that
at a White House ball."

"I've never been to a ball."

"Well, you needn't want to go. It's a cram and a jam and everybody bored
to death."

"I shouldn't be bored. I should love it."

His eyes were on the fire. And presently he said, "It seems queer to be
away from it--New York. There's something about it that gets into your
blood. You want it--as you do--drink."

"Then you'll be going back."

He jerked around to look at her. "No," sharply; "what makes you say
that?"

"Because--it--it doesn't seem possible that you could be--buried--here."

"Do you feel buried?"

She nodded. "Oh, yes."

His face was grave. "And doesn't the school work--help?"

She caught her breath. "That's the best part of it. You see I love--the
children."

He flashed a quick glance at her. "Then you're lonely sometimes?"

"Yes."

"I fancy these people aren't exactly--your kind. I wish you'd come and
see my mother. She's awfully worth while, you know. And she'd be so glad
to have you."

She found herself saying, "My grandmother was Cynthia Warfield. She knew
your grandfather. I have some old letters. I think your mother might like
to see them."

"No wonder I've been puzzling over you! Cynthia Warfield's portrait hangs
in our library. And you're like your grandmother. Only you're young
and--alive."

Again his ringing laugh and her own to meet it. She felt so young and
happy. So very, very young, and so very, very happy!

Mrs. Bower, appearing importantly, announced supper. Beyond the hall,
through the open door of the dining-room they could see the loaded table
with the tureens of steaming oysters at each end.

There was at once a rollicking stampede.

Anne leaned down to wake Peggy. The child opened her heavy eyes, and
murmured: "I want a drink."

Richard glanced at her. "Hello, hello," he said, quickly. "What's the
matter, Pussy?"

"I'm not Pussy--I'm Peggy." The child was ready for tears.

He picked her up in his arms and carried her to the light. With careful
finger he lifted the heavy eyelids and touched the hot little cheeks.
"How long has she been this way?" he asked Anne.

"Just since supper. Is there anything the matter with her? Is she really
sick, Dr. Brooks?"

"Measles," he said succinctly. "You'd better get her straight to bed."

CHAPTER VI

_In Which a Gray Plush Pussy Cat Supplies a Theme._

ANNE at the top of the stairs talked to Geoffrey Fox at the foot.

"But you really ought not t