ould that responsibility be shifted!

What on earth should we do with her?

Hephzy tiptoed in. Her expression was a curious one. She was very
solemn, but not sad; the solemnity was not that of sorrow, but appeared
to be a sort of spiritual uplift, a kind of reverent joy.

"She's asleep," she said, gravely; "she's asleep, Hosy."

There was precious little comfort in that.

"She'll wake up by and by," I said. "And then--what?"

"I don't know."

"Neither do I--now. But we shall have to know pretty soon."

"I suppose we shall, but I can't--I can't seem to think of anything
that's ahead of us. All I can think is that my Little Frank--my
Ardelia's Little Frank--is here, here with us, at last."

"And TO last, so far as I can see. Hephzy, for heaven's sake, do try
to be sensible. Do you realize what this means? As soon as she is
well enough to understand what has happened she will want to know what
'proposition' we have to make. And when we tell her we have none to
make, she'll probably collapse again. And then--and then--what shall we
do?"

"I don't know, Hosy. I declare I don't know."

I strode into my own room and slammed the door.

"Damn!" said I, with enthusiasm.

"What?" queried Hephzy, from the sitting-room. "What did you say, Hosy?"

I did not tell her.

CHAPTER VIII

In Which the Pilgrims Become Tenants

Two weeks later we left Bancroft's and went to Mayberry. Two weeks only,
and yet in that two weeks all our plans--if our indefinite visions of
irresponsible flitting about Great Britain and the continent might
be called plans--had changed utterly. Our pilgrimage was, apparently,
ended--it had become an indefinite stay. We were no longer pilgrims, but
tenants, tenants in an English rectory, of all places in the world.
I, the Cape Cod quahaug, had become an English country gentleman--or a
country gentleman in England--for the summer, at least.

Little Frank--Miss Frances Morley--was responsible for the change, of
course. Her sudden materialization and the freak of fortune which
had thrown her, weak and ill, upon our hands, were responsible for
everything. For how much more, how many other changes, she would be
responsible the future only could answer. And the future would answer in
its own good, or bad, time. My conundrum "What are we going to do
with her?" was as much of a puzzle as ever. For my part I gave it up.
Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof--much more than sufficient.

For