at once was 
 unsealed. 
 
 " Mrs. Kensett's quarterly accounts are in here," 
 Jack had said, " and I will let you hand them to 
 her. You won't forget them, will you ? " 
 
 " Do I ever forget things, papa ? " said Mabel, 
 putting the letter in the pocket of her dressing- 
 case. 
 
 " No, you are a pretty reliable little girl." He 
 was kissing her good-by. " You take your days of 
 grace, but you pay your notes when they are due." 
 
 " I do keep my engagements and my promises, 
 do I not, papa ? " 
 
 He wanted to ask her to be her very best with 
 Mrs. Kensett, but he did not know exactly how to 
 express it ; there were strangers present, and he let 
 it go. 
 
 There were others of the party in the same draw- 
 ing-room car, and there was much excitement and 
 talk. Little Constance Montrevel, a short, dark 
 girl of twenty, of quiet manner, and with the un- 
 mistakable charm of race and breeding in her plain 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 187 
 
 face, occupied a chair next Mabel, much to the 
 latter's annoyance, who endeavored unsuccessfully 
 to manoeuvre her out of it in favor of Mr. Heald. 
 " How stupid she is ! " thought Mabel, for whom 
 stupidity was often the obstruction of her wishes 
 by unsuspecting people. She was the centre of all 
 the conversation and gayety. One would have 
 thought it was her party. She was making plans 
 as if it were. 
 
 " You don't know the house, Constance. I do. 
 The drawing-room is perfect for charades, or a play. 
 There are two piUars near the end just right for a 
 curtain. Don't you think it would be nice to have 
 a play, Mr. Heald ? Then there 's a lovely winter 
 garden. I do so love extraordinary things, palms 
 and things from Africa — oh, and there 's an Afri- 
 can there, too — a real live one." 
 
 " Is he ebony, with ostrich plumes in his hair 
 and rings in his ears ? " asked Mr. Heald. 
 
 " How absurd you are ! He 's a cousin of Mrs. 
 Kensett's, from the gold mines, too, — or perhaps 
 it 's diamonds, — which is it they have in Africa, 
 Mr. Heald?" 
 
 " Both, Miss Temple. But they have no women 
 to wear them. It 's an export trade." 
 
 " Perhaps that is why he has come back. Con- 
 stance dear, did you bring any of your lovely 
 things ? embroideries and laces, you know ? I told 
 you to. We must have one masked baU. Would n't 
 
188 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 it be fun to invite the Westford people ! I wonder 
 if Mrs. Kensett will have any music. She always 
 does things well. If she has, we can dance every 
 night. There are lots of horses any way. I brought 
 my riding-habit, — did you ? " 
 
 Helen was sitting beyond Constance in the seat 
 next Mr, Heald. There were roses in her cheeks 
 and on her lips, and many a line that painters 
 love in her form. One looked at her and un- 
 derstood that all the flowers do not open in May. 
 She was the oldest of the company except Mr. 
 Heald, and there was nothing to indicate that she 
 was not on equal terms with the others. Con- 
 stance liked her because she was quiet and had 
 a low voice. 
 
 The talk subsided as the train moved out of the 
 station into the roar and darkness of the tunnel. 
 Looking out of the window Helen saw herself re- 
 flected from the black pane in the light of the 
 electric lamps, and she remembered the young girl 
 who once passed through that same tunnel alone, 
 on her way from Boston to her new position in the 
 New York boarding-school. It was such a differ- 
 ent face which stared back at her from under the 
 black hat plumes, and in the recollections suggested 
 by her backward look it possessed so strange an 
 interest for her that she stole glances at it as 
 2ct a stranger whom she could only watch when 
 unobserved. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 189 
 
 She was annoyed at Mabel, at her assumption 
 of managing Mrs. Kensett's affairs. Though it 
 were only idle chatter it was bad taste, and under 
 the circumstances inconceivable. But that did not 
 astonish her so much as did her own feeling of an- 
 noyance and criticism. She had been expecting 
 momentarily some outburst on Mabel's part, some 
 coldness or irritation, indicating that Mabel knew. 
 But except that her spirits seemed unaccountably 
 high, almost forced, Mabel had shown nothing of 
 the kind, and instead of exciting Mabel's animos- 
 ity Mabel was exciting hers. She had experienced, 
 too, a new desire to be constantly near her, as 
 if she expected every moment that Mabel would 
 speak, that a crisis was coming. Sitting beside 
 Mr. Heald, it seemed to her that this accidental 
 fact could not escape notice, and she turned her 
 revolving chair further away from him toward the 
 window. 
 
 " How hot it is," she said to Constance. " It 
 makes one faint." 
 
 " Do you wish my salts ? '* asked Constance, un- 
 clasping the tiny vinaigrette from her belt. 
 
 " Thank you. Would you mind exchanging 
 places with me ? I want to speak to Mabel." 
 Then she altered her mind. To change her seat 
 was precisely what would attract attention. She 
 would not be so siUy. " No matter, I won't disturb 
 you. It 's of no consequence ; " and turning to 
 
190 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Mr. Heald she began to talk, drawing Constance 
 into the conversation. 
 
 In the excitement of meeting and the bustle of 
 starting Mabel had not noticed the occupant of the 
 chair on her left. The conversation on her right 
 was too distant for her to join in it without effort, 
 and as the train drew out of the tunnel she occu- 
 pied herself with studying her neighbor, whom she 
 mentally pronounced extraordinary. Mabel's eye 
 for color did not approve of her costume, but she 
 abandoned her investigations on discovering that 
 a pair of lorgnettes were fixed upon her, and that 
 she was under observation herself. So she drew a 
 magazine from within her large Empire muff and 
 settled herself to read. She had got as far as 
 the illustrations when a grim, business-like voice 
 said : — 
 
 " Is not this Mabel Temple ? " 
 
 Mabel lifted her violet eyes and somewhat freez- 
 ingly assented. 
 
 " I thought so. I used to know your mother. 
 I am Mrs. Frazer." 
 
 " Oh, are you ? " smiled Mabel, unbending. " I 
 did not know " — 
 
 " Naturally. You were in short dresses. But 
 I knew you at once. You are the image of 
 Gladys." 
 
 " Am I ? I am glad of that. Did you know 
 my mother well ? " 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 191 
 
 " Thoroughly," said Mrs. Frazer. 
 
 Mabel was sensitive about her mother, and the 
 incisive word disconcerted her. 
 
 " And a very lovely woman she was," Mrs. Fra- 
 zer went on. " The last time I saw her was at a 
 dinner she gave on the yacht at Newport. You 
 were a little girl and had soiled your pink frock, 
 for which you deserved a scolding which you did 
 not get. Your father saved you." 
 
 Mabel's smile grew brighter. She had put down 
 her magazine and was leaning forward with an 
 eager expression on her face. One of the secrets 
 of her popularity was her quick interest in the 
 person with whom she happened to be talking. 
 It was of no consequence who the person was or 
 what she reaUy thought. Her interest in what 
 the Bishop was saying was no less intense than 
 that with which she listened to her partner in the 
 pauses of the waltz. 
 
 " Was I such a naughty child ? Poor mam- 
 ma!" 
 
 " All children are trying," remarked Mrs. Fra- 
 zer. " You were no exception. Gladys was." 
 
 " Do teU me about her, Mrs. Frazer." She was 
 about to say that her father never spoke of her 
 mother, but refrained. 
 
 " You have only to look in your mirror to see 
 her. You are her child, not your father's." 
 
 " It is wonderful, is n't it, to be a reproduction 
 
192 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 of some one. One always feels so different from 
 every one else, in spite of what people say. I re- 
 member distinctly differing from mamma on a good 
 many occasions. It was papa who always agreed 
 with me." 
 
 " Those whom we most resemble are the very 
 ones who are most annoyed to see themselves 
 reproduced," said Mrs. Frazer. " So your papa 
 agrees with you, does he ? " 
 
 There was an amused smile on her face, and 
 Mabel blushed. 
 
 " I know what you are thinking of," she said ; 
 " I have been told you thought I was spoiled." 
 
 Mrs. Frazer laughed good-humoredly. " One 
 must be on one's guard against indulgent fathers, 
 dear. They may prove a great misfortune. No- 
 thing makes one so selfish as to be the object of 
 unselfishness." The smile faded out of Mabel's 
 face, and Mrs. Frazer changed the subject. " All 
 these people are going to Cedar Hill, I presume. 
 Who is that pretty girl over there ? " 
 
 Mabel's eyes followed the lorgnette. " That is 
 Helen, Miss Gaunt. She used to be my gov- 
 erness." 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 " Now ? She is living with us stiU as — as my 
 friend. Perhaps I am imitating papa and spoiling 
 her. Would you like to see ? " Her chance had 
 come at last. " Helen, dear," — at a sign from 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 193 
 
 Mabel Helen left her seat, — " this is Mrs. Frazer, 
 Margaret's mother, you know. "Will you take my 
 seat for a little while? She wishes to speak to 
 you." 
 
 At last she had effected her purpose. She spoke 
 in passing with those on the other side of the car, 
 dropped into Helen's vacant seat, opened up a fire 
 of conversation with Constance, allowed it to lan- 
 guish, and finally, offering her magazine to Miss 
 Montrevel, leaned her head back on the high 
 cushion of her revolving chair, and turned slowly 
 to Mr. Heald. 
 
 " Come here, I want to speak to you." 
 
 She was looking straight before her out of the 
 window. 
 
 At the sound of her imperious voice Mr. Heald, 
 who had risen politely when she took her seat, sat 
 down again and looked inquiringly into her half- 
 averted face. 
 
 "Don't look at me so," said Mabel in a low 
 voice ; " look out the window. Do you see that 
 little white house on the top of the hill ? Look at 
 that." 
 
 He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, 
 and began to study the landscape as directed. 
 
 " Do you think I have no eyes ? " said Mabel. 
 
 " I always said they were the most beautiful ones 
 I ever looked into," he replied, obeying her injunc- 
 tion with difficulty. 
 
194 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Mabel's lashes closed for a moment and then 
 opened again. 
 
 « Is that what you have been telling Helen ? " 
 He made a quick, involuntary movement, but 
 still obeyed her, keeping his eyes fixed on the little 
 white house on the hill. 
 
 " I have been wanting to speak to you for some 
 time," continued Mabel, " but you have either been 
 invisible, — or inaccessible, of late." 
 " Is not that natural. Miss Temple ? " 
 " You mean because I refused you ? Perhaps. 
 How long ago was that ? Well, never mind, we 
 have both forgotten, and it is of no consequence. 
 What I wished to say to you, first, was that I asked 
 Mrs. Kensett to invite you " — 
 
 " I am duly grateful, I assure you." 
 — " to Cedar Hill, in order that I might speak 
 to you." She pronounced the words slowly and 
 distinctly. " You have persistently avoided me 
 since — since — I quite understand that. As you 
 say, it is very natural. Then why did you ask papa's 
 permission to caU ? Don't interrupt me. We '11 
 say it was to save appearances, — yours, I mean. 
 The first time, yes, — and the second, — but the 
 third, last Thursday ? Did you not see me making 
 every effort to speak to you then? And at the 
 Wendells', Monday, did I not go out of my way 
 to" — 
 
 "Eeally, Miss Temple, you do me too much 
 honor." 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 195 
 
 A quick flash of scorn lighted up her eyes. 
 
 " How simple you are ! or is it vanity ? Do you 
 think I am relenting ? " And with a low ripple of 
 laughter she turned her head on the other cheek 
 toward Constance. Helen was still talking with 
 Mrs. Frazer. Constance was fingering the leaves 
 of the magazine. " They are clever, are n't they ? 
 
 — those drawings of Vierge ? " 
 " Very," replied Constance. 
 Mabel turned back again. 
 
 " I intended to wait till we got to Cedar Hill, 
 till I could speak more freely " — 
 
 " More freely ! " he said ironically. 
 
 "Much more. But I will say this now, espe- 
 cially as you seem to be laboring under a misap- 
 prehension. I — will — not — have — you — play 
 
 — with Helen." 
 
 Her voice was low, but distinct with suppressed 
 energy. Mr. Heald stopped playing with his 
 gloves. Then he laughed softly. 
 
 " Are you going to play at governess too ? " 
 " I am not playing at anything, and my relations 
 with Helen are not the subject of discussion," re- 
 phed Mabel quietly. " But since you have inti- 
 mated that we have changed places I must correct 
 you again. I am not taking Helen's place, she is 
 taking mine, — the one I vacated." 
 
 " Are you speaking in her name, Miss Temple ? " 
 "I do not require her permission to speak. 
 
196 HIS DAUGHTEE FIEST 
 
 and I shall not ask yours to speak to her, — to tell 
 her, for example, how quickly you recover from 
 despondency." 
 
 " Mabel ! " 
 
 " Hush ! Have you no control over yourself ? 
 I am not finding fault with you for your — your 
 good spirits. You gambled, and lost, and you are 
 too old a player to complain, and the loss was n't 
 worth suicide." The sneer in her tone hurt him 
 more than her words. " Is that what you would 
 have me understand ? Very good. But — dorUt 
 trifle with Helen. And don't consider me your 
 enemy " — her voice softened a little — "on ac- 
 count of the — our past misunderstanding. I am 
 not. I am only Helen's friend. There ! the white 
 house is gone. You may look at me now. What 
 are you laughing at so, Constance? Do let me 
 see. You don't mean to say you have found any- 
 thing funny in " — 
 
 Mr. Heald broke in savagely : " We shall speak 
 of this again," he said, rising. 
 
 "Yes, do," said Mabel, sitting up and pulling 
 down the shade. " Are you going to smoke ? 
 When you come back we will talk it aU over." 
 She gave him one of her bright smiles and turned 
 to Constance. 
 
 It was no time or place for defense, explanation, 
 or discussion, and Mr. Heald knew how to wait. 
 He went forward into the buffet car, found a seat 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 197 
 
 by himself in the small compartment, and called 
 for a whiskey and soda. 
 
 There were others of the Cedar HiU party in 
 the same car, one of whom presently came to ask 
 him to make a fourth hand at whist. But he 
 declined. Mabel's sudden attack had completely 
 confounded him. He was out of sorts with him- 
 self, and therefore with the rest of the world. But 
 his opinion of her had risen immensely. What 
 nerve the girl had ! 
 
 He was not given to the self -analysis and retro- 
 spection which lead to weakness and indecision. 
 He always charged off the past to profit and loss. 
 The future was the real asset. But the past some- 
 times holds the key to the future, and then deserves 
 consideration. Nerve, and insight too ! It made 
 him smile to think of it. No one had ever called 
 him a gambler before, or had any reason to, in the 
 literal sense of the word, since one day when he 
 lost five thousand poimds and his ranch on the turn 
 of a card. He had never touched one since. There 
 were easier and surer ways of making money. He 
 had tested the fallacy of growing up with a new 
 country. The place to make money is where money 
 is. But Mabel was right. She had called him by 
 name, and he always admired any one who hit the 
 nail squarely on the head. He was a gambler. 
 Not by profession or of the coarser sort, but by 
 nature, and with instincts suited to the times. The 
 
198 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 times were sordid and commonplace, and money- 
 making, like everything else, had degenerated into 
 a mean trade. But if he had been born a hundred 
 years earlier he might have been holding up travel- 
 ers on the highroad, or cruising on the high seas 
 with a black flag at the masthead, the dread of all 
 gentry with gold sewed in their belts and — the 
 devil take it ! that was his weakness — a very prince 
 of courtesy to the fair sex. He smiled at the pic- 
 ture as he rolled a fresh cigarette. It brought him 
 back to Mabel with renewed admiration. If the 
 old days were back again, when the art of trans- 
 ferring money from one neighbor's pocket to one's 
 own was practiced by barons living in castles, he 
 would hke to be the knight to wear her scarf on his 
 lance. And here he was leading germans and 
 trading in curb stocks I It amounted to the same 
 thing in the end, but it was not picturesque. Yes, 
 she had a cool head and a lot of will. Who would 
 have thought it, behind those violet eyes ! 
 
 What was she driving at any way? She had 
 refused him squarely, with such light-heartedness 
 as to have deprived his advances of all seriousness. 
 For that he had been grateful at the time, a little 
 disappointed, — it was a good chance lost, — but 
 she had not made him feel that he was mercenary. 
 There was no sting in her answer, and on his part 
 no resentment. It was an open door, carelessly 
 shut, and he had passed on. Now he felt as if he 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 199 
 
 were a book cleverly read from cover to cover and 
 laid aside not to be opened again. He admired 
 her now, and with admiration came an exaspei^ating 
 sense of humiliation. She had described the situa- 
 tion exactly. He had seen an unusually big prize, 
 an only child, with a wonderfully beautiful face 
 and figure, and millions in prospect. And he had 
 been fool enough to ask for these, as though they 
 were the only stakes in the game ! One thing was 
 certain : she was very clever, and she had a heart. 
 He had absolutely misjudged her. 
 
 And she had opened the book again — why? 
 Why had she invited him to Cedar Hill? Merely 
 to tell him that she was Helen's friend ? If she 
 were reaUy and only that, why did she not warn 
 Helen instead of him ? It was true she had threat- 
 ened to, but she had not done so yet. Such pure 
 philanthropy was incredible. Could it be that she 
 was jealous, that she was calling him back? Or 
 was she just ugly and officious ? The first hypothe- 
 sis was more pleasing than the second, — but there 
 was Helen. A demure little schoolmistress with a 
 pretty face and not a penny. He had not seen her 
 at first at all. He was not looking for pretty faces 
 and empty pockets. And then, his venture in 
 holding up the coach having proved a failure, in 
 his confounded folly for gallantry he had paid a 
 compliment to the loveliness of one of the passen- 
 gers, — for she was lovely, — who had mistaken 
 
200 HIS DAUGHTEE FIEST 
 
 compliments for love and romance for reality. 
 Strange ! that a tinsel flame should light the fires 
 in the quiet depths of Helen's serious eyes, and 
 that he should have thought there were no depths 
 or seriousness in the others. 
 
 Whether under the influence of the whiskey and 
 soda or the vision of Helen, he began to wander 
 from the fixed moorings of sensible thinking down 
 the current of dreaming. There were women so 
 hungry that they were willing to give everything 
 for nothing. Yet it was something, to take a wo- 
 man who had nothing but herself to give, a home- 
 less waif in the street as it were, cold and lonely 
 and starving, and satisfy her, make himself the 
 source of all her happiness, enthrone her. Could 
 he really love her, and would he, after she was 
 enthroned? He pidled himself together with a 
 start. No, he might be a gambler, but he was 
 not a sharper. 
 
 The truth was he had entered upon a course of 
 conduct without attaching any importance to it, or 
 giving any thought to its consequences. He was 
 angry, compassionately angry, with Helen for her 
 simplicity; and he was angry, regretfully angry, 
 with Mabel for appearing in the second act after 
 having expired in the first. He was afraid that he 
 understood Helen only too well. He was resolved 
 to understand Mabel better, and he threw away 
 his cigarette with this determination. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 201 
 
 The train had just stopped, and the dinmg-car 
 was being put on. He went out upon the platform 
 and was among the first to enter it, appropriating 
 a corner table, set for two. It was at the forward 
 end of the car behind the open corridor door, and 
 was necessarily passed by aU who came in. Mabel 
 was among the last. He pushed the door aside 
 when he saw her, and offered her his seat. 
 
 " For me? " she said, " how nice of you ! I like 
 corner seats where I can see every one." 
 
 She was always at her ease, an ease which, as he 
 had reason to know, could provoke an unwarranted 
 assurance, or keep him, as now, at an uncomfortable 
 distance. If one had not known Gladys one would 
 wonder how so young a girl had acquired it. Being 
 inherited, it bore no resemblance to the acquired, 
 artificial article. But he was resolved on forcing 
 her hand. 
 
 " You don't mind continuing our conversation ? " 
 he asked, putting her muff and magazine in the 
 rack overhead and sitting down opposite her. 
 
 " Indeed no. On the contrary, I want to." 
 
 She was taking off her gloves, watching the 
 other members of the party as they took their seats. 
 Helen and Mrs. Frazer were at the farther end of 
 the car. She exchanged a smile with Helen, laid 
 her gloves beside her plate, and took up the menu. 
 
 " Bouillon, of course," she exclaimed, " always 
 bouillon ! No, I don't want any " — to the waiter. 
 
202 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 *' How they do hurl the courses at you I like the 
 night advertisements in Madison Square, and snatch 
 them away as quickly. What time do we arrive at 
 Westford ? Do you remember ? " 
 
 " I think it is about three hours. We left New 
 York at noon. That would make it three o'clock." 
 
 " You have never been there ? " 
 
 " No, this is my first visit, thanks to you." 
 
 " Is it ? Why, I thought you and Mrs. Kensett 
 were old friends. Perhaps I ought not to have 
 asked her to invite you." 
 
 " I hope you are not regretting it already." 
 
 " No. Are you ? I thought you would think 
 it very nice and friendly in me, after our little 
 quarrel." 
 
 " Are you never serious, Mabel ? " 
 
 " Why should you think I am not serious ? At 
 least I am always serious about serious things. 
 When was I not ? Is n't the fault yours — that 
 you do not take me seriously ? " 
 
 " I took you seriously once, and I thought I 
 understood you then. I don't understand you 
 now." 
 
 She laughed. " The question seems to be which 
 can understand the other fijst. That is quite 
 true — in a way. You will admit though that I 
 have not asked you any questions, I only gave you 
 a warning. I suppose it is difficult for you to 
 appreciate my feelings toward Helen, — and that 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 203 
 
 puzzles you. You think of her as she used to be, 
 as what she thinks she is, — my governess. But, 
 you see, you are both mistaken. She is not looking 
 after me, I am looking after her. She is quite 
 a child. It is really very extraordinary how little 
 age counts. She learns some things with much 
 more difficulty than I used to learn the lessons she 
 gave me, and she does not forget her lessons as 
 easUy as I do mine. You must tmderstand this, 
 first, about Helen, that she is a mere child; and 
 then this, about me, that I am fond of her, — more 
 fond of her than she has any reason to be of me. 
 That is what I wished to say to you, and that is all 
 I think I am called upon to say. If you are as 
 serious as I am you need not fear my interference." 
 
 He was looking at her while she spoke, but 
 nothing in her face belied her frankness. It was 
 not a frankness, however, which told him what 
 road to take. It left him at the crossways. He 
 felt the constraint of their surroundings and wished 
 he had waited. 
 
 " I suppose I ought to be grateful to you," he 
 said, " even though you are actuated solely by your 
 interest in Miss Gaunt." 
 
 He paused, looking straight into her eyes. 
 
 " Yes ? " she said, as if expecting him to go on. 
 
 " But are you not drawing inferences from rather 
 slender premises ? " 
 
 " I think not." 
 
204 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " In certain circumstances," he hazarded, feeling 
 his way carefully, " a man does not know what he 
 is doing." 
 
 A kindly smile came into her eyes. 
 
 " Yes, exactly. Sometimes, in pique, or desper- 
 ation, we do what cannot be undone as easily as 
 what was done in seriousness. And then, you 
 know, we misunderstand each other so dreadfully. 
 Perhaps I spoke too impulsively a little while ago. 
 But I really meant nothing that was not friendly." 
 
 " Friendly to whom ? " he thought. " To him, 
 or to Helen ? " 
 
 She had gathered up her gloves and was looking 
 out of the window with something indecisive and 
 appealing in her face. 
 
 "Mabel." She did not appear to hear him; 
 " Mabel," he repeated, " don't you know we can 
 never be — friends." 
 
 She turned and looked at him, another little 
 vanishing smile in her eyes, like a lip's quiver. 
 
 " Perhaps we can, after years and years," she 
 said. " Friendship is a very slow-growing plant, 
 you know, — not like the other. And if you are 
 so sure it cannot live you must not call me Mabel." 
 And then the smile became an ordinary one. 
 " Will you give me my mu£P, please ? And will 
 you come over with me to Mrs. Frazer's table ? I 
 want to introduce you. We can have our coffee 
 there with them." 
 
XVI 
 
 As she had anticipated, Mabel found that she 
 and Helen were to share the same room. There 
 was a small parlor opening out from it, and both 
 rooms bore evidence to a thoughtfulness not to be 
 attributed to servants' hands. She had anticipated 
 that also. 
 
 Shortly after their arrival tea and deliciously hot 
 toast were served in the parlor, and on leaving the 
 tray the butler had announced dinner for eight 
 o'clock. There was no luxury Mabel loved more 
 than time, and after tea and a refreshing bath, 
 while Helen and her maid Marie were emptying 
 the trunks and putting things in order, she sat in 
 the deep easy-chair before the parlor fire, lost in 
 thought. There were two whole hours yet before 
 she need think of dressing. Her writing materials 
 had just been arranged on the table near her, and 
 this reminded her of the letter for Mrs. Kensett. 
 As the envelope was unsealed she felt no compunc- 
 tion in opening it. It contained a smaller envelope, 
 also unsealed, and another closed, and endorsed 
 " Mrs. Kensett's Statement," with the date. The 
 note in the former read as foUows : — 
 
206 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Mt deae Mks. Kebtsett, — I am sending you 
 by Mabel the usual statement for this quarter. It 
 contains nothing to which I need call your atten- 
 tion. According to what I understood from Paul 
 to be your wish, aU the proceeds of the sale of the 
 Argonaut stock, except the original net cost of 
 your share thereof, has been credited to the person 
 named in the remaining certificates, and converted 
 into four per cent registered bonds which I hold 
 subject to further orders. As your account showed 
 a large idle balance I have reinvested a part of it 
 as per memorandum herewith. 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 John Temple. 
 
