"You always looked upon me as your poor little cousin who was always doing the wrong thing, didn't you, Will?"

Will mopped his brow and was mute.

Mary stared at him with accusing wrath upon her face, usually so mild. There were a few moments of painful tension, then Will said doggedly, “No, I didn't!"

"Oh, Will!” cried Mary accusingly.

"I've loved you all my life," cried Will, in a raised voice, "and I'm not going to say I haven't!"

"Oh, Will!" said Mary, this time with a sob.

"I don't care!" Will exclaimed. "The truth's what you must have, and that's it. I've always loved you, and I always will. But I never let you know it, because I thought you wouldn't like it. And I must say you seem to like it even less than I expected."

Mary rose and started from the room, her hands over her face. As she went out, they could hear her catch her breath. Will struck viciously at his meat.

"William," said Timothy reprovingly, "now see what you've done. If you had ever let me suspect the truth

"I didn't know it was customary," said Will stiffly, "for fellows to tell their grandfathers when they fall in love. Where's my hat? I have to go uptown." He rose, still very red.

"Will," said Timothy gently, "do you want the new straw? The new straw is in the china cupboard."

"Why, Timothy!" cried his wife, "where will you put that hat next?"

Will had already regretted his heated reference to grandfathers, and he understood the proffer of the new straw as an olive branch. It was not his disposi

tion to make a display of his feelings, but he answered with sudden graciousness: "Yes, grandfather. I'll take the new straw."

As Will went out, Mrs. Eden followed him to look after her daughter. She gave the young man an affectionate pat on the shoulder. It cheered him somewhat.

"Oscar," said Timothy ruefully, "I reckon you'n me'll be the only ones to black our shoes together this mawnin'." (For once we render the word as all Thornberrys deliver it.)

"I reckon I'd better go over to the hotel and see Atterton safe out of town," Oscar replied. “Cousin Polly believes in his promises, but I'll believe in his going when I see him a-going."

Not long after, Mrs. Polly Eden came out on the back porch and found the captain seated alone on the steps, with the blacking-brush on the ground. "Do come out, Polly!" cried the old man. "I'm awful lonesome. I'll never get this other foot blacked without company."

Mrs. Eden gathered her skirts carefully and sat down upon the top step. "I must hurry home and get my Sunday dress," she said. But she didn't hurry.Instead, she luxuriated in the delicious morning air with its odor of ripened June apples.

"Honey," said Timothy cautiously, "did you see Mary after she left the dinin'-room?"

Mrs. Eden nodded two or three times.

"Seemed pow'ful cut up," murmured Timothy. "When I saw her," said Mrs. Eden-she looked carefully all about, then sank her voice to a whisper, "she was laughing!"

CHAPTER XV

OSCAR found Atterton finishing his breakfast at the hotel. Winthrop's son grinned shamefacedly, but soon rallied.

"Well, Osk, here's the prodigal S.," he remarked. "Come to cheer me on my way, have you?"

"I mean to see that you get out of town," said Oscar, seating himself at the table.

"Say, old man," muttered Atterton, "you don't happen to know whether or not Gladys Lucile is posted up in my recent history, do you?"

"She may be one person who doesn't know about your drinking, and gambling, and shooting on the street, and the rest of it," returned Oscar unsympathetically, "but if so, she's in a class by herself."

"I know you're cruel only to be kind," remarked At.. terton, with a short laugh. "Well, Gladys Lucile is the only one in the world for me, anyhow. But I've got to see Peter before I go out home. I'm going to give him a few pointers relative to one Miss G. Pickens.”

"Good for you!" exclaimed Oscar, with more heartiness. "He left the table at home in a towering passion because I dropped a word against her. Maybe he'll listen to you. I think we'll find him at the post office. Come on, old fellow; you've the right stuff in you, after all."

Atterton laughed. "I know you think I'm going to cut off my own head," he cried gaily, "but I can say anything to old Pete."

Sunday morning offered diversion, from nine to eleven, by the opening of the mail; not because the citizens of Core City conspired with the postmaster for the manufacture of an excuse to be late to church, but because at nine o'clock the train brought the Sunday illustrated newspapers. The opening of the mail was usually an event, though business prevented, on weekdays, as large a representation of business men as was to be seen on Sunday, when nothing but religion called elsewhere.

On the Sunday in question, as on every first day of the week, a large crowd waited upon the sidewalk, while, within the post office, a long line of men, women, and children stretched from the door to the wicker window. Those who had keys hovered about the boxes, watching for the fall of a letter into a particular receptacle, and peering through the network at the postmaster's assistant, like birds waiting for crumbs. The men who were not smoking, were chewing, with proofs of evidence about their sturdy boots. Those who had no keys were obliged to stand in line, pressed like sandwiches between black and white, male and female, rich and poor.

Oscar saw Atterton lead Peter away from the common herd. They vanished in the rear of a drug store. Perhaps half an hour passed before Atterton reappeared alone. His step was somewhat hurried, and there was a flush upon his cheek.

He came to Oscar and said: “I'm going to walk out home.. It'll do me good. Yes, I know the ground's wet, but I don't care.'

"Did you talk to Peter?" Oscar asked, and for reply Atterton gave a long significant whistle.

"Did he like it?" Oscar insisted.

"Like it, you villain! why didn't you tell me the ass was engaged to that Pickens girl? Lord, how he did rear and charge!" (Atterton pronounced it “rah an’ chahge.") "Well, he'll never speak to me again, Pete won't. But while I was about it, I made it plain. He heard something. I don't see how a little of it can. help sticking to his brain. But bless yo' soul, Osk, that boy's off. He's crazy. He's got the Goldiemania.

Well, when he fetches that music-teacher into the family, you can tell yo' Uncle At. good-by; he'll just go off som'ers, and found another dynasty.'

Oscar did not tell Atterton that it was his intention to come out to the farm that evening. His visit was to be a fateful one, entirely devoted to Ethel. When he had seen the young man safely from the corporate limits, Oscar decided that he would go to church, as a fit and solemn preparation for his interview with Winthrop's daughter. Accordingly, he passed his restaurant with the air of a stranger, read its "Go ElseWHERE," and said aloud: "All right, I'll do so."

From Ethel's plain declaration that she could never love him, an ordinary man, not a Thornberry, might well have supposed that the final interview with Ethel had already taken place. But Oscar meant to have another one, if we may be permitted the solecism,-at about half-past seven that evening. As he sat under the Rev. Mr. Wells' sermon, hearing little of what the discursive gentleman said, but striving dutifully to hear all, he tingled with subdued excitement. His love for Ethel was so sincere and intense, in its quiet way, that he was appalled at the contemplation of a future without her. Indeed, he could not bring himself to admit the probability of such a barren prospect. As he said to himself: "What would be the use of me without