s
ear:

"If you want to be truly happy, mate, an' live clear of a life of
pesterin', don't you never buy Sarah Libbie a satin dress! Minnie an'
I have made it up, thanks to Willie Spence, but 'twas a tussle. I'd
come to the jumpin'-off place."

The statement was but too true. Willie had indeed intervened and
averted a tragedy, but the feat had demanded ruthless measures, and he
had trudged home from the Coffins with the bone of contention clutched
rigidly beneath his arm.

That night Celestina heard muffled sounds in the workshop.

"Oh, my land!" she murmured. "If Willie ain't hitched again! I did
hope nothin' new would come to him 'til he got rested up from this
other idee."

But Willie's inspiration was not of the inventive type. Instead the
little old man was standing before the stove, kindling a fire, and into
its crackling blaze he was bundling the last remnants of Minnie
Coffin's far-famed black satin. The light played on his face which was
set in grim earnestness.

"It seems a wicked shame," he observed in a whisper, as he viewed the
funeral pyre, "but it's the only way. Long's that dress remained on
earth there'd be no peace for Bart nor his wife either. It had to go."

The flames danced higher, flashing in and out of the trimmings of jet
and charring the beads to dullness. In the morning only a heap of gray
ashes marked the flight of Minnie Coffin's social ambitions.

"_Requiescat in pace_!" murmured Willie as with lips firm with Puritan
stoicism he passed by the stove. There he added gently: "Poor Minnie!
Poor foolish Minnie!"

CHAPTER XIX

WILLIE AS PILOT

The invention was finished! The last rivet was in place, the last
screw secure, and before the fulfilment of his dream the little old man
stood with glowing face. It was a gentle, happy face with misty blue
eyes that carried at the moment a serene contentment.

"I couldn't 'a' done it but for you, Bob," he was saying. "The idea
was all well enough, but 'twould 'a' been of no use without other
brains to carry it out. So you must remember a big slice of the credit
is yours."

Robert Morton shook his head.

"Oh, the thing is yours, Willie--every bit yours," protested he. "I
only did some of the mechanical part, and that any fool could do."

"The mechanical part, as you call it, is full as important as the
notion," Willie persisted. "I shall tell Zenas Henry it's our
invention when I turn it over to him."

The prono