ond gate was a tall figure in khaki.
Resting like a rose-petal on one shoulder was a mite of a child in pink
rompers.

"He is bringing Fiddle with him," Becky gasped. "Oh, Aunt Claudia, he is
bringing Fiddle."

Aunt Claudia rose and looked out---- "Well," she said, "let her come.
She's his child. If Father turns them out, I'll go with them."

Truxton saw them at the window and waved. "Shall we go down?" Becky
said.

"No--wait a minute. Father's in the hall." Aunt Claudia stood tensely in
the middle of the room. "Becky, listen over the stair rail to what they
are saying."

"But----"

"Go on," Aunt Claudia insisted; "there are times when--one breaks the
rules, Becky. I've got to know what they are saying----"

The voices floated up. Truxton's a lilting tenor----

"Are you going to forgive us, Grandfather?"

"I am not the grandfather of Mary Flippin's child," the Judge spoke
evidently without heat.

"You are the grandfather of Fidelity Branch Beaufort," said Truxton
coolly; "you can't get away from that----"

"The neighborhood calls her Fiddle Flippin," the Judge reminded him.

"What's in a name?" said Truxton, and swung his baby high in the air.
"Do you love your daddy, Fiddle-dee-dee?"

"'Ess," said Fiddle, having accepted him at once on the strength of
sweet chocolate, and an adorable doll.

"What are they saying?" whispered Aunt Claudia, still tense in the
middle of the room.

"Hush," Becky waved a warning hand.

"There is," said the Judge, in a declamatory manner, "everything in a
name. The Bannisters of Huntersfield, the Paines of King's Crest, the
Randolphs of Cloverdale, do you think these things don't count,
Truxton?"

"I think there's a lot of rot in it," said young Beaufort, "when we were
fighting for democracy over there----"

The shot told. "Democracy has nothing to do with it----"

"Democracy," said Truxton, "has a great deal to do with it. The days of
kings and queens are dead, they have married each other for generations
and have produced offspring like--William of Germany. Class assumptions
of superiority are withered branches on the tree of civilization. Mary
is as good as I am any day."

"You wrote things like this," said the Judge, interested in spite of
himself, and loving argument.

"I wrote them because I believed them. I am ready to apologize for not
telling you of my marriage before this. I have no apologies to make for
my wife----

"I have no apologies to make for my