 Mabel returned the note to its envelope with the 
 reflection that it was very like papa, and lapsed 
 into thought. 
 
 What a queer person Mrs. Frazer was ! She 
 rather liked her, she was so brusque and refreshing. 
 What was it to be spoiled ? There was Helen, 
 working away in the adjoining room. She was 
 always doing something. Was it true that imself- 
 ish people made others selfish ? Things got done 
 somehow, just as they were being done now in the 
 next room, if one left them to others. The only 
 spoiled persons she knew among her acquaintances 
 were either bad or sour, like spoiled fruit or cream. 
 She was neither of these. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 207 
 
 " Helen dear, are n't you tired ? Do come in 
 and sit down." 
 
 " Yes, in a minute." 
 
 Mabel went to the door and looked in. Her 
 evening dress was laid out on the bed, her stock- 
 ings and slippers on the chair beside it. The toilet- 
 table glittered with the array of her silver, and 
 Marie was hanging the last skirt in the wardrobe. 
 There did not appear to be much to do. 
 
 " You are all through, are n't you ? " she said. 
 
 " Almost," replied Helen. " But I have n't had 
 my bath yet." 
 
 Mabel had not thought of that, and returned to 
 her chair. 
 
 Above the fireplace hung an old Venetian mirror 
 with beveled edges and figures sunk in intaglio on 
 the back. Mabel's eyes rested on it admiringly. 
 It was an exceedingly good specimen. And the 
 Dresden china clock on the mantel was unusually 
 pretty too, much prettier than her own. She might 
 have thought the same thing had the two changed 
 places. She had a keen appreciation for good 
 things, but the pleasure they afforded began to 
 diminish immediately after possession. 
 
 What was it to be spoiled ? The thought came 
 back persistently. She certainly had not spoiled 
 Helen. She remembered her as she was when she 
 first came to Gramercy Park. How awkward and 
 prim she was then, with her conscientious efforts 
 
208 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 to instruct and discipline! No, Helen was de- 
 cidedly improved. She was more at her ease, 
 dressed better, spoke better French, was in every 
 way happier. And aU this was due to her — Mabel. 
 If her father had had his way Helen would be a 
 faded little old schoolmistress, or darning the fam- 
 ily stockings in Boston. There was such a thing 
 as being spoiled by success, however. 
 
 A knock at the door roused her from her reflec- 
 tions. It was only a servant who came to remove 
 the tray. She gave him the envelope with the re- 
 quest that it should be delivered at once to Mrs. 
 Kensett, and then began a note to her father an- 
 nouncing her safe arrival and the delivery of his 
 letter. This occupied her but a moment, and she 
 sat down again before the fire. She thought of 
 her papa's visit to the Vixen, and wondered whether 
 he would remember to order the new deck awnings. 
 She thought of his Christmas alone, and wondered 
 what her Christmas presents would be. He always 
 gave her something handsome. He was generally 
 at a loss to know what it should be, and on the 
 alert for any chance suggestion as to what she most 
 wanted, and she wondered which of several hints 
 furnished him through Helen and other roundabout 
 channels would bear fruit. She wondered, too, who 
 would take her out to dinner. And then, having 
 exhausted lesser things, — she knew that they were 
 all lesser things, so many decoys with which she 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 209 
 
 was endeavoring to divert her mind from something 
 else, — she got up and went into the other room, 
 inspected it again carefully, and returned once more 
 to her chair. She had always known what she 
 wanted, her own mind. And she had commonly 
 had her own way. If she was not, like Helen, 
 transparent to others, she at least understood her- 
 self, which was a long step toward conquering 
 obstacles presented from without. A good deal of 
 wiU and a little tact did the rest. Now there was 
 something within, something distinct and different 
 from her old self, something disconcerting, vague, 
 powerful, beyond her control, like a poison taken 
 unawares. It was as if into her house of life had 
 entered a stranger, whose presence she felt and was 
 seeking to avoid, who was disputing her sovereignty 
 and confusing her plans. It was worse than being 
 thwarted, this not knowing any longer what she 
 wanted. At all events she did not want to think, 
 and with a glance at the clock she was about to 
 begin her dressing when there was a knock on the 
 door, and to her surprise Mrs, Frazer appeared. 
 
 " I am making a tour of inspection to see that 
 aU you young people are properly taken care of," 
 she said. " May I come in ? " 
 
 " Do, Mrs. Frazer, do ! " cried Mabel. " "We 
 could not be more comfortable. Mrs. Kensett al- 
 ways makes one feel at home." 
 
 " Yes, it is the only house I ever visit. I dislike 
 
210 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 visiting, and visitors. This turning of one's house 
 into a hotel is not to my taste. I am going to sit 
 down with you for a few minutes before dressing, 
 if you do not mind." 
 
 Society just then was a distinct relief to Mabel, 
 and the interruption to her thoughts most welcome. 
 Besides, ever since Mrs. Frazer had told her that 
 she had known her mother she had wanted to talk 
 with her again about Gladys. 
 
 " You will excuse my dressing-gown, won't you, 
 dear Mrs. Frazer ? " 
 
 " Yes indeed, child. And you will allow me to 
 have my cigarette with you ? " 
 
 She seated herself in Mabel's comfortable chair 
 and produced a jeweled case from her pocket. 
 
 " It is a very tyrannical habit," she said, " and 
 very offensive to many people's prejudices. But I 
 do not mind disturbing their prejudices if I do not 
 disturb their comfort." 
 
 She shook with a little soundless laugh as she 
 spoke, in which Mabel joined. There was a sug- 
 gestion of motherhood about this childless woman 
 which Mabel felt, perhaps the more quickly because 
 she was motherless. She puUed the footstool from 
 under the table and sat down at Mrs. Frazer's feet. 
 
 " I always admired your mother," Mrs. Frazer 
 continued, " for her consideration of others. It 
 was perhaps an art, but we do not criticise motives 
 and methods when the results are so satisfactory." 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 211 
 
 " I like to have you speak of my motlier," said 
 Mabel. " No one ever does, because — no doubt 
 tbey think " — she turned her face away thought- 
 fully — " it would be a painful subject to me." 
 
 " You refer to the circumstances of her death, I 
 suppose," said Mrs. Frazer bluntly. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Have you never spoken with your father of 
 them ? " 
 
 " Never. There are some subjects of which I 
 should never dare speak with papa." 
 
 " You must remember, dear, that your father is 
 thirty-five years older than you. We old people 
 sometimes manage to share our children's lives, but 
 we never really share ours with our children. We 
 understand you because we have been children our- 
 selves, but you cannot understand us till you have 
 replaced us. You should not misjudge your father. 
 We cannot talk of the serious things of experience 
 with those who have not had any." 
 
 Marie came in to draw the shades and light the 
 candles. 
 
 " I like the firelight best," Mabel said interrog- 
 atively, and Mrs. Prazer assented. " Is n't it 
 possible you do not understand us as well as you 
 think you do ? " She had closed the door into the 
 bedroom and was standing by the window, talking 
 to the world inanimate slowly retreating into the 
 shadows. "Experience must begin some time. 
 
212 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 We have perceptions at any rate, and we do a good 
 deal of quiet thinking." Then she came back to 
 her stool and looked up into Mrs. Frazer's face. 
 " Silence implies " — she hesitated — "I want to 
 ask you a question. Was mamma to blame ? I 
 don't believe it, but I want to know." 
 
 " My dear," repHed Mrs. Frazer, looking down 
 into the upturned eyes, " you ask a very difficult 
 question. The machinery of justice in this world 
 is a very clumsy affair. It is quite necessary, but 
 it mangles one dreadfully, and I never set it in 
 motion if I can help it." 
 
 "But one must have justice," remonstrated 
 Mabel. " Is it impossible to answer my question ? 
 Is it because you cannot, or because you do not 
 wish to ? " 
 
 " There are very few questions which can be an- 
 swered by a yes or no. That your mother was to 
 blame in any harsh sense of the word — no. But 
 we sometimes, especially at your age, step beyond 
 our depth, and then the question of responsibility 
 becomes a very delicate one. What we do in the 
 surprise and terror of finding that we have lost our 
 foothold and cannot swim is one thing, what we do 
 before is another." 
 
 " But we do not know or realize beforehand." 
 
 " No, we are impulsive, or thoughtless, careless 
 of consequences, most often inexperienced. But 
 the world will tell you that when you steer in from 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 213 
 
 the open sea under the headlands you cannot make 
 sudden squalls an excuse, or plead that you did not 
 see them coming. They are to be expected, — like 
 holes in one's stockings. That is why we old 
 people are forever preaching caution. It is very 
 disagreeable in us, and very tiresome, to be con- 
 tinually searching the skies for storms which may 
 never come. But then, you have your own barome- 
 ter, — consult that." 
 
 " What barometer ? " asked Mabel. 
 
 " Some people call it conscience. You do not like 
 the word, do you, dear?" Mrs. Frazer touched 
 the bent head with her plump hand. 
 
 " I don't object to it," said Mabel. 
 
 " Nor I. We must not take too narrow a view 
 of it. It indicates far more than duty, and is not 
 a mere whip. It indicates danger. One should 
 think of it as a friendly counselor who warns us, as 
 our other senses do, of hot coals or bad odors. 
 The important thing is to keep it in the sun, and 
 above all — read it yourself. Don't let others con- 
 sult it for you. The last thing I should ever 
 attempt would be to tell you what you ought to do. 
 What a pretty dressing-gown you have on, dear. 
 Where did you get it ? " 
 
 " Marie made it," said Mabel absent-mindedly. 
 She was playing with the rings in her lap. 
 
 " She must be a treasure. Dear me ! " as the 
 clock on the mantel chimed seven. " Is it so late ? 
 
214 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Punctuality is my one virtue. I can't slip into a 
 dress as quickly as I used to. Good-by, dear." 
 And at tlie door — "I rather tliink we shall get on 
 well together." 
 
 Mabel's face brightened in assent, and the door 
 closed. 
 
 " Whom were you talking with ? " asked Helen, 
 coming in from her bath. 
 
 "Mrs. Frazer. She is queer, isn't she? But 
 don't you find her rather nice ? You had a long 
 talk with her in the train." 
 
 " I thought she was somewhat inquisitive," re- 
 phed Helen. 
 
 " Inquisitive ? About what ? " 
 
 " Oh, about everything." 
 
 " Can't you be more specific ? Did you give me 
 a good character ? " 
 
 " She did not refer to you. She asked me about 
 myself and my family." 
 
 " She was not inquisitive with me at all," said 
 Mabel. " I could get nothing out of her." She 
 had rung for her maid, and Marie was dressing her 
 hair. " She is n't a bit like Margaret. You and 
 Margaret wUl like each other, I am sure." 
 
 " Don't you like Miss Frazer ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, in a way. She is one of those 
 persons who holds herself aloof, — very sweet 
 and gracious, you know, but always just so far 
 away." 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 215 
 
 " And you tHnk I succeed with persons of that 
 description, do you ? " laughed Helen. 
 
 " I think you succeed with most any one — when 
 you try." Helen turned and looked at her. " You 
 made quite an impression on Mrs. Frazer. She 
 told me she thought you were very pretty." 
 
 " Nonsense," s.aid Helen, coloring. 
 
 She was dressing her hair at the toilet-table 
 beside her bed, and Mabel from her chair before 
 the pier-glass saw the color come. It was not the 
 flush of annoyance, but of self-satisfaction and su- 
 periority, — at least Mabel thought so, and in her 
 nervous condition Helen's silence and tranquillity 
 irritated her. Was there any reason for it ? She 
 was resolved to know. She must know. 
 
 " You may come in twenty minutes, Marie," she 
 said to the maid when her task was finished ; " at 
 twenty minutes to eight." 
 
 She sat for a moment before the glass after 
 Marie had gone, adding a personal touch here and 
 there to her hair, and then resumed the conversa- 
 tion where it had ended a few minutes before. 
 
 " I think so too." 
 
 " Think what ? " asked Helen. 
 
 "That you are very pretty." Helen's heart 
 began to beat. Mabel was not given to praising 
 her. But she went on dressing in silence. " I 
 have thought so myself," pursued Mabel ; " these 
 last two weeks especially." 
 
216 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Helen turned again, and this time caught Ma^ 
 feel's eyes in the glass. She tried a disdainful 
 smile of superiority to such nonsense, but failed. 
 
 " Why don't you tell me all about it, dear ? " 
 exclaimed Mabel suddenly, wheeling about on her 
 chair. 
 
 " About what ? " said Helen, with an effort at 
 indifference. 
 
 " Or don't I inspire confidence ? " 
 
 Helen made another ineffectual effort at apathy. 
 " Not when you talk in riddles." 
 
 Mabel got up and went over to where she stood, 
 with the impulse to put her arms about her and 
 kiss her into confession. But she did not. She 
 sat down instead on the edge of the bed where she 
 could look up into Helen's face. Her curiosity 
 was not purely disinterested, and the consciousness 
 that the sincerity of her caress depended too much 
 upon what Helen should say checked her. 
 
 " Have n't we lived together long enough to 
 warrant a little frankness ? " 
 
 Helen felt her presence of mind deserting her, 
 and said the first thing that came to her lips. 
 
 " You are not very frank with me, Mabel." 
 
 " Not frank with you ! Why, what have I to 
 be frank about ? No one is in love with me. You 
 foolish girl ! It is perfectly plain that Mr. Heald 
 is paying you marked attention." The color rushed 
 up again like the waves of a rising tide. " You 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 217 
 
 cannot deny that. And I am tremendously inter- 
 ested — tremendously. I want to know all about 
 it. Why should you be so shy ? Has he — spoken 
 to you ? " 
 
 "No — not exactly," said Helen. She would 
 have unburdened herself in a moment but for the 
 haunting suspicion that her position was not se- 
 cure. 
 
 " Not exactly ! " echoed Mabel, bursting into 
 laughter. " I really believe you are turning into 
 a finished coquette, Helen. But you certainly are 
 not a worldly person. Everything depends upon 
 whether you love him — do you ? " 
 
 " He has n't asked me," said Helen, wavering. 
 
 It was all clear now, but Mabel went on. " He 
 will, if you let him — do you ? " 
 
 " Please don't say any more, Mabel. You tor- 
 ture me. I don't wish to speak of it — I don't 
 know." 
 
 " Well I do, and if you wish to know yourself 
 I will tell you how you can — just suppose you 
 could not have him." 
 
 She might have said the words so gently, so re- 
 assuringly, as to have helped one in difficulty to a 
 better knowledge of self ; but they were not meant 
 so. She knew they were cruel, and felt a certain 
 keen pleasure. The color went from Helen's face, 
 and a scared look came into her eyes. She saw 
 Mabel, with her beauty, her millions, and her 
 
218 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 daring, and a miserable feeling of her owa nothing- 
 ness swept over her. She despised herself for it, 
 and for the terrifying discovery that she could not 
 despise him. Yet she wanted Mabel to go on now, 
 to have it over. But with one of those sudden 
 changes of mood which alter the whole tone of a 
 conversation, Mabel exchanged the roles. 
 
 " I did not mean to torture you, Helen. I did 
 not know the subject was one which ever did tor- 
 ture. Perhaps, some day, you wUl deign to en- 
 lighten me — with the rest of the world." 
 
 It was Mabel's way to unexpectedly and Ulog- 
 icaEy convert herself into the aggrieved party. 
 Helen had had experience with it before, and had 
 determined again and again not to yield to it. But 
 she always did, and succumbed once more to the 
 old speU. 
 
 "Mabel, dear," she said tremidously, sitting 
 down beside her on the bed and putting her arms 
 round her, " don't speak so. I could be happy — 
 very happy — if I knew you were." She had not 
 intended to say so much, but when her presence of 
 mind deserted her she always said more or less 
 than she meant to. 
 
 " If I were ! " repeated Mabel, growing rigid. 
 
 " I mean," said Helen, feeling the chill, " I 
 thought that once " — she drew back as she spoke 
 but plunged on — " that at one time he — that 
 you" — 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 219 
 
 For the one brief moment in ■whicli Helen was 
 struggling with words Mabel kept still, her lips 
 tight, her eyes fixed, a figure of stone. Then with 
 a desperate effort she pulled herself together. 
 
 " That I would not approve. You thought that. 
 Why should you ? You have not got to consult 
 me." Marie was knocking at the door. " Yes, 
 Marie, come in " — for Marie was hesitating on 
 the threshold. " We shall be late if you do not 
 hurry, Helen." 
 
 Bevnldered, Helen sat down before her dressing- 
 table again. Were aU her fears, then, so foolish ? 
 She was conscious of Marie's eyes, and her fingers 
 bungled. 
 
 " Go and help Miss Gaunt, Marie," said Mabel ; 
 and Marie, who saw that something had happened, 
 tactfuUy endeavored to supply the conversation. 
 
 At last they were ready. 
 
 " Come, it is striking eight," said Mabel. 
 
 In the corridor, outside the door, before they 
 went down, she caught Helen's hand and pressed 
 it tightly. " You silly girl ! If Reginald Heald 
 asks you to marry him, and you consent, I shall 
 be " — she hesitated for the right word — " de- 
 lighted — simply delighted.''^ 
 
 It was the conditional mood, but in the wave of 
 relief which swept over her Helen did not notice it, 
 and she returned the pressure of Mabel's hand with 
 a light-heartedness she had not known for days. 
 
XVII 
 
 The Bishop stood at the farther end of the 
 drawing-room with Mrs. Frazer, as DoUy received 
 her guests. He had been at Lemington selecting 
 a site for the new church with Professor Fisher, 
 and needed no urging to accept the invitation to 
 dinner. Miss Fisher, who was not at ease on for- 
 mal occasions, had managed to find an excuse sat- 
 isfactory to her conscience, strict truthfulness being 
 always her first consideration. Her brother, never 
 anything else than at home on aU occasions, ac- 
 companied the Bishop "with the greatest plea- 
 sure." 
 
 There was a momentary hush as Mabel entered 
 the room, the involuntary pause a lovely rose com- 
 pels when one walks through a garden. She was 
 radiantly beautiful, and to those who, like Helen, 
 knew her in her unbending, willful moods, the air 
 of distinction and sovereignty she assumed with 
 an evening dress was always a source of fresh sur- 
 prise and admiration. The Bishop, who respected 
 aU powers, human and divine, and never failed to 
 claim the paternal right associated with his office, 
 went forward to pay his homage and assert his 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 221 
 
 spiritual relationship after she had greeted DoUy ; 
 then he returned to Mrs. Frazer's side at what 
 might be called the throne end of the room, which 
 he occupied in what Mabel styled his monumental 
 capacity. 
 
 " They are wonderful things, youth and beauty," 
 he said to Dolly, as he gave her his arm and they 
 followed the others down the broad stairway. 
 " ' To be young,' as the poet says, ' is very 
 Heaven.' " 
 
 It was not very complimentary, DoUy thought, 
 but she smiled, feeling it true. 
 
 " How many secrets lie in the hearts of all these 
 roses," Mrs. Frazer was saying to Paul, with whom 
 she led the way into the dining-room. 
 
 " I wish they were all as happy ones as mine," 
 he replied. 
 
 "Yours!" she retorted contemptuously; "try 
 to pay me a little more attention, or it will be out 
 before the evening is over. You forget I am an 
 important personage for you hereafter." 
 
 Mabel had taken Mr. Heald's arm with an in- 
 war'd approval of Mrs. Kensett's arrangements and 
 the outward hauteur she kept in reserve for certain 
 situations, checking the expression of his good 
 fortune with the remark that that depended upon 
 what use he made of it. 
 
 She sat on Dolly's right beyond the Bishop, and 
 made the latter her ally by listening with unaffected 
 
222 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 interest to all the plans for worthy students with 
 which he was at the moment occupied. 
 
 " And where is your father ? " he asked, looking 
 down the table as though he expected to see him. 
 
 " Papa ? " said Mabel. " He is having his holi- 
 day. You see, I am away, and to-morrow he wiU 
 be on the deck of the Vixen." 
 
 " He is not cruising in winter," said the Bishop, 
 sipping his sherry. 
 
 " Oh no, he is only getting ready to. He loves 
 to smell tar and ropes. I have been trying to per- 
 suade him to buy a steam yacht. I like to be sure 
 of getting where I am going to. But he prefers to 
 battle with the elements. He says a steam yacht 
 is nothing but a hotel. Are you fond of the water, 
 Mrs. Kensett ? " she asked, bending forward and 
 speaking over the Bishop's plate. 
 
 " I am fond of it, but 1 am afraid of it. I 
 should prefer the steamer, as you do, though I fear 
 my reasons would do me less credit than yours." 
 
 " Papa is so absurdly fond of the Vixen," con- 
 tinued Mabel. " She is my one rival in his affec- 
 tions." 
 
 " One ! " exclaimed the Bishop, playing with his 
 glass. " And how many has he in yours ? " 
 
 " Absolutely none, my dear Bishop," laughed 
 Mabel. 
 
 " Ab actu ad posse valet consecutio," he replied, 
 returning her smile. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIEST 223 
 
 "Are you saying something nice or horrid? 
 Helen," called Mabel, leaning forward again and 
 speaking to Helen, who sat beyond Mr. Heald, 
 " do help me. The Bishop is talking Greek." 
 
 " Latin, my dear young lady, Latin," interposed 
 the Bishop. " I was only saying that it was safe 
 to argue from what has been to what will be." 
 
 Helen was not so proud of her dead languages as 
 formerly, but smiled brightly as Mr. Heald whis- 
 pered, " Latin for the Romans ! " 
 
 "I can't draw such fine distinctions," declared 
 Mabel. 
 
 It amused the Bishop greatly to hear the differ- 
 ence between Greek and Latin called a fine distinc- 
 tion, and he repeated Mabel's remark, first to Dolly 
 and then to the Professor sitting opposite him. 
 The Professor, not being gifted with a sense of 
 humor, after pondering over the subject and vainly 
 endeavoring to join in the conversation, resolved to 
 ask Mabel on some more favorable opportunity 
 what her point of view was. 
 
 Notwithstanding several pleasant things said at 
 dinner, Helen found the effect of Mabel's reassur- 
 ing declaration in regard to Mr. Heald wearing 
 away with the evening. There was a pause, if not 
 a change, in his manner. She reminded herself 
 that she had herself insisted upon the pause ; but 
 women do not always expect to be taken at their 
 word, or, at least, to be obeyed so literally as to 
 
224 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 make it difficult for them to change the counter- 
 sign. She possessed none of Mabel's skill in 
 manoeuvring, nor any desire for it, but she did find 
 mere courtesy unsatisfying. Nor was it pleasant to 
 feel that if he was giving her more than her due of 
 table-talk, it was because Mabel was neglecting him. 
 
 When the men came into the drawing-room Mr. 
 Heald managed to get in his few words of private 
 conversation with Dolly. 
 
 " Under ordinary circumstances, my dear Mrs. 
 Kensett," he said, " I should not have presumed to 
 offer you my advice, but having been honored by 
 your confidence at the outset, I felt I could not 
 exaggerate my responsibility. To be quite frank, 
 my own confidence is as great as ever ; but there 
 will very likely be a period of exploration during 
 which the market value of the stock would naturally 
 decline. My only reason for asking you to regard 
 my advice as confidential was the wish to explain 
 to you in person that it was founded on excess of 
 caution, — nothing more." 
 
 " I quite appreciated your suggestion," said 
 Dolly. " It was very thoughtful of you, but the 
 stock had been. already sold." 
 
 " Already ! you have the true fiair of the specu- 
 lator." 
 
 " Oh no, Mr. Heald, that is the last thing I as- 
 pire to. Mr. Temple, who is my business adviser, 
 thought it more prudent " — 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 225 
 
 " Quite right, quite right," rejoined Mr. Heald. 
 " Mr. Temple's judgment is excellent." 
 
 Dolly thought he seemed annoyed, but the sub- 
 ject had lost interest for her, and she allowed it to 
 drop. 
 
 " Come," she said, taking him over to the group 
 where Paul was standing, " we are to have a tobog- 
 gan party to-morrow morning. You must help me 
 arrange it." 
 
 Paul had been possessed all the evening by the 
 vague conviction that he had seen Mr. Heald some- 
 where before, — one of those convictions which 
 lead nowhere, but will not be shaken off. He had 
 talked with him after dinner, but the conversation 
 had yielded no clue. He said to himself that it 
 did not matter whether he had seen him before or 
 not, yet he went on pursuing the idea as one always 
 does pursue a thought which has broken away from 
 all orderly connections. On coming in from the 
 smoking-room he had been drawn by Margaret's 
 presence to the circle near the conservatory door, 
 but before reaching her side Mabel intercepted 
 him. 
 
 " Have you begun your observations ? " she 
 asked, as he came up. " Because I release you." 
 
