d their mother's books were still in the low bookcases; religious
books, many of them, reflecting the gentle faith of the owner. On mantel
and table and walls were photographs of her children in long clothes and
short, and then once more in long ones; there was Barry in wide collars
and knickerbockers, and Constance and Mary in ermine caps and capes;
there was Barry again in the military uniform of his preparatory school;
Constance in her graduation frock, and Mary with her hair up for the
first time. There was a picture of their father on porcelain in a blue
velvet case, and another picture of him above the mantel in an oval
frame, with one of the Little Mother's, also in an oval frame, to flank
it. In the fairness of the Little Mother one traced the fairness of
Barry and Constance. But the fairness and features of the father were
Mary's.

Mary had never looked more like her father than now when, sitting under
his picture, she stated her case. What she had to say she said simply.
But when she had finished there was the silence of astonishment.

In a day, almost in an hour, little Mary had grown up! With Constance as
the nominal head of the household, none of them had realized that it was
Mary's mind which had worked out the problems of making ends meet, and
that it was Mary's strength and industry which had supplemented Susan's
waning efforts in the care of the big house.

"I want to keep the house," Mary repeated. "I had to talk it over
to-night, Aunt Frances, because you go back to New York in the morning,
and I couldn't speak of it before to-night because I was afraid that some
hint of my plan would get to Constance and she would be troubled. She'll
learn it later, but I didn't want her to have it on her mind now. I want
to stay here. I've always lived here, and so has Barry--and while I
appreciate your plans for me to go to Nice, I don't think it would be
fair or right for me to leave Barry."

Barry, a little embarrassed to be brought into it, said, "Oh, you needn't
mind about me----"

"But I do mind." Mary had risen and was speaking earnestly. "I am sure
you must see it, Aunt Frances. If I went with you, Barry would be left
to--drift--and I shouldn't like to think of that. Mother wouldn't have
liked it, or father." Her voice touched an almost shrill note of protest.

Porter Bigelow, sitting unobtrusively in the background, was moved by her
earnestness. "There's something back of it," his quick