ith columns every day
about Miss Patty's clothes--"

"Her what?"

"And all the princes of the blood sending presents, and the king not
favoring it very much--"

"What are you talking about?"

"About Miss Jennings' wedding. Don't you read the newspaper?"

He hadn't really known who she was up to that minute. He put down the
tray and got up.

"I--I hadn't connected her with the--the newspaper Miss Jennings,"
he said, and lighted a cigarette over the lamp. Something in his face
startled me, I must say.

"You're not going to give up now?" I asked. I got up and put my hand on
his arm, and I think he was shaking. "If you do, I'll--I'll go out and
drown myself, head down, in the spring."

He had been going to run away--I saw it then--but he put a hand over
mine. Then he looked at the door where Miss Patty had gone out and gave
himself a shake.

"I'll stay," he said. "We'll fight it out on this line if it takes all
summer, Minnie." He stood looking into the fire, and although I'm not
fond of men, knowing, as I have explained, a great deal about their
stomachs and livers and very little about their hearts, there was
something about Mr. Pierce that made me want to go up and pat him on the
head like a little boy. "After all," he said, "what's blue blood to good
red blood?"

Which was almost what the bishop had said!

CHAPTER VIII

AND MR. MOODY INDIGESTION

Mr. Moody took indigestion that night--not but that he always had it,
but this was worse--and Mrs. Moody came to my room about two o'clock and
knocked at the door.

"You'd better come," she said. "There's no doctor, and he's awful bad.
Blames you, too; he says you made him take a salt rub."

"My land," I snapped, trying to find my bedroom slippers, "I didn't make
him take clam chowder for supper, and that's what's the matter with him.
He's going on a strained rice diet, that's what he's going to do. I've
got to have my sleep."

She was waiting in the hall in her kimono, and holding a candle. Anybody
could see she'd been crying. As she often said to me, of course she was
grateful that Mr. Moody didn't drink--no one knew his virtues better
than she did. But her sister married a man who went on a terrible bat
twice a year, and all the rest of the time he was humble and affable
trying to make up for it. And sometimes she thought if Mr. Moody would
only take a little whisky when he had these attacks--! I'd rather be
the wife of a cheerful drunkard any