 " My observations ? " he repeated, not under- 
 standing her. 
 
 " I am glad you have forgotten. It was a very 
 disagreeable and utterly impossible task I set you." 
 
226 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 "I was going to ask you to let me off," said 
 Paul, recollecting. 
 
 " Were you ? why ? " rejoined Mabel, becoming 
 suddenly interested. 
 
 " Because, as you know very well, such estimates 
 are not serious. One's eyes do not get in focus on 
 so short an acquaintance. If I made a good report 
 it would only count as flattery " — 
 
 " And if you made a bad one I should not be- 
 lieve it ! But I was not thinking of myself at all 
 when I asked you. I only wanted to know what 
 your ideal was. For of course you would try me 
 by some standard, real or imaginary. It is inter- 
 esting to know what people's standards are." 
 
 " You are talking the wildest nonsense, child," 
 broke in Mrs. Frazer. "If his standard is the 
 ordinary one by which men judge women, we know 
 beforehand what it is ; and if it is the extraordi- 
 nary one which he has discovered personified in the 
 flesh, it would not interest us." 
 
 " Why not ? " asked Mabel. 
 
 " Because no woman is ever flattered by the 
 choice of another. As for eyes," she said to Paul, 
 " there is nothing like a long acquaintance for get- 
 ting them out of focus." 
 
 " What are you aU talking about so earnestly ? " 
 asked Dolly, coming up with Mr. Heald. 
 
 " About people's judgments of us," said Mabel. 
 " Which is the true one, Mrs. Kensett, — the 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 227 
 
 acquaintance's, whose eyes are not yet in focus, or 
 the friend's, whose eyes have got out again ? " 
 
 "That depends upon the judge," said Dolly 
 simply. "We are not mere bundles of facts on 
 which to base final opinions, but " — 
 
 "But what, Mrs. Kensett?" said Helen, who 
 felt Dolly was struggling with a personal message.- 
 
 " But bundles of possibilities in which one finds 
 what one is looking for. You must ask the Bishop 
 or Professor Fisher," she added, smiling, and call- 
 ing herself back to her surroundings. " I have a 
 much simpler proposition to make, — a toboggan 
 party to-morrow after breakfast." 
 
 The music began in the conservatory while 
 Dolly's proposal was imder discussion, and a young 
 attache from Washington came to ask Mabel for 
 the opening waltz. 
 
 "Don't you think, Mrs. Kensett," she said, as 
 she took his arm, " it would be nice to have some 
 charades to-morrow evening ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I was thinking of it myself." 
 
 "Then you don't mind my suggesting it, do 
 you?" 
 
 " Why certainly not. Miss Temple. It is exactly 
 what I wish you to do." 
 
 Mabel left her partner's arm for a moment and 
 laid her hand on Dolly's. " Please don't call me 
 Miss Temple, Mrs. Kensett," she whispered. "I 
 want to be Mabel to you." 
 
228 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Dolly was almost ready to believe that her 
 troubles were of her own creation, or that Mabel 
 had experienced a change of heart. Or did the 
 girl seriously think that her admonition had been 
 effective, and that she could heal the wound she 
 had made by a little amiability ? The thought sent 
 a flush of pride and indignation to Dolly's face. As 
 Mrs. Frazer had predicted, it was not so easy to 
 put pride to sleep. 
 
 " She somehow contrives to get inside your de- 
 fenses," said Mrs. Frazer in a low tone to Dolly, as 
 they watched the dancers from their chairs. " She 
 is very like her mother, sensitive and arrogant, with 
 a personality that manages to atone for its own 
 offenses. The danger is that she is young, a child 
 playing with fire, which is nothing unusual, and in 
 any house but our own would be none of our con- 
 cern." 
 
 Mabel went in to supper with the Professor, 
 
 " You were speaking at dinner of fine distinctions, 
 Miss Temple," he began. " I wanted to ask you " — 
 
 " Was I ? " laughed Mabel. " Very likely. I 
 never make them. If I do I get lost in the fog 
 directly." 
 
 " I do not quite understand your point of view. 
 Distinctions tend to clarify." 
 
 " Are you a great friend of the Bishop's ? " 
 
 " Why certainly," said the Professor, taken 
 aback. " The Bishop and I " — 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 229 
 
 " So am I. But listen to his next sermon. He 
 can split a color into so many shades you cannot 
 teU black from white. After he has walked round 
 and romid and round a subject you feel positively 
 dizzy." 
 
 " But one must analyze first in order to general- 
 ize afterwards." 
 
 " You must n't do either now if you want any 
 supper," said Mabel, smiling into the spectacles, 
 — and then a voice at her elbow set her heart 
 beating. 
 
 " May I speak to you a moment. Miss Temple ? 
 Mrs. Kensett has asked me to arrange the tobog- 
 gan party for to-morrow morning." 
 
 She knew from the tone and manner that this 
 was only a pretext. 
 
 " Certainly," she said ; and excusing herseK to 
 the Professor she rose and followed Mr. Heald. 
 
 " What is it ? " she asked, a shade of anxiety in 
 her words. 
 
 "I have just received a telegram from New 
 York, and must go down at once. I shall try to 
 return, to-morrow if possible, but I may have to go 
 out "West, perhaps for a long time — on urgent 
 business. I want to speak to you — now. I must. 
 There is no one in the conservatory. Come." 
 
 It was less an entreaty than a command, and 
 Mabel followed him again. In the few steps which 
 separated them from the seat under the palms to 
 
230 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 which he led her a hundred thoughts ruShed 
 through her mind. Above all, that this man was 
 going to sound her heart, tear away the veils, ex- 
 pose her. She struggled with herself for a plan of 
 action, the plan she had not been able to form in 
 leisure, and which would, in a few seconds, have to 
 be acted upon. There had been a strange exciting 
 pleasure in indecision, in saying shall I or shall I 
 not. That was over. She must answer. Under 
 all the indecision had been the reality, the truth. 
 What was it ? What was the horrible power which 
 had prevented her from being true to herself ? 
 
 He stood before her determined, as if done with 
 obedience. She noticed the difference in the short 
 interval before he spoke. She could have managed 
 supplication better. 
 
 " Mabel ! " He uttered the word passionately, 
 the passion of authority and ownership. She did 
 not resent it, she responded to it, against every 
 effort of her will. It was the voice of her master, 
 — she loved him. The veil fell from her eyes with 
 his first word. But she met his without flinching. 
 He thought it was her superb nonchalance. He 
 would break through it. 
 
 " There is no time to waste in words, Mabel, — 
 do you love me ? " 
 
 Her eyes had not faltered or fallen. 
 
 " Answer me, — yes or no ? " 
 
 " Do you want the truth ? " 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 231 
 
 " Nothing but the truth — this time." 
 
 « No." 
 
 It was a lie, and she knew he knew it, but it 
 gained her a breathing-time. 
 
 " You said so once before and I believed you. I 
 will not believe you now." 
 
 " What made you believe me then ? " She was 
 sitting rigid in the chair, her hands clasping the 
 arms tightly. 
 
 "Because you made me. You cannot do it 
 again." 
 
 "Yes, I know. I ridiculed you. I hurt your 
 pride. Well — I did wrong. So did you. It 
 would have been better if you had not believed me. 
 Hush ! " she cried to what she saw in his face, 
 " don't speak ! I cannot love you." 
 
 " Cannot ! " 
 
 " Cannot and will not. I might." Her face was 
 growing white, but she went on resolutely. " You 
 have made it impossible." 
 
 « I ? " 
 
 " You. If you want the truth you must give it. 
 You have made Helen love you. Why, you know 
 best. Do you know it, or not ? Did you mean she 
 should? want her to? which was it? No matter. 
 I said I might love you — I retract nothing — 
 whichever it was. It is true. I might." 
 
 " Mabel," he cried, seizing her hands, " you 
 do!'' 
 
232 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 For signs of lesser promise lie would have taken 
 her in his arms, but something in her attitude told 
 him that she was out of his reach. 
 
 " Don't touch me. I said I might. You have 
 made Helen love you." 
 
 " I have not," he said doggedly. 
 
 " Let that go. She does. She has told me. I 
 don't blame you. We won't blame each other," — 
 her voice had grown pitifully low, — " we will 
 blame ourselves instead. I confess my share. When 
 you asked me before I did not know — what I 
 have learned in this chair — that I could love you. 
 You asked me in the train if I was calling you 
 back. If I was, I did not know it. I was jeal- 
 ous. I did not understand Helen then. Now I 
 do. You asked for the truth. You ought to be 
 satisfied." 
 
 She covered her face with her hands. He tried 
 to drag them away from her eyes. He remembered 
 doing so at another time, with Helen, and almost 
 the same words he had spoken then came to his lips 
 again. 
 
 " Mabel," he pleaded, " do you think I will sub- 
 mit"— 
 
 She lifted her face with the old imperious light 
 in it. 
 
 " Certainly. For one of two reasons. Either 
 because " — her voice broke, she waited a moment, 
 then went on — " because you care for me enough 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 233 
 
 to do the only thing I sliall ever ask of you, or 
 because you love Helen, — it does not matter 
 which." 
 
 " Mabel, you are mad, mad ! Miss Gaunt has 
 no right to " — 
 
 " Stop ! " she cried, " I do not want to hear. 
 You have let her love you. That is enough." 
 
 It was so true that for an instant he could say 
 nothing. He took a few steps away, then came 
 back again. 
 
 " You seriously mean that because in a moment 
 of pique, of desperation, I paid a compliment to a 
 woman I do not love, you wiU sacrifice the woman 
 I do, our lives, to no purpose ? Think what you 
 are doing." 
 
 " I am thinking of what I will not do. I have 
 promised Helen " — 
 
 " Promised her what ? What was not yours to 
 give. You can refuse my love and trample it 
 under your feet, — you cannot give it to her. O 
 Mabel ! " he whispered, taking her cold hands in 
 his warm ones. 
 
 She felt her courage going, the temptation to let 
 go, not to struggle any more, an overpowering de- 
 sire to yield, to shut her eyes and abandon herself 
 to something stronger than sleep, sweeter than life. 
 The thin, high note of a violin came from the door 
 of the drawing-room, like a rifle-shot to a dream- 
 ing sentinel. She sat up as if indeed waking from 
 
234 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 a dream, every sense alert again. " Go — go — 
 have you no pity ! " 
 
 One minute more, he thought, and he would 
 have conquered. 
 
 " Give me my gloves." The musicians were 
 taking their seats at the farther end of the conser- 
 vatory. They were no longer alone. He stooped 
 for her gloves. 
 
 " You must give me this waltz," he said in a low 
 voice. " It wiU give you time to recover yourself." 
 She gave him a grateful look and nerved herseK 
 to face the lights. 
 
 The floor was crowded with dancers, and she 
 gave herself up to the motion and music in a sort 
 of trance, seeing no one. 
 
 " Take me to Mrs. Frazer," she whispered when 
 it was over. 
 
 " A horrid dance," said Mrs. Frazer. " It 
 takes one's breath away to watch it. You look 
 positively giddy." 
 
 "I am," replied Mabel, fanning herself. "I 
 shall not dance any more to-night." 
 
XVIII 
 
 The Argonaut mine, although a new property, 
 had proved a remarkably successful one. The 
 stock, however, had never reached the level justi- 
 fied by its earnings. There were several reasons 
 for this discrepancy. The ore presented diflBiculties 
 of treatment which had not yet been surmounted ; 
 the formation was one not admitting of any posi- 
 tive predictions for the future ; and, above all, the 
 management, of which little was known, made no 
 adequate public statements. But, as is not infre- 
 quently the case, the declaration of the usual divi- 
 dend was considered news enough, and, with the 
 exception of an occasional outburst of criticism, 
 distrust had never crystallized into concerted ag- 
 gressive action. Men of good judgment and com- 
 mon sense unaccountably abandon all claims to 
 either when they join to form a crowd. 
 
 At the time of the last assessment the statement 
 appeared that the outlook was sufficiently encour- 
 aging to warrant the erection of a new mill, 
 equipped with the modem copper-saving appliances 
 indispensable to times of close margins and low per- 
 centages of miaeral ; but the assessment had hardly 
 
236 HIS DAUGHTER FIEST 
 
 been paid in when the quality of the rock began 
 to fall off, and the lode finally ran out below the 
 margin of profit. Exploration followed, and for 
 this the proceeds of the assessment were the only 
 available asset. What was not known to the pub- 
 lic was that the surplus had been thus exhausted 
 without success, and that the management had 
 been quietly disposing of its interests preparatory 
 to the announcement of a shutdown. 
 
 When Mr. Heald opened the telegram which 
 was the cause of his return to town he expected to 
 read that operations had been abandoned. But 
 the message, which was in cipher, read : — 
 
 " Struck richest formation ever discovered. 
 Rock runs better than Shawnee." 
 
 The Shawnee was the adjoining property, and 
 had been the foundation of great fortunes. 
 
 He had at once written two telegrams : one to 
 his New York agent, directing him to inform the 
 morning papers that for prudential reasons the 
 mine would be temporarily shut down ; and one to 
 his broker, ordering him to sell " short " to an un- 
 limited amount on the decline which would inev- 
 itably follow such an announcement. When the 
 stock touched bottom he intended to gather in the 
 wreckage, publish the news of the unexpected dis- 
 covery, and sit quietly down to reap the harvest. 
 
 Having dispatched this business with the assur- 
 ance of a general who has the enemy in his grasp, 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 237 
 
 he went in search of Mabel, — from victory to de- 
 feat. In the elation of such unlooked-for good 
 fortune defeat was bitter. But sitting in the cold 
 gray light of the winter morning, as the train hur- 
 ried through the still sleeping villages, he forgave 
 her his defeat. She loved him ! Defeat meant 
 nothing. If he had been moved by the complete- 
 ness and pitifulness of her confession, yet that was 
 not the real reason for his forgiving mood. What 
 she had uncovered in her own heart, if more than 
 expected, had been hoped for. What she had un- 
 covered in his wao a revelation. He loved her. 
 Not now for the things that had once attracted 
 him, but for aU these and vastly more, — the why 
 which admits of no analysis or explanation, and 
 which counts aU reasons as nothing. The Mabel 
 he saw now was not the Miss Temple of Grramercy 
 Park, imperial with millions and beauty, who had 
 fascinated him by her alternating moods of gra- 
 ciousness and disdain, but the woman of the night 
 before, a woman at baj" with her own contending 
 passions, broken in spirit yet not abased, the Ma^- 
 bel whose every word of self-mastery and repulse 
 was a surrender, infinitely desirable because of self- 
 mastery and denial. Everything else was blotted 
 out in the blinding light of this discovery, — he 
 loved her ! This was the supreme fact. Helen 
 coimted for nothing. He reckoned with her hardly 
 more than with the public which would singe its 
 
238 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 wings at the Argonaut candle. Both were inci- 
 dents, not obstacles. 
 
 But as he sat thinking in the roar of the flying 
 train while the sun came up over the Westford 
 hills, one of these incidents became more and more 
 an obstacle. It was not so easy to ignore Helen as 
 it was to ignore the public. Of one thing he was 
 sure, he did not wish to take either into his confi- 
 dence for the present. As for returning to Cedar 
 HUl, — well, he must wait and see. 
 
 What, after all, had he to complain of ? He had 
 forced an explanation with Mabel with the very 
 result he had hoped for. But there was Helen 
 again, — the glass of wine taken at the wrong mo- 
 ment. It was of no use wishing, regretting. What 
 was done was done, and it was an infernal snarl. 
 
 The worst of it was that he felt the capacity, the 
 desire, to be honest, to do something noble. It 
 had always been a weakness of his, to make spas- 
 modic excursions into the land of quixotic generosity 
 and kindness. He had not cared a rap for the 
 Bishop's church, and would have laughed at the 
 praise the Bishop had awarded to his recognition of 
 his obligations to society. But he had got a thou- 
 sand dollars' worth of pleasure out of his subscrip- 
 tion nevertheless, and that was what he made it 
 for. Nor had he felt any very deep sense of in- 
 debtedness to Mr. Kensett for having once done 
 him a good turn. The idea of repaying that debt 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 239 
 
 Lad come to him suddenly, in a sentimental mood, 
 when sitting with Mrs. Kensett in the moonlit 
 corner of a piazza one evening after dinner at 
 Lenox. He did not care in the least for Mrs. 
 Kensett. But, indulging in reminiscences, she had 
 awakened this sUly propensity of his for playing 
 the role of Prince. It was silly, unmitigatedly 
 silly. He had forgotten all about Mr. Kensett, 
 and Mrs. Kensett was no more to him than the 
 poor students of Lemington. She was not even 
 poor. /She had had no sentiment about disposing 
 of her stock at a profit. There had been abso- 
 lutely no reason for doing what he had, except that 
 he liked to do such things. He had been sorry 
 afterwards, and thoroughly glad to get out of it. 
 These impulsive acts of benevolence really cost him 
 nothing. They were only forms of self-indulgence, 
 of vanity, for which one is always ready to pay any 
 price. What he felt now was different. He 
 wanted to please some one else, — Mabel. He had 
 begun by admiring her, as he might have admired 
 an exquisite object of art in a Fifth Avenue shop 
 window. He had returned to look at it again, 
 finally had gone in, and foimd it was not for sale. 
 He had admired her still more in the train. Nerve 
 and pluck and character always attracted him. 
 She had vastly more than violet eyes and a pretty 
 form. She had been attractive, she became fasci- 
 nating and provocative, and now she was neces- 
 
240 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 sary, — lie loved her. Above all lie wanted to be 
 hers, to be her choice, to win her real love, to be to 
 her eyes what she was to his as she sat in the chair 
 under the palms of the conservatory, worth going 
 through fire and flood for. And that was the worst 
 of it ! that, as often happens when we have found 
 the will to dare fire and flood, there was no fire 
 and flood to go through. To give her up was not 
 within the bounds of reason. What good woidd 
 that do ? There are doors of life which, once shut, 
 can never be opened again ; steps which, once 
 taken, can never be retraced. He had not closed 
 any such door, or taken any such step. He began 
 to hate Helen. What business had she to love him 
 anyway I 
 
 He was roused by the porter's offer to brush his 
 coat. The electric lights were on. They were 
 already in the tunnel. 
 
 On leaving the station he crossed the street to a 
 neighboring hotel and studied the tape carefully. 
 Argonaut had opened at thirty-five, fallen to twenty, 
 rallied to twenty-five, and then fallen again to 
 twenty-one. It had closed the day before at thirty- 
 eight. He went to the telephone and repeated his 
 orders of the evening. Would he be down town 
 to-day ? No, he was going directly to the Carleton. 
 If any one wanted to see him he was out of town. 
 
 A good many people wanted to see him, so the 
 Carleton clerk told him. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 241 
 
 " Well, I am not at home to any one," he said. 
 But just as he was stepping into the elevator a 
 beardless boy of twenty with a white face caught 
 him. 
 
 " Mr. Heald,Mr. Heald, — just a word, please." 
 He was trying to be off-hand. " What 's all this 
 row about Argonaut ? There 's an item in the 
 morning paper. Is there any truth in it ? " 
 
 Mr. Heald turned and looked at the speaker. 
 He remembered to have seen him at the Club, but 
 he could not recall his name or anything about 
 him. 
 
 « Is there ? " he said. 
 
 " Yes, about closing down." 
 
 Mr. Heald thought a moment. 
 
 " I don't own a share of Argonaut," he said, 
 stepping into the elevator. " If I did, I should 
 sell it before I went to bed." 
 
XIX 
 
 The sun was just struggKng through the fog 
 and smoke as Jack stepped into the launch lying 
 off the Battery. But the great city had not waited 
 for the sun. A hoarse blast of disdainful warning 
 rose from a big black liner slowly making its way 
 out of the North Eiver to catch the morning tide. 
 Angry shrieks came quick after the white puffs of 
 steam from a half-score of tugboats, up betimes 
 like the early bird after worms. A line of black 
 scows buffeted low down ia the water, sullen and ob- 
 stinate, with the waves of the upper bay, smothered 
 under a long trail of black smoke from the speck 
 of power dragging them seaward. A weather- 
 beaten tramp, with patches of red paint on its 
 dingy sides and a strong list to starboard, its top 
 gear glistening with tons of frozen spray and a 
 vomit of yellow smoke pouring from its short funnel, 
 was making for its berth under Brooklyn Heights 
 after waiting at anchor overnight outside the bar. 
 From under the Bridge, coming down the river at 
 half-speed, a Sound boat, with its tier upon tier of 
 deck and cabin, swept its great curve of foam, 
 rocking the little boats at their dock moorings and 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 243 
 
 leaving behind a train of curling waves that dashed 
 among the green piles and slapped against the iron 
 plates of loading steamers. Ferryhoats were com- 
 ing and going in every direction, their cavernous 
 decks black with people, like so many mouths of 
 sea monsters which might at any moment close 
 their ponderous jaws and disappear under the waves. 
 Over the thin web of the great bridge long black 
 lines were creeping like snails. The note of a 
 bugle rang clear from Governor's Island. The 
 clang of gongs on lower Broadway, the short whistle 
 of engines in mid-air, the wail of a siren up the 
 river, all the speech man has put into the dumb 
 lips of Nature greeted the rising sun. 
 
 Before the east wind coming in fresh from the 
 sea the smoke and steam from a thousand chimneys 
 were hurrying away in curling ribbons of white and 
 brown, and the waters of the bay were beginning to 
 talk and show their white teeth. 
 
 " It 's not going to blow, is it, Captain ? " said 
 Jack, buttoning up his fur coat and sitting down 
 by the boiler to keep warm. 
 
 " No, sir, it 's just a slant of morning wind, sir. 
 It wiU warm up afore noon. Good day for a bit 
 of painting, sir." 
 
 The engineer touched his lever, and with a shiver 
 and throb the launch shot out from the landing into 
 the wake of the liner. 
 
 " White Star, sir," said the captain. 
 
244 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Jack nodded. He knew every funnel in the 
 merchant marine. 
 
 As the launch receded from the shore the sepa- 
 rate noises of the city blended into a deep, confused 
 roar, and a wonderful outline of towering piles 
 stood out against the sky. Other cities have their 
 messages, sad messages of lamentation over a per- 
 ished splendor, sweet messages of tender recollection 
 for fair women and brave men, sombre messages of 
 vast populations toiling and sweating in the failing 
 fight for supremacy, gay messages of laughter and 
 of pride as from queens on thrones, — but the 
 message of this one was the message of a young 
 giant, half-grown, uncouth, insolent with the joy of 
 its strength and an invincible faith in its destiny. 
 Jack looked back upon its fading outlines with 
 quiet pride. Not kings had chosen its seat or laid 
 its foundations, nor princes set its stones one upon 
 the other, but the brains and hands of such men 
 as he. 
 
 He turned his face to the fresh wind with a keen 
 sense of enjoyment. This was his day off. Were 
 the truth told, he would have liked to don a pair 
 of overalls and exchange places for a day with the 
 workman sitting on his plank slung over the stern 
 of the Vixen and dipping his brush in the pot of 
 black paint. There was no strain in that work, 
 covering stroke by stroke the glistening surface, 
 stopping to listen to his neighbor at the other end 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 245 
 
 of the staging, slackening the rope for a fresh start 
 below, — no perplexing problems to solve, no con- 
 flicting arguments to weigh, no instant decisions 
 to make, no worry, and time enough to think, to 
 think the thoughts he pleased. There was no wear 
 and tear in paiuting or calking seams, no anxi- 
 eties brought forward from the account of the day 
 before. 
 
 The workman on the plank at two dollars a day 
 thought the " old man " had a pretty comfortable 
 berth. 
 
 " Two dollars a minute 's about his gait," he said 
 to his companion as Jack went up the ladder. 
 
 " Every man has his gait," was the reply ; " all 
 I want 's a chance to strike mine." 
 
 " Guess you '11 get it in this country if any- 
 where." 
 
 " That 's so. I ain't whining." 
 
 The cabin was warm. A bright coal fire burned 
 in the open grate. Everything was covered up for 
 the winter and Mabel's piano was housed in oil- 
 cloth, but the table was laid, and savory smells 
 could be detected coming from the galley. Jack 
 felt his sea appetite gaining ground. He went into 
 his stateroom, got out an old suit and slouch hat 
 from the locker, and lit his pipe. The morning 
 went in talk and inspection, and luncheon time 
 came in the midst of a discussion over the new 
 awnings. The skipper thought the old ones would 
 
246 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 do, but Jack said Ms daughter thought they were 
 getting shabby. On this information the skipper 
 immediately subsided. 
 
 Luncheon was scarcely over when, just as dessert 
 was brought in, voices were heard on deck. The 
 black cook, down for the day and serving also in 
 the capacity of steward, went to the companion- 
 way. 
 
 " Gentleman wants to see j'ou, sir." 
 
 " To see me ? " said Jack in a tone of surprise. 
 As he spoke a man came down the steps, and Jack 
 turned to see Mr. Brown, Jr., followed by the skip- 
 per. 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Temple." 
 
 " HuUo, Brown ! where did you come from? " 
 
 " Arizona, sir. I got in this morning. They 
 told me at the office I should find you here, so I 
 took the ferry and came over in a boat." 
 
