E-text prepared by Michael Gray (Lost_Gamer@comcast.net)

Transcriber's note:

      The original book contained two chapters numbered XI, each with
      a different title. Both appeared in the table of contents,
      listed as Chapters X and XI. The real Chapter X, entitled "Mere
      Speculation," was not included in the table of contents. In this
      e-text the Table of Contents has been corrected to include the
      real Chapter X and to reflect the fact that the book has two
      Chapters numbered XI.

MARY LOUISE SOLVES A MYSTERY

by
Edith Van Dyne
Author of
"Aunt Jane's Nieces Series"

Frontispiece by Anna B. Mueller

[Illustration: frontispiece]

The Reilly & Lee Co.
Chicago

Copyright, 1917
by
The Reilly & Britton Co.

_Mary Louise Solves a Mystery_

CONTENTS

   I      DOCTOR AND PATIENT
   II     MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
   III    ALORA'S FATHER
   IV     ALORA'S NEW LIFE
   V      IN THE STUDIO
   VI     FLITTING
   VII    MARY LOUISE INTRUDES
   VIII   MARY LOUISE MEETS ALORA
   IX     MARY LOUISE SCENTS A MYSTERY
   X      MERE SPECULATION
   XI     ALORA SPEAKS FRANKLY
   XI     JASON JONES IS FRIGHTENED
   XII    SILVIO'S GOLD
   XIII   DORFIELD
   XIV    HOME AGAIN
   XV     THE PUZZLE BECOMES INTRICATE
   XVI    ALORA WINS HER WAY
   XVII   THE DISAPPEARANCE
   XVIII  ON THE TRAIL
   XIX    DECOYED
   XX     JANET'S TRIUMPH
   XXI    THE PRICE OF LIBERTY
   XXII   A COMPROMISE
   XXIII  MARY LOUISE HAS AN INTUITION
   XXIV   AN INTERRUPTION
   XXV    JASON JONES
   XXVI   WHAT MARY LOUISE ACCOMPLISHED

Mary Louise Solves a Mystery

CHAPTER I
DOCTOR AND PATIENT

A little girl sat shivering in a corner of a reception room in the
fashionable Hotel Voltaire. It was one of a suite of rooms occupied by
Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones, widely known for her wealth and beauty,
and this girl--a little thing of eleven--was the only child of Mrs.
Antoinette Seaver Jones, and was named Alora.

It was not cold that made her shiver, for across the handsomely
furnished room an open window gratefully admitted the summer sunshine
and the summer breeze. Near the window, where the draught came coolest,
a middle-aged woman in a sober dress sat reading. Alora did not look at
this person but kept her gaze fixed anxiously upon the doorway that led
to the corridor, and the spasmodic shudders that at times shook her
little body seemed due to nervous fear.

The room was so still that every tick of the Dresden clock could be
distinctly heard. When Miss Gorham, Alora's governess, turned a page of
her book, the rustle was appallingly audible. And the clock ticked on,
and Miss Gorham turned page after page, and still the child sat bowed
upon her chair and eagerly eyed the passageway.

It seemed ages before the outer door of the suite finally opened and a
man moved softly down the passage and paused at the entrance of the
reception room. The man was white-haired, dignified and distinguished
in appearance. Hat in hand, he stood as if undecided while Alora
bounded from her seat and came to him, her eyes, big and pleading,
reading his face with dramatic intentness.

"Well, well, my dear; what is it?" he said in a kindly voice.

"May I see my mamma now, Doctor?" she asked.

He shook his head, turning to the table to place his hat and gloves
upon it.

"Not just yet, little one," he gently replied, and noting her
quick-drawn breath of disappointment he added: "Why, I haven't seen
her myself, this morning."

"Why do you keep me from her, Doctor Anstruther? Don't you know it's--
it's wicked, and cruel?"--a sob in her voice.

The old physician looked down upon the child pityingly.

"Mamma is ill--very ill, you know--and to disturb her might--it might--
well, it might make her worse," he explained lamely.

"I won't disturb her. There's a nurse in there, all the time. Why
should I disturb my mamma more than a nurse?" asked Alora pleadingly.

He evaded the question. The big eyes disconcerted him.

"When I have seen your mother," said he, "I may let you go to her for a
few minutes. But you must be very quiet, so as not to excite her. We
must avoid anything of an exciting nature. You understand that, don't
you, Lory?"

She studied his face gravely. When he held out a hand to her she clung
to it desperately and a shudder again shook her from head to foot.

"Tell me, Doctor Anstruther," in low, passionate tones, "is my mother
dying?"

He gave an involuntary start.

"Who put that notion into your head, Lory?"

"Miss Gorham."

He frowned and glanced reprovingly at the governess, who had lowered
her book to her lap and was regarding the scene with stolid unconcern.

"You mustn't mind such idle gossip, my dear. I am the doctor, you know,
and I am doing all that can be done to save your mother's life. Don't
worry until I tell you to, Lory; and now let me go to see my patient."

He withdrew his hand from her clasp and turned into the passage again.
The girl listened to his footsteps as he approached her mother's
bedchamber, paused a moment, and then softly opened the door and
entered. Silence again pervaded the reception room. The clock resumed
its loud ticking. Miss Gorham raised her book. Alora went back to her
chair, trembling.

The front bedchamber was bright and cheery, a big room fitted with
every modern luxury. The doctor blinked his eyes as he entered from the
dim passage, for here was sunlight and fresh air in plenty. Beside the
bed stood a huge vase of roses, their delicate fragrance scenting the
atmosphere. Upon the bed, beneath a costly lace coverlid, lay a woman
thirty-five years of age, her beautiful face still fresh and unlined,
the deep blue eyes turned calmly upon the physician.

"Welcome, Doctor Anstruther," she said. "Do you realize you have kept
me waiting?"

"I am sorry, Mrs. Jones," he replied, approaching her. "There are so
many demands upon my time that----"

"I know," a little impatiently; "but now that you are here please tell
me how I am this morning."

"How do you feel?"

"I do not suffer, but it takes more morphine to quiet the pain. Janet
has used the hypodermic four times since midnight," with a glance at
the gray-robed nurse who stood silently by the table.

The doctor nodded, thoughtfully looking down her. There was small
evidence of illness in her appearance, but he knew that her hours were
numbered and that the dread disease that had fastened upon her was
creeping on with ever increasing activity. She knew it, too, and smiled
a grim little smile as she added: "How long can I last, at this rate?"

"Do not anticipate, my dear," he answered gravely. "Let us do all that
may be done, and----"

"I must know!" she retorted. "I have certain important arrangements to
make that must not be needlessly delayed."

"I can understand that, Mrs. Jones."

"Then tell me frankly, how long have I to live?"

"Perhaps a month; possibly less; but----"

"You are not honest with me, Doctor Anstruther! What I wish to know--
what I _must_ know--is how soon this disease will be able to kill me.
If we manage to defer the end somewhat, all the better; but the fiend
must not take me unaware, before I am ready to resign my life."

He seated himself beside the bed and reflected. This was his most
interesting patient; he had attended her constantly for more than a
year and in this time had learned to admire not only her beauty of
person but her "gameness" and wholesome mentality. He knew something of
her past life and history, too, as well from her own lips as from
common gossip, for this was no ordinary woman and her achievements were
familiar to many.

She was the daughter of Captain Bob Seaver, whose remarkable career was
known to every man in the West. Captain Bob was one "forty-niners" and
had made fortunes and lost them with marvelous regularity. He had a
faculty for finding gold, but his speculations were invariably unwise,
so his constant transitions from affluence to poverty, and vice versa,
were the subject of many amusing tales, many no doubt grossly
exaggerated. And the last venture of Captain Bob Seaver, before he
died, was to buy the discredited "Ten-Spot" mine and start to develop
it.

At that time he was a widower with one motherless child--Antoinette--a
girl of eighteen who had been reared partly in mining camps and partly
at exclusive girls' schools in the East, according to her father's
varying fortunes. "Tony" Seaver, as she was generally called in those
days, combined culture and refinement with a thorough knowledge of
mining, and when her father passed away and left her absolute mistress
of the tantalizing "Ten-Spot," she set to work to make the mine a
success, directing her men in person and displaying such shrewd
judgment and intelligence, coupled with kindly consideration for her
assistants, that she became the idol of the miners, all of whom were
proud to be known as employees of Tony Seaver's "Ten-Spot" would have
died for their beautiful employer if need be.

