all this evening. I never 'eard you do any finer swearing
in hall the time I've been with you.'"

"And that comes of a moral influence!" Dolph laughed. "If that's the
way he is going to affect sinners, Brenton will have his hands full,
following up his curate's trail."

"Brenton is of different stuff," Reed made crispy comment.

"Have you noticed the change in Mr. Brenton since the baby came, Reed?"
Olive inquired abruptly.

"I've hardly seen him. From all accounts, he is devoting most of his
spare time to my father. What is the baby like, Olive?"

"Ugly as sin; but Mr. Brenton believes him an Adonis."

"What about the mother?"

"Eddyizing fast."

"What?" The word burst simultaneously from both the men.

"Didn't you know? Yes, it is a malignant case. I only hope it won't go
round the family."

"Babies are holy, and therefore immune; Brenton has too much sense. But
is it a fact, Olive?" Opdyke questioned.

"It evidently is a fact that you are a poor, shut-in invalid, and not
brought up to date in local gossip," Olive told him tranquilly. "I
can't see how you have missed hearing of it, Reed, even if it did
escape my mind. Yes, it seems to be a fact that everybody is
questioning and nobody is disputing. Of course, though, nobody is in a
position to testify absolutely."

"Your father?"

"She has dismissed him. At least," and Olive corrected herself with
ostentatious care; "she says that her health no longer needs him,
although she always shall value him greatly as a well-tried friend."

Opdyke pondered. Then he said,--

"The d--"

"Arling!" Dolph made hasty substitution. "But I fancy he is well-tried,
all right, if he has had to dance professional attendance on her.
Where'd she catch it, Olive?"

"Nobody knows. My father says it is like any other germ, floats around
in the air and is harmless, until it lights on some degenerate tissue.
But then, he never did like Mrs. Brenton."

"The question is," Dolph said, with sudden gravity; "will Brenton get
it? I'd rather he'd be afflicted with curacy than with this other
thing."

"Curacy?" Olive questioned. "What's that?"

"Acting like this curate chap, and giving his congregation red-hot pap
for their Sabbatic food. At least, that's curable; the other isn't."

But Reed shook his head. Despite his unvarying point of view, he knew
Scott Brenton better.

"You don't need to worry about Brenton," he assured them. "He has some
common sense and a little logic