farmer at whose house he boarded, and who now spent
most of his time in the fields, was showing an improvement--Pale Face
Harry coughed less. The Flopper was as happy as a lark--and Mamie
Rodgers blushed now at mention of the name of Coogan. Helena, demure,
adored by all who saw her, went daily about her housework in the
cottage, and waited upon the Patriarch with gentle tenderness; while the
Patriarch, docile, full of supreme trust and confidence in every one,
radiant in Helena's companionship, was as putty in their hands. And so
Madison looked upon his work and saw no flaw--but with the days he grew
ill at ease.

"It's too easy," he told himself. "I guess that's it--it's too easy. The
whole show runs itself. Why, there's nothing to do but count the cash!"

And yet in his heart he knew that wasn't it--it was Helena. Helena was
beginning to trouble him a little. She was playing the game all
right--playing it to the limit--and making a hit at every performance.
Her name was on every tongue, and men and women alike spoke of her
sweetness, her goodness, her loveliness. Well, that was all right,
Helena was a star no matter where you put her--but something was the
matter. Helena wasn't the Helena of a month ago back in little old New
York. He hadn't managed to get a dozen words with her since that night
on the station platform, without taking chances and gaining admission to
the cottage through the Flopper's window after dark--and then she had
held him at arm's length.

"The matter with me?" she had said. "There isn't anything the matter
with me--is there? I'm--I'm playing the game."

It certainly couldn't be grief over Mrs. Thornton's death--she had begun
to act that way before Mrs. Thornton died--that night when she came home
with Thornton, and he and the Flopper were behind the trellis. Thornton!
Had Thornton anything to do with it, after all? No--Madison had laughed
at it then, and he had much more reason to laugh at it now. Thornton was
still in Chicago, and hadn't been back to Needley.

For three weeks this sort of thing occupied a considerably larger share
of Madison's thoughts than he was wont to allow even the most vexing
problems to disturb his usually imperturbable and complacent self--and
then one afternoon, he smiled a little grimly, and, leaving the hotel,
started along the road toward the Patriarch's cottage.

"What Helena needs is--a jolt!" said Madison to himself. "I guess her
trouble is one of those