And the "Ten-Spot" made good. In five years Tony had garnered a million
or two of well-earned dollars, and then she sold out and retired from
business. Also, to the chagrin of an army of suitors, she married an
artist named Jason Jones, whose talent, it was said, was not so great
as his luck. So far, his fame rested on his being "Tony Seaver's
husband." But Tony's hobby was art, and she had recognized real worth,
she claimed, in Jason Jones' creations. On her honeymoon she carried
her artist husband to Europe and with him studied the works of the
masters in all the art centers of the Continent. Then, enthusiastic and
eager for Jason's advancement, she returned with him to New York and
set him up in a splendid studio where he had every convenience and
incentive to work.

So much the world at large knew. It also knew that within three years
Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones separated from her husband and, with her
baby girl, returned West to live. The elaborate Jones studio was
abandoned and broken up and the "promising young artist" disappeared
from the public eye. Mrs. Jones, a thorough business woman, had
retained her fortune in her own control and personally attended to her
investments. She became noted as a liberal patron of the arts and a
generous donor to worthy charities. In spite of her youth, wealth, and
beauty, she had no desire to shine in society and lived a somewhat
secluded life in luxurious family hotels, attending with much
solicitude to the training and education of her daughter Alora.

At first she had made Denver her home, but afterward migrated from one
middle-west city to another until she came to Chicago, where she had
now lived for nearly three years, occupying the most expensive suite of
rooms at the very exclusive Hotel Voltaire.

Alora fairly worshipped her beautiful mother and although Mrs.
Antoinette Seaver Jones was considered essentially cold and unemotional
by those who knew her casually, there was no doubt she prized her child
as her dearest possession and lavished all the tenderness and love of
which she was capable upon her.

Retrospectively, Doctor Anstruther considered this historical revue of
his fair patient as he sat facing her. It seemed a most unhappy fate
that she should be cut off in the flower of her womanhood, but her case
was positively hopeless, and she knew it and had accepted the harsh
verdict without a murmur. Bravery had always been Tony Seaver's prime
characteristic. To Doctor Anstruther it seemed that she might as well
know the truth which she had demanded from his lips.

"This disease is one that accelerates toward the end," he said. "Within
the past few days we have noted its more virulent tendency. All we can
do now is to keep you from suffering until--the end."

"And that will be--when?" she demanded.

"I think I can safely give you a week but----"

"Then I must act at once," she said, as he hesitated. "I must, first of
all, make provision for Alora's future, and in this I require your
help."

"You know you may depend upon me," he said simply.

"Please telegraph at once to my husband Jason Jones, in New York."

The request startled him, for never before had she mentioned her
husband's name in his presence. But he asked, calmly enough:

"What is his address?"

"Hand me that small memorandum-book," pointing to the stand beside him.
He obeyed, and as she turned the leaves slowly she said:

"Doctor Anstruther, you have been my good and faithful friend, and you
ought to know and to understand why I am now sending for my husband,
from whom I have been estranged for many years. When I first met Jason
Jones he was a true artist and I fell in love with his art rather than
with the man. I was ambitious that he should become a great painter,
world-famous. He was very poor until he married me, and he had worked
industriously to succeed, but as soon as I introduced him to a life of
comfort--I might even add, of luxury--his ambition to work gradually
deserted him. With his future provided for, as he thought, he failed to
understand the necessity of devoting himself to his brush and palette,
but preferred a life of ease--of laziness, if you will. So we
quarreled. I tried to force him back to his work, but it was no use; my
money had ruined his career. I therefore lost patience and decided to
abandon him, hoping that when he was again thrown upon his own
resources he would earnestly resume his profession and become a master,
as I believed him competent to be. We were not divorced: we merely
separated. Finding I had withdrawn his allowance he was glad to see me
go, for my unmerciful scoldings had killed any love he may have had for
me. But he loved Lory, and her loss was his hardest trial. I may have
been as much to blame as he for our lack of harmony, but I have always
acted on my impulses.

"I'll give Jason Jones the credit for not whimpering," she resumed
thoughtfully, after a brief pause, "nor has he ever since appealed to
me for money. I don't know how well he has succeeded, for we do not
correspond, but I have never heard his name mentioned in the art
circles I have frequented. He remained in New York, I believe, and so I
chose to keep away from New York. A year or two ago, however, I met a
man who had known Jason Jones and who gave me his address. Here it is:
1744 East Sixty-seventh street. Will you make a copy of it, Doctor?"

He nodded.

"What shall I say in the telegram?" he asked, writing the address in
his notebook.

"Tell him I am dying and seek a reconciliation before I pass away. Beg
him to come to me at once."

Dr. Anstruther jotted down the instructions underneath the address.

"You must understand," she continued, "that Jason Jones is an honorable
man and in many ways a high-minded gentleman. I have lived with him as
his wife and I know that he is well fitted to care for our child and to
rear her properly. I have left my entire fortune to Alora, but I have
made Jason my sole executor, and he is to have control, under certain
restrictions, of all the income until Alora is eighteen. I think he
will be glad to accept the responsibility, both on Alora's account and
for the money."

"Doubtless, if he has not been a success as an artist since your
separation," remarked the doctor, drily.

"The man I spoke of said Jason was living in quite modest
circumstances. He said that although he had succeeded in selling a few
paintings they had brought rather insignificant sums--which surprised
me, as I know they must have possessed a degree of merit. However, I
may be mistaken in thinking his talent exceptional. Anyhow, my
experiment in leaving him to his own devices seems not to have resulted
as I had hoped, and I now am willing he should handle Alora's income
and live comfortably while he is educating her. She will probably
provide for her father when she comes of age, but I have not included
such a request in my will and I have endeavored, in case he proves
inclined to neglect her, to require the court to appoint another
guardian. That is, of course, merely a precaution, for I know his
nature is gentle and kind, and he adores--or at least he used to adore
children."

The doctor sat, notebook in hand, musing. The matter-of-fact,
businesslike way in which she referred to her marital relations and her
assumed unconcern over her own dreadful fate impressed the good man as
extraordinary. But he was relieved to know that little Alora, of whom
he had grown quite fond, was to have the guardianship of a parent, and
glad that the character of Jason Jones was above reproach. The man's
failure to succeed as an artist, while it might have been a source of
chagrin to his art-loving wife, did not lower him to any extent in Dr.
Anstruther's opinion.

"I suppose Alora does not remember her father?" he presently remarked.

"She was about two years old when we separated."

"And you say your will is already drawn?"

"Judge Bernsted, my lawyer, has attended to it. It is now in his
possession, properly signed and witnessed."

"If Bernsted drew the will, it is doubtless legal and in accordance
with your wishes. But who witnessed it?"

"My nurse, Janet."

He glanced at the motionless figure of the attendant, who had remained
so inert at her post by the window that he had quite forgotten her
presence. She was a young woman, perhaps thirty years of age, and not
unprepossessing in appearance, in spite of her modest uniform.

Janet's one peculiarity was her downcast eyes. They were good eyes,
bright and intelligent, but she kept them veiled by their long lashes
and drooping lids. Dr. Anstruther attached no significance to this
trait, doubtless a habit of modest reserve acquired in her profession.
He had himself recommended the woman to Mrs. Jones, having frequently
employed her on other cases and found her deft, skillful and thoroughly
reliable. Janet Orme's signature to the will he regarded as
satisfactory, since Judge Bernsted had accepted it.

A moan from his patient suddenly aroused the doctor. Her face was
beginning to twitch spasmodically with pain. In an instant Janet was at
her side, hypodermic needle in hand, and the opiate was soon
administered.

"Send the telegram," muttered Mrs. Jones, still breathing hard; "and,
as you go out, Doctor, send Alora to me. I shall have relief in a few
moments."

"To be sure," he said, rising. "Lory has been begging to see you, and
I'll attend to the telegram at once."

CHAPTER II
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

The child crept softly to her mother's bedside, but once there she
impulsively threw her arms about "Mamma Tone's" neck and embraced her
so tightly that the sick woman was obliged to tear the little arms
away. She did this tenderly, though, and holding the trembling hands in
her own kissed both of Lory's cheeks before she said:

"I've news for you, dear."

"Are you better, mamma?" asked Lory.

"Of course not," was the calm reply. "You mustn't expect mamma ever to
get well, my darling. But that shouldn't worry you--not too much, you
know. One of the queer things about life is that it has an end, sooner
or later, and in mamma's case it comes to an end a little sooner than
you and I might wish it to."

"Oh, Mamma Tone!" An agonized cry, with the small hands clasped tightly
over her throbbing heart. But Tony Seaver did not flinch.

