world entered. For three intolerable weeks, this
heaviness had been descending upon her as by a whimsy of its own. Like
the water of those cupped wheels in her little irrigation plant at the
ranch, this black liquid, when it had filled its vessel to the brim,
would empty automatically without touch on the spring of her will.
When this came, she would feel rested, healed, in a state of dull
peace. Now the struggle of thought was on her again. As always before,
it began with an arraignment of the facts in the case, a search of
memory for any forgotten data which might lead to a conclusion.

The first crisis arrived on the evening when Judge Tiffany came home
in a plain mood of disgust, and announced baldly:

"Well, Mattie; our young friend did everything I expected of him."

He went on quite simply with the news. Bertram Chester had left him
almost without notice. But that was to be expected. The rest was the
worst. Bertram had gone to Senator Northrup--as manager of his real
estate interests. The name Northrup was as the name of the devil in
that household. Northrup's operations included not only law and
politics but latterly speculative and unprincipled ventures in
business. A dying flash of his old fire woke in Judge Tiffany when he
spoke as he felt about this young cub who had bitten his caressing
hand.

Eleanor left the dinner table as soon as she had a fair excuse. She
found herself unable to bear it. Had she remained, she must have
defended him. But alone in her living room she look counsel of this
treason and agreed in her heart with her uncle. The very manner in
which he had done it--never a hint, never a preliminary mention of
Northrup--appealed to her as the deepest treason of all.

The next evening, Bertram Chester had the superb impudence to call.
Eleanor was alone in the house that night. She hesitated when the
maid brought in his name, then shook herself together and went out to
face him.

He met her with an imitation of his old manner, an assumption that his
change in employment would make no difference in his social relations
with the Tiffanys. What words had she used to let him know her
feelings? She could not remember now. But it had come hard; for the
unmoral half of her perceptions was noting how big and beautiful he
looked, how his blush, as of a stripling facing reproof, became him.

He pleaded, he stormed, he presumed, he passed in and out of sulky
moods, he began to defend himself against