nce an admirable
hostess--and yet in spite of it all, Mr. Severance does not seem to be
enjoying himself as he should. But this may be due to a sort of minstrel
give-and-take of dialogue that keeps going on between what he says for
publication and what he thinks.

"Well, Frazee, I'll be ready to go into that loan matter with you
inside a month," says his voice, and his mind "Frazee, you slippery old
burglar, it won't be a month before you'll be spreading the news that
my disappearance means suicide and that the Commercial is rotten, lock,
stock and barrel."

"Yes, dear," in answer to a relayed query from the other Mrs. Severance.
"The children took the small car to go to the dance." "And, Mary, if
they'd ever been our children instead of your keeping them always
yours, there wouldn't be that little surprise in store for you that I've
arranged."

"Cigar, Winthrop?" "Better take two, my friend--they won't be as good
after Mary has charge of that end of the house."

So it goes--until Mr. Severance has dined very well indeed. And yet
Winthrop, chatting with Frazee, just before they go out of the door,
finds it necessary to whisper to him for some reason--half a dozen words
under cover of a discussion of what the Shipping Board's new move will
mean to the mercantile marine. "I told you so, George. See his hands?
The old boy's failing."

XXVII

The fourth meal is Nancy's and it doesn't seem very happy. When it is
over and Mr. Ellicott has rustled himself away from intrusion behind the
evening paper.

"Nobody--'phoned today--did they, mother?"

"No, dear." The voice is not as easy as it might be, but Nancy does not
notice.

"Oh."

Nor does Nancy notice how hurriedly her mother's next question comes.

"Did you see Mrs. Winters, darling?"

"Oh yes--I saw her."

"And you're going on to New York?"

"Yes--next week, I think."

"With her. And going to stay with her?"

"I suppose so."

Mrs. Ellicott sighs relievedly.

"That's so nice."

Nancy will be safe now--as safe as if she were under an anesthetic. Mrs.
Winters will take care of that. She must have a little talk with dear
Isabella Winters. But that night Nancy is alone in her room--doing up
her engagement ring and Oliver's letters in a wobbly package. She is not
quite just, though, she keeps one letter--the first.

XXVIII

Margaret Crowe, who, having just come to her seventeenth birthday in
this present day and generation, felt it her o