enuity, no less than
agility, submitted to capture. That is to say, finding himself
hopelessly pinioned, he resumed the stoic.

Grimly the panting and dripping William dragged him through the kitchen,
where the cook cried out unintelligibly, seeming to summon Adelia, who
was not present. Through the back yard went captor and prisoner, the
latter now maintaining a seated posture--his pathetic conception of
dignity under duress. Finally, into a small shed or tool-house, behind
Mrs. Baxter's flower-beds, went Clematis in a hurried and spasmodic
manner. The instant the door slammed he lifted his voice--and was bidden
to use it now as much as he liked.

Adelia, with a tray of used plates, encountered the son of the house as
he passed through the kitchen on his return, and her eyes were those of
one who looks upon miracles.

William halted fiercely.

"What's the matter?" he demanded. "Is my face dirty?"

"You mean, are it too dirty to go in yonduh to the party?" Adelia asked,
slowly. "No, suh; you look all right to go in there. You lookin' jes'
fine to go in there now, Mist' Willie!"

Something in her tone struck him as peculiar, even as ominous, but his
blood was up--he would not turn back now. He strode into the hall and
opened the door of the "living-room."

Jane was sitting on the floor, busily painting sunsets in a large
blank-book which she had obtained for that exclusive purpose.

She looked up brightly as William appeared in the doorway, and in answer
to his wild gaze she said:

"I got a little bit sick, so mamma told me to keep quiet a while. She's
lookin' for you all over the house. She told papa she don't know what in
mercy's name people are goin' to think about you, Willie."

The distraught youth strode to her. "The party--" he choked. "WHERE--"

"They all stayed pretty long," said Jane, "but the last ones said they
had to go home to their dinners when papa came, a little while ago.
Johnnie Watson was carryin' Flopit for that Miss Pratt."

William dropped into the chair beside which Jane had established herself
upon the floor. Then he uttered a terrible cry and rose.

Again Jane had painted a sunset she had not intended.

XV

ROMANCE OF STATISTICS

On a warm morning, ten days later, William stood pensively among his
mother's flowerbeds behind the house, his attitude denoting a low state
of vitality. Not far away, an aged negro sat upon a wheelbarrow in the
hot sun, tremulously yet skilful