"The news I have will surprise you, Lory dear. Your father, who loved
you devotedly when you were a baby, but whom you have never known till
now, is coming here to see us."

Alora's eyes grew big with wonder, but other thoughts drove even this
strange news from her mind.

"I can't let you go, Mamma Tone," she wailed, sobbing; "I can't let you
die and leave me all alone!"

The woman's breast heaved. She was silent a moment and then said
quietly:

"Even kings and queens, sweetheart, have no command over life and
death. When it is too late to help it, we realize we have been born;
when it is too late to help it, we realize we must die. But why
complain, when it is the fate of all humanity? To be true to our
Creator, who directs all things, we must bow to His will without
protest. You will love your father, Lory, because he will love you; and
he is a good man, and kindly, so I believe he will make your life as
happy as I could have done."

"I don't want him; I want _you,_ Mamma--I want _you!"_

The mother sighed wearily and the alert nurse advanced and said to the
child in grave, cold tones:

"You must control yourself, Miss Alora, if you wish to remain."

The threat quieted the little girl at once.

"I'll be good, Mamma Tone," she whispered softly. "Talk to me, and tell
me what I must do."

So the dying woman talked to her, not of herself, but of Alora's
father, and of how she would like her child to conduct herself while
she grew in womanhood. She spoke of her will, and told Lory what it
meant to her and how she had safe-guarded her interests as well as she
was able. To this Lory listened intently and, although she still
trembled at times, she had Tony Seaver's blood in her veins and could
be brave in spite of the terrors that faced her. Dimly she realized
that her mother was suffering through the knowledge of their inevitable
parting, even as Alora was suffering, and felt she could comfort that
beloved mother more by controlling her grief bravely than by giving way
to it in her mother's presence.

Meantime, Dr. Anstruther had returned to his office and had written and
dispatched the following telegram:

"Jason Jones,
1744 East 67th St.,
New York City.

"Your wife is dying at the Hotel Voltaire and wishes reconciliation
before she passes away. Come quickly, as any delay may prove dangerous.
Notify me by wire when to expect you.
Edward Anstruther, M. D."

He left orders that the answer be delivered to him at his office or
residence, as soon as received, but the day and the night passed
without a word from Jason Jones. Dr. Anstruther telephoned the
telegraph office and was assured his message had been delivered to the
party in New York, as otherwise they would be notified to that effect.

Knowing Mrs. Jones' dangerous condition, the good doctor was worried,
but the following morning brought the delayed answer:

"If necessary for me to come, you must send money for expenses."

It was signed "Jason Jones" and its tone and its demand annoyed Dr.
Anstruther exceedingly.

"Confound the fellow!" he exclaimed. "Any decent man would have
borrowed the money, or even pawned his watch and jewelry, to get to a
dying wife who calls for him. Either Mrs. Jones is mistaken in her
husband's kindly character or--well, he may have changed since last she
knew him."

He did not hesitate, however, to go to the office and send money by
telegraph to Jason Jones, furnishing the required sum from his own
pocket rather than allow Antoinette to see her husband's telegram. He
even sent more than was necessary, muttering to himself: "The poor
devil may have some bills to settle before he can get away, and in any
event she must not be disappointed because her impecunious husband
lacks a few dollars. I fancy the poor artist will be amazed to find
himself suddenly raised from poverty to affluence, for little Lory's
income will be enormous and he will have seven years, at least, to
enjoy it unrestrained. I hope," he added thoughtfully, as he drove back
to his office, "that Mrs. Jones has made no error in her judgment of
this man, for it is considerable power to place in anyone's hands and
Alora is such a dear that I want her properly taken care of."

When he made his next visit to his patient he said in answer to her
questioning look:

"Mr. Jones will be here to-morrow, I think. He will notify me of his
arrival and I will be here to meet him. I believe it will be advisable
for me to see him first, you know, in order to--eh--eh--to post him a
bit," he added, meaningly.

"Yes," she replied, "I fear it will be something of a shock to Jason.
Even though we have practically been strangers for years, he is sure to
be grieved and sympathetic. But do not bore him with particulars,
Doctor. Send him to me as soon as you have prepared him for the
interview."

ALORA'S FATHER

A man slouched into the lofty foyer of the Hotel Voltaire and paused
uncertainly, as if awed by the splendor of the place. A boy in uniform
hastened to relieve him of his hand baggage, which consisted of a
"roll-me-up" or "carryall" of brown canvas, strapped around the middle,
such as one often sees in traveling on the Continent. It seemed a much
used and abused affair and painted upon the ends were the dimmed
initials: "J. J."

This man was plainly dressed. His clothing was of the cheap, ready-made
variety, worn nearly to shabbiness and matched by a gray flannel shirt
with a flowing black tie, knotted at the throat, and a soft gray hat
that was a bit weatherstained. His shoes were shabby and unshined. His
whole appearance was out of keeping with the palatial hotel he had
entered.

Without relinquishing his baggage to the boy he asked sharply:

"Is Dr. Anstruther here?"

But now Dr. Anstruther, who had been impatiently waiting, espied the
arrival and after a glance at the initials on the traveling-roll said
in hesitating tones:

"Mr. Jason Jones?"

"Yes. You must be the doctor who telegraphed me."

"I am Doctor Anstruther."

"All right. Where's my wife?"

There was no especial anxiety in his tones, which were slow and
distinct and a trifle sharp. He seemed ill at ease and looked around
the foyer again, as if fearing he had entered the wrong place.

"I will lead you to her presently," replied the physician gravely; "but
first, sir, I must acquaint you with her condition, which is serious. I
have engaged a room for you here and if you will please register we
will go there together and talk undisturbed."

"All right," said Jason Jones. He registered at the desk and then
turned and announced: "I'm ready. Go ahead."

Those present in the foyer cast curious glances at the stranger as he
passed them and followed Dr. Anstruther to the elevator. The boy
accompanied them, now carrying the roll of baggage. The grandeur of the
room they entered, which was convenient to the suite of Mrs. Jones,
seemed to astonish the artist, although it was as simply furnished as
any the great hotel contained. However, he made no remark but removed
his hat, seated himself, and looked inquiringly at the physician.

"Mrs. Jones," began Dr. Anstruther, "is really dying. I cannot say how
long she may survive, but it is a matter of days--perhaps hours. Her
greatest anxiety at present is to be reconciled with you, whom she has
not seen or even communicated with for years."

"Did she say that?"

"Yes."

"And she wants to be reconciled?"

"She does."

"Rather a queer notion, that," remarked Mr. Jones, musingly.

"Very natural, I think, under the circumstances," stiffly replied the
doctor. "She has every confidence in you and admires your character
exceedingly, although it was her desire that you live apart."

The man's stolid countenance relaxed in a grin--a somewhat scornful and
unbelieving expression--but he did not speak. He was not a very tall
man; he was thin of figure and hardened of muscle; his head was bald in
front, giving him the appearance of a high forehead, and the hair at
the back and around the ears was beginning to gray. His eyes were light
blue; his nose was shapely and his jaws prominent and tightly set in
repose. His age was about forty.

"Mrs. Jones," continued the doctor, "knows that you are due to arrive
at this time and is eagerly counting the minutes; not that you are so
dear to her," he asserted in retaliation for the sneer upon his
hearer's lips, "but because she has important business matters to
arrange with you before she passes away."

"Business matters?"

"So she has told me. I believe," he said, after a brief period of
hesitation, during which he considered how best to handle this peculiar
artist, "that I will allow you to see your wife at once, that you may
learn her plans from her own lips."

Indeed, he had already decided that Jason Jones must have changed
materially, and for the worse, since Antoinette Seaver had known him.
Perhaps, when she had talked with the man, she would revise her opinion
of him and make other disposition of her finances and the guardianship
of her child. In that case it would not be well for him to give her
husband any inkling of her present plans. Having reached this
conclusion, Dr. Anstruther rose abruptly and said: "Come with me,
please."

Jason Jones made no demur. Without remark he followed his conductor
into the hallway and to the entrance to the suite occupied by his wife.
The governess had been instructed to take Alora out for a ride; there
was no one in the little reception room. Here, however, the doctor
halted, and pointing to the door at the further end of the passage he
said:

"That is your wife's sick chamber. Please enter quietly and remember
the danger of exciting Mrs. Jones unduly. Be gentle, and--considerate."

Jason Jones nodded. A moment he regarded the door with curious
intentness, savoring of reluctance. Then he slowly advanced, opened it
and went in, closing the door softly behind him.

