o her own room, where
Mollie already had gone, saw Ruth's door slightly ajar. Bab tapped
lightly. Ruth's voice bade her enter. But Bab shrank back when she saw
Mr. Stuart sitting there. His face was drawn and sad. There were tears
in Ruth's eyes. Barbara could scarcely keep back her own tears, so
keenly did she feel for these two whom she loved so well. The girl
stammered an apology and drew back.

"Bab, dear, come in," called Mr. Stuart.

"Yes, do. We need you. Perhaps you may be able to make daddy smile. I
can't, because I have no smiles left in me."

"I--I am afraid I haven't, either," answered Barbara, with trembling
lips. "Hadn't I better go to my own room? Perhaps you wish to talk
undisturbed."

"We want you here," answered Mr. Stuart. "Please close the door and sit
down." Bab walked to the centre of the room, where she stood leaning
against a table gazing down on them questioningly. Ruth nestled on her
father's knee with an arm thrown affectionately about his neck.

"My dear," he said, addressing Barbara, "I have just been telling Ruth
that this may be the last Christmas that she will be able to have all
her heart craves. I mean in the way of luxuries. My business affairs are
in a very bad way. You already know that Mr. Presby has no hopes of
being able to pull through. When he goes, I go. We shall go down
together. We have been speculating in wheat. We have loaded up so
heavily that I see no possibility of getting out." He paused
reflectively while the lines of his face grew haggard.

"You mean you are going to lose all you have?" almost whispered Barbara.

"Yes. Instead of the price of wheat going up, as it should have done at
this season of the year, wheat has been forced down and down by a strong
bear market. Behind it all there is a powerful but mysterious force, a
master brain that is forcing the price down and seeking to ruin us."

"Have you no idea who is doing this--who your enemy is?" asked Barbara.

"Nothing more than a vague suspicion. You see, the trading is done
largely through others. There is no one man, so far as we have been able
to discover, who is crowding us, forcing us to load up and to hold at a
frightful cost to ourselves. We know, however, that there is an
individual force back of this movement. Richard has mortgaged his
property to the last cent. After the first of the year, unless there be
a turn for better in his affairs, Treasureholme will be taken away from
him. After the f