 "Sit down. What 'sup?" 
 
 "Well, sir, my report is ready. I put it in 
 writing and thought you would wish me to deliver 
 it to you personally." He took a long blue envel- 
 ope from his inside pocket and laid it on the table. 
 " But it is n't of much account now." 
 
 Jack put the envelope in his pocket. " Not of 
 much account ? Well, it does n't matter. 1 am 
 not so much interested in Argonaut as I was awhile 
 ago." 
 
 Mr. Brown fidgeted in his chair, but remained 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 247 
 
 silent. Jack looked at the skipper, who put on 
 his hat and went out. 
 
 " Well? " said Jack, turning to Brown. 
 
 " That report," said Mr. Brown, motioning to 
 Mr. Temple's pocket, " was finished three days 
 ago, just as they were getting ready to shut 
 down." 
 
 " Not a very encouraging one, then." 
 
 "No, sir. But before the ink was dry some- 
 thing happened." Jack was feeling for his tobacco- 
 pouch, and appeared disappointingly uninterested. 
 " They struck the richest vein of conglomerate I 
 ever laid my eyes on." 
 
 " Bulldog luck ! " said Jack, lighting his pipe. 
 
 " Yes, sir, for those who know it." 
 
 Still Jack showed no interest. " Bather a diffi- 
 cult secret to keep, is n't it. Brown? " 
 
 " There '11 be a good deal of cold water thrown 
 on it before it 's allowed to blaze up, Mr. Temple. 
 Have you seen the morning papers ? " 
 
 " No, they are ia my overcoat pocket." 
 
 Mr. Brown unfolded one of his own and read 
 the following paragraph : — 
 
 " ' It is stated on good authority that the miQ on 
 the Argonaut property wiU be closed for the pre- 
 sent. No method seems to have been found to 
 reduce the losses at the tail end of the miU, and 
 present indications do not warrant the erection of 
 
248 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " It was the first thing I saw when I opened the 
 paper," he said, " and it was about what I expected. 
 I have n't lived with the Assistant Superintendent 
 two weeks for nothing." 
 
 " I see. Tell me something about this new vein, 
 Brown." 
 
 " It 's the Shawnee vein, which they have been 
 looking for these last six months, sir. There is 
 a good mUe of it, and it runs from ten to fifteen 
 thousand feet in depth on the adjoining property. 
 There is n't any doubt about it, Mr. Temple. You 
 know what Shawnee has done for its owners. I 
 wanted to throw my report in the waste-basket the 
 moment I saw it. You know I have n't much cash, 
 but I am going back to New York to buy every 
 share I can borrow money to buy." 
 
 " You have n't had your luncheon yet, Brown ? " 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " Better have a little something before you go," 
 said Jack, touching the bell. 
 
 While Mr. Brown was dispatching his luncheon 
 Jack went into his stateroom, wrote a few words 
 in pencil, and going on deck ordered the launch 
 alongside. 
 
 " You are not going yet, Mr. Temple ? " asked 
 the skipper. 
 
 " Oh no," replied Jack. " But pay the gentle- 
 man's boatman. I 'U send him ashore in the launch. 
 And, Captain," he added, giving him an envelope, 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 249 
 
 " you may go yourself. I want to send a telegram. 
 I suppose you are in a hurry to be off," he said to 
 Brown, as the latter came up the companionway. 
 " Did you come right through ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, without stopping." 
 
 " Well, get into the launch, it will save you half 
 an hour." 
 
 " You are not going up yourself, Mr. Temple ? " 
 
 "No. But I am alone to-night. You might 
 come up after dinner, — say at nine o'clock." 
 
 " I will, sir," replied Mr. Brown, stepping into 
 the launch. 
 
 " Always the way," growled the skipper, taking 
 the wheel. " Never can get an hour to himseK 
 without some one a-bothering of him." 
 
 " I guess I did n't bother him much," remarked 
 Brown. " That 's a telegram you have there, is n't 
 it?" 
 
 The skipper nodded. 
 
 " I thought so," said Brown ; and to himself, 
 " He '11 make no mistake this time." 
 
XX 
 
 The gayety of the breakfast party at Cedar Hill 
 on the morning of Mr. Heald's departure was 
 marred by the arrival of Mr. Pearson with the 
 information that an accident had occurred in the 
 woods the day before. A woodcutter had been 
 caught by a falling tree on the mountain side five 
 miles away. He had been at work at some dis- 
 tance from his companions and had not been dis- 
 covered till dusk, when his failure to appear had 
 led to a search. With great difficulty he had been 
 transported to Mr. Pearson's farm, where he had 
 received such care as the local practitioner could 
 give. The latter had decided that the crushed leg 
 must be amputated, and Mr. Pearson had been 
 sent to the nearest telephone to summon the assist- 
 ance of the Lemington surgeon. He had also a 
 list of articles necessary at the farmhouse, which 
 he gave to DoUy while Paul was at the telephone. 
 
 " He 's a poor crittur," explained Mr. Pearson, 
 " as has bin trampin' round after work. He ain't 
 got no clothes to speak of, nor any friends, nor 
 no name for that matter. Mrs. Pearson she 's 
 that nervous she ain't no use. She alius did have 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 251 
 
 to go down to the village killin' days. Jim 's bin 
 for Mrs. Benton, but her baby 's got the cramps 
 a-teethin', and she says she ain't goin' to leave her 
 baby for no tramps." 
 
 " Do you mean you want some one to go back 
 with you? " asked Margaret, who had left the table 
 with Dolly when Mr. Pearson's errand was known. 
 
 " Waal," replied Mr. Pearson, " the doctor said 
 a woman would be sorter handy." 
 
 Margaret decided at once that she would go with 
 Paul, who had ordered the sleigh. Dolly remon- 
 strated, but to no purpose. 
 
 "You must stay and look after your guests," 
 said Margaret. " Some one must take charge of 
 the toboggan party," and she went upstairs for her 
 hat and jacket. 
 
 " I shall ride over with Mr. Pearson," said Paul, 
 who came in while Dolly was collecting the needed 
 supplies, after Margaret had gone. " I have tele- 
 phoned for a doctor and nurse. You can send the 
 things over in the sleigh. If there is no need for 
 me to stay I shall be back in an hour." 
 
 DoUy said nothing of Margaret's intention. She 
 thought she would change her mind when she found 
 Paul had gone. But Margaret was firm, and after 
 getting together the articles on the doctor's list, 
 Dolly went back to the breakfast-room. 
 
 Everybody was sorry, but as no one could do 
 anything the interruption was momentary, and 
 
252 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Dolly made as light of it as she could. Mrs. 
 Frazer, whose morning toilet was a momentous and 
 protracted affair, never appeared at breakfast, and 
 Mabel had slipped into Dolly's vacant place at the 
 table and assumed charge. Slie was a little paler 
 and more subdued than usual, like a person sobered 
 by a sudden responsibility. She gave up her seat 
 when Dolly reappeared, and moved into the chair 
 beside her. The young attache, who had thought 
 her stunning the night before, endeavored, apropos 
 of tobogganing, to interest her in "luging" in 
 Switzerland; but Mabel was abstracted, and he 
 finally gave it up, especially as she insisted upon 
 speaking in English, which was an effort for him. 
 
 When the talk flowed back into its natural 
 channels, Mabel began to question Mrs. Kensett, 
 who had not dismissed the subject so easily as the 
 others, and who told her, under cover of the general 
 conversation, what she had learned of the accident 
 from Mr. Pearson, and of Margaret's determina- 
 tion. ■ A little later when, after a momentary diver- 
 sion, she turned to Mabel again, Mabel was gone. 
 
 She came out on the piazza just as the last parcel 
 was being stowed away under the seat of the sleigh 
 and the coachman was tucking the robe about Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 " I am going with you," she said simply. 
 
 "There is not the slightest need of it. Miss 
 Temple," objected Margaret, taken by surprise. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 253 
 
 « I should like the ride. You don't mind ? " 
 
 " Certainly not, but " — 
 
 " But what ? " said Mabel, getting in and signing 
 to the coachman to drive on. 
 
 She had passed a sleepless night. Neither she 
 nor Helen had referred to the subject of their con- 
 versation before dinner. Helen did not know of 
 Mr. Heald's departure. He had made his excuses 
 quietly to DoUy, and his absence was remarked for 
 the first time the following morning at breakfast, 
 when Mabel listened to Dolly's explanation with 
 affected surprise and polite indifference. From her 
 state of exhilaration Helen had fallen into one of 
 nervous uncertainty and apprehension. She en- 
 deavored to believe that she had herself only to 
 blame. But the atmosphere had changed. Mr. 
 Heald had danced with her twice before supper, but 
 had given her no opportunity to relent. He was 
 polite and friendly, that was all. He did not follow 
 her, and she wanted to be followed. After supper 
 he had disappeared. And then, when it was too 
 late to put into execution any of the projects formed 
 for lowering her flag, uncertainty and irresolution 
 turned into fear. The whole subject seemed to have 
 passed from Mabel's mind. She was kind, but 
 uncommunicative, and Helen was too absorbed and, 
 in the present unsatisfactory condition of her af- 
 fairs, too anxious not to be probed to make con- 
 versation. All this Mabel knew. She understood 
 
254 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 every silence and every vrord, every effort after the 
 lights were out to feign sleep, and, after sleep came, 
 every restless movement, — herself too numb with 
 the certainty of her knowledge for restlessness. 
 
 One night, in the early winter, she had seen with 
 her father a French play, in which, of two women, 
 one had to efface herself. She remembered every 
 detail distinctly. Jack, in his imperfect compre- 
 hension of French, had sat placidly through the 
 five acts, and had seen unconcernedly the woman 
 who was in the way solve her problem with a few 
 tiny drops of poison. Lying motionless through 
 that long unending night, her wide open eyes star- 
 ing into the dark, Mabel recalled how, in her scorn 
 for the melodramatic, the tragedy on the stage had 
 seemed to her almost ludicrous. Both these women 
 were lovesick fools. It would have been so easy 
 for either to cease caring for that stage lover, to 
 stop whimpering, and walk out of their troubles 
 into the wide world and forgetfulness. Then, too, 
 to die was so stupid, so useless, so cowardly. Better 
 a thousand times to take the joy, if it was a joy, 
 bravely, and pay the cost, without making such a 
 fuss about it. And now the one persistent thought 
 which came back to her again and again was the 
 thought of this stage fool, — that she was in the 
 way, that there was no going on, no retreating, that 
 she must disappear. 
 
 She dropped into sleep once, the half -sleep of the 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 255 
 
 body, in which the reluctant brain refuses to share, 
 and thought she was at the piano struggling with 
 one of Chopin's nocturnes. Her music teacher was 
 saying : " Put more feeling into that passage. Miss 
 Mabel, — expressive, con passione." She woke 
 trying hard to comply, with a little bitter cry. 
 
 At last it had come, — passion, love ! and it was 
 not the sentimental, ridiculous emotion which had 
 often excited her pity or scorn, nor the artificial 
 storm of the stage, after whose passage audience 
 and actors had tranquilly adjourned to supper ; but 
 something real, vital, revealing with the ruthless 
 energy of a volcano the slumbering forces of sex. 
 The stranger in her house of life had announced 
 himself, and was master. Once she had looked into 
 his face every tendency to trifle had vanished. 
 
 The promise she had given to Helen did not 
 count for a feather's weight. It was made before 
 she knew. In a desperate moment — a moment 
 when she stood on the brink of a precipice, one 
 look into which told her she no more belonged to 
 herself — she had thrust it between herself and 
 him, as a shield to keep him at bay. She had 
 promised Helen that if Mr. Heald loved her she 
 would be the first to rejoice. He did not love her. 
 She was bound to nothing, she was free. Why 
 then had she pretended she was not ? Not from 
 any idea of self-abnegation, or duty. She was not 
 in the habit of looking at things from that point 
 
256 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 of view. It was not a question of principle, but 
 of pure feeling, of what she preferred. If she 
 should stand again on the brink of that happiness, 
 she would take it. And she would stand there 
 inevitably. He would not have it otherwise, and 
 she could not wish him to. She understood that 
 woman in the play now, who disappeared not be- 
 cause it would do any good, but because it was 
 the easiest thing to do. In anguish death may be 
 the line of least resistance. 
 
 She began to think of her mother. If any one 
 had ever dared to criticise Gladys, she would have 
 defended her from pride. But she had always 
 cherished secretly a httle bitterness, as if a dis- 
 grace had fallen upon her through Gladys's fault. 
 Now she understood. How she loved her, longed 
 for her arms, her comprehension I Jack had al- 
 ways seemed to understand her best. But it was 
 for her mother now she yearned, the mother she 
 had discovered in herself, not for Jack's indul- 
 gence. And when at last exhaustion came to shut 
 her eyes, it was in Gladys's arms she fell asleep 
 with two shining tears upon her cheeks. 
 
 Her sleep was heavy and long. Helen, who had 
 always been an early riser, was dressed and gone 
 when she opened her eyes and saw Marie preparing 
 her bath. There was a letter from her papa, the 
 usual daily half-page she received when absent 
 from home. It contained nothing important, and. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 257 
 
 like a regular money allowance, had become so 
 entirely a matter of course that it had ceased 
 to make any impression. Underneath Jack's en- 
 velope was another. The handwriting was not 
 familiar, but she knew at once whose it was. 
 Marie had learned never to offer explanations not 
 asked for, and was never quite sure of the attitude 
 she ought to assume imtil she had received her cue. 
 She was ready to explain why the note bore no 
 postmark if she were asked, but Mabel did not 
 question her. She read it unconcernedly, Marie 
 thought, as she had read Jack's. It hardly seemed 
 worth the half-eagle in Marie's pocket. But after 
 her mistress went into the bath-room Marie ob- 
 served that both letters were gone, and that when 
 Mabel went down to breakfast only Jack's was in 
 the scrap-basket. It might be worth the half- 
 eagle after all. She certainly would have thought 
 so had she known it lay under the folds of the blue 
 satin waist when Mabel stepped into the sleigh 
 beside Margaret ; although but once read it was 
 known by heart. 
 
 " Dearest, — I am not worthy of you, but love 
 atones for everything, and I love you with aU my 
 soul and strength. And love has come to you, 
 dear, — not too late, nor in vain. Think ! if need 
 were how I should fly to you ! If the need came 
 to me, would any barrier keep you away ? Wait 
 — do not blame yourself — wait, as I shall wait — 
 a little while — forever, if need be." 
 
258 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Paul was surprised to see Margaret and annoyed 
 at the presence of Mabel. It was like Margaret 
 to come forward in an emergency. He was proud 
 of her. But Mabel ! what was she doing here in 
 her blue satin waist and French hat ! He hardly 
 noticed her as he helped Margaret out and assisted 
 in the transfer of the packages to the house. 
 
 Mabel was silent and asked no questions. 
 
 The sleigh was at the wide stone step before the 
 door, and she could hear enough of the low con- 
 versation between Paul and Margaret just within 
 to understand the condition of affairs. The doctor 
 had decided that if life was to be saved the opera- 
 tion must be performed without further delay. He 
 must do the best he could with Paul's aid. Mar- 
 garet bravely offered to stay, but Paul would not 
 hear of it. The doctor agreed with him. What- 
 ever her courage, she might prove worse than use- 
 less ; it was better that she should go at once for 
 Mrs. Benton and take charge of her sick child. 
 Jim could drive her over in Mr. Pearson's sleigh 
 and bring Mrs. Benton back. 
 
 There was not a moment to lose, and Margaret 
 set out immediately. 
 
 " Margaret is going over for Mrs. Benton," Paul 
 explained to Mabel, " and will stay with her sick 
 baby tUl the nurse from Lemington comes. You 
 can drive Miss Temple home, James," he said to 
 the coachman, " and then return for me. Tell 
 Mrs. Kensett I shall be back as soon as possible." 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 259 
 
 " Don't you think it would be well for James to 
 remain here until the other sleigh returns ? " said 
 Mahel ; " you might need him." 
 
 " Perhaps so," replied Paul. It was what he 
 would have done had Mabel not been there. He 
 wanted to get rid of her. 
 
 " You need not mind me, I wiU sit here," she 
 said. 
 
 " Very well," acquiesced Paul, disappearing in 
 the house. 
 
 The minutes dragged by. The doctor had made 
 all his preparations. He came to the door for the 
 last time with Paul to listen for the sound of 
 beUs. 
 
 " We must manage by ourselves," he said, " and 
 do the best we can. If we only had some one to 
 administer the ether " — Then they went in and 
 the door closed. 
 
 As they passed from the kitchen, which served 
 all purposes in Mr. Pearson's menage, into the ad- 
 joiuing bedroom a voice said, — 
 
 " I will do that." 
 
 The two men turned and saw Mabel standing in 
 the doorway taking off her dogskin gloves. The 
 doctor was a quiet man, of few words, and he was 
 looking meditatively into the pale, resolute face 
 confronting him. 
 
 "You need not fear for me," said Mabel, an- 
 swering his look and removing her hat. 
 
260 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " I knew she could do it the moment I heard 
 her speak and looked into her eyes," the doctor 
 said to the Lemington surgeon an hour later when 
 the latter was driving away. 
 
 " That 's my experience," was the reply. " Blood 
 and education always teU." 
 
 " You are a brave girl and you have helped save 
 a life," he said to Mabel, as he put her in the 
 sleigh beside Paul. 
 
 She smiled faintly. Her face was white and 
 she was trembling. The doctor had given her a 
 drink of something before starting. She did not 
 know what it was, but it steadied her, and the 
 fresh air against her cheeks was refreshing. Yet 
 it was aU she could do to hold herseK straight. 
 Waves of nausea and dizziness made her hold fast 
 to the robe. She felt that if she let go, or leaned 
 back against the cushion, she would sink into the 
 nothingness lying in wait for her. The conscious- 
 ness that Paul was watching her as she swayed to 
 the motion of the sleigh, though it was the watch- 
 fulness of solicitude, gave her the fictitious strength 
 of pride. His voice sounded far away. She knew 
 that it was kind, that he was praising her and say- 
 ing pleasant things, but she counted every tree and 
 bush as they hurried by. 
 
 Mrs. Frazer saw them as they drove up the 
 avenue, and was at the door. 
 
 " Where is Margaret ? " she exclaimed. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 261 
 
 "I am going for her now," said Paul, helping 
 Mabel out. " Take Miss Temple to her room." 
 
 " What has happened, dear ? " Mabel's pale 
 face frightened her. 
 
 " Nothing," said Mabel. But the question was 
 too much for her. A horrible odor of ether swept 
 over her, and she pitched forward into Mrs. Fra- 
 zer's arms. 
 
XXI 
 
 The Lemington surgeon, intercepted on his way 
 to the station, stood at Mabel's bedside when she 
 opened her eyes. He was smiling and saying 
 she would be all right in an hour or two. For a 
 moment she did not know where she was or what 
 had happened. She tried to speak, and made an 
 effort to sit up, but her limbs were like lead and 
 her words incoherent. Then she remembered every- 
 thing up to the moment when her feet touched the 
 piazza. The rest was a blank, and she lay stUl, 
 endeavoring to fill up the gap of unconsciousness 
 and to get back to the point where her life seemed 
 to have snapped off short. 
 
 The window opposite the bed was wide open, and 
 Mrs. Frazer was sitting beside her, holding her 
 hand. She saw Marie helpiug the doctor on with 
 his coat. She heard him say something to Mrs. 
 Frazer in a low voice, and then he came and 
 touched her forehead soothingly with his hand. 
 
 " You wiU be yourself again in a little while, and 
 a brave little self it is," he said, stroking her hair. 
 He looked as if he were going to kiss her, and she 
 shrank back ; but it was only a professional caress, 
 and he turned to go. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 263 
 
 She felt her strength coming back fast, but she 
 had not yet succeeded in tying the ends of the 
 broken thread. 
 
 " Where am I ? May I get up ? " she said. 
 
 " You may do anything you wish," said the doc- 
 tor at the door. 
 
 Marie had placed another pillow under her head. 
 
 " How perfectly silly I was ! what did I do ? " 
 
 " Mercy ! child," exclaimed Mrs. Frazer, " more 
 than I could." 
 
 " Don't speak of that, please ; " she remembered 
 now : " did I faint ? I recollect feeling so queer." 
 
 " It was quite my fault," said Mrs. Frazer ; " I 
 should not have asked you that question. I fainted 
 myself once on less provocation. We had been to 
 the theatre and I got terribly wrought up. I was 
 trembling all the way to the restaurant where we 
 went for supper. Mr. Frazer asked me if I would 
 have peas or asparagus tips with the pheasants, and 
 I fainted dead away. It was the last straw." 
 
 Mabel smiled faintly. 
 
 " What made you run off on such dreadful busi- 
 ness ? We looked everywhere for you, until Marie 
 told us you had gone with Margaret." 
 
 She did not know herself why she had gone. She 
 had wanted to do something, anything, — she remem- 
 bered that. All the rest was unforeseen and as if 
 some one had pushed her on without any volition 
 of her own. Now it was pleasant to lie stiU, with 
 
264 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 all that had troubled her dulled and softened by 
 the lassitude and weakness. 
 
 " Where is Mrs. Kensett ? " she asked at length. 
 
 " They have not returned yet. Will you take a 
 swallow of this beef tea now ? " 
 
 She was feeling better every minute. 
 
 " I wish you would not say anything about this, 
 Mrs. Frazer. I think I can go down to luncheon." 
 
 " You may go down to dinner, but not to lunch- 
 eon. You have had your own way quite enough 
 for the present. I shall allow no one to see you 
 till tea-time, and you must lie perfectly quiet till 
 I return. I am going to prepare some arrowroot 
 and port wine for you, and i£ you are good you 
 shall have it in my silver porringer." 
 
 Mabel smiled and acquiesced, finding a new 
 pleasure in obedience. 
 
 After Mrs. Frazer had gone she remembered the 
 note she had fastened under her waist, and sitting 
 up glanced about the room. Her watch was on 
 the dressing-table and the note lay underneath it. 
 On a chair by the window hung her blue satin 
 waist. 
 \ " Take it away," she said to Marie ; " burn it, — 
 I never want to see it again. And bring me my 
 ^ watch, the mirror, and my comb." 
 ■* In taking the watch from the table Marie touched 
 
 the letter. 
 
 " Put it in the fire," said Mabel. She could see 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 265 
 
 the grate in the parlor through the open door, and 
 watched Marie fulfill her instructions. " Now shut 
 the window." 
 
 "You did look like a dead person, Miss Mabel," 
 said Marie, who had been waiting for her chance 
 to talk. " I was that frightened " — 
 
 " Don't speak to me about it, Marie. I look like 
 a ghost now " — laying down the glass, " I told 
 you to take that waist away. I can smeU it from 
 here. I will ring if I want you. Perhaps I can 
 sleep." 
 
 There were three persons — Margaret, Helen, 
 and DoUy — who after hearing the recital of Ma- 
 bel's morning adventures wished to go to her at 
 once. But Mrs. Frazer held aU three at bay. Not 
 hearing Mabel's beU, and having gently opened her 
 door and found her asleep, she posted Marie in the 
 corridor and prescribed silence for the entire house- 
 hold. 
 
 " She is an extraordinary girl," she said to DoUy, 
 as they sat together after luncheon waiting for 
 Mabel to wake ; " most extraordinary, — but badly 
 brought up, very badly. A man with an only 
 daughter always plays the fool." 
 
 "I suppose he feels as I do when I see the 
 gardener among the rose-bushes in spring," Dolly 
 answered, reflecting, without mentioning Jack's 
 name ; " it makes me shudder, the way he hacks 
 and cuts." 
 
266 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " It 's either that or no roses," retorted Mrs. 
 Frazer. 
 
 "What did Paul say?" Dolly asked after a 
 pause. She wished to know all the details. 
 
 " That she was cooler than he was. He said she 
 might have been made of ice, or stone. But she is 
 not." 
 
 " She seems to have quite won your heart, Lau- 
 rinda." 
 
 " "Well, is n't that the way to win hers ? You 
 must have a little patience. She is very observant 
 and very sensitive. I am very sure one false step 
 would ruin everything. Above all, don't dig up 
 her heart to see if the seeds are sprouting." 
 
 Mabel loved praise, but she wanted none of that 
 which was waiting for her. She would not allow 
 Helen to speak of the morning occurrences, and she 
 begged Dolly to ask the others not to allude to 
 them. She was quite herself again by tea-time, 
 and wrote a letter to Jack in which she made no 
 reference to the accident. For Margaret, with 
 whom she had not been particularly sympathetic, 
 she displayed a fondness as unexpected as it was 
 sudden. Dolly herself felt nearer to her, though 
 uncertain whether she or Mabel was the magnet. 
 Mrs. Frazer especially she clung to, but she did not 
 want to be left alone a moment with Helen. Every- 
 thing connected with her familiar personality, from 
 the rising inflections of her voice to the pose of her 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 267 
 
 head when brushing her hair, was insupportable. 
 The aversion was so unconquerable that she in- 
 quired of Mrs. Kensett if she might sleep in a room 
 by herself that night. 
 
 "Would it be convenient, and not too much 
 trouble?" she asked. DoUy thought the wish a 
 very natural one, and Paul was hurriedly moved 
 into the wing, Mabel's possessions being trans- 
 ferred by Marie during dinner. 
 
