"Why need we bother at all about it?" he asked impulsively.

For a world of moments, Jeannette stared at him, revolving the question.
Then a faint radiance came into her face, and grew and grew until it
burned. Jeannette bit her lip. Jeannette looked down.

"What do you mean?" she asked in confusion.

"Don't--don't you think we had better--take the consequences?" said
Chilminster, as he reached across the table and let his hand fall on
hers.

* * * * *

Mrs. Urmy stood at the window looking with lack-lustre eyes across the
park. She had had six solid hours in which to reflect on that risky
communication of hers to the _Morning Post_, and Jeannette's
disappearance since breakfast time provided a gloomy commentary on it.
She fidgeted uneasily as she recalled her daughter's scared look when
reading the paper, and maternal forebodings discounted her interest in
an automobile that showed at intervals between the trees of the drive as
it approached the White House.

But two moments later it occurred to her that it was Jeannette who sat
on its front seat beside the driver; and, as the car drew up, her
experienced eye detected something in the demeanor of the pair that
startled but elated her.

"Here's Jeannette!" she called over her shoulder to Lady Hartley. "In an
auto with a young man. Say, Persis, who is he?"

Lady Hartley hurried to the window, gave one look, and doubted the
evidence of her eyes.

"Lavinia, it's Lord Chilminster!" she cried, with a catch in her voice.

The two women flashed a glance brimful of significance at one another.
Lady Hartley's expressed uncertainty; Mrs. Urmy's triumph--sheer,
complete, perfect triumph.

"Didn't I say it was a sure thing?" she shrilled excitedly. "It's fixed
them up! Come right ahead and introduce me to my future son-in-law!"

As she raced to the door she added half to herself: "I don't want to
boast, but, thank the Lord, I've got Jeannette off this season!"

XII

THE MILLION DOLLAR FREIGHT TRAIN

The Story of a Young Engineer

By FRANK H. SPEARMAN

IT WAS the second month of the strike, and not a pound of freight had
been moved. Things did look smoky on the West End. The General
Superintendent happened to be with us when the news came. "You can't
handle it, boys," said he nervously. "What you'd better do is to turn it
over to the Columbian Pacific."

Our contracting freight agent on the Coast at that time was a fello