wind outside, which dashed
the rain against the windows, only served to call attention to the
pleasantness within. It was indeed an aggressively cheerful room,
entirely out of keeping with Mrs. Pennington's mood. The open piano,
the row of thrifty ferns on the window-sill, the new novel on the table
with a foreign letter between its leaves, and the work basket beside
it--which, by the way, was of sweet grass--all sang the same song to
the accompaniment of the fire's quiet crackle.

The burden of the song was Margaret Elizabeth. You saw her sitting bolt
upright on the sofa, being very intense about something, or lost in
thought, elbows on knees, on the ottoman beside the hearth, or occupied
with that bit of embroidery, her curling lashes almost on her cheek. Oh,
Margaret Elizabeth, how could you? How could you?

Mrs. Pennington, pacing uneasily back and forth, glanced at the music on
the piano rack.

"Oh, stay at home, my heart, and rest,
Home-keeping hearts are happiest,"

it admonished her. In this disarming atmosphere she began to feel
herself the victim of some wretched dream. Yet here in her bag was
Margaret Elizabeth's note, found awaiting her on her return from Chicago
an hour ago.

In it her niece apologised contritely for the inexcusable manner in
which she had spoken, and continued: "It makes me unhappy, dearest
Aunt Eleanor, to think of disappointing you, for you have been the
kindest aunt in the world, but I have discovered in the last few
days what I ought to have known all along, that I cannot marry Mr.
McAllister. The reason is there is some one else. He is neither rich
nor of distinguished family, but there are things that count for more,
at least to me. I shall see you very soon, and explain more fully.
In the meantime think kindly, if you can, of your niece,

MARGARET ELIZABETH."

[Illustration: MRS. GERRARD PENNINGTON]

This as it stood was bad enough, wrecking her dearest hopes at the
moment when they had seemed most secure; but taken in connection with
a story related in artless innocence by her travelling companion of
yesterday, Teddy Brown, to use one of that gentleman's cherished
phrases, it spelled tragedy.

The Reporter had not been bent on mischief. Far from it. He was merely
grappling bravely with the task of being agreeable to the great lady.
Surely it was but natural that in the course of a long conversation the
Candy Man's curious resemblance to Augustus should suggest itse