 " I hope you don't think I am unreasonable. I 
 am sorry to make such a commotion," she said to 
 Paul when she learned she was the cause of his 
 removal. 
 
 Paul thought it quite natural too. 
 
 " You need not be," he replied. " I don't won- 
 der you are shaken up. I can camp anywhere." 
 He was ready to do anything for her. 
 
 Mrs. Frazer's face wore a grim smile on hearing 
 of these arrangements. " That girl came into a 
 house of sworn enemies yesterday," she remarked 
 in conversation witli herself. " To-morrow she will 
 rule them all, and they will not know it." This 
 aloud — and to herself, " Fortunately I am here." 
 
XXII 
 
 No one was more surprised by Mabel's exploit 
 than Helen, and nothing connected ■with it sur- 
 prised her more than Mabel's aversion to any allu- 
 sion to it. Every direct reference to what had 
 taken place at the farm was suppressed at once. 
 Not that Helen had any desire to talk about it. 
 She quite understood that after such an experience 
 one would not care to revive its details. She had 
 no morbid curiosity about them whatever. But 
 she did feel a genuine admiration and the craving 
 to express it, if only indirectly, by little acts of 
 thoughtf Illness and attention. She had an extra 
 " dear " ready on her lips whenever she uttered 
 Mabel's name. Moreover, what Mabel had said 
 of Mr. Heald had been an immense relief, and had 
 set flowing a well-spring of gratitude. Mabel was 
 not to blame for his desertion. But while not 
 absolutely rejecting these offerings, Mabel gave 
 no sign of recognizing their significance. A very 
 little sign would have been enough. 
 
 Helen put this down to capriciousness, to that 
 inconsistency which had always baffled her, and 
 which even now left her uncertain whether she was 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 269 
 
 facing a new revelation of character or an old-time 
 exhibition of impulse. Mabel had never been de- 
 ceitful, although often artful. She did and said 
 unexpected and perplexing things, but she had 
 never resorted to lying, even as a little girl. So 
 far as Mr. Heald was concerned, Helen believed 
 her implicitly, — which was not difficult, for she 
 wanted to, — and had not the slightest idea that 
 the attitude which she ascribed to caprice or indif- 
 ference was an heroic effort to conquer an absolute 
 repulsion. 
 
 She made some futile attempts to break through 
 Mabel's wall of resistance, and finally, finding to 
 her surprise that the lane had no turning, began 
 to suspect that there was something more than 
 caprice behind Mabel's manner, and lapsed again 
 into irresolution and timidity. She had abdicated 
 authority so long ago that as a weapon it was too 
 rusty from disuse even for defensive purposes. 
 Affection was equally unavailing. 
 
 With one exception Mabel neither did nor said 
 anything tangible enough for open complaint, but 
 her behavior made Helen vaguely uncomfortable. 
 She was sure it was deliberate, not accidental, and 
 that it was directed only against herself. She was 
 equally sure no one else noticed it, and this made 
 her stUl more uncomfortable. When we see ghosts 
 we do not like to be told we are dreaming. 
 
 The one exception was of so utterly unreason- 
 
270 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 able a nature that it completely upset her, Mabel 
 had come down to dinner, charming, but with su- 
 perb unconcern. The evening had been passed in 
 the discussion and arrangement of some charades 
 for the following day. Everybody was happy, 
 so it seemed to Helen, except herself. She was 
 not self-reliant, and she felt alone. That Mr. 
 Heald should be called away on business she told 
 herself was entirely natural, and she struggled 
 against the duU sense of desertion in her heart 
 which her head pronounced utterly unjustifiable. 
 Gramercy Park, while not estranging her from the 
 Gaunt household, had made her life independent 
 of it. When in college, and even afterwards when 
 she had left the Boston nest for her flight to the 
 New York boarding-school, she had taken aU her 
 trials and ambitions to the home council. But 
 home and Gramercy Park belonged to different 
 worlds. Together with a certain elation over her 
 success went a certain disapproval of her new 
 sphere which had gradually restricted confidences. 
 Communications with the Boston home had grown 
 less and less frequent, and in spite of her original 
 pride in its modest respectability and dignity, it 
 was so entirely ignored by Gramercy Park that 
 with her expanding horizons she too had come to 
 regard it as a far-away and unimportant factor. 
 Just now, when there was no one to turn to in her 
 new world, she realized keenly the loss of her old 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 271 
 
 one. The family in Boston would have been im- 
 mensely pleased by a successful marriage. It did 
 not require much imagination to hear her mother 
 tell her friends about it, or to see the Kttle vanities 
 to which such an event would give rise. On the 
 other hand, disappointment or disaster incurred in 
 the upper ether would, she knew, elicit a mournful 
 chorus of " I told you so " and " I was always 
 afraid " from the lower level. She had been lured 
 away from the respectable commonplace into a 
 frame of mind which would lead her now to open 
 revolt against its displeasure. 
 
 She was in this restless and unhappy state when 
 she slipped away from the drawing-room into the 
 conservatory for a moment with herself. She sat 
 down in the big chair under the palms, staring be- 
 yond the orchids at her problem with an aching 
 heart. Woidd it have been better after all if she 
 had never parted from the functions ? 
 
 And just then Mabel came through the door, — 
 Mabel, vastly more unhappy stiU, who in that chair 
 had touched her lips to the cup of supreme happi- 
 ness, and who could not overcome the longing for 
 one more draught, though it were only the phan- 
 tom one of recollection, — who had stolen away to 
 sit for one second in that chair, her chair, to shut 
 her eyes and give herself once more. 
 
 " What are you doing here ! " 
 
 Helen sprang to her feet. She had never seen 
 
272 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Mabel angry before. Vexed, petulant, yes, — a 
 hundred times, but not like this, with hate in her 
 eyes. 
 
 It was only for a second, like a flash of summer 
 lightning, but it left her dazed. 
 
 " They want you in the drawing-room," said 
 Mabel coldly, leading the way back. 
 
 Helen followed her, stunned and speechless. 
 The outburst was so unaccountable that she could 
 not frame an idea into words. If there had been 
 time before reaching the door she would have 
 forced an understanding, but courage and self-pos- 
 session came too late, and she was in the drawing- 
 room again before she had recovered her self-con- 
 trol. Mabel had joined the first group she had 
 met, and was already discussing animatedly the 
 choice of a subject for a tableau proposed by the 
 Bishop, who, at Dolly's invitation, was now regu- 
 larly relieving the tedium of Lemington by pass- 
 ing his evenings at Cedar Hill. It seems that the 
 theme of his next sermon had suggested the par- 
 able of the Wise and Foolish Virgins as admirably 
 suited to afford amusement combined with instruc- 
 tion. By common consent Mabel had been selected 
 to represent the Foolish Virgin, and had turned 
 the conversation from costumes to ethics by declar- 
 ing that her wise sister in the parable had been 
 abominably selfish. Helen stood listening, hot 
 with indignation. She resented with all her soul 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 273 
 
 the tranquil ease with which Mahel slipped, as 
 from one garment into another, from one emotion 
 to its opposite. She felt hmniliated and outraged. 
 If it had been any one but Mabel she would have 
 found some excuse for dragging her back into the 
 conservatory and demanding an explanation. It 
 was always so with Helen, — to think she would 
 do what she flinched at, if circumstances and per- 
 sons were not what they were. 
 
 " I don't care," Mabel was saying to the Bishop, 
 " she ought to have given her some of her oil." 
 
 " But my dear young lady," urged the Bishop, 
 " think of the facts. I can well imagine how your 
 father would state them. Let us suppose two men 
 who have notes to pay on a certain day. One, by 
 self-denial, by economy, by the hard surrender of 
 his rightful pleasures to the claims of duty, is 
 ready on the appointed day to meet his obligations. 
 The other, thoughtless of his creditor's claims, 
 heedless of the future, abandons himself to self- 
 indulgence, and only when confronted by ruin 
 hastens to borrow of his prudent neighbor. lie- 
 member it is not a question of generosity. There 
 is not enough oil for both lamps." 
 
 The Bishop concluded in triumphant compla- 
 cency. 
 
 " I admire your logic," retorted Mabel, " but she 
 ought to have given her some, — and I despise her! " 
 
 The Bishop joined in the general laugh with the 
 
274 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 indulgent smile of a man who sees the folly of 
 serious argument with a child, and the conversation 
 went back to costumes. 
 
 Helen crossed over and sat down by Margaret. 
 She was resolved to see Mabel at bedtime, yet 
 was relieved when, meeting Marie on the way to 
 her room, she was told Mabel was already asleep. 
 It happened that this was not true, but Marie was 
 not to be blamed for carrying out her instructions. 
 
 Mrs. Frazer had sat with DoUy for a while after 
 the company broke up. They talked of the events 
 of the day, they spoke of Mabel, but tacitly avoided 
 the subject of which they were both thinking. 
 Dolly had been impressed by Mrs. Frazer's warn- 
 ing that she must make no mistakes. Her path did 
 not appear to be quite so clear as at first. She was 
 waiting, not a little perplexed, and conscious that 
 her perplexity was shared. So true was this that 
 Mrs. Frazer, who had intended to go to New York 
 for a day to complete a transaction which had occa- 
 sioned her previous visit, had given up the journey 
 under the conviction that something was going to 
 happen, that her hand was on the ship's helm, and 
 that she must not abandon her post. She had an- 
 nounced her determination to deed the old home in 
 New York to Margaret. Paul had remonstrated. 
 He was entirely able to provide for Margaret. The 
 war was likely to come to an end in the spring, 
 when they would be married, and he should take 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 275 
 
 her back with him to Pretoria. Her mother ought 
 to keep the home for her declining years. He did 
 not say this in so many words, but Mrs. Frazer 
 showed that she divined his thought by declaring 
 that she had no need of ten rooms to die in. With 
 business-like dispatch she had made out a power of 
 attorney and packed Paul off in the afternoon train, 
 much against his will, to make the transfer. It 
 was to be a surprise for Margaret on her coming 
 birthday, — " in more senses than one," said Mrs. 
 Frazer, "for she thinks me a sel£sh old woman. 
 So I am. I do as I please." 
 
 Haviag talked with Dolly about everything ex- 
 cept what they had at heart, she went to her room 
 for the game of solitaire without which she never 
 went to bed, and, after several defeats and succes- 
 sive resolves not to try again, was laying out the 
 cards for one more game when some one knocked 
 at her door. It was Mabel's maid. 
 
 " If you please," said Marie, " Miss Temple 
 would like to speak with you." 
 
 Mrs. Frazer laid down her cards as tranquilly as 
 if she had been waiting for this very message. In 
 reality she was much perturbed. The lights in the 
 corridor were out, and Marie led the way with her 
 candle. On reaching Mabel's room Mrs. Frazer 
 took it from her hand without a word and went in, 
 closing the door behind her, and leaving Marie ia a 
 state of poignant curiosity in the dark. 
 
276 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " Are you ill ? " she asked, setting the candle on 
 the table and bending over the bed. 
 
 " No, I wanted to speak to you." 
 
 Mrs. Frazer drew a chair to the bedside and sat 
 down. An unwonted tenderness took possession of 
 her. This was not the Mabel she had seen an 
 hour ago in evening dress, but a child afraid of 
 being left alone in the dark. Margaret, whom she 
 really loved, had never crept in this way into her 
 heart. It even embarrassed her a little to find 
 that having begun with the desire to give Mabel a 
 good shaking she could scarcely restrain herself 
 now from taking her ia her arms. 
 
 " You don't mind sitting here a little while, do 
 you?" 
 
 "No, dear, I am very glad to." She did not 
 know what else to say. 
 
 "I have been thinking of mamma," said Mabel. 
 "That was all." 
 
 Mrs. Frazer took one of the hands lying on the 
 coverlid and pressed it gently. 
 
 " You have had a great shock to-day. To-mor- 
 row you will feel better." 
 
 " Yes," said Mabel. 
 
 She said yes, not in assent, but absent-mindedly, 
 as if it were not worth while to contradict. Mrs. 
 Frazer looked at the face on the pillow with 
 awakening alarm. Was she really ill, or was it the 
 shadows from the candle ? 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 277 
 
 " Mabel, my child, you are not deceiving me ? 
 You are not ill?" 
 
 " I love to have you call me ' my child.' No, 
 really, I am quite well." And then, after a pause, 
 " I wish mamma were alive." 
 
 Mrs. Frazer stooped and kissed her. 
 
 Mabel smiled faintly. " You were very good to 
 come. Marie read to me a little while, — and 
 then I wanted manmia to come and tell me a 
 story " — 
 
 " As she used to when you were a child." 
 
 " No. I don't think she ever did. I was just 
 imagining it." 
 
 " You must not imagine such things," said Mrs. 
 Frazer abruptly. " You are nervous, and do not 
 know what you want." It was not a very sympa- 
 thetic answer, and she was aware of it, but the 
 tears were close to her eyes. 
 
 " Oh yes I do," replied Mabel quietly. 
 
 " You want a good sleep, that 's what you 
 want. You are unstrung. A night's rest will put 
 you aU right." 
 
 " Yes, a good rest," assented Mabel. 
 
 Mrs. Frazer longed to ask what was troubling 
 her. She was convinced that there was something 
 besides the morning's episode. She thought of 
 Dolly, but Dolly's grievance, which was in her mind 
 when she followed Marie down the corridor, was 
 quite inadequate to explain Mabel's condition. 
 
278 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Mabel saw her perplexity and sat up in bed. 
 
 " Now kiss me good-night, dear Mrs. Frazer. I 
 am not ready to talk about myself. If I ever am 
 it wiU be to you." She took Mrs. Frazer's hand 
 in her own, making that lady feel that she was the 
 one to be comforted. " You won't think me sUly, 
 will you ? I can see that you don't. You are so 
 good not to ask questions. I should not like you 
 if you did." She put up her face to be kissed 
 again. " A good sleep wiU not make everything 
 right, Mrs. Frazer " — 
 
 " But my dear child," interrupted Mrs. Frazer, 
 embracing her. The tears were in her eyes now, 
 but Mabel's were dry and shining. 
 
 " I don't like pretending. I wanted my own 
 mamma, — she would understand. I felt as if I 
 must have her. That is why I sent for you. I 
 know I shall be very different to-morrow. But you 
 must not let that make you forget to-night. And 
 do not tell Mrs. Kensett what a troublesome guest 
 she has. I am just upset, that 's aU, — just upset," 
 she repeated in a mechanical way, smihng again. 
 " I want to teU you everything, but something says 
 it would do no good. I think I love you," she said, 
 ■with a real smile at last. " If you wiU love me a 
 little that wiU be enough. I never knew I should 
 want to be loved." She looked up with a shy 
 expression on her face, and Mrs. Frazer, com- 
 pletely conquered, threw her arms about her. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 279 
 
 " You will be a good girl now and go to sleep," 
 she said, laying her back on the pillow. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And think of nothing." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You promise me ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Then she kissed her again, astonished at the 
 sweetness of the caress, and, lest the tears should 
 fall from her eyes on the smiling face, seized her 
 candle and hurried away without even saying 
 good-night. 
 
XXIII 
 
 At the close of the first day's decline in Argo- 
 naut Mr. Heald had illustrated to his satisfaction 
 the paradox of making money by selling what he 
 did not have. It had become known to the in- 
 terested through those mysterious channels which 
 supply the public with information that he had sold 
 his holdings and was out of the market. The finan- 
 cial columns of the evening papers contained no 
 comment upon so insignificant an eddy on the broad 
 stream of general prosperity, and the shrinkage of 
 the Argonaut bubble was scarcely noticed outside 
 the circle of its victims. The statement that the 
 mine had shut down was confirmed, however, the 
 following morning. Paul, having executed Mrs. 
 Frazer's commission, was lunching down town when 
 an item to this effect caught his eye. He turned 
 to the stock list and saw the shares were quoted at 
 two ! Margaret and DoUy were safe, but the 
 escape was so narrow that his indignation against 
 Mr. Heald rose to fever heat. He was looking at 
 his watch to see how much time he had before the 
 afternoon train for Westford, and had just deter- 
 mined to run in and see Jack a moment on his way 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 281 
 
 to the Elevated station, when the drawing of a 
 cork at a table in the corner near him attracted 
 his attention. He recognized Mr. Heald at once, 
 and he further remembered now where he had seen 
 him before. It needed just that fixed gaze at no- 
 thing to carry him back to an evening in Johannes- 
 burg when the turn of a card in the Colony Club 
 set a man staring with the same fixed stare, as 
 though the crowded room was empty and its silence 
 the silence of the desert. 
 
 Mr. Heald had had an exciting morning. On 
 the confirmation of the rumored closing of the mine, 
 Argonaut shares had opened weak at twelve, and 
 the rout of timid holders became complete. The 
 price fell to two before noon, then rallied to five 
 on strong buying, from what source and for what 
 reason was not apparent. He was still on the 
 short side when he received a message from his 
 broker that offerings had practically ceased, and 
 that that particular pulse indicated on the floor of 
 the Exchange by the word " Miscellaneous " was 
 lifeless. He then had contracts for the delivery of 
 ten thousand shares, but he was not especially dis- 
 turbed. There was no leakage of news from Ari- 
 zona. The secret of the discovery had been well 
 kept, there was no reason for any advance, and it 
 would require a very material rise to offset his win- 
 nings. Then came sudden and complete stagnation. 
 After ransacking every comer in an unavailing 
 
282 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 effort to cover, he had succeeded in picking up 
 only a, few hundred shares, and realized that he 
 had over-reached himself. Inquiry developed the 
 additional fact that the principal buying had been 
 by a brokerage firm to which he was bound to de- 
 liver eight thousand shares before the closing hour. 
 He asked at once for a conference with a view to 
 settlement, and was informed by the broker that it 
 would be necessary to consult his principal. 
 
 Who was his principal ? 
 
 There was a hurried conversation over the tele- 
 phone. 
 
 The principal was Mr. Temple. 
 
 Could he see Mr. Temple ? 
 
 There was another consultation over the tele- 
 phone. 
 
 Yes, Mr. Temple would see Mr. Heald at two 
 o'clock. 
 
 It was then one. He had an hour to think it 
 over. He was not yet anxious, only annoyed. 
 Eight thousand shares at five was forty thousand 
 dollars. Say ten even, — that was only eighty 
 thousand, nothing to worry over. The whole trans- 
 action was insignificant as compared with Mabel. 
 It cost him relatively Httle to part with money, but 
 there were mistakes for which money could not 
 atone. If he could only settle with Helen to 
 Mabel's satisfaction as easily as he hoped to with 
 Jack Temple ! 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 283 
 
 He had ordered a small steak and a pint bottle 
 of champagne and was spreading his napkin over 
 his knee when he looked up and saw Paul approach- 
 ing. There was a set expression on Paul's face 
 which betokened anything but amiability, but Mr. 
 Heald smiled pleasantly. He had been thinking 
 of Mabel, and the thought of her would have made 
 him gentle with his worst enemy. 
 
 Paul was still wrestling with his indignation. 
 He was asking himself what the devil could induce 
 a man to palm off worthless stocks on trusting 
 women, and on seeing Mr. Heald he impulsively 
 resolved to know. 
 
 " Do you object to my asking you a few ques- 
 tions ? " he said abruptly. 
 
 Neither had exchanged a word after the first 
 glance of recognition, and Paul was standing by 
 the table with his hat and cane in his hand. 
 
 " Not in the least," replied Mr. Heald affably. 
 " Sit down. You will let me go on with my lunch- 
 eon ? I have an appointment at two o'clock." 
 
 " You were in Johannesburg four years ago, I 
 think," said Paul. 
 
 " Yes, four years ago this month, in Decem- 
 ber." 
 
 " I remember your losing five thousand pounds 
 one evening at the Colony Club." 
 
 " More than that," said Mr. Heald tranquilly. 
 
 " Yes. You staked your cattle range — on the 
 
284 HIS DAUGHTEE FIRST 
 
 Bex Kiver, in the Colony, was n't it ? — and lost 
 that too." Mr. Heald nodded assent. 
 
 " And left the room a beggar." 
 
 " Not quite so bad as that," said Mr. Heald, fill- 
 ing his glass. " I had a few pounds. I happen 
 to recollect because they were so few." 
 
 Paul softened a little at the absence of resist- 
 ance. 
 
 " I beg your pardon for recalling unpleasant 
 facts " — 
 
 " Not at all, not at aU," interrupted Mr. Heald. 
 " I believe I made no complaint at the time, and 
 am not likely to now. But you are telling me what 
 you know. What is it you dorUt know ? " 
 
 " I don't know how, if you were in Johannes- 
 burg in '98, you could have been intimately asso- 
 ciated with Cecil Kensett, who never set foot in 
 Africa and died in '99," blurted out Paid. 
 
 " Intimately associated ? " repeated Mr. Heald. 
 
 " So you said to my cousin when you put sixty- 
 five thousand dollars of hers into Argonaut." 
 
 " I believe I did. Well, I should n't have said 
 so if it were not true. Now let me ask ycm a ques- 
 tion. Are you speaking for Mrs. Kensett ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " She has no reason to complain of her invest- 
 ment in Argonaut, I think ? " 
 
 " She has n't you to thank for that." 
 
 " No ? " said Mr. Heald, pushing away his plate 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 285 
 
 and with both arms on the tahle looking into Paul's 
 face. 
 
 " Because fortunately she acted under other ad- 
 vice," continued Paul, " and got out of her invest- 
 ment, as you call it, in time." 
 
 " As I call it ? Now look here, Mr. Graham, I 
 take you to be a man who would apologize if he 
 were on the wrong track. Otherwise " — He 
 stopped and smiled. 
 
 "Yes," said Paul, returning the steady gaze, 
 " I would. You need n't answer my questions if 
 they embarrass you. It 's past history. I ask 
 because I don't understand how a man can " — 
 
 " You don't understand because you don't know. 
 I advised Mrs. Kensett to get rid of her Argo- 
 naut the very day she sold it. Evidently that 's 
 one thing you did n't know," said Mr. Heald, ob- 
 serving Paul's surprise. " And I advised her to 
 buy it because I had faith in it. It is n't neces- 
 sary to tell you how much I have made out of that 
 mine myself. That 's my affair. Now I suppose 
 you want to know why I put your cousin in it. 
 That 's my affair too. But I don't mind telling 
 you. I was dead broke when I left the Cape. I 
 had just enough cash to get to England, and had to 
 take a steerage passage to New York. Mr. Kensett 
 sailed from Liverpool on the same steamer. Per- 
 ha,ps I did strain the meaning of words a little 
 when I said we were associated in a business enter- 
 
286 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 prise. The fact is he lent me five hundred dollars 
 on the strength of a chance conversation one day 
 off the Banks when he was talking with the emi- 
 grants. Did you ever borrow money yourself ? 
 It 's a common business transaction, is n't it ? 
 Borrowing now means paying later. I think I 
 paid my debt. What did Mrs. Kensett sell her 
 Argonaut for ? About ninety thousand ? I did n't 
 care to go into the steerage details at a Lenox 
 house party. Of course I gave my note to Mr. 
 Kensett. Probably he did not take it very seri- 
 ously. I never saw it again, — nor him. He was 
 dead when I came back from the West. But I 
 always had a bit of sentiment about that note." 
 He stopped and laughed. " I wish it was the only 
 paper my name was on." 
 
 Paul was a little ashamed of his hasty general- 
 izations, yet did not feel at all like apologizing for 
 them. As things had turned out there was nothing 
 at which he could cavil. There was even something 
 taking about the cool assurance and easy frankness 
 of the man. But at the bottom of it all was the 
 fact that for some not very definite reason he did 
 not like him. It is unpleasant to distrust without 
 knowing why. He was not one to refuse to shake 
 hands with a man because he did not know who 
 his grandfather was. If Mr. Heald had shown in 
 any way that he regarded an apology as due him 
 it would have been easier to offer it. His manner. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 287 
 
 however, put Paul on quite a different footing, — 
 merely the footiag of one whose attack had been 
 parried. Mr. Heald seemed entirely content with 
 that result and careless of any further questions 
 of honor or injustice involved. He had certainly 
 made some very frank personal statements, but 
 Paul did not know him any better than before. 
 He had noticed that everybody spoke of him as 
 " Mr. Heald." No one appeared to have got so 
 far as " Heald," or " Regiaald," as a form of ad- 
 dress. 
 
 " Are you going back to Cedar Hill to-night ? " 
 
 " Yes, right away," replied Paul, glad of the 
 change of topic. 
 
 " I wish you would teU your cousin how badly I 
 feel about running away so unceremoniously. I 
 will write to-night, after I get some matters 
 straightened out here. How did the tobogganing 
 come off ? " 
 
 " I really don't know," said Paul. " We had 
 an accident " — 
 
 " An accident ?" interrupted Mr. Heald. 
 
 Paul gave a brief account of it and of the part 
 played by Mabel. 
 
 " The girl's nerve quite surprised us," he said. 
 
 Mr. Heald appeared uninterested and the con- 
 versation lagged. 
 