Dr. Anstruther seated himself in the reception room. The artist puzzled
him greatly, although he prided himself--through long professional
experience--on being able to read human nature with some accuracy. This
summons to his dying-wife ought to seem the most natural thing in the
world to Jason Jones, yet the man appeared dazed and even bewildered by
the event, and while he had once lived in luxurious surroundings his
later experiences must have been so wholly different that the splendor
of his wife's mode of living quite embarrassed him. Yes, the contrast
was sharp, it must be admitted; the man had formerly shared Tony
Seaver's immense wealth; he had enjoyed the handsomest studio in New
York; and then--back to poverty, to drudgery, to a struggle for mere
food and clothing! Years of hardship were likely to have had a decided
effect upon the character of a man who was doubtless weak in the
beginning; it would make him hard, and bitter, and----

A shrill scream startled him. It came from the sick chamber and was
echoed by another cry--hoarse and terrified--in a man's voice.

Dr. Anstruther sprang to his feet and hurried into the patient's
bedchamber.

"The woman's dead, Doctor," cried Jason Jones, standing in the middle
of the room. "She's dead!"

The physician hastened to the bedside, where Janet Orme, the nurse, was
bending over the still form. Pushing her away, Dr. Anstruther made a
hurried examination.

It was true; the woman was dead. At the very moment of reunion with the
husband from whom she had so long been parted, she had passed on to
another life, leaving reconciliation in abeyance.

Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones lay beneath her lace covered with features
contorted, mouth half open and eyes staring wildly. A paroxysm of pain
had carried her off, the good doctor well knew; the pain, and the
excitement of the moment. Very tenderly he bent down and closed the
eyes and pressed the lips together. He smoothed the lines from the
cheeks, so that the face became more natural in appearance. Then, with
a sigh--for he had become fond of this brave, beautiful patient--he
turned away to find Jason Jones and the nurse Janet confronting one
another in tense attitudes. The man stared wonderingly into the nurse's
face; Janet, her eyes now unveiled, returned the stare with an
expression that Dr. Anstruther could not fathom.

They seemed to feel the doctor's observation, for Janet turned her back
abruptly, while the man swung around and tiptoed hastily from the room.

Dr. Anstruther looked at the nurse reflectively.

"Who was it that screamed? Was it you, or Mrs. Jones?" he asked.

She hesitated a moment.

"It was I," she replied. "I saw her face and knew that--that the end
had come."

It was a lie, and the nurse knew that the shrewd doctor recognized it
as a lie. But he made no comment and with a last regretful look toward
the bed he followed Jason Jones out.

CHAPTER IV
ALORA'S NEW LIFE

Time sears all heart wounds. The scars remain, perhaps, but as the
clock ticks on the ache is stilled and the soreness finally passes
away.

At first Alora was heart-broken over her mother's loss. She lived in a
sort of stupor for weeks after the funeral. Her father's presence she
accepted without comment or emotion, for it had been arranged by "Mamma
Tone." She did not consider, in those first weeks, whether she cared
for her newly found father or not. Her mother's statement that he was a
"good man" and would love Alora dearly was taken by the child as a
matter of fact, while her mother's injunction to love him and confide
in him in her stead was for the present ignored.

Indeed, during those first weeks Lory had no fault to find with her new
protector, for she saw little of him. Jason Jones retained his room at
the hotel and allowed Alora and her governess to inhabit the handsome
suite her mother had occupied, although they were much too small for
the big apartments. However, Lory would have felt uncomfortable, just
then, in any other place. Her mother's chamber was closed and the
curtains drawn, but every night before she retired to her own little
room the child would steal in, in the dark, and feel her way to the
empty bed and kiss the pillow on which her dear mother's head had
rested. Miss Gorham, the governess, was aware of these evening
excursions, but offered no objection. Indeed, the woman objected to
nothing that did not interfere with her own personal comfort and
convenience. Under the eyes of Mrs. Jones she had been prim and
dutiful, but there was no one to chide her now, however neglectful she
chose to be, and it was true that during these days the little girl
required no particular care. Alora resumed her morning studies with
meekness a week after her mother had been laid away, and in the
afternoons she rode or walked with Miss Gorham or received the callers
who came to "console poor Antoinette Seaver Jones' child."

Despite her haughty reserve, Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones had
accumulated a wide circle of acquaintances--if not friends--who
sincerely mourned her untimely death and would have been glad to
befriend her little girl were such services needed. But it was known
that Alora's father had now appeared to guard her welfare and there was
"so much money in the Jones family" that no financial aid was required;
therefore, these acquaintances could only call to see Alora and profess
their friendship.

The child listened gravely to their stilted praises of her mother and
accepted their platitudes in good faith. It was indeed comforting to
hear so many nice things said of her loved one.

Her father was never present on these occasions. He was by no means a
sociable man. Sometimes he came in for a few minutes, in the morning,
and sat down and stared at the girl in a way half curious and half
speculative, and said little, and presently went away as quietly as he
had come.

The nurse, Janet Orme, left on the day that Mrs. Jones died, and Alora
had almost forgotten the young woman when one afternoon she came to see
her. Janet no longer wore her nurse's uniform but was dressed in
ultra-fashionable apparel and to the child's amusement affected the
manners of a lady. She talked more with Miss Gorham than with the little
girl and was keen to know what arrangements had been made for their
future. Miss Gorham admitted that she had no idea of Mr. Jones'
intentions. Of course they could not remain long in this elaborate
suite; a smaller one would be more satisfactory in every way; but Mr.
Jones had not as yet mentioned the subject.

A few days afterward, during one of their walks, Alora was surprised to
see her father and nurse Janet riding past in a hired automobile. The
two seemed engaged in earnest conversation and neither noticed Alora or
her governess. Miss Gorham snorted rather disdainfully but without
remark, and Lory was not especially interested in the matter.

Meantime, letters of administration had been issued to Jason Jones and
the control of his wife's--now Alora's--property legally placed in his
hands. Judge Bernsted attended to all the necessary details and, while
he did not admire the artist and secretly believed he was unfitted for
the task of handling so much money, he loyally insisted that the dead
woman's wishes be obeyed to the letter.

Dr. Anstruther had called on the attorney and had ventured to state his
misgivings concerning Jason Jones, pleading that Alora was likely to
suffer through the man's indifference and lack of culture, but Judge
Bernsted declared it was not his duty to criticise character but to see
that the wishes of his clients were obeyed. In this case doubtless the
man's wife knew him more intimately than anyone else and if she trusted
him, aware as she must be of his faults and virtues, it would be
presumptuous for anyone to try to break her will or otherwise interfere
with her carefully planned arrangements.

But Jason Jones was improving, in a way. He had bought new clothes and
a supply of linen, and although he did not wear them with the ease of
one accustomed to modish dress they certainly improved his appearance.
He was quiet and unassuming; he made no friends and few acquaintances;
he never mentioned himself or his personal history and never referred
to his wife except when forced to do so by some of "her meddling
friends"--well meaning people who sought his acquaintance to condole
with him or perhaps to attempt to "cultivate" him for Antoinette Seaver
Jones' sake. But these found him so unresponsive that they soon left
him alone.

The legal business, even though it progressed smoothly, required time
for consummation, so it was somewhat more than three months before all
the details were complete. Alora, a sad-faced child with no especial
interest in life, kept no track of time and plodded along in her
morning-studies and took her afternoon drives or walks in a perfunctory
manner that rendered Miss Gorham's duties light indeed. But all this
ended suddenly, and Jason Jones ended it.

He came to the rooms one morning and said to the governess in his
abrupt way: "Pack up."

"What do you mean, sir?" was the startled query.

"Just what I say. Get the child's things and your own ready to move out
of this place by Saturday. Also pack the personal belongings of Mrs.
Jones. Put them in separate trunks and boxes, so I can have them
stored. Do you understand me?"

"I--I shall need assistance," gasped the bewildered Miss Gorham.

"Then get a maid--or a porter--or both--to help you."

Alora was present and listened with awakening interest. A change of any
sort would be pleasant, she reflected.

"Where are we going?" she asked, as her father turned away.

It was the one question Miss Gorham wanted to ask, too, but Mr. Jones
left the room without reply.

Three days was little enough time to gather up and pack the
accumulation of years. The governess knew there were many big trunks in
the storeroom of the hotel belonging to Mrs. Jones, and these she
ordered brought up to the rooms. Then she procured two maids, told them
what and how to pack, and composedly resumed her reading.

"I am no menial," she told Alora, with a lofty air of superiority;
"these persons will do their work properly, I'm sure."

