make an issue of nothing. He doesn't know
anything? You're sure? Oh, Lucia!" He seemed suddenly overcome at their
amazing meeting.

She saw that she would have to be the mistress of the situation.
"Don't--don't, Gilbert," she begged. "I am just a guest of yours."

"I know--I know," he said, and there was a shade of anguish in his voice.
"Forgive me. There shall be absolutely nothing said. Not even a gesture. I
promise you that. It is as though we had never known each other."

"Surely we can play a part. It isn't as if we were children," she said, and
smiled.

He looked at her--indeed, his eyes had never left her face. Never had she
seemed so wonderful to him.

"I'm in bad," he told her. "Got to give the old place up. But what's that
to you?" There was a sound behind them. "Here comes Uncle Henry!"

A wheel chair came out of the doorway. In it sat an old man of about sixty.
But he did not look much like an invalid. His cheeks were rosy, and his
abundant white hair was brushed back from a forehead of fine moulding. His
eyes were penetrating--as young as Gilbert's, almost. Ten years before he
had become paralyzed in his legs, and now he wheeled himself about, not at
all uncomfortable.

"Uncle Henry, this is Mrs. Pell. Come out and meet her," his nephew said.

Lucia felt that she should go to the invalid; but he beat her to it. Quick
as a billiard-ball he had reached her side, turning the wheels of his chair
with great rapidity.

"Pleased to meet you," he said, and put out a white hand. "How long you
goin' to stay?"

"What a question," Gilbert laughed. "As long as she and her husband wish,
of course."

"Well, by cricketty ginger!" Henry Smith exclaimed. "Hope you'll give 'em
enough to eat!" And before anyone could say another word, he had turned and
scooted back into the house.

"Don't mind Uncle Henry," Gilbert said to Lucia. "He's got a heart of gold,
but he can be cranky and eccentric sometimes. Maybe he's got one of his
moods to-day. I never know. Tomorrow he'll be all right--perhaps. I hope
so, anyhow.... But come inside. You must be tired after your trip. Your
rooms are upstairs."

He led her into the prettiest low-beamed room she thought she had ever
seen. Indian pottery was all about, low settles, a fireplace that conjured
up a cozy picture of lonely winter evenings, and an entrancing staircase
without a balustrade that led to a dark blue door. On the walls were some
beautiful Navajo blankets, and a