 " You must excuse me," he said, rising ; " I 
 have an appointment with Miss Temple's father 
 
288 HIS DAUGHTER FIEST 
 
 for two o'clock, and it is ten minutes of that now." 
 They shook hands, with some constraint on Paul's 
 side, and parted. There was time enough to spare 
 before the Westford train started, and Paul's in- 
 tention to see Jack before leaving was confirmed. 
 He wanted to teU him about Mabel, and he won- 
 dered too what Mr. Heald's business with Jack 
 could be. 
 
 If any of the throng which caught a glimpse of 
 Mr. Heald's face as he hurried along lower Broad- 
 way during the closing hour of the business day 
 had known his errand they would have said he was 
 weighing the chances of a favorable settlement. 
 But his thoughts were not busy with the price of 
 Argonaut shares. " Just like her, just like her," 
 he kept saying to himself. 
 
 Unfortunately the thought of Mabel was so 
 indissolubly connected with that of Helen that it 
 was impossible for him to see one face — as he had 
 seen it every hour since leaving Cedar Hill — with- 
 out being confronted with the other. He could 
 forget and ignore Helen if Mabel could. He loved 
 Mabel the more because she could not, though he 
 would have had no scruples whatever if she had 
 had none. Mabel was both his desire and his stum- 
 bling-block. Yet he had no word of blame for 
 her. She was all the dearer for her loyalty. He 
 knew persuasion and argument would be futile 
 with her, that she woidd scorn him for resorting to 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIEST 289 
 
 them. In the vain attempt to find some way out 
 of his own folly he had thought of a direct appeal 
 to Helen. The humiliation involved in such a con- 
 fession was nothing to him, and there could be no 
 doubt of its result. But what would Mabel think 
 of it? Only that thought held him back. He 
 was experiencing the new sensation of wishing to 
 submit his every act to her judgment and approval. 
 She had scruples and a conscience, and he had 
 more respect for them than for his own. 
 
 The boy at the outer door took his card and dis- 
 appeared down the vista of iron-guarded desks iato 
 the private office. Jack looked up as his visitor 
 entered with " Just a moment, Mr. Heald," fin- 
 ished a signature for which a clerk was waiting, 
 and when the door closed wheeled round in his 
 chair. " They told me you wished to see me," he 
 said. 
 
 Mr. Heald took the seat beside the desk and 
 looked steadily into the speaker's face. He had 
 an impression that Mr. Temple did not like him. 
 It was not a hard face, but it wore its business 
 mask. If he had thought of it as the face of 
 Mabel's father that thought vanished the moment 
 it turned toward him. 
 
 " You know, of course, the reason why I wished 
 to see you," he said. 
 
 " I suppose so," replied Jack laconically. 
 
 " I have a delivery of something like eight thou- 
 
290 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 sand Argonaut to make before three o'clock. They 
 are not to be had, as you know, I want your price 
 of settlement." 
 
 "What do you think they are worth, Mr. 
 Heald ? " 
 
 "The last sale was at five. I thought them 
 worth that then." 
 
 " Well, what do you think they are worth now ? " 
 
 "That is for you to say," said Mr. Heald, 
 smiling ; " I am at your mercy." 
 
 Jack's face did not respond to the invitation to 
 relax. 
 
 " It 's not a question of mercy," he replied. 
 "I am asking you what you honestly think the 
 shares are worth. That is the only basis on 
 which a settlement can be made. I should prefer 
 to take them and pay for them if you had them to 
 deliver." 
 
 " I must admit that is quite impossible." 
 
 " Yes, I know that," said Jack. " They are in 
 my safe." 
 
 Mr. Heald was silent. There was no doubt in 
 his mind now that others knew the value of Argo- 
 naut as well as he did. 
 
 " It certainly is not my place to fix a price," he 
 said at length. 
 
 " Why not ? " asked Jack quietly. " I have no 
 desire to drive a hard bargain. Until recently you 
 owned a controlling interest in this mine. You 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 291 
 
 ought to kaow all about it. I will make you this 
 proposition, Mr. Heald: to settle on any figure 
 you may name as fairly representing the value of 
 the stock to-day." 
 
 Mr. Heald thought for a moment. 
 
 " There is no use beating about the bush, Mr. 
 Temple " — 
 
 " I am not," interrupted Jack. 
 
 " I mean there is no use for me to do so," con- 
 tinued Mr. Heald imperturbably. " You control 
 the stock, probably for good reasons." 
 
 " Yes, I bought it for investment. An estate in 
 which I am interested held a smaU lot of it, and I 
 sent an expert out to examine the property. I 
 bought it for investment on the strength of his re- 
 port. You probably know better than I do whether 
 that report is trustworthy and — up to date." 
 
 "Will you name your price, then?" said Mr. 
 Heald tersely. "I am not fond of squirming. 
 You shall have your money to-morrow." 
 
 " I have no doubt of it whatever, Mr. Heald. 
 I am not anxious about the money. I have the 
 shares, which I consider the important thing. 
 They may be worth fitfty, or two hundred and fifty. 
 A mine is an uncertain thing, as you doubtless 
 know. But I think I have gone far enough in pro- 
 posing to settle on your own figures. If you are 
 not prepared to name them now I can wait. But 
 I scarcely think that would be to your advantage. 
 
292 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Or we can have a referee. Any one you name will 
 suit me." 
 
 The wild thought of naming Mabel brought a 
 smile to Mr. Heald's lips in spite of its absurdity. 
 That was the way things were settled on the stage, 
 but not in real life. 
 
 " I prefer you shoidd name the referee," he said, 
 rising ; " if that is agreeable to you." 
 
 " Entirely so," said Jack. 
 
 At the door Mr. Heald turned again. 
 
 " If it is a proper question I would like to ask 
 about how many shares you hold, Mr. Temple." 
 
 " About all, Mr. Heald. I would not have made 
 the proposition I have if there were other inter- 
 ests." 
 
 " Would you be disposed to sell your entire in- 
 terest at any figure — for cash ? " 
 
 " No. I could better afford to give you a receipt 
 in full for the consideration of one dollar. Would 
 you wish me to do that ? " 
 
 " No, I pay my debts, Mr. Temple. The office 
 boy may have the doUar." 
 
 There was repressed passion in his abrupt " good- 
 afternoon," and he closed the door with a snap as 
 abrupt as his salutation. He did not notice Paul, 
 who was waiting his turn in the outer office, and 
 looking neither to the right nor to the left dis- 
 appeared in the corridor. 
 
 " What 's up ? " asked Paul, going in. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 293 
 
 Jack, whose back was turned, and who was gaz- 
 ing meditatively out of the window, seemed unusu- 
 ally glad to see him. 
 
 " Why, Paul ! " he exclaimed ; " what brings you 
 down ? " 
 
 " If it is n't a dead secret I should like to have 
 you answer my question first. Your last visitor 
 looked as if he had pretty nearly lost his tem- 
 per." 
 
 " He is in bad shape, Paul, — very bad. Do 
 you recollect my telling you I had sent out a man 
 to look over that Argonaut property ? " 
 
 " Certainly. I can imagine what he found out, 
 too." 
 
 " No you can't," said Jack, " not if you try." 
 
 " Well, then, I won't try, I don't much care 
 now that Dolly and Margaret are out of it." 
 
 "Margaret?" said Jack, looking up; "Mar- 
 garet who?" 
 
 Paul blushed furiously. 
 
 "You have my secret if I haven't yours," he 
 said, laughing. 
 
 Jack's face grew grave. There are circumstances 
 under which the happiness of others makes us 
 solemn. 
 
 "I congratulate you most heartily," he said. 
 " Miss Frazer is a girl in a thousand. But we 
 made a mistake in selling her Argonaut." 
 
 The statement was on the face of it so absurd 
 
294 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 that Paul's willingness to talt about Margaret was 
 forgotten. 
 
 " What do you think the stock is worth, Paul ? " 
 
 " The tape says, nothing." 
 
 " Then you would n't accept a thousand shares 
 for Miss Frazer as a gift. They give presents 
 nowadays on engagements, don't they ? You see," 
 Jack went on, enjoying Paul's bewilderment, " this 
 is a case where the tape lies. I have just been 
 tryiQg to settle on a price for that stock with Mr. 
 Heald. We are like the girl who agreed to be 
 married but would n't name the day. We agree 
 that it is worth a good deal of money, but both of 
 us are afraid to say exactly how much. I don't 
 want to be hard on him." 
 
 Then he told the whole story. 
 
 " What are you going to do ? " asked Paul when 
 he had finished. 
 
 " Oh, I shall have to let him down easy. He 
 played a sharp game and got caught. I don't like 
 him, — but that 's no reason. I have the mine, I 
 don't want the pound of flesh." 
 
 " It 's the most extraordinary thing I ever heard 
 of. It was n't an hour ago I was mentally con- 
 gratulating DoUy on her escape. Are you going 
 to return her thousand shares too ? " 
 
 " No," said Jack, turning to his desk. " I 
 have n't the same reason in Mrs. Kensett's case 
 that I have in Miss Frazer's. By the way, I have 
 got to name a referee. Will you act ? " 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 295 
 
 "Not for worlds," objected Paul energetically. 
 
 " There 's got to be somebody," said Jack, who 
 was looking out of the window again. " It is n't 
 customary for a referee to receive instructions from 
 the interested parties. But if I satisfy the other 
 side, the referee ought to be satisfied too. Think 
 it over. You can wire me to-morrow. When are 
 you going back? Four o'clock! You haven't 
 much time. How is Mabel ? " 
 
 Paul told his story. 
 
 Jack listened without moving a muscle. " I am 
 not surprised," was his only comment. " She 
 generally gets where she starts for." 
 
 He rang the bell the moment Paul had gone. 
 
 " Make out a transfer of a thousand shares of 
 Argonaut to Margaret Frazer and bring it to me 
 at once," he said to the responding clerk. 
 
 He signed the transfer blank on the back of the 
 certificate, slipping it into an envelope with some 
 other papers. 
 
 ".You know Mr. Grraham who was just here ? " 
 he asked. "Well, get right on the Elevated and 
 catch him at the Grand Central Station. He takes 
 the four o'clock train for Westford. Be lively, or 
 you win miss him." 
 
 When Paul opened the envelope he found with 
 the certificate of stock Jack's card, addressed to 
 Margaret, with "Heartiest congratulations" in 
 pencil in the corner ; a receipt in full, addressed to 
 
296 HIS DAUGHTER FIEST 
 
 Mr. Heald, with which was folded a half-sheet con- 
 taining this brief scrawl : — 
 
 Dear Paul, — If you consent to act, the in- 
 closed will help you out in naming a price. 
 
 J. T. 
 
xxrv 
 
 Me. Heald had chosen the Carleton as a place 
 of residence because he objected to the inhospi- 
 table atmosphere of the apartment house whose 
 entrance is distinguished by a self-acting elevator 
 and a pneumatic tube. The Carleton possessed a 
 generous haJl with an obliging clerk behind its 
 desk and a boy in buttons at the elevator. There 
 was also a newspaper and flower stand in the cor- 
 ner, a quiet billiard-room and bar adjacent, and, 
 beside the ticker, a mahogany inclosure, in which 
 a young woman with a rose in her hair attended to 
 telephone calls. Of most of these adjuncts Mr. 
 Heald made no use, but he liked to have them 
 around. He liked the greeting which awaited him 
 when he entered the Carleton door. He liked the 
 smile of the telephone girl and the bit of color in 
 her hair. He liked the « Good-day, Mr. Heald " 
 from behind the desk, the folded paper when he 
 came down to breakfast, and the extra energy' born 
 of hope in the legs of the bell-boy. AH these in- 
 dicated appreciation of his fees rather than of him- 
 self, but they imparted a home atmosphere to the 
 place, and gave him a sense of proprietorship. 
 They were his " comforts of home." 
 
298 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 He responded to none of these signs of affection, 
 however, on returning from his interview with 
 Jack. This was no unusual occurrence. He paid 
 for civility in cash, and would certainly have lost 
 consideration had he paid only in kind. 
 
 The clerk handed him some letters as he came 
 in, and said that a gentleman had called twice that 
 afternoon, leaving no name, — and received a nod 
 in reply. Going up to his room Mr. Heald threw 
 open the window, and without even taking off his 
 hat sat down before it, his hands in his pockets, 
 his head thrown back, plunged in thought. The 
 roar of the street came in from the window with 
 the winter fog. It was a dark, dismal afternoon, 
 and the lights of the city were beginning to tinge 
 the heavy overhanging mist with a dull red glare. 
 The events of the day filed before him as gloomy 
 as the drifting fog. In ninety-nine cases out of a 
 hundred he would have succeeded. It was sheer 
 hard luck, coupled with his own sentimental folly. 
 Why could n't he keep to business principles ? 
 He ought to have sent Mrs. Kensett a check for 
 five hundred dollars and interest, with a fitting ac- 
 knowledgment of her husband's loan. Instead of 
 which he had chosen to pose in the role of benefac- 
 tor, with the result that just at the turning of the 
 tide Temple sent his damned expert to Arizona. It 
 was always the way, — the incredible, the unex- 
 pected, the little stray fox that ate the vines. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 299 
 
 Of the future he refused to think. What was 
 the good of figuring up assets ? It all depended 
 on Temple. If he set a decently fair price on the 
 stock he was all right. If he was bound to exact 
 the pound of flesh he was ruined. There was no- 
 thing to be gained by worrying over that now. 
 He preferred to think of Mabel. He had made a 
 fool of himself there too. The bitter kernel in 
 these reflections was that though he had himself 
 only to blame, the effects were out of all proportion 
 to the causes. His transaction with Mrs. Kensett 
 was founded on a generous impulse, and it was 
 hounding him now hke a cur! There were no 
 words to express the folly of his entanglement with 
 Helen, but he had really loved Mabel all the time ! 
 Perhaps he had not known it. He knew it now. 
 He might have been a little more civil to her father 
 in parting ; he had nearly lost his temper — 
 
 Then he was conscious that some one was in the 
 room. In the noise from the street he had not 
 heard the door open, and he turned, expecting to 
 see his man. Instead he saw a slight figure stand- 
 ing in the middle of the floor, a white, haggard 
 face, and a hand with something in it. In the fail- 
 ing light he could not distinguish what the hand 
 held, but he recognized the boyish face of the day 
 before, and knew instantly what was coming. 
 
 Simultaneously with the words, " Take that, 
 damn you ! " came a flash and a stinging sensation 
 
300 HIS DAUGHTEE FIRST 
 
 wMch was not pain, but which brought an " Ah ! " 
 from his lips. Then he sprang forward and 
 wrenched the smoking weapon from his assailant's 
 grasp. 
 
 He could have thrown the boy out of the win- 
 dow, but there was no need to do that. The des- 
 perate hate which had supplied the courage died 
 with the act. 
 
 " Are you hurt, Mr. Heald ? " 
 
 The voice was the voice of a man bordering on 
 collapse. 
 
 " I have n't you to thank if I am not ! What 
 the devil " — 
 
 " You 've ruined me " — the words ended in a 
 hoarse whisper, and the eyes tried in vain to get 
 away from the dripping hand. 
 
 Mr. Heald did not do what he thought he would 
 have done under the circumstances. 
 
 " Pick up your hat," he said. 
 
 The boy obeyed tremblingly. 
 
 " How much have you lost ? " There was no 
 answer, and the question was repeated angrily. 
 " Do you want me to give you a dose of your own 
 medicine ? If you don't, do as I tell you. Open 
 that drawer. Now bring that check-book here." 
 He sat down at the desk by the window and took 
 a pen in his unwounded hand. " Spread it open 
 — that 's it. Now, will five thousand dollars make 
 you whole ? wiU ten ? Why did n't you say so at 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 301 
 
 once," lie said, leaning on the open book and fill- 
 ing out the check. "You can fill in the name 
 yourself. Now mind what I say. You get out of 
 here quietly and cash that check the first thing in 
 the morning, — and mind you don't come sneaking 
 around here to find out if I 'm alive. If you do 
 I '11 have you arrested for murder — see ? Leave 
 your toy here " — his visitor made an effort to 
 speak — " and clear out, quich" continued Mr. 
 Heald ; " I 'm going to ring the bell and tell the 
 doctor what an awkward hand I am with pistols. 
 It 's lucky for you the door was shut and the win- 
 dow open. Brace up now," he said, pushing the 
 trembling figure before him with his steady gaze 
 and following him up to the door. 
 
 He watched him down the corridor tiU he disap- 
 peared on the stairs, then, closing the door, went 
 into his bedroom and rang the bell. 
 
 A few moments later he was explaining to the 
 doctor how the accident happened. Fortunately 
 he had shielded himself with his left hand, and his 
 explanation was fairly plausible. 
 
 " I don't quite see, Mr. Heald, how " — the doc- 
 tor was saying as he fastened the bandage after 
 dressing the wound, when there was a knock at the 
 door and a policeman entered, followed by the 
 clerk. 
 
 " He 's given himseK up, sir. The Inspector 'U 
 be here in a minute." 
 
302 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 The doctor looked at his patient and smiled. 
 
 "The damned idiot!" said Mr. Heald. "I 
 thought he was only crazy, but he 's a fool." 
 
 It was thus that the evening " Extras " con- 
 tained a full account of the attempted murder of 
 the well-known Wall Street operator, Mr. Reginald 
 Heald, said to be a heavy loser by the recent fall in 
 Argonaut shares, with lurid details of an imaginary 
 character and as much of the hitherto unpublished 
 family history of the interested parties as could 
 readily be supplied at such short notice. 
 
XXV 
 
 Mrs. Frazer was greatly relieved to see Mabel 
 come down to breakfast, the morning after their 
 midnight conversation, with all the evidences of a 
 refreshing sleep and a tranquil mind. She had 
 enjoyed neither herself, and had surprised Dolly 
 by marching into the breakfast-room with the as- 
 surance of an habitual early riser. DoUy's second 
 surprise came in the form of a kiss from Mabel, 
 who was as usual the last to appear, and who, after 
 stopping at Margaret's chair to say good-morning, 
 stooped to touch her lips to Dolly's hair on her 
 way to the vacant place beside Mrs. Frazer, — a 
 place which the latter had managed to reserve for 
 her. She had a way of coming into a room as the 
 sun comes into the world, with a word and smile 
 of general greeting, which each could accept as 
 a personal communication. She seemed aware of 
 the relief and approval depicted on Mrs. Frazer's 
 face, and still further increased that lady's satis- 
 faction by announcing that she was desperately 
 himgry, adding in a low tone that she had been 
 very silly the night before. Then she proposed to 
 Margaret that they should ride over to the farm 
 to see how the patient was getting on. 
 
304 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 She came down in her riding-habit after break- 
 fast was over, and went out to the stables with 
 Margaret in seemingly high spirits. She won the 
 respect of the groom by disdaining the chair which 
 he brought and springing lightly from his hand to 
 her seat. Margaret agreed with her that they 
 needed no one to accompany them. 
 
 It was a beautiful day ; the snow was melting in 
 the warm sun, and there were people on the piazza 
 as they rode down the avenue. Mabel waved her 
 whip to them as she disappeared under the trees. 
 
 " Do you like people ? " she asked Margaret. 
 
 " Why yes, some people," said Margaret ; 
 " don't you ? " 
 
 " I mean most people, the people like the blocks 
 of houses in New York, with eyes and noses like 
 the doors and windows, — the people that only 
 have numbers to distinguish them." 
 
 Margaret laughed. " Perhaps it is well we do 
 not all like the same ones," she said. 
 
 " Shall we have a gallop ? Come ! " cried 
 Mabel. 
 
 But the snow was softening, and they reined in 
 their horses before reaching the wood. 
 
 " I love to ride," said Mabel, patting her horse's 
 neck ; " I feel so free. People tie you hand and 
 foot. I should like to ride on and on and on, — 
 and never come back. We have lived so long in 
 cages, though, I suppose we should tire even of 
 freedom. Do we turn in here ? " 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 305 
 
 They rode on side by side down the lane so dear 
 to Margaret, where she had lost her lonely liberty 
 for a sweeter bondage. The doctor's sleigh was at 
 the door, and the blanketed mare whinnied at their 
 approach. Mr. Pearson came out at once, and 
 called to Jim to take the horses. But Mabel re- 
 fused to dismount. 
 
 " How is he ? " she asked. 
 
 "Waal," said Mr. Pearson, "he's doin' well 
 enough. I reckon he won't chop no more trees. 
 Trampin' round the country won't be no easy job 
 neither." 
 
 The doctor appeared in his shaggy fur coat, and 
 confirmed Mr. Pearson's statements. 
 
 " I was thinking we might get up a subscription 
 for a wooden leg," he said to Margaret. 
 
 Margaret promised to speak to Mrs. Kensett 
 about it, and asked if there was anything needed. 
 
 While she was speaking Mrs. Pearson came to 
 the door, bareheaded, in a checked apron, and after 
 exchanging a word with Margaret stared at Mabel 
 as if she had a load upon her mind which must be 
 relieved. 
 
 " Be you the young lady what helped the doe- 
 tor ? My ! You don't look like you 'd hurt a fly. 
 Won't you come in ? He 'd be dreadful glad to 
 see you." 
 
 " You go," said Mabel to Margaret. 
 
 Margaret did not wish to, but yielded, thinking 
 it would give pleasure. 
 
306 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " What would a leg cost ? " asked Mabel of the 
 doctor, who was turning his sleigh with Mr. Pear- 
 son's help. He told her what he thought the 
 expense would be. 
 
 " Order him one," she said, as if she were order- 
 ing a box of her favorite chocolates at Maillard's. 
 " I will see it is paid for." 
 
 When Margaret rejoined her she proposed they 
 should return through the Tillage. 
 
 " It 's nice not to have some one tagging at your 
 heels," she said, as they cantered up the lane to 
 the main road. 
 
 "I thought you would be just the person to 
 insist upon a groom." 
 
 " Did you ? One has to in town. Do you know 
 all these people? Every one we meet bows to 
 you." 
 
 " Not all. But they all know me." 
 
 "I might live here a hundred years and not 
 know one of them." 
 
 "You know the Pearsons and one tramp al- 
 ready." 
 
 " So I do," laughed Mabel. " I wonder if they 
 really enjoy life, puttering about on their farms." 
 
 " It 's much less tiresome than some of the put- 
 tering about we have to do in society." 
 
 " Oh, of course. But the life is so narrow, their 
 interests so small. Still, I presume their babies 
 and new dresses are of as much importance to 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 307 
 
 them as ours are to us. Helen, you know, is mj 
 baby," she added. 
 
 " I like Miss Gaunt very much," said Margaret 
 warmly. 
 
 " So do I. We aU have a tender feeling for 
 people that cannot walk alone." 
 
 " She seems to be making her own way in life." 
 
 " I wonder if she could," said Mabel medita- 
 tively, " if all the props were knocked away." 
 
 Margaret thought the remark a strange one, 
 and, not understanding it, made no reply. She 
 could not make out whether she liked Mabel or 
 not. She could not refuse her a kind of admira- 
 tion, but when ready to give more Mabel's indiffer- 
 ence chilled her. The moment she won a little 
 affection she seemed to throw it deliberately away. 
 
 They rode home almost in silence. Mabel's 
 spirits had flagged perceptibly. At the gate they 
 met Dorothy on her pony, and a groom, who told 
 them that every one had gone up to the sugar 
 camp for luncheon, and that Mrs. Kensett had said 
 that they were to join her there. She had left 
 word to this effect in case they failed to meet on 
 the way. Mabel made the excuse of letters to 
 write and declined to go. Margaret knew the rule 
 of the house, that one was to do as one pleased, 
 and after a little polite insistence rode off with 
 Dorothy. Ever since her mother's remark that 
 she saw nothing of what was going on about her she 
 
308 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 had endeavored to cultivate her powers of observa- 
 tion, with the result that she did not know whether 
 it was observation or imagination that was at work. 
 She concluded in this case that it was imagination. 
 She had her own secret happiness and was not dis- 
 posed to see trouble, and Dorothy's gleeful mood 
 matched her own better than Mabel's did. 
 
 The latter had luncheon alone with Mrs. Frazer, 
 whom she won anew by evincing great interest in 
 solitaire and by extreme amiabihty toward Profes- 
 sor Fisher, who made a long caU, with his sister, in 
 the afternoon. 
 
 Helen had resolved to have her explanation with 
 Mabel that morning. She went directly to Ma- 
 bel's room after dressing, relying upon Mabel's 
 late hours j but the windows were wide open, and 
 Marie, who was struggling with the chaos of her 
 mistress's toilet, said she had gone down. She 
 was not at the breakfast-table, but came in later 
 from the piazza where Helen had certainly never 
 dreamed of looking for her at that hour. After 
 breakfast she had ridden o£E with Margaret to the 
 farm, and did not put in an appearance at the 
 sugar camp at all. There were the quiet hours 
 after tea when every one was resting before dress- 
 ing for dinner, and upon these Helen counted. 
 When tea was brought to her room she said she 
 would take hers with Miss Temple, and followed 
 the servant with the tray to Mfbel's door. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 309 
 
 Mabel was holding a reception. There were 
 three or four girls with her, including Constance, 
 and the furniture was strewn with costumes for the 
 evening's charades. Constance was pinning the 
 drapery of the Foolish Virgin when Helen came in. 
 
