er could have endured the thought of marrying a man who had been in
love with my mother, even if he had been ever so good. But I can't help
being sorry for him; he must have loved my mother so much, and he must
have wasted his whole life; and then to die among strangers so suddenly,
poor man."

James felt a sort of pleasure at hearing the girl express, all
unknowingly, sympathy for her dead father. The tears actually stood in
her eyes. "The queerest thing to me is that woman," she added musingly,
after a minute. Then again her face lightened. "Why, I do believe she
was his sister," she cried, "and that was the reason she wanted to get
me, and the reason why she was so dreadfully upset when she heard he was
dead, poor thing. Well, of course, I can't help feeling glad that I am
not in danger any more; but I am sorry for that poor man, even if he
wasn't good." A tear rolled visibly down Clemency's cheeks. Then she got
out her handkerchief and sobbed violently. "Oh, I haven't realized," she
moaned, "I haven't realized until this minute, how terrible it is that
she wasn't my mother."

"She was as good as a mother to you, dear."

"Yes, I know, but she wasn't, and it hurts me worse now she is gone than
it would have done when she was alive. I don't seem to have anything."

"You have me."

Then Clemency ran to him, and he held her on his knee and comforted her,
then tore himself away to make his morning round of calls. Clemency
followed him to the door, and kissed her hand to him as he drove away.
James had good reason to remember it, for it was the last loving
salutation from her for many a day.

When he returned at noon the girl's manner was unaccountably changed
toward him. She only spoke to him directly when addressed, and then in
monosyllables. She never looked at him. She sat at the table at luncheon
and poured the chocolate, and there was almost absolute silence. Emma
waited jerkily as usual. James fancied once, when he met her eyes, that
there was an expression of covert triumph on her face. Emma had never
liked him. He had been conscious of the fact, but it had not disturbed
him. He had no more thought of this middle-aged, harsh-featured New
Jersey farmer's daughter than he had of one of the dining-chairs. Gordon
sat humped upon himself, as he sat nowadays, a marked stoop of age was
becoming visible in his broad shoulders, and he ate perfunctorily
without a word. James, after a number of futile attempts to talk t