aid lazily.

"No, thanks." Winnie shook his head. "The tall grass for mine."

His neighbor refused likewise, but the lad with the tortoise-rimmed
glasses next Vernon straightened involuntarily.

"I'll open it." His voice trembled.

"Good-night!" Vernon dropped his cards as if they burned him. "Sure
you're looking at 'em straight, Pete?"

"Come again." The dealer shoved two blues out on the board.

"Back to you." The opener's fingers twitched as he dropped four.

"Once more."

"And two."

"That's enough for me." The dealer shrugged, and pushed forward two
chips more.

The others sat in wordless enthralment as Pete stood pat and the
dealer, with a smile, laid down the pack untouched. The betting
proceeded cautiously at first, then by leaps and bounds as Pete lost
his head and plunged wildly.

A small mountain of blue chips lay in the center of the table, and the
dark, smiling youth seemed prepared to raise it indefinitely, when Pete
sighed and drew his hand before his blurred eye-glasses.

"Call you!" he squeaked. "What you got, Cal?"

The dealer spread his hand out upon the board and his opponent emitted
a moan of anguish as the four kings were exposed.

"And I opened--_opened_ mind you, with four messenger boys, pat!"

Willa did not wait for the buzz of excited comment. Instead she turned
and sped noiselessly down the stair to her room. When she reappeared a
few moments later she wore a corsage bunch of violets which stuck out
oddly from her black gown, and carried a jingling purse.

Ascending once more, she tapped at the door and then slipped shyly in.

"Excuse me!" she said to the open-mouthed group who rose as one man.
"I heard the game going on and I thought maybe you'd let me sit in for
a round or two. It isn't just regular, I know, but if you won't tell,
_I_ won't."

"Willa!" Vernon's face was crimson. "I--I'm quite sure mother
wouldn't approve of----"

"Of the game?" she smiled. "Who's going to carry tales, if I don't? I
reckon you've forgotten to introduce your friends."

"Forgive me." Vernon gathered his wits together with an obvious
effort, and complied. The loser of the last phenomenal hand, she
learned, was Peter Follinsbee, his right-hand neighbor Arthur Judson,
and "Winnie" proved to be the son whom Mason North had mentioned. His
was the voice she had first heard, and she shook hands cordially with
him, but merely bowed to the slim, dark youth, whose name was Ca