ned at every step on the
stairs, and slowly recovered from a low fever. Graham had not seen her,
but he sent her money for a doctor, for medicines, for her room rent,
enclosed in brief letters, purely friendly and interested. But she kept
them under her pillow and devoured them with feverish eyes.

But something had gone out of life for Graham. Not Anna. Natalie,
watching him closely, wondered what it was. He had been strange and
distant with her ever since that tall boy in kilts had been there. He
was studiously polite and attentive to her, rose when she entered a room
and remained standing until she was seated, brought her the book she
had forgotten, lighted her occasional cigaret, kissed her morning and
evening. But he no longer came into her dressing-room for that hour
before dinner when Natalie, in dressing-gown and slippers, had closed
the door to Clayton's room and had kept him for herself.

She was jealous of Clayton those days. Some times she found the boy's
eyes fixed on his father, with admiration and something more. She was
jealous of the things they had in common, of the days at the mill, of
the bits of discussion after dinner, when Clayton sat back with his
cigar, and Graham voiced, as new discoveries, things about the work that
Clayton had realized for years.

He always listened gravely, with no hint of patronage. But Natalie would
break in now and then, impatient of a conversation that excluded her.

"Your father knows all these things, Graham," she said once. "You talk
as though you'd just discovered the mill, like Columbus discovering
America."

"Not at all," Clayton said, hastily. "He has a new viewpoint. I am
greatly interested. Go on, Graham."

But the boy's enthusiasm had died. He grew self-conscious, apologetic.
And Clayton felt a resentment that was close to despair.

The second of April fell on a Saturday. Congress, having ended the
session the fourth of March, had been hastily reconvened, and on the
evening of that day, Saturday, at half past eight, the President went
before the two Houses in joint session.

Much to Clayton's disgust, he found on returning home that they were
dining out.

"Only at the Mackenzies. It's not a party," Natalie said. As usual, she
was before the dressing-table, and she spoke to his reflection in
the mirror. "I should think you could do that, without looking like a
thunder-cloud. Goodness knows we've been quiet enough this Lent."

"You know Congress has b