matter
where we live so long as we have each other?"

She drew away to hide her tears and left the room on pretence of
inspecting the house. She looked into the dining-room and kitchen
and opened the cupboards, and when she returned there were no
visible signs of trouble in her face.

"It's a cute little house, isn't it?" she said. "I've always
wanted a little place like this--all to ourselves. Oh, if you only
knew how tired I am of New York and its great ugly houses, its
retinue of servants and its domestic and social responsibilities!
We shall be able to live for ourselves now, eh, father?"

She spoke with a forced gaiety that might have deceived anyone but
the judge. He understood the motive of her sudden change in manner
and silently he blessed her for making his burden lighter.

"Yes, dear, it's not bad," he said. "There's not much room,
though."

"There's quite enough," she insisted. "Let me see." She began to
count on her fingers. "Upstairs--three rooms, eh? and above that
three more--"

"No," smiled the judge, "then comes the roof?"

"Of course," she laughed, "how stupid of me--a nice gable roof, a
sloping roof that the rain runs off beautifully. Oh, I can see
that this is going to be awfully jolly--just like camping out. You
know how I love camping out. And you have a piano, too."

She went over to the corner where stood one of those homely
instruments which hardly deserve to be dignified by the name
piano, with a cheap, gaudily painted case outside and a tin pan
effect inside, and which are usually to be found in the poorer
class of country boarding houses. Shirley sat down and ran her
fingers over the keys, determined to like everything.

"It's a little old," was her comment, "but I like these zither
effects. It's just like the sixteenth century spinet. I can see
you and mother dancing a stately minuet," she smiled.

"What's that about mother dancing?" demanded Mrs. Rossmore, who at
that instant entered the room. Shirley arose and appealed to her:

"Isn't it absurd, mother, when you come to think of it, that
anybody should accuse father of being corrupt and of having
forfeited the right to be judge? Isn't it still more absurd that
we should be helpless and dejected and unhappy because we are on
Long Island instead of Madison Avenue? Why should Manhattan Island
be a happier spot than Long Island? Why shouldn't we be happy
anywhere; we have each other. And we do need each other. We never
knew ho