it's the greatest relief in the world!" exclaimed Mrs. Adams.
"I've been rather holding back about going up there, and imitating her,
because I honestly didn't want to be influenced by eight millions, and
I was afraid. I WAS. Not a week ago Wayne asked me if I thought she'd
like him to donate a sewing machine to her Girls' Club for them to run
up their little costumes with--he has the agency, you know--and I said,
'Oh, don't, Wayne, she can buy them a sewing machine apiece if she
wants to, and never know it!' But I'm going to make him write her,
TO-NIGHT," said Mrs. Adams, firmly, "and I declare I feel as if a
weight had dropped off my shoulders. It MEANS so much more now, if we
offer her the club. It means that we aren't merely giving a Lady
Bountiful her way, but that we're all working together like neighbors,
and trying to do some good in the world."

"And I don't think there's any question that she would live exactly
this way," Miss Pratt contributed shyly, "and play with the children,
and dress as she does, even if she had fifty millions! She's simply
found out what pays in this life, and what doesn't pay, and I think a
good many of us were living too hard and fast ever to stop and think
whether it was really worth while or not. She's the happiest woman I
ever knew; it makes one happy just to be with her, and no money can buy
that."

"But it's curious she never has taken the trouble to undeceive us,"
said Mrs. White beginning to fit on an immaculate pair of white gloves,
finger by finger.

"Why--you'll see!--She never dreamed we thought she was anything but
one of ourselves." Mrs. Brown predicted. "Why should she? When did she
ever speak of money, or take the least interest in money? She never
speaks of it. She says 'I can't afford the time, or I can't afford the
effort,' that's what counts with her. Doesn't it, Barry?"

"Barry, do you really suppose--" Mrs. Carew was beginning, as she
turned to the doorway where he had been standing.

But Barry had gone.

CHAPTER XIX

Barry went straight up to the Hall, but Sidney was not there. Joanna
and Ellen, busily murmuring over "Flower Ladies" on the wide terrace
steps, told him that Mother was to be late to supper, and, with
obviously forced hospitality and one eye upon their little families of
inverted roses and hollyhocks, asked him to wait. Barry thanked them,
but couldn't wait.

He went like a man in a dream down River Street, past gardens that
glowed