On Saturday morning Mr. Jones appeared again.

"Is everything ready?" he demanded.

"Ask Susan and Jane," replied Miss Gorham.

Susan and Jane declared everything was packed, even to the suit cases
and traveling satchels.

"But where are we going?" inquired the governess.

"You are going wherever you please," said Jason Jones. "I do not
require your services longer."

"You're going to discharge me?" she said, startled.

"You are already discharged."

"But who will look after poor Lory? Who will attend to her education,
and to--to--her comforts?"

"I will. Here is your money. I have paid you a week in advance, in lieu
of notice."

"A week? Pooh! I'm hired by the year," asserted the woman defiantly.

"Have you a written contract?"

"No; a verbal contract is just as good."

"It won't hold in law. Take your traps and go--at once."

The governess looked at him. He was absolutely calm and determined.
Instinctively she knew that any protest would be unavailing.

Alora regarded the dismissal of her governess with as much unconcern as
her father displayed. Miss Gorham had been her companion for years, but
had never won the smallest corner of the girl's heart. Although she was
not aware of the fact, the woman's constant presence and lack of
interest in her had become oppressive. The child's first sensation, on
realizing their future separation, was one of distinct relief.

When Miss Gorham had gone, seeming to begrudge the terse "good-bye" she
gave her pupil, the girl's father quietly said: "Come, Alora," and
walked away.

She followed him to a waiting taxicab, in which had been heaped her
hand luggage and his own, and they drove away from the grand hotel
where she had lived in luxury for so long, and where so many indelible
memories had been impressed upon her childish mind, with as little ado
as if they had been transient guests.

When the cab drew up at a railway station, Alora asked:

"Are we leaving town, then, father?"

"Yes," he replied; "I am returning to New York."

She felt a slight sinking of the heart, just then, but it was followed
by a sense of elation. The old life, in which her adored mother had
played so prominent a part, was being abandoned forever, and this
troubled her, she knew not why.

But since Mamma Tone had gone away the old life had lost its charm and
become dull and stupid. Lory was not sure she could be happier
elsewhere, but her crushed and dispirited nature responded to the
suggestion of change. It was interesting to have something different to
look forward to.

The man beside her was no more congenial than Gorham had been, but he
was her father; he was the guardian selected by her dead mother, and in
obeying his wishes she might find her future life more grateful than
had been the dreadful dreary months since Mamma Tone had left her.

Somehow, Jason Jones seemed uneasy in the presence of his daughter.
During the journey to New York he rode most of the time in the smoking
compartment, only appearing to take Alora to the diner for her meals.
The child was equally uncomfortable in her father's society and was
well pleased to be left so much alone.

So, with very little questioning or conversation on either side, father
and daughter came to their destination and Alora found herself
deposited in a small suite of rooms on the third floor of a grimy and
dingy house in East Sixty-seventh Street--one of a long row of similar
houses that were neither residences nor business establishments, but
hovered between the two. There were several little tin signs nailed
beside the entrance and Lory noticed that one of these read: "Jason
Jones. Studio. 3rd Floor." It was an old sign, scarcely legible, while
others beside it seemed bright and new, and when the girl had climbed
laboriously up the three flights and the artist had unlocked the door
at the head of the stairs, with a key which he took from his pocket,
she found everything about the rooms she entered as old and faded as
the sign on the door.

CHAPTER V
IN THE STUDIO

The fact that it was beginning to grow dark prevented Alora from
observing all the tawdriness of her new home and what she saw inspired
her more with curiosity than dismay. The little girl had been reared
from babyhood in an atmosphere of luxury; through environment she had
become an aristocrat from the top of her head to the tips of her toes;
this introduction to shabbiness was unique, nor could she yet
understand that such surroundings were familiar to many who battle for
existence in a big city. The very fact that her father's humble flat
was "different" made it far more interesting to the child than new
apartments such as she had been accustomed to. Therefore she had no
thought, at this time, of protest. Her own little room contained a
small iron bed, one straight chair with a wooden bottom and a
broken-legged dresser over which hung a cracked mirror. The small rag
rug was worn threadbare.

While she stood in the doorway of this room, solemnly regarding it, her
father said over her shoulder:

"You won't need both those big trunks here, I'm sure. I'll store them
somewhere in the studio. Covered with drapes, they won't be noticed. I
can't imagine what that woman packed them with."

"My dresses," replied Alora. "Even then, I left a lot at the Voltaire,
for the maids to sell or give away. Mamma used to send them to the
Salvation Army."

"Two trunks of dresses ought to last for a good many years," he
remarked in a reflective tone.

"Oh, no indeed," said Lory. "Miss Gorham was about to engage a
dressmaker for me when--when--you said we'd go away. I'm growing fast,
you know, and I was to have a dozen or fifteen summer frocks made, and
a lot of lingerie."

"Then we moved just in time to save that expense," he declared, setting
his stern jaws together. "There's been a terrible waste of money
through that woman Gorham. We're well rid of her."

He turned away to the studio and the child followed him there. He
turned on the electric lights, which were not very bright, and Alora
took a look at the workroom and thought it seemed more comfortable than
the other rooms of the flat.

Her father began dusting and arranging half a dozen paintings of
various sizes, mounted on stretchers. None was finished; some were
scarcely begun. Lory tried to see what they represented. Perhaps she
had inherited from her mother a bit of artistic instinct; if so, it was
that which prompted her to shrug her small shoulders slightly and then
turn away to the window.

In the dimly lighted street outside a man drove up with the baggage.
Mr. Jones had purchased for himself in Chicago a new trunk--a small and
inexpensive one--and there were two big trunks and a suitcase belonging
to Alora. After these had been carried up and placed in the studio--the
only room that would hold them--her father said:

"We will go out now and get some dinner. You won't need your coat, for
the restaurant is just around the corner."

Alora marveled at the restaurant even more than at the studio
furnishings. It looked a hundred years old and the atmosphere still
retained the fumes of much ancient cookery. The linen was coarse, the
plating worn from the forks and spoons through constant use, the dishes
thick and clumsy and well nicked. Alora was hungry and she ate what her
father ordered for her, although she decided it did not taste very
nice.

When they sat down a man from behind the counter approached them and
bending low said in a quiet tone:

"You know, Jones, it's to be a cash deal from now on."

"Of course," replied Alora's father, with a slight frown. "Also I'll
pay you the old account, if you'll make out the bill."

The man smiled, patted Alora's head--a liberty she indignantly
resented--and went back to his desk.

During the meal and, indeed, ever since their arrival in New York,
Jason Jones cast frequent puzzled glances into the face of his little
daughter, who until now had accepted her changed conditions with
evident indifference. But as they ate together in silence her small
features grew grave and thoughtful and her father shrank from meeting
the inquiring glances of her big eyes. Yet even now she made no
complaint. Neither did she ask questions. Her look was expectant,
however, and that was what embarrassed him.

After the dinner they went back to the dingy studio, where the man
lighted a pipe and sat opposite his small daughter, puffing uneasily.
They were both reserved; there was an indefinable barrier between them
which each was beginning to recognize. Presently Alora asked to go to
bed and he sent her to her room with a nod of relief.

Next morning they had breakfast at the same stuffy little restaurant
and afterward Alora unpacked some things from her trunks and put them
in the drawers of the broken-legged dresser. It seemed odd to have no
maid to wait upon her, but she was glad to have something to do. As she
passed to and from the studio she noticed that her father had resumed
work on a picture that represented two cows eating a broken pumpkin
that lay in a cornfield. He worked slowly and never seemed satisfied
with what he did, as if lacking confidence in his ability. Lory decided
he couldn't be blamed for that.

The child plodded drearily along in her new life for a full week. Then
she began to grow restless, for the place was hateful and repulsive to
her. But now an incident occurred that gave her new cause for wonder.

One day the door opened and a woman walked into the studio. It was
Janet Orme, her mother's former nurse, but what a new and astonishing
Janet it was! Her silken gown was very "fashionable," somewhat too
modish for good taste, for it was elaborately trimmed and embroidered.
She wore considerable jewelry, including diamonds; her shoes were
elegant and her hose daintily clocked; her hat must have been a French
milliner's choicest creation. If good clothes could make Janet Orme a
lady, there was no question of her social standing, yet even little
Alora felt that Janet was out of her element--that she fell short, in
some vague way, of being what she was ambitious to appear.

"So," said the nurse, glancing around the room with frank disdain,
"this is where you hang out, Jason, is it?"

Alora's father confronted the woman with a menacing frown.