 " You are a perfect genius, Constance," Mabel 
 was saying. " You ought to be a dressmaker." 
 
 " I will if you will be my model," said Constance, 
 who was kneeling beside her before the pier-glass ; 
 " everything fits on you." 
 
 "What do you think, Helen?" asked Mabel, 
 looking at herself in the mirror ; " wiU that do ? I 
 must convert the Bishop." She wore a gold band 
 about her forehead, clasped under her hair, and had 
 pressed a plain, old-fashioned bracelet of Mrs. 
 Frazer's into service as an armlet. " Just enough 
 jewelry to show my folly," she said. Constance, 
 stUl kneeling, surveyed her work critically. 
 
 " You will make the wisest Wise Virgin imagina^ 
 ble," said Mabel, looking down upon her. " You 
 are a perfect image of prudence and demureness. 
 You must not look too sweet to-night or I shall 
 kiss you. I should lose my case with the Bishop." 
 
 Constance laughed, and the time slipped by in 
 discussion and chatter which grated on Helen's 
 nerves. When the clock struck seven there was a 
 hurried gathering up of costumes and accessories, 
 a quarter of an hour of last words and suggestions, 
 and then Mabel rang the bell for Marie. 
 
310 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 "I want to speak to you," began Helen, who 
 had lingered behind. 
 
 " Well — speak," said Mabel, ringing the bell 
 again impatiently. 
 
 " Win you let Marie wait a few minutes, Mabel? 
 There is time enough." 
 
 Mabel turned. 
 
 " Do you mean you have something — particular 
 — to say ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Can't you wait till to-morrow ? You know I 
 am the Foolish Virgin to-night. You could n't get 
 a drop of wisdom out of me." 
 
 Helen summoned up aU her resolution. 
 
 " I am not going to be treated in this way. I 
 don't know what I have done, but if I cannot have 
 either your love or your courtesy you cannot have 
 my society." 
 
 She had gone too far. She had intended to 
 soothe, not aggravate. Indignation at what she 
 considered Mabel's flippancy had carried her away. 
 
 Mabel looked at her in astonishment. " It has 
 got to come," she thought. But she was not ready. 
 Would she ever be ready? 
 
 " Cannot you wait tiU to-morrow ? " — herself 
 waiting for the sound of Marie's footsteps. " We 
 will have our breakfast here together. It will be 
 quiet, and there will be plenty of time, — there 's 
 hardly enough to dress now. I have something to 
 say to you too." 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 311 
 
 She saw instaatly the effect produced by tMs last 
 declaration, and in this she was not mistaken. 
 Helen had expected one of Mabel's sudden alterna- 
 tions of mood, — an explanation, she hardly knew 
 in what form, — ending in reconciliation. She had 
 resolved it should not be too easy, and had had a 
 vision of a penitent Mabel, confessing that she was 
 too old and too reasonable to act like a petulant 
 child. The Mabel she saw was calmer and more 
 in earnest than she was herself, and her quiet an- 
 nouncement that she also had something to say 
 frightened her. Her father used to send for her 
 as a little girl with the same message of mysterious 
 import, and she felt now as she did then when she 
 went trembling to his door wondering what that 
 awful " something " could be. 
 
 " How many times must I ring, Marie, before 
 you deign to answer the beU ? " 
 
 Marie had run aU the way upstairs, but knew the 
 laws of mechanics too well to attempt the repres- 
 sion of escaping steam. Experience had taught her 
 that a fit of generosity generally followed an explo- 
 sion of this sort, and that meekness was better than 
 explanations. She had also observed the signs of 
 an unusual storm, and had the wit to see that her 
 insignificant self was not the cause of it. She 
 therefore closed the door softly after Helen and 
 went about her duties in silence. 
 
 The evening's entertainment was a great success. 
 There was an amusing French monologue by the 
 
312 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 attache, with charades and tableaux, the audience 
 being increased by a large delegation from Lem- 
 ington. Paul came up from New York by the last 
 train, and entered just as Margaret sat down before 
 the piano at Mabel's request for an impromptu 
 closing dance, — the Virginia reel. Mabel caught 
 the secret glance of intelligence which passed be- 
 tween Paul and Margaret and interpreted it cor- 
 rectly. She was in her best mood, sensitive as the 
 most delicate instrument in a physical laboratory 
 to everything about her ; but the Bishop touched 
 the wrong chord when, bidding her good-night, he 
 said, with a playful smile and admonishing shake 
 of the head, " You made sin very attractive." 
 
 She blazed up at once. 
 
 " There is n't enough blood in my veins for two," 
 she replied, " but I would give the last drop — for 
 one I loved." The sentence began in deadly ear- 
 nest, and ended in such an uncertain mixture of 
 seriousness and mockery that the Bishop could not 
 choose between them. 
 
 After a function of any description Mrs. Frazer 
 liked to talk things over, and with Paul and Mar- 
 garet was waiting for Dolly to finish her last words 
 with her scattering guests, when Mabel joined them 
 as though she were one of the family and privi- 
 leged to remain. 
 
 " Did you see Mr. Heald to-day ? " asked Dolly, 
 coming up. " He said he would write." 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 313 
 
 Helen was saying good-night, but the question 
 made her linger, ostensibly for Mabel, as was nat- 
 ural. 
 
 " Yes," said Paul. " I met him by chance down 
 town." 
 
 " When is he coming back ? " 
 
 " I don't think he will come back at all." 
 
 Helen listened intently. 
 
 " I am glad of it ! " exclaimed Mrs. Frazer. « I 
 cannot tolerate him." 
 
 " Why, Laurinda ! " said DoUy reproachfully ; 
 " you should not speak so of my guests." 
 
 " You need not defend him," interposed Mabel. 
 " I am responsible for him. I asked you to invite 
 him." 
 
 " He needs no defense here," said DoUy with dig- 
 nity. " Mrs. Trazer does not mean what she says." 
 
 " I should be willing to put my opinion to vote," 
 persisted Mrs. Frazer. 
 
 Paul set his foot on the threatening blaze by 
 saying that the weather in New York was detest- 
 able, and that he was glad to get back from fog to 
 sunshine. Then Helen withdrew and was presently 
 followed by Mabel, and Paul had at last the oppor- 
 timity to tell his news. 
 
 " No one knows," he said in finishing, " what 
 Jack has made out of this, — millions, perhaps. 
 As for Heald, Mrs. Frazer, I rather agreed with 
 you this morning. But he 's not such a bad fellow, 
 
314 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 after all. He 's in luck to have Jack Temple 
 instead of you to deal with, at any rate." 
 
 He did not feel at liberty to relate his conversa- 
 tion with Mr. Heald, but to Margaret, after the 
 others were gone, he told the whole story. 
 
 Helen went to her room with bitterness in her 
 heart. He was not coming back at all. And he 
 had not said or written a single word. 
 
 In the happiness of his first approaches she had 
 felt that new joy of being sought for, which came 
 into her lonely life, telling her that it had been 
 lonelier than she knew, hfting her out of nothing- 
 ness into the consciousness that she was worth 
 seeking. Happiness had almost passed her by. It 
 were a thousand times better it had never found 
 her if it were to forsake her now. She tried hard 
 not to doubt it, to silence her misgivings, but she 
 kept stealing back to it in thought, as a mother 
 steals to the cradle of her sick child to search its 
 face for reassuring signs, and when she went to 
 bed she held it in the shelter of her arms. 
 
 Was it doomed to die ? What, after all, had he 
 said or done ? He did not love Mabel, — that he 
 had said. And Mabel had said she would be de- 
 lighted if he asked her — Helen — to marry him. 
 At the time this had given her unfeigned happi- 
 ness. It gave her none now. He had not asked 
 her. The thought that Mabel should ever know 
 that choked her. Why had she allowed Mabel to 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 315 
 
 get even a glimpse of her heart so soon? And 
 why had she trifled with fortune when it looked 
 her way ? Because she was not sure of herself, 
 because it was so sudden, because the infinite great- 
 ness of Love when she looked into its face fright- 
 ened her, and, worst of aU, because she was not 
 sure of him. No one seemed to like him thoroughly. 
 Would that make any difference if she really loved 
 him? She remembered one of her school friends 
 who had been years making up her mind, who de- 
 clared she never had made it up herself, that it 
 had been made up for her when her lover caught 
 her in his arms. AU became clear then, and the 
 marriage had been a very happy one. Was that 
 the story of all women ? It was not the picture 
 she had drawn. It was the right and glory of a 
 woman to love as wholly, as consciously, as the man 
 who wooed her. Why then had she run away that 
 day in the picture-gallery? She had told him she 
 hated him. She tried to feel that had been a 
 grievous fault. Why had she said so ? It was not 
 true. Why had she put him off afterwards ? Every 
 barrier between them she had set up herself. Yet 
 in the depth of her heart she knew aU this was 
 miserable subterfuge. If he really loved her he 
 would have broken every barrier down. She had 
 wanted nothing less than to feel the arms about 
 her, even when she turned her back and walked 
 away. And they had not come. 
 
316 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 A hundred times before she fell asleep she was 
 on the point of lighting her candle and writing him 
 a letter. She wrote it and re-wrote it in thought, 
 always the same, a single word : Come. But he 
 had left her without a word, without a sign a wait- 
 ing woman might read; and she went over and 
 over all that had passed between them since their 
 meeting in the Academy, the foolish raillery which 
 had been so sweet in the anticipation of what was 
 to come seemed foolish indeed, and her poor little 
 romance grew more and more threadbare and in- 
 siacere. 
 
 The truth was, and she knew it, she was afraid 
 — afraid of him. She was willing to be a little 
 afraid of the man she loved, but her fear was the 
 fear of mistrust, — a fatal fear for love. Perhaps 
 it was not love of him, but of independence ; the 
 longing to escape from the single-handed struggle 
 with the world and the dread of falling back from 
 ease and luxury into the little miseries of life. How 
 willingly she would have undergone the supreme 
 test, the embrace of the loving arms that should 
 wake her out of this nightmare of doubt with their 
 final Yes or No. 
 
 Then, not knowing whether she had been dream- 
 ing or asleep, she heard a voice calling : — 
 
 " Helen, Helen, are you awake ? " 
 
XXVI 
 
 There was a portion of the daily mail of Cedar 
 Hill wHch did not commonly penetrate beyond the 
 precincts of the servants' dining-room, for which 
 Dolly had generously provided a sum devoted to 
 the gratification of its literary tastes. It consisted 
 chiefly of publications given up to the record of 
 social events, descriptions of the mode of life and 
 manner of dressing of sovereigns and other distin- 
 guished personages, rules for correct behavior in 
 poHte society, reproductions of the physical attrac- 
 tions of the stage, and advice suited to a variety of 
 delicate or difficult situations in Hfe. 
 
 On this particular morning, however, interest in 
 these things was overshadowed by the lurid account 
 in an evening paper of the tragedy at the Carleton. 
 It was not an altogether correct version. Had it 
 been so it would have failed of its mission, which 
 was, incidentally, to produce the greatest possible 
 effect upon the appetite for news, and thus, tilti- 
 mately, upon the office receipts. The butler read 
 it aloud in solemn tones to an awestruck audience 
 before the house was astir, and Marie had placed 
 it on the tray with other less interesting mail 
 
318 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 matter to await the signal for which, for once in 
 her life, she impatiently listened. To her relief it 
 came earlier than usual. 
 
 " Something dreadful 's happened, Miss Mabel," 
 she said, while yet feeling her way to the table in 
 the darkened room. " They 've shot Mr. Heald." 
 
 Mabel sat up in bed, scarcely comprehending, 
 what she heard. 
 
 When she fell asleep she was as far as ever from 
 being ready. She had slept soundly, without a 
 dream, as men wiU on the eve of execution, and 
 had waked suddenly, every sense wide open, as far 
 from being ready as when she dropped into her 
 leaden sleep. She had had moments of self-delu- 
 sion, as men wiU have who are doomed to die, when 
 she could almost persuade herself that it was all a 
 nightmare, that Helen had reaUy nothiag impor- 
 tant to say, and that when she rang her bell Marie 
 would come and open the shutters to the light and 
 happiness of her old, every-day life. Then she fell 
 back into the darkness of reality, groping fever- 
 ishly for the door which she could not find, lying very 
 still the while, as a man bound fast hand and foot 
 must Ke, though he wrestles in mind •with, the suf- 
 focation and oppression of his helplessness. Then, 
 as men will do who must move forward into the 
 unknown whether they wish to or not, she rang the 
 beU in sheer exhaustion — to end it all. 
 
 " They 've shot Mr. Heald ! " It was not the 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 319 
 
 door she had been groping for. It was the un- 
 expected, undreamed-of door. Marie's announce- 
 ment was a lightning flash, but its import came 
 slowly, gathering force little by little, as the fol- 
 lowing thunder does. 
 
 " Open the blinds, Marie," — she said it from 
 force of habit, — « and put the tray here, on the 
 bed. Now you may go." She saw the paper, but 
 she would not touch it till she was alone. "Is 
 Helen awake ? " 
 
 Marie said no one was up yet. It was only seven 
 o'clock. Should she get the bath ready ? 
 
 "No." 
 
 It was the no of dismissal, and Marie reluctantly 
 withdrew. 
 
 " Awful tragedy at the Carleton. Mr. Reginald 
 Heald, the well-known Wall Street operator, as- 
 saulted by a victim of the Argonaut deal. Con- 
 dition serious, but not desperate. The would-be 
 assassin surrenders himseK. Eevenge said to be 
 the motive. Suspicious check found on his person. 
 The mystery being probed by our special reporter," 
 — and so it went on in leaded type for several 
 columns. 
 
 The details were nothing to Mabel. There was 
 only one fact for her, — this was the man she 
 loved. And aU the rights and privileges of love 
 became instantly hers. There was no other love 
 besides hers in the world. She got up, holding the 
 
320 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 paper tightly in her hand, slipped into her dress- 
 ing-gown, and went to Helen's door. 
 
 " Helen, Helen, are you awake? " 
 
 Without waiting for an answer she drew back 
 the curtain from the window and let in the gray 
 morning light. 
 
 « Is that you, Mabel ? What is the matter ? " 
 
 For answer Mabel put the paper into Helen's 
 hand and sat down on the edge of the bed, pos- 
 sessed by one thought only, — this was the woman 
 in the way. She had stood so long between the two 
 impossibilities of self-effacement and self-assertion 
 that any door, though it opened upon another agony, 
 was a relief. 
 
 She watched Helen's face breathlessly. There 
 was a scared look in her eyes. Was it possible 
 they saw no opportunity? Were they blind, or 
 dead? And instantly, out of the night in her 
 heart, something, which was not yet hope, shone 
 like a light glimmering far away in the darkness. 
 It was all she could do to keep it out of sight, out 
 of her own eyes, hidden, where it burned in the 
 depth of her heart. 
 
 " Helen, Helen," she said, " do you love him 
 enough to go to him ? " 
 
 All her soul was in the question and all her fate 
 in its answer. 
 
 " Helen, dear," she repeated, bending over the 
 head buried in the pillow, and laying her hand on 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 321 
 
 the shoulders shaken with sobs, "that is your 
 place." 
 
 " My place," cried Helen, — her face was hid- 
 den from sight, — " oh no — no — it was never 
 mine." 
 
 " Do you mean " — The words died on her 
 lips. 
 
 " He never loved me — it was all a lie, a cruel 
 lie " — the words came fast with her tears — "a 
 cruel, cruel lie." 
 
 There was silence. 
 
 " And you ? " It was almost a whisper. 
 
 Helen raised herself with a sudden energy. 
 The question almost stopped the tears. 
 
 " I should hate him if he were not dying." 
 
 " He is not dying," said Mabel gently. Not all 
 the newspapers in the world could make her believe 
 that. She was growing calmer. The light in her 
 heart burned stronger and steadier. But she made 
 one more effort to put it out. 
 
 "Helen dear, Helen, you may be wrong. It 
 woidd be terrible now — when he is in trouble. 
 Is there no pity, no forgiveness, in your heart ? " 
 She took the swaying figure to her breast and hid 
 the hght in her own eyes in Helen's hair. 
 
 " It might have been once — it is too late — it 
 is dead — he has killed it — killed it ! Oh, why 
 was it ever born ! " She held her stricken Love 
 in her arms as a mother holds her dead child. 
 
322 HIS DAUGHTEE FIRST 
 
 " But, Helen, nothing is too late for love " — she 
 was speaking wildly, but she went steadily on. 
 " It costs nothing to forgive the man you love — 
 it's joy" — 
 
 Helen freed herself from the encircling arms 
 and looked into Mabel's eyes. Her own were dry 
 now. 
 
 " Do you mean you would throw yourself into 
 the arms of a man who had mocked you — insulted 
 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Who had — I don't know what he has done — 
 but who has done enough to drive his victim to 
 murder ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Mabel, you love him." 
 
 " I refused him — once." 
 
 " And now ? " 
 
 " If you do not go to him, I shall." 
 
 " Does he love you ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " He has told you so — again ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Here, since we came ? " The last poor rem- 
 nant of her romance was shriveling up like a bit of 
 paper in the flames. 
 
 " Yes, I refused him again." 
 
 " For my sake ? " 
 
 " No, for my own." 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIEST 323 
 
 "Then lie has always loved you," she said 
 slowly. 
 
 " I do not ask," said Mabel in a low voice. She 
 was thinking of what might have happened if she 
 had never invited him to Cedar HiU, or warned 
 him in the train not to play with Helen. 
 
 " And you think I could love a man who played 
 fast and loose with two women, who " — 
 
 " Take care, Helen ! " But she repressed the 
 rush of feeling and humbled herself again. " Ee- 
 member, I have been loyal to him and to you." 
 
 " Go — go " — It was the cry of the heart 
 that wants to be alone. 
 
 Mabel rose from the bedside and went slowly to 
 the door. Her fingers were on the handle before 
 she turned. 
 
 " If I go out of your room now — so," — her 
 voice began to quiver, then steadied again, — "I 
 go out of your life. Is that what you wish? " 
 
 Helen sprang from the bed and caught her in 
 hfir arms. 
 
 " No, oh no ! but go — go." And then the door 
 was shut and Mabel was alone. 
 
 She knew it was better so, that she had no 
 words of healing to give. Her mind was fixed 
 already on other things. She went down the 
 long haU resolutely tiH she came to Mrs. Frazer's 
 door, knocked, and without waiting for an answer 
 went in. 
 
324 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Mrs. Frazer was still in bed ; her breakfast, un- 
 touched, was on the table beside her. The open 
 paper which fell from her hand as Mabel entered 
 explained why. One glance at her visitor's white 
 face was sufficient to tell her that the shot fired in 
 New York had struck two. 
 
 " Will you do something for me ? " said Mabel. 
 
 " What is it, dear ? " said Mrs. Frazer, forget- 
 ting even that her wig was on the dressing-table. 
 
 " 1 want you to go to New York with me." 
 
 " To New York ! " gasped Mrs. Frazer. 
 
 " There is a train at nine o'clock." 
 
 " But, my dear child " — 
 
 " If you will not come with me I shall go 
 alone." 
 
 Mrs. Frazer glanced at the clock ticking on the 
 table. Questions were needless and expostulations 
 vain — that was clear. 
 
 " I do not want to see any one. You can tell 
 Mrs. Kensett," said Mabel. 
 
 " You realize that every one will know ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Mrs. Frazer took one of the cold white hands and 
 pressed it gently. 
 
 "Ring my bell," she said quietly. " I will meet 
 you on the piazza in half an hour." 
 
 "I shall be at the gate," said Mabel simply. 
 Her gratitude was in her eyes. 
 
 Three quarters of an hour later they were 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 325 
 
 driving through the morning mist to the Westford 
 station. 
 
 There was one item in Mabel's account with 
 Mrs. Frazer for services rendered which was never 
 set down, and whose magnitude she never appre- 
 ciated: the work accomplished in the half hour 
 before they started for New York. " I did not 
 dress," Mrs. Frazer used to say in relating the 
 events of the day, " I was harnessed. I hope the 
 Lord win forgive me for the things left undone. 
 It worries me now to think of them. But dear 
 me ! nothing is important in itself, not even the 
 getting on of one's wig straight." 
 
 She had sent for Dolly at once, and in such gaps 
 as her toilet allowed had explained the situation, 
 and made some suggestions. They were sugges- 
 tions in form, but in fact were decrees of law. 
 Dolly was overpowered by the rush of events and 
 the number of her instructions. She was to order 
 the sleigh at once. She was to get from Paul the 
 receipt Jack had signed for Mr. Heald, — it might 
 prove useful. She was to say anything she pleased 
 in explanation of Mabel's departure, — it did not 
 matter much what she said, — and she was to 
 accept the slightest intimation on the part of her 
 guests that the house party should come to an end, 
 — she was to intimate it herseK if necessary. She 
 was to see that Marie packed Mabel's trunks and 
 went to New York that afternoon, — for Mabel, of 
 
326 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 course, could not return. Above all, she was to 
 keep out of the way. In addition to all this she 
 was constantly called upon to assist Mrs. Frazer's 
 maid, a silent, middle-aged woman, incapable of 
 doing in the half of one hour what had always 
 required two. The purse was in the back corner 
 of the upper drawer ; the flask of whiskey was 
 vaguely indicated as " somewhere in the closet ; " 
 there were her smelling salts, and handkerchief, 
 and spectacles, — the lorgnette could not be found, 
 being on the bed under the newspaper, — and at 
 last Mrs. Frazer, wrapped in her cloak, marched 
 down the stairs. As she got into the sleigh wait- 
 ing for her she laid her hand impressively on 
 Dolly's arm, and said : — 
 
 " To think that of all this we saw nothing ! " 
 There was a sHm figure in a dark gray dress at 
 the gate. Not a word was said as they drove down 
 the Westford road, except once when Mabel asked 
 if there was plenty of time. The night express 
 was an hour late. It was the long weary hour 
 with which Fate sometimes mocks us, when the 
 wheels of Time stand still at the wrong moment. 
 Mrs. Frazer said it was the longest hour of her 
 life. She looked up the track to where it curved 
 out of sight, as if looking would bring the belated 
 train ; and then they walked up and down, up and 
 down the platform, white with the night's frost, tiU 
 the cold drove them into the dismal room again and 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 327 
 
 its close hot air drove them back into the cold. 
 At last the welcome roar came down the valley, 
 the mighty engine panted in, and the engineer in 
 his cab, seeing a white face staring into his as he 
 went by, thought of wife and children at home, and 
 said to himself that if the signals showed a clear 
 track he conld make up half his lost time. 
 
 At the Grand Central Station Mabel led the 
 way. Almost anything became her, but Mrs. 
 Frazer thought she had never seen her so beautiful 
 in spite of the paleness and dark-circled eyes — or 
 so faultlessly dressed. And being a woman, she 
 sighed and wished she was yoimg. 
 
 The boy with the morning papers had passed 
 through the car before they reached New York. 
 Either Mabel had not seen him, or did not dare to. 
 She sat still, her gaze fixed on the flying landscape, 
 one hand fast in Mrs. Frazer's under her cloak, 
 repeating to herseK, " If the need came to me, 
 would any barrier keep you away ? " 
 
 " The Carleton," she said, as they got into the 
 coupe. 
 
 Mrs. Frazer stood in no great awe of the pro- 
 prieties. She had scoffed at the conventional aU 
 her life. Still, as the coupe rolled on, she began 
 to think what was to be done. She concluded to 
 cross no bridges tUl she came to them, and to do as 
 far as possible what Mabel wished. They stopped 
 at the ladies' entrance, and a hall-boy came to the 
 
328 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 carriage door as they drove up, looking, as all the 
 rest of the world did, as if nothing had happened. 
 
 " Show us to Mr. Heald's room," said Mabel. 
 
 The boy's face betrayed immediate interest and 
 hesitation. 
 
 " Do you hear what I say? " said Mrs. Frazer, who 
 had said nothing. " Show us to Mr. Heald's room." 
 
 " The doctor 's up there," replied the boy con- 
 fusedly. 
 
 " So much the better," said Mrs. Frazer tran- 
 quilly. She had taken command again. 
 
 " This is his parlor," said the boy after they had 
 left the elevator and traversed the long hall. 
 " Who shall I say " — 
 
 Mrs. Frazer waved him aside and opened the 
 door. The emergency doctor, summoned in haste 
 the night before, seeing a woman enter so uncere- 
 moniously, jumped at the probable. 
 
 "Mrs. Heald, I presume," he said, advancing 
 from the inner room. 
 
 " I am for the present," said Laiirinda. 
 
 " He will be glad to see you— I was not aware " — 
 He was beginning to grasp the strangeness of the 
 reply. 
 
 " Then I may go in ? " 
 
 " Certainly. I am happy to say " — 
 
 Mrs. Frazer turned to Mabel. " Go, dear," she 
 said softly. 
 
 Mabel's resolution had vanished. He was alive. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 329 
 
 She had heard the reassuring words. Her heart 
 was beating so cruelly that she could not move. 
 
 " Go, dear, go." 
 
 Then she went in, and Mrs. Frazer closed the 
 door behind her and shut out the world. 
 
