de door and be safely
inside the Misses Blind-Staggers's sitting-room by the time Westlake's
heavy step made the porch shake--and Sissy, too--with laughter. But this
was before she went to open the door.

"Is your sister at home?" old Westlake asked confidently.

"Which one--Irene? Yes, she's home." Sissy's small round face was
simplicity and candor incarnate.

"No," said old Westlake, uncomfortably. He had seen shrewdness once or
twice behind the eyes where innocence now dwelt, and he only half
trusted this demure, blank-faced child. "I mean your sister Katherine."

"Oh!" Cecilia exclaimed, in gentle surprise. "Oh, no, sir, she's out."

"Indeed!"

Old Westlake fancied he heard a mocking "indeed" that followed. In fact,
an echo that had the queer effect of making him hear double seemed to
accompany all his words. It came from the portieres, which were
suspiciously bulky, and shook as though something more than the wind
moved them.

"And how soon will she be home?" he asked.

"Kate? You mean Kate? Oh, I really do not know." Sissy pronounced her
words with pedantic care--a permissible thing among Madigans when adults
were to be guyed.

Old Westlake (he was rather a handsome old fellow, with his regular
features, his blond mustache, and prominent blue eyes) fidgeted
uneasily. There must be some way, he felt, of moderating this
half-chilly, half-critical atmosphere on the part of the smaller
Madigans. But children were riddles to him, and the solutions his small
experience offered were either too simple or too complex.

"She can't be intending to spend the whole day out?" he asked, conscious
that he presented a ridiculous figure to the childish gray eyes lifted
to his.

"No, I don't suppose she can," agreed Sissy. "Won't you come in?"

He followed her hesitatingly into the parlor and sat down, his eyes
fixed upon the portieres over the front windows, which still appeared to
be strangely agitated.

"You--do you think it will be worth while--my waiting?" he asked
helplessly, as Cecilia was modestly about to withdraw.

She looked up at him with the bland look of intelligence which it takes
a clever child to counterfeit.

"Worth while waiting for Kate?" she asked in accents half puzzled, half
reproachful.

Old Westlake blushed to the roots of his close-cropped fair hair. He
fancied he heard a muffled gurgle behind the portieres that wasn't
soothing.

"Oh--you mean, is she likely to come home soon?" added