"What do you mean by coming here?" he demanded.

"I had two reasons," she answered carelessly, seating herself in the
only easy chair the room contained. "In the first place, I wanted to
see how a rich man lives."

"Well, you see, don't you?" a muttering growl.

"I certainly do, and I realize you are quite comfortable and ought to
be happy here, Jason--you and the millionaire heiress, your daughter
Alora."

As she spoke she turned to glance sharply at the child, who met her
look with disconcerting gravity. Alora's eyes expressed wonder, tinged
with a haughty tolerance of an inferior that struck home to Janet and
made her flush angrily.

"Your sneers," said Jason Jones, still frowning but now speaking with
composure, "must indicate that you have graduated from servitude. I
cannot admit that my mode of living is any of your business, Janet. In
these retired but respectable rooms I have worked and been contented
for years, until----"

"Until you came into your money and found you didn't have to worry over
your next meal," she interjected. "Well, that ought to make you still
more content. And that reminds me of the second object of my visit. I
want some money."

"So soon?"

"Don't try to crawfish; it was agreed you should give me a check
whenever I asked for it. I want it now, and for the full amount--every
single penny of it!"

He stared at her fixedly, seeming fearful and uncertain how to answer.

"I cannot spare it all today."

"Humbug!" she snapped. "You can and will spare it. I must have the
money, or----"

Her significant pause caused him to wriggle in his seat.

"You're a miserly coward," she declared. "I'm not robbing you; you will
have an abundance for your needs. Why do you quarrel with Dame Fortune?
Don't you realize you can pay your rent now and eat three square meals
a day, and not have to work and slave for them? You can smoke a good
cigar after your dinner, instead of that eternal pipe, and go to a
picture show whenever the mood strikes you. Why, man, you're
independent for the first time in your life, and the finances are as
sure as shooting for a good seven years to come."

He glanced uneasily at Alora.

"Owing to my dead wife's generosity," he muttered.

Janet laughed.

"Of course," said she; "and, if you play your cards skillfuly, when
Alora comes of age she will provide for you an income for the rest of
your life. You're in luck. And why? Just because you are Jason Jones
and long ago married Antoinette Seaver and her millions and are now
reaping your reward! So, for decency's sake, don't grumble about
writing me that check."

All this was frankly said in the presence of Alora Jones, the heiress,
of whose person and fortune, her father, Jason Jones, was now sole
guardian. It was not strange that the man seemed annoyed and ill at
ease. His scowl grew darker and his eyes glinted in an ugly way as he
replied, after a brief pause:

"You seem to have forgotten Alora's requirements and my duty to her."

"Pooh, a child! But we've allowed liberally for her keep, I'm sure. She
can't keep servants and three dressmakers, it's true, but a simple life
is best for her. She'll grow up a more sensible and competent woman by
waiting on herself and living; as most girls do. At her age I didn't
have shoes or stockings. Alora has been spoiled, and a bit of worldly
experience will do her good."

"She's going to be very rich, when she comes into her fortune," said
Alora's father, "and then----"

"And then she can do as she likes with her money. Just now her income
is too big for her needs, and the best thing you can do for her is to
teach her economy--a virtue you seem to possess, whether by nature or
training, in a high degree. But I didn't come here to argue. Give me
that check."

He walked over to his little desk, sat down and drew a check book from
his pocket.

Alora, although she had listened intently to the astonishing
conversation, did not quite comprehend what it meant. Janet's harsh
statement bewildered her as much as did her father's subject
subservience to the woman. All she realized was that Janet Orme, her
dead mother's nurse, wanted money--Alora's money--and her father was
reluctant to give it to her but dared not refuse. Money was an abstract
quantity to the eleven year old child; she had never handled it
personally and knew nothing of its value. If her father owed Janet some
of her money, perhaps it was for wages, or services rendered her
mother, and Alora was annoyed that he haggled about it, even though the
woman evidently demanded more than was just. There was plenty of money,
she believed, and it was undignified to argue with a servant.

Jason Jones wrote the check and, rising, handed it to Janet.

"There," said he, "that squares our account. It is what I agreed to
give you, but I did not think you would demand it so soon. To pay it
just now leaves me in an embarrassing position."

"I don't believe it," she rejoined. "You're cutting coupons every month
or so, and you may thank your stars I don't demand a statement of your
income. But I know you, Jason Jones, and you can't hoodwink me, try as
you may. You hid yourself in this hole and thought I wouldn't know
where to find you, but you'll soon learn that you can't escape my eagle
eye. So take your medicine like a man, and thank your lucky stars that
you're no longer a struggling, starving, unrecognized artist. Good-bye
until I call again."

"You're not to call again!" he objected.

"Well, we'll see. Just for the present I'm in no mood to quarrel with
you, and you'd better not quarrel with _me,_ Jason Jones. Good-bye."

She tucked the check into her purse and ambled out of the room after a
supercilious nod to Alora, who failed to return the salutation. Jason
Jones stood in his place, still frowning, until Janet's high-heeled
shoes had clattered down the two flights of stairs. Alora went to the
window and looking down saw that a handsome automobile stood before the
house, with a chauffeur and footman in livery. Janet entered this
automobile and was driven away.

Alora turned to look at her father. He was filing his pipe and scowling
more darkly than ever.

CHAPTER VI
FLITTING

Once more they moved suddenly, and the second flitting came about in
this way:

Alora stood beside the easel one morning, watching her father work on
his picture. Not that she was especially interested in him or the
picture, but there was nothing else for her to do. She stood with her
slim legs apart, her hands clasped behind her, staring rather vacantly,
when he looked up and noted her presence.

"Well, what do you think of it?" he asked rather sharply.

"Of the picture?" said Lory.

"Of course."

"I don't like it," she asserted, with childish frankness.

"Eh? You don't like it? Why not, girl?"

"Well," she replied, her eyes narrowing critically, "that cow's horn
isn't on straight--the red cow's left horn. And it's the same size, all
the way up."

He laid down his palette and brush and gazed at his picture for a long
time. The scowl came on his face again. Usually his face was stolid and
expressionless, but Alora had begun to observe that whenever anything
irritated or disturbed him he scowled, and the measure of the scowl
indicated to what extent he was annoyed. When he scowled at his own
unfinished picture Lory decided he was honest enough to agree with her
criticism of it.

Finally the artist took a claspknife from his pocket, opened the blade
and deliberately slashed the picture from top to bottom, this way and
that, until it was a mere mass of shreds. Then he kicked the stretcher
into a corner and brought out another picture, which he placed on the
easel.

"Well, how about that?" he asked, looking hard at it himself.

Alora was somewhat frightened at having caused the destruction of the
cow picture. So she hesitated before replying: "I--I'd rather not say."

"How funny!" he said musingly, "but until now I never realized how
stiff and unreal the daub is. Shall I finish it, Alora?"

"I think so, sir," she answered.

Again the knife slashed through the canvas and the remains joined the
scrap-heap in the corner.

Jason Jones was not scowling any more. Instead, there was a hint of a
humorous expression on his usually dull features. Only pausing to light
his pipe, he brought out one after another of his canvases and after a
critical look destroyed each and every one.

Lory was perplexed at the mad act, for although her judgment told her
they were not worth keeping, she realized that her father must have
passed many laborious hours on them. But now that it had dawned on him
how utterly inartistic his work was, in humiliation and disgust he had
wiped it out of existence. With this thought in mind, the girl was
honestly sorry him.

But Jason Jones did not seem sorry. When the last ruined canvas had
been contemptuously flung into the corner he turned to the child and
said to her in a voice so cheerful that it positively startled her:

"Get your hat and let's take a walk. An artist's studio is no place for
us, Lory. Doesn't it seem deadly dull in here? And outside the sun is
shining!"

The rest of the day he behaved much like a human being. He took the
girl to the park to see the zoo, and bought her popcorn and peanuts--a
wild extravagance, for him. Later in the day they went to a picture
show and finally entered a down-town restaurant, quite different from
and altogether better than the one where they had always before eaten,
and enjoyed a really good dinner. When they left the restaurant he was
still in the restless and reckless mood that had dominated him and
said:

"Suppose we go to a theatre? Won't you like that better than you would
returning to our poky rooms?"

"Yes, indeed," responded Alora.

They had seats in the gallery, but could see very well. Just before the
curtain rose Alora noticed a party being seated in one of the boxes.
The lady nearest the rail, dressed in an elaborate evening gown, was
Janet Orme. There was another lady with her, conspicuous for blonde
hair and much jewelry, and the two gentlemen who accompanied them kept
in the background, as if not too proud of their company.