 " It was an ugly wound," explained the doctor, 
 " but nothing dangerous. A man does the right 
 thing instinctively. He put out his hand. That 
 probably saved his hfe, Mrs. Heald." 
 
 " I am not Mrs. Heald," said Laurinda sharply, 
 " I am Mrs. Frazer." The doctor smiled discreetly. 
 The smile irritated Mrs. Frazer, and she went on 
 tartly. " The young lady " — she motioned to the 
 closed door — " is Miss Temple." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know her father." 
 
 " Very likely, Mr." — 
 
 " Drummond," said the doctor. 
 
 — " Mr. Drummond, and you will know nothing 
 of what I tell you till I authorize you. Have you 
 a nurse here ? " 
 
 " She is at breakfast, Mrs. Frazer." 
 
 " Very good, I will remain till she returns. 
 Meanwhile will you have the kindness to send this 
 card to Mr. John Temple of Gramercy Park. The 
 coupe at the door is mine." She took a card from 
 her chatelaine bag, wrote a few words in pencil, 
 and inclosed it in an envelope from the desk by the 
 window. " You have no directions to leave before 
 you go ? " she asked. 
 
330 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " None. You may cotint upon my discre- 
 tion." 
 
 " There is no discretion needed," said Mrs. 
 Frazer, unbending. " It is quite sufficient that I 
 am dealing with a gentleman." 
 
 The doctor bowed and withdrew. Mrs. Frazer 
 followed him to the door and rang the bell. 
 
 " Bring me some breakfast," she said to the 
 waiter ; " a bit of broUed steak and some coffee, 
 and a baked apple, with cream. Is there a tele- 
 phone in the house ? Well — send for Mr. Tem- 
 ple's carriage — of Gramercy Park." 
 
 She was taking off her cloak and arranging her 
 wig before the mirror above the fireplace when the 
 door opened and shut, a pair of arms were flimg 
 about her neck, and a face sobbing with joy was on 
 her breast. 
 
 " He wants to speak to you," said Mabel. " I 
 must see papa at once." 
 
 " Now listen to me, child. Have you eaten any- 
 thing this morning ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I thought not. You cannot subsist on air or 
 happiness." 
 
 " But I must see papa at once. It is absolutely 
 necessary." 
 
 " You wUl eat first. I have ordered something 
 for you, and I have telephoned for your carriage. 
 Here is the breakfast now. The carriage will be 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 331 
 
 here before you have finished. It 's not proper for 
 you to be driving about alone in a cab." 
 
 " I cannot eat here," said Mabel. « What do 
 you think papa will say ? " She was excited, eager 
 to go. " You think of everything. Oh, how good 
 you have been to me ! " 
 
 " I have n't the least idea what he will say," 
 Mrs. Frazer said, moving toward the door. " I 
 have known people to be very nasty under such 
 circumstances. I left word with Marie to come 
 down this afternoon. I shall get you home and 
 return by the three o'clock train. Sit down now 
 and eat your breakfast like a sensible girl." Then 
 she went in. 
 
 Mr. Heald was sitting in a chair by the window, 
 his bandaged arm in a sUng. 
 
 " I want to thank you for your kindness to 
 Mabel, Mrs. Frazer," he said, making an effort to 
 rise. 
 
 She waved him back and sat down. " One does 
 what one can with a runaway horse, Mr. Heald." 
 
 " She is a noble girl, — it is more than I de- 
 serve." 
 
 " I have heard that remark from men before," 
 said Mrs. Frazer freezingly. " You seem to have 
 succeeded in making her over ; perhaps she may 
 do the same for you. I shall take her to her fa- 
 ther, and then wash my hands of the whole busi- 
 ness." 
 
332 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 Mr. Heald smiled. " You have been very good," 
 he said, " but I have one more thing to ask of you. 
 I have some business to settle with Mr. Temple of 
 which I have said nothing to Mabel. If he would 
 be so good as to come here before he sees his 
 daughter, — do you think you could arrange that ? 
 I must see him before she does. It is a question 
 of honor." 
 
 " I know all about it," said Laurinda, enjoying 
 the stupefaction which spread over his face. " Mr. 
 Graham has been made referee. He told me so 
 last night." 
 
 " You seem to know everything, Mrs. Frazer." 
 
 " On the contrary," she replied grimly, " so 
 much has gone on under my eyes which I never 
 suspected that I believe I am in my dotage." 
 
 " But I must see Mr. Temple," he repeated 
 earnestly. " You would be the first to say so if 
 you knew aU." 
 
 " Why ? Mr. Graham has his instructions from 
 Mr. Temple. "Would you like to look at them ? " 
 She took a paper from her bag and handed it to 
 him. 
 
 He read it slowly, twice. 
 
 " My God ! " he exclaimed, " I can't accept that, 
 — it is impossible." 
 
 " You won't get any better terms out of John 
 Temple," said Mrs. Frazer. " Moreover, you are 
 not in a position to exact them." 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 333 
 
 He passed his unwounded hand over his forehead 
 in a dazed sort of way. 
 
 " Will you call Miss Temple, please ? " 
 
 Mrs. Frazer went to the door. 
 
 " Mercy," she cried, " the child 's gone I " 
 
XXVII 
 
 Jack was sitting at the head of the long table 
 in the directors' room on the first floor when Mrs. 
 Frazer's message was brought in from the office. 
 The word urgent was a familiar superscription, 
 generally indicating something of more importance 
 to the writer than to the reader, and he twirled the 
 envelope between his thumb and forefinger till the 
 speaker, who was stating his views on the reorgani- 
 zation scheme before the Board, had finished ; then, 
 while talking with his nearest neighbor, he took up 
 his heavy scissors and cut the edge. Mrs. Frazer's 
 card feU out. 
 
 "Mabel is here. I have done what I could. 
 You had best come and attend to the rest yourself." 
 
 It was not a very explicit message. It was not 
 intended to be. It was hopeless to attempt an 
 explanation on a visiting card, it was considerate 
 not to excite undue alarm, yet it was imperative to 
 excite enough to tear Mr. Temple away from less 
 important business. 
 
 Jack's mind reviewed aU the possibilities, and 
 settled upon iUness as the most probable. Mabel 
 was a nervous, high-strung girl, always well to be 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 335 
 
 sure, but certainly not used to surgical operations. 
 Something serious it must be to make her abandon 
 a house party at Cedar Hill. Yet the tenor of the 
 message as he re-read it did not exactly fit the 
 illness theory, and there was no address. " Here " 
 must mean home, he thought. 
 
 He asked permission to state his views on the 
 question before the Board, expressed his approval 
 of the plan submitted by the Committee, suggested 
 an adjournment in case of any divergence of 
 opinion, requested the vice-president to take the 
 chair, and excused himself on the ground of an 
 unexpected and pressing private call. He went 
 upstairs with Mrs. Frazer's card in his hand, pre- 
 occupied and uneasy, less and less satisfied with his 
 first conjecture. Mabel had never justified the anx- 
 iety with which he had watched her development. 
 As he had said to the Bishop in all sincerity, she 
 had been a good girl. She had often threatened to 
 be what she never was and to do what she never 
 did, and he remembered with satisfaction that she 
 had always stopped short of precipices with a sur- 
 prising display of prudence and sense of responsi- 
 bility. StiU, he would have felt less concern if he 
 were dealing with a boy. He knew what boys 
 might do, — but a woman ! 
 
 He left word for Mr. Brown that he could not 
 see him that afternoon about the superintendency 
 of the Argonaut mine, and would arrange for an 
 
336 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 interview later. Then he glanced over a litter of 
 papers and documents on his desk, closed the roll- 
 ing top, and was putting on his coat when the door 
 opened and shut quickly and a pair of arms were 
 flung about his neck. It was a moment before he 
 could disengage himself, a moment in which he 
 realized that it was not illness, but the other thing 
 
 — whatever that might be. No, she was not iU, 
 she was ominously well. 
 
 " Mabel ! " he said, half-su£Eocated, " what is it ? 
 What brings you back ? " 
 
 She was sitting now, not in the visitor's chair, 
 but in his own, radiant with everything foreign to 
 " down town." He loved her, he was proud of her, 
 
 — he could not help it. 
 
 " Take off your coat, papa. I have lots to tell 
 
 you." 
 
 Jack hung up his coat and sat down in the visit- 
 or's chair. 
 
 "First — do you love me?" She was on his 
 knees now, looking into his eyes. 
 
 He admitted that he did. " But what does this 
 mean, Mabel?" he said, halfway between sternness 
 and relentment. 
 
 "It means this, papa: I am going to be mar- 
 ried." And then came the real surprise. Mabel, 
 who was never silly or hysterical, burst into tears. 
 " I want you to be pleased, papa," — and that was 
 all she could say. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 337 
 
 Jack's face had relaxed. So she wanted to be 
 married! Was that all? He did not believe in 
 interfering with affairs of the heart. He knew that 
 when men try to dam the waters of love they are 
 generally swept away. He kissed the tear-stained 
 face and irretrievably committed himself to this 
 view by saying he was pleased. At the same time 
 with the relief came a disturbing sense of helpless- 
 ness. His child was never so near or so dear to 
 him, yet he was abdicating. Who was taking his 
 place? He realized the enormous difference be- 
 tween theory and practice when Mabel first pro- 
 nounced Mr. Heald's name. It was impossible to 
 conceal the fact that this was not the man he would 
 have chosen. Mabel could read that in his silence 
 and in the shadow of disappointment on his face. 
 But nothing daunts love at the flood. 
 
 " Papa dear, it had to be — I could not help it " 
 — and then, between tears and kisses, she told him 
 all she chose to teU. He listened patiently, sym- 
 pathetically, more helpless than ever before the 
 confidence and serenity of love. She could not 
 help it — nor he ! It was all settled, fixed, con- 
 summated. She made that clear, not arrogantly, 
 but with sweet conviction. It had to be ! He was 
 thinking meanwhile that after aU the Argonaut 
 mine was not likely to change hands. 
 
 " But, Mabel," he said, at the first pause, " why 
 should you come to New York in this way ? Could 
 you not wait — did not Mrs. Frazer " — 
 
338 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " Papa dear, you must n't try to understand 
 everything." She was quite calm now. " Can 
 you explain every single thing you do ? " Jack's 
 thoughts went back into the past. No, he cer- 
 tainly could not do that. " Mrs. Frazer has been 
 very good to me. I think I love her next to you." 
 She looked up suddenly into his face. " I want 
 you to do something for me — promise me you wiU 
 — without asking what it is — wiU you, will 
 you?" 
 
 " I suppose I must promise you anything to-day, 
 Mabel." 
 
 " Would you go and thank her for me ? She is 
 to take the three o'clock train for Westford. She 
 ought not to go alone, do you think so ? Is there 
 anything to prevent you from going with her ? 
 You might bring back Marie, you know, — and 
 explain to Mrs. Kensett," — she paused, then 
 added, " I would rather be alone to-day." 
 
 Jack took out his watch. " There is n't much 
 time," he said. 
 
 " There is time enough, papa. You can telephone 
 to the house and have your things sent to the train. 
 You can't get back to-night, you know." 
 
 "You think it would gratify Mrs. Frazer? " 
 
 " It would gratify me, papa, to have your open 
 approval — at once — with every one." 
 
 That seemed reasonable. His finger was on the 
 bell and he was about to ring, when Mabel spoke. 
 
HIS DAUGHTEE FIRST 339 
 
 " Wait a moment, papa ; I have another reason, 
 I have quarreled with Helen." 
 
 " Quarreled with Helen ! " It was a day of sur- 
 prises. He turned, waiting for her to explain. 
 She had gone to the window, the window out of 
 which he had so often looked away from care into 
 another world, and was silently putting on her 
 gloves. " I hope you are not to blame, Mahel." 
 
 " I am not solely to blame." 
 
 " Do you wish me to take her any message ? " 
 
 « No." 
 
 He was completely at a loss to understand. 
 " If you are to blame at all, Mabel, would n't that 
 be better — before she comes back ? " 
 
 " She will never come back." 
 
 " What ! " said Jack sharply. " Never come 
 back?" 
 
 She turned now, and he saw there were tears in 
 her eyes again. 
 
 " I cannot explain, papa. You must not ask. 
 If there is any explanation to be made she will 
 make it. But she never will." The logic was 
 hard to foUow. "I thought you ought to know 
 before you saw her. She wiU probably wish to go 
 home." He went over and laid his hand on her 
 shoulder. "Don't ask me any questions, please, 
 papa," she said, forestalling the one on his lips. 
 " She wiU not come back. I would not if I were 
 in her place." 
 
340 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " You cannot tell me what this means ? " 
 
 " No. She would not wish me to." How mer- 
 cifully dull men were I 
 
 He could make nothing out of it. He took a 
 turn across the room and came back again. 
 
 " You must be acting hastily, Mabel. Helen 
 has been a faithful companion and friend to you." 
 
 " Yes, but it is finished. She will tell you in 
 her own way. 1 should have left her to speak, to 
 make her own explanation, as is her right, but I 
 was afraid you would offer her money." 
 
 He was more bewildered than ever. " Money ? 
 I should certainly never allow her to leave us with- 
 out some acknowledgment of my appreciation of 
 her services. You would wish that too, Mabel." 
 
 " Yes, I could wish it — but you must not dare 
 — all the money in the world " — she stopped short. 
 " Papa, you must go, or you 'will be too late for 
 the train. Some day," she said, as she kissed him 
 good-by at the door, " I will tell you — not now. 
 It is her secret, not mine." 
 
 Jack pondered without result over the matter 
 all the way up town. His man with his bag caught 
 him as the train was moving out. He walked 
 through the cars in search of Mrs. Frazer, and 
 found her sitting wrapped in her cloak, with her 
 back to every one in the car. 
 
 " Well " — he said, dropping into the chair be- 
 side her. She did not seem surprised to see him. 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 341 
 
 and made no reply at once. She was in the stage 
 of reaction, not altogether sure whether she ap- 
 proved of herself and the world in general or not. 
 
 " John," she said at length piteously, " I knew 
 no more of what was going on than a blind puppy." 
 Then she proceeded to tell him her story, in which 
 were certain particulars Mabel had omitted from 
 hers. 
 
 "You did quite right," he said soothingly. 
 " There was nothing else to be done." 
 
 " Nothing," said Mrs. Frazer emphatically. 
 " We did not know but the man was dead. She 
 would certainly have gone without me." 
 
 " I think she would," assented Jack. " I am 
 very grateful to you, and you may be sure Mabel 
 is," he added warmly. " It was she who insisted 
 upon my going back with you." Mrs. Frazer's 
 mouth opened with attentive surprise. " You may 
 feel assured of that," Jack continued; "her heart 
 is sound." 
 
 There was a long silence during which something 
 seemed to be slowly taking shape in Mrs. Frazer's 
 mind. 
 
 " I think it will be best to send a telegram to 
 DoUy, to let her know we are coming," she said at 
 length. 
 
 Jack called the porter. 
 
 " Bring me a telegraph blank," interposed Mrs. 
 Frazer. She took a pencil from her bag and wrote 
 the message herself. 
 
342 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " John and I arrive by three o'clock train." 
 
 Her pencil hesitated at this point and she looked 
 out of the window before resuming. 
 
 "Don't be a goose. We have made no mis- 
 takes. Laurinda." 
 
 Then she folded the blank and gave it to the 
 porter. 
 
 Dolly received it about five o'clock, as the de- 
 pleted household was gathering around the tea- 
 table. It had been an exciting day for DoUy, and 
 although the machinery of Cedar HiU. ran on with 
 its accustomed smoothness, she was tired, and glad 
 to be alone. It had not been necessary to intimate 
 her preferences. Amusement being the raison 
 d'etre for the convocation, when amusement was 
 not to be thought of its dispersion became a mat- 
 ter of course. Mabel's abrupt departure was a 
 subject of subdued comment, but was tacitly left 
 in the background of silence. DoUy was never 
 ready with off-hand or specious explanations, de- 
 signed for smoothing over rough places or veiling 
 what could not be concealed. She would have 
 been glad to shield Mabel if she had known ex- 
 actly what to shield her from, but she did not. 
 Beyond some discreet expressions of surprise, no 
 one increased her difficidties by awkward ques- 
 tions. 
 
 Before tea-time every one had gone except 
 Helen, who, as Dolly explained to Margaret and 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 343 
 
 Paul, was very naturally much distressed by Ma- 
 bel's conduct. Dolly was not devoid of curiosity 
 or interest, and after the sleigh disappeared with 
 Mrs. Frazer under the trees of the avenue she had 
 gone to Helen's room for further light and infor- 
 mation. But Helen was evidently as completely 
 taken by surprise as she was herself. She was so 
 much older than Mabel, and took so much more 
 serious a view of life and of her responsibilities 
 that DoUy quite pitied her. She told her very 
 sweetly, in her effort to comfort, that she had no 
 reason to blame herself, and that she was sure Mr. 
 Temple would not hold her accountable for any- 
 thing which had happened. She advised her not 
 to worry, — as one always advises those who do, — 
 and opposed with aU the arguments at her com- 
 mand Helen's decision to make a visit to her home 
 in Boston. If she did not feel like going to Gra- 
 mercy Park, the next best thing to do was to stay 
 quietly at Cedar Hill tUl she heard from Mr. Tem- 
 ple. DoUy was always hopeful, and did her best 
 to persuade that aU would end well. But Helen 
 seemed benumbed by what Dolly thought an alto- 
 gether exaggerated idea of her responsibility. She 
 wanted to go to Boston, and she wanted to go at 
 once. Poor Helen ! it was her one refuge, — and 
 how she dreaded it ! 
 
 Paul was called upon to consult the time-tables. 
 It was found impossible to reach Boston without 
 
344 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 passing a night on the way. There was nothing to 
 do but to wait till the following morning. 
 
 " X don't see," Dolly was saying as she poured 
 the tea, " why Helen should feel so terribly cut up. 
 She is not in the least to blame. How could she 
 know anything? I have tried to induce her to 
 wait at least till Laurinda comes back. There may 
 be nothing to blame any way. But she has been 
 so close to Mabel for so long a time that I suppose " 
 — and Dolly left her sentence unfinished, as her 
 wont was. 
 
 " Is n't she coming down to tea ? " asked Paul. 
 
 " No. She is to have her dinner in her room. 
 She has been helping Marie with Mabel's paxjking 
 all the morning, and says she is tired." 
 
 Mrs. Frazer's telegram was brought in while 
 Dolly was speaking. 
 
 " Mr. Temple " — she could not read it " John " 
 as it was written — " ' and I arrive by three o'clock 
 train ' " — Then she stopped short. 
 
 " Is that aU ? " said Paul. " She is not very 
 explicit, is she ? " 
 
 DoUy thought she was explicit enough. Her 
 heart was beating furiously. She said she would 
 go and see if Helen had had her tea. Instead of 
 which she went directly to her own room, locked 
 and bolted the door, sat down before the mirror 
 over her dressing-table, and took one long look at 
 herself, stretched out her hands with a little cry of 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 345 
 
 happiness, and then buried her face in her arms. 
 It could not, could not, could not be ! Yet it was 
 the surest, truest, dearest thing in the world. 
 
 Mrs. Frazer and Jack arrived at six o'clock. 
 Paul went down to the station, and Margaret and 
 DoUy met them at the door. They sat down before 
 the fire in the breakfast-room where tea was served 
 again for the travelers, and talked the whole situa- 
 tion over, including the Argonaut mine. Jack 
 seemed to take things very quietly. He had no 
 blame for Mabel, and apologized for being there at 
 all. He said he felt he ought to have remained 
 with her, but she would not listen to it. She had 
 insisted upon his coming back with Mrs. Frazer. 
 But he would go down in the morning train. 
 Where was Helen ? 
 
 DoUy got up abruptly and said she would go and 
 see. 
 
 She did not return, however, and finally Mar- 
 garet went in search of her. Then Paul had to go 
 and find Margaret, and Mrs. Frazer was left alone 
 with Jack in the firelight. 
 
 " There was one matter of which I have said no- 
 thing as yet to any one," said Jack, walking slowly 
 back and forth before the fire ; " something which 
 has disturbed me a good deal. Mabel told me she 
 had quarreled with Helen." He stopped and looked 
 inquiringly at Mrs. Frazer. " Do you know any- 
 thing about it ? " 
 
346 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " I seem to know nothing about anything," she 
 replied a little tartly. " Quarreled with Helen ! 
 about what?" 
 
 " That is what I do not know. She would not 
 say. She was strangely reticent. She said Helen 
 would make her own explanations — and then 
 again that Helen would not." 
 
 Mrs. Frazer listened in silence, her eyes fixed on 
 the slumbering fire, while Jack repeated his con- 
 versation with Mabel. 
 
 " I cannot understand why she should not wish 
 to go back to Gramercy Park. Do you think you 
 could find out what the trouble is?" 
 
 " I think the less said about quarrels the better, 
 John." 
 
 " Yes, that was my own thought at first. But it 
 must be something serious. Have you no idea what 
 it can be ? " 
 
 Mrs. Frazer looked up from the fire into his 
 face. What fools men were, — and women too ! 
 
 " Mabel has no further need of Helen." 
 
 "No," replied Jack, "but it is a pity things 
 should end in this way. It has always been a 
 question with me what would become of Helen, 
 Mabel has not needed her, strictly speaking, for 
 some time. Bift she would never listen to her 
 going. I hoped she might marry. She would 
 make some one a good wife." 
 
 " Have n't we husbands enough on our hands for 
 one day, John ? " 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 347 
 
 "If Helen were really to leave us," he con- 
 tinued, " I should like to — to " — 
 
 " To what, John ? " 
 
 — "to show her in some substantial way our 
 appreciation of all she has done for Mabel. You 
 know she has been with us since Mabel was ten 
 years old. I supposed that would be Mabel's wish 
 too." 
 
 " Well, was n't it ? " 
 
 ". She declared it was impossible." 
 
 Then silence fell upon them. 
 
 " What would you do ? " Jack asked at length. 
 
 " I should go and dress for dinner," said Mrs. 
 Frazer. 
 
 The conversation at the dinner-table was inter- 
 mittent and constrained. Jack was thoughtful and 
 quiet. DoUy was nervous and tranquil at inter- 
 vals. Scarcely a word could be extracted from 
 Mrs. Frazer. She looked very much like a bomb- 
 shell on the eve of explosion. 
 
 The explosion came later in the evening when 
 Paul had gone off with Margaret and the three 
 were alone in the room which had been so gay with 
 laughter the night before. 
 
 " John," said Mrs. Frazer, looking up from her 
 finished solitaire and putting the cards away in 
 their leather case, " to-day is Wednesday. You are 
 going to New York to-morrow ? " 
 
348 HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 
 
 " Certainly," said Jack. 
 
 " Cotild I trouble you to engage my passage on 
 the Saturday Cunarder ? I am going to Cairo." 
 
 " Laurinda ! " exclaimed Dolly. 
 
 "This climate depresses me, — I need a 
 change " — 
 
 "But Margaret is to be married in the spring! " 
 
 " Well, I am not going to marry her, am I ? " 
 said Mrs. Frazer. 
 
 Dolly was dimibfounded. 
 
 " It 's a doleful business, traveling alone," Mrs. 
 Frazer said with a sigh. "I wonder if I could 
 persuade Helen to go with me. I think I will go 
 and see." 
 
 She had gone before there was any opportunity 
 to comment upon her suggestion, leaving an almost 
 oppressive silence behind her. The inclusion of 
 Helen in her plans, coming so unexpectedly after 
 the abrupt intrusion of the Saturday Cunarder, 
 afforded, Jack thought, abundant material for con- 
 versation. 
 
 Yet DoUy was silent. Nor did she rise, although 
 it was getting late. She was sitting in the angle 
 of the deep comer divan, altogether absorbed in 
 her embroidery, and looking, so it seemed to Jack, 
 younger than he had ever seen her look before, — 
 almost girlish. 
 
 It was not a passive thing, this silence ; but 
 something positive, aggressive, gathering volume 
 
HIS DAUGHTER FIRST 349 
 
 like a rising flood. It did not occur to Mm that 
 she was ia any way responsible for it. On the con- 
 trary, she appeared to be its victim, and he felt he 
 must get it under control at once. The unforeseen 
 had brought him to Westford, and left him alone 
 with the woman who had said No. How much 
 more embarrassed than even he was she must be ! 
 
 He did not see any embarrassment, however, 
 when she lifted her face to his. It wore only an 
 expression of deep and tranquil content. He had 
 gone over to where she sat, to take his leave, and 
 stood looking down at that something so profoundly 
 peaceful yet appealing iu her eyes. 
 
 " Are you going off in that horrid early train ? " 
 she asked, letting them fall. 
 
 " I must," he said, as he had said it once before. 
 But she did not rise, as then, or say good-night. 
 
 " I suppose there is another directors' meeting." 
 
 " No, not this time," he said, sitting down beside 
 her on the edge of the divan ; " but there 's Mabel, 
 you know." 
 
 He was beginning to lose control of the silence, 
 and of speech. He must go. 
 
 « Yes, there 's Mabel " — and then she laid her 
 hand on his arm and smiled — " Mabel — and I." 
 
^1)t Slibec^ibe ^cejSjS 
 
 EUarotyted and printed by H. O. Houghton &• Co. 
 Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A.