Alora glanced at her father's face and saw the scowl there, for he,
too, had noted the box-party. But neither of the two made any remark
and soon the child was fully absorbed in the play.

As they left the theatre Janet's party was entering an automobile,
laughing and chatting gaily. Both father and daughter silently watched
them depart, and then they took a street car and went home.

"Get to bed, girl," said Jason Jones, when they had mounted the stairs.
"I'll smoke another pipe, I guess."

When she came out of her room next morning she heard her father
stirring in the studio. She went to him and was surprised to find him
packing his trunk, which he had drawn into the middle of the room.

"Now that you're up," said he in quite a cheerful tone, "we'll go to
breakfast, and then I'll help you pack your own duds. Only one trunk,
though, girl, for the other must go into storage and you may see it
again, some time, and you may not."

"Are we going away?" she inquired, hoping it might be true.

"We are. We're going a long way, my girl. Do you care?"

"Of course," said she, amazed at the question, for he had never
considered her in the least. "I'm glad. I don't like your studio."

He laughed, and the laugh shocked her. She could not remember ever to
have heard Jason Jones laugh before.

"I don't like the place, either, girl, and that's why I'm leaving it.
For good, this time. I was a fool to return here. In trying to
economise, I proved extravagant."

Alora did not reply to that. She was eager to begin packing and hurried
through her breakfast. All the things she might need on a journey she
put into one trunk. She was not quite sure what she ought to take, and
her father was still more ignorant concerning a little girl's wardrobe,
but finally both trunks were packed and locked and then Mr. Jones
called a wagon and carted away the extra trunk of Alora's and several
boxes of his own to be deposited in a storage warehouse.

She sat in the bare studio and waited for his return. The monotony of
the past weeks, which had grown oppressive, was about to end and for
this she was very grateful. For from a life of luxury the child had
been dumped into a gloomy studio in the heart of a big, bustling city
that was all unknown to her and where she had not a single friend or
acquaintance. Her only companion had been a strange man who happened to
be her father but displayed no affection for her, no spark of interest
in her happiness or even comforts. For the first time in her life she
lacked a maid to dress her and keep her clothes in order; there was no
one to attend to her education, no one to amuse her, no one with whom
to counsel in any difficulty. She had been somewhat afraid of her
peculiar father and her natural reserve, derived from her mother, had
deepened in his society. Yesterday and this morning he had seemed more
human, more companionable, yet Alora felt that it was due to a selfish
elation and recognized a gulf between them that might never be bridged.
Her father differed utterly from her mother in breeding, in
intelligence, in sympathy. He was not of the same world; even the child
could realize that. And yet, he was her father--all she had left to
depend upon, to cling to. She wondered if he really possessed the good
qualities her mother had attributed to him. If so, when she knew him
better, she might learn to like him.

He was gone a long time, it seemed, but as soon as he returned the
remaining baggage was loaded on the wagon and sent away and then they
left the flat and boarded a street car for down town. On lower Broadway
Mr. Jones entered a bank and seemed to transact considerable business.
Lory saw him receive several papers and a lot of money. Then they went
to a steamship office near by, where her father purchased tickets.

Afterward they had lunch, and Jason Jones was still in high spirits and
seemed more eager and excited than Alora had ever before known him.

"We're going across the big water--to Europe," he told her at luncheon,
"so if there is anything you positively need for the trip, tell me what
it is and I'll buy it. No frivolities, though," qualifying his
generosity, "but just stern necessities. And you must think quick, for
our boat leaves at four o'clock and we've no time to waste."

But Alora shook her head. Once she had been taken by her mother to
London, Paris and Rome, but all her wants had been attended to and it
was so long ago--four or five years--that that voyage was now but a dim
remembrance.

No one noticed them when they went aboard. There was no one to see them
off or to wish them "bon voyage." It saddened the child to hear the
fervent good-byes of others, for it emphasized her own loneliness.

Yes, quite friendless was little Alora. She was going to a foreign land
with no companion but a strange and uncongenial man whom fate had
imposed upon her in the guise of a parent. As they steamed out to sea
and Alora sat on deck and watched the receding shores of America, she
turned to her father with the first question she had ventured to ask:

"Where are we going? To London?"

"Not now," he replied. "This ship is bound for the port of Naples. I
didn't pick Naples, you know, but took the first ship sailing to-day.
Having made up my mind to travel, I couldn't wait," he added, with a
chuckle of glee. "You're not particular as to where we go, are you?"

"No," said Alora.

"That's lucky," he rejoined, "for it wouldn't have made any difference,
anyhow."

CHAPTER VII
MARY LOUISE INTRUDES

It was four years later when on a sunny afternoon in April a carriage
broke down on the Amalfi Road, between Positano and Sorrento, in Italy.
A wheel crumpled up and the driver stopped his horses and explained to
his passengers in a jumble of mixed Italian and English that he could
go no farther. The passengers, an old gentleman of distinguished
appearance and a young girl as fresh and lovely as a breath of spring,
clambered out of the rickety vehicle and after examining the wheel
admitted that their driver spoke truly. On one side the road was a
steep descent to the sea; opposite, the hillside was masked by a
trellis thick with grapevines. The road curved around the mountain, so
there was no other vista.

"Here's a nice fix, Gran'pa Jim!" exclaimed the girl, with an amused
laugh. "Where are we and what's going to become of us?"

"That is somewhat of a complicated problem, Mary Louise, and I can't
guess it offhand, without due reflection," replied "Gran'pa Jim," whom
others called Colonel Hathaway. "I imagine, however, that we are about
three miles from Positano and five or six from Sorrento, and it's a
stiff walk, for old legs or young, in either direction. Besides,
there's our luggage, which I am loth to abandon and disinclined to
carry."

The driver interposed.

"Give-a me the moment, Signore--perhaps the hour--an' I return to
Positano for more carriage-wheel--some other. My Cousin L'uigi, he
leeve in Positano, an' L'uigi have a-many carriage-wheel in he's shed.
I sure, Signore, I getta the wheel."

"That is a sensible idea," said the old gentleman. "Make haste, my man,
and we will wait here."

The driver unhitched his horses from the vehicle and after strapping a
blanket on one of them for a saddle mounted it and departed.

"I take-a the two horse," he explained, "for one to ride-a me, an' one
for to ride-a the wheel."

They watched him amble away down the road and Mary Louise shook her
head and remarked:

"He will never make it in an hour, at that rate, Gran'pa Jim, and in
two hours the sun will have set and it will be dinner time. Already I
feel the pangs of hunger."

"Those who travel in Italy," said her grandfather, "should be prepared
to accept any happening in a spirit of resignation. A moment ago we
were jogging merrily along toward a good hotel and a savory dinner, but
now----"

"This entire carriage seems ready to fall apart," declared the girl,
standing in the road and viewing the ancient vehicle critically; "so
it's a wonder something didn't break sooner. Now, if we could get to
the other side of that trellis, Gran'pa Jim, we might find a shady spot
to rest while our charioteer is searching for a new wheel."

"There must be a gate, somewhere about," he answered, eyeing the
vine-clad barrier. "Come, Mary Louise, let us investigate."

A hundred yards down the road they came to some rude stone steps and a
wicket. The old gentleman lifted the wooden latch and found the gate
unlocked. Followed by Mary Louise, he entered the vineyard and
discovered a narrow, well-beaten path leading up the hillside.

"Perhaps there is a house near by," said the girl. "Shall we go on,
Gran'pa Jim?"

"Why not, my dear? These Italians are hospitable folk and we may get a
cake and a cup of goat's milk to stay our appetite."

So they climbed the hill, following the little path, and presently came
upon a laborer who was very deliberately but methodically cultivating
the vines with a V-shaped hoe. Seeing the strangers the man
straightened up and, leaning upon his hoe, eyed them with evident
suspicion.

"Good afternoon," said the old gentleman in Italian--one of the few
phrases in the language he had mastered.

"Oh, I speak the English, Signore," replied the man, doffing his hat.
"I am Silvio Allegheri, you must know, and I live in America some
time."

"Why, this is like meeting an old friend!" exclaimed Mary Louise,
winning the fellow instantly with her smile. "But why did you leave
America, Silvio?"

"Because I have make my fortune there," was the solemn reply. "It is
easy to make the fortune in America, Signorina. I am chef in the
restaurant in Sandusky--you know Sandusky?--most excellent! In a few
years I save much money, then I return here an' purchase an estate. My
estate is three miles across the hill, yonder, and there is a road to
it which is not much used. However, it is a fine estate, an' I am rent
it to my cousin for five hundred lira a year. Such good business habit
I learn in America."

"Why don't you live on your estate yourself?" inquired the girl.

"It is not yet the time," answered the man, with a shake of his head.
"I am but fifty-two years alive, and while I am still so young I shall
work for others, and save the money my estate brings me. When I get old
and can no longer work for the others, then I will go to my estate an'
be happy."

"Very sensible," commented the old gentleman. "And whom do you work for
now?"

"The student Americano, Signore; the one who has rented this valuable
estate. I am the Signore Student's valet, his gardener, and at times
his chef. I grease his automobile, which is a very small chug-chug, but
respectable, and I clean his shoes--when I can catch him with them off.
I am valuable to him and for three years he has paid me fair wages."

"Is this a big estate?" asked Mary Louise.

"Enormous, Signorina. It comprises three acres!"

"And where is the house?"

"Just over the hill, yonder, Signore.

"Does the student Americano live here all alone?"

"With his daughter, who is the Signorina Alora."

"Oh; there is a daughter, then? And you say they are Americans?"

"Surely, Signorina. Who else would pay the great price for this estate
for three years? The land pays nothing back--a few oranges; some
grapes, when they are cared for; a handful of almonds and olives. And
there is a servant besides myself, my niece Leona, who is housemaid and
assists the young lady."

"This sounds promising," said Mary Louise, turning to her grandfather.
"Suppose we go up to the house? Are the people at home, Silvio?--the
Signore Student and his daughter?"

The man reflected, leaning on his hoe.

"I think they are both at the mansion, Signorina, although the student
Americano may not yet have returned from Sorrento. The road to the
mansion is beyond the hill, on the other side of the estate, so I am
not sure the Signore Student has returned. But you will find the
Signorina Alora there, if you decide to venture on. But perhaps you are
the friends of my employer and his daughter?"

"What is his name?" asked Colonel Hathaway.

"It is Jones. The American saying is Mister Jason Jones, but here he is
only called the Signore Student Americano."

"Why?" asked Mary Louise.

"Because his occupation is reading. He does nothing else. Always there
is a book in his hand and always he is thinking of the things he reads.
He does not often speak, even to his daughter; he does not have friends
who visit him. If you should call at the mansion, then you will be the
first people who have done so for three years."

There was something in this report--in the manner of the man as well as
his words--that caused the strangers to hesitate. The description of
"the Student" led them to suspect he was a recluse who might not
welcome them cordially, but Mary Louise reflected that there was a
daughter and decided that any American girl shut up on this three-acre
"estate" for three years would be glad to meet another American girl.
So she said abruptly:

"Come on, Gran'pa Jim. Let's call. It is possible that Americans will
have something better in the larder than cakes and goat's milk."

The hilltop was reached sooner than they expected, and in a little vale
was the old mansion--a really attractive vine-clad villa that might
have stood a century or so. It was not very big, but there were
numerous outbuildings which rendered the size of the house proper
unimportant. As Mary Louise and her grandfather drew nearer they
discovered a charming flower garden, carefully tended, and were not
surprised to find a young girl bending over a rosebush.

CHAPTER VIII
MARY LOUISE MEETS ALORA

The two stood motionless a moment, looking at the girl, and Mary Louise
marked the graceful figure and attractive features with real delight.
The Signorina Alora, as the man had called her, was nearly her own
age--fifteen, Mary Louise judged her to be--and her golden hair and fair
complexion proclaimed her an American. But now the girl's quick ears
had detected presence, and she looked up with a startled expression,
half fearful and half shy, and turned as if to fly. But in the next
moment she had collected herself and advanced with hesitating steps to
meet them.

"Pardon our intrusion," said Colonel Hathaway, raising his hat. "Our
carriage broke down on the Amalfi road, a little while ago, and our
driver has gone to Positano for a new wheel. Meantime we were exploring
our surroundings and stumbled upon the path leading to this spot.
Forgive the trespass, if you will, and allow me to present my
granddaughter, Mary Louise Burrows. I am Colonel James Hathaway, of New
York, although we usually reside at a little town called Dorfield."

The girl's bow was stiff and awkward. She blushed in an embarrassed way
as she replied:

"I am Alora Jones, sir, and am living here for a time with my father,
Jason Jones. We, also, are Americans; at least, we used to be."

"Then doubtless you are yet," responded the Colonel, with a smile. "May
we pay our respects to your father?"

"He--he is not home yet," she answered more embarrassed than before.
"He went to Sorrento for some books, this morning, and has not yet
returned. But perhaps he will be back soon," she added, seeming to
ponder the matter. "Will you not come in and--and have some
refreshment? In my father's absence I--I am glad to--welcome you."

She glanced shyly at Mary Louise, as if to implore her to forgive any
seeming lack of hospitality and accept her coldly worded invitation. No
one could look at Mary Louise without gaining confidence and the
friendly smile and warm handclasp made Alora feel instantly that here
was a girl who would prove congenial under any circumstances. Really,
it would not take them long to become friends, and poor Alora had no
girl friends whatever.

She led them into a cool and comfortable living room and called to
Leona to fetch tea and biscuits.

"We are entirely shut in, here," she explained. "It seems to me worse
than a convent, for there I would see other girls while here I see no
one but the servants--and my father," as an afterthought, "year in and
year out."

"It's a pretty place," declared Mary Louise cheerfully.

"But it's an awfully dreary place, too, and sometimes I feel that I'd
like to run away--if I knew where to go," said Alora frankly.

"You have lived here three years?" asked Colonel Hathaway.

"Yes. We left New York more than four years ago and traveled a year in
different places, always stopping at the little towns, where there is
not much to interest one. Then my father found this place and rented
it, and here we've stayed--I can't say 'lived'--ever since. I get along
pretty well in the daytime, with my flowers and the chickens to tend,
but the evenings are horribly lonely. Sometimes I feel that I shall go
mad."

Mary Louise marked her wild look and excited manner and her heart went
out in sympathy to the lonely girl. Colonel Hathaway, too, intuitively
recognized Alora's plaint as a human cry for help, and did not need to
guess the explanation. The man in the vineyard had called her father
"the Student" and said he was a reserved man and never was seen without
a book in his hand. This would mean that he was not companionable and
Alora's protest plainly indicated that her father devoted small time,
if any, to the cultivation of his daughter's society.

"I suppose," remarked the old gentleman, "that Mr. Jones is so immersed
in his studies that he forgets his daughter lacks society am
amusement."

Mary Louise caught the slight, scornful smile that for a moment curled
Alora's lips. But the girl replied very seriously:

"My father dislikes society. I believe he would be quite content to
live in this little cooped-up place forever and see no one but the
servants, to whom he seldom speaks. Also, he ignores me, and I am glad
he does. But before my mother died," her voice breaking a little, "I
was greatly loved and petted, and I can't get used to the change. I
ought not to say this to strangers, I know, but I am very lonely and
unhappy, because--because my father is so different from what my mother
was."

Mary Louise was holding her trembling hand now and stroking it
sympathetically.

"Tell us about your mother," she said softly. "Is it long since you
lost her?"

"More than four years," returned Alora. "I was her constant companion
and she taught me to love art and music and such things, for art was
her hobby. I did not know my father in those days, you see, for--for--
they did not live together. But in her last illness mamma sent for him
and made him my guardian. My mother said that my father would love me,
but she must have misjudged him."

Colonel Hathaway had listened with interest.

"Tell me your mother's name," said he.

"She was Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones, and--"

"Indeed!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Why, I knew Antoinette Seaver before
she married, and a more beautiful and cultured woman I never met. Her
father, Captain Seaver, was my friend, and I met his daughter several
times, both at his mining camp and in the city. So you see, my dear, we
must be friends."

Alora's eyes fairly glistened with delight and Mary Louise was as
pleased as she was surprised.

"Of course we're friends!" she cried, pressing the girl's hand, "and
isn't it queer we have come together in this singular manner? In a
foreign country! And just because our carriage-wheel happened to
break."

"I thought your mother married an artist," said Mary Louise's
grandfather, reflectively.

"She did. At least, she _thought_ Jason Jones was an artist," answered
Alora with bitter emphasis. "But he was, in fact, a mere dauber. He
became discouraged in his attempts to paint and soon after he took me
to New York he destroyed all his work--really, it was dreadful!--and
since then he has never touched a brush."

"That is strange," mused the Colonel. "I once saw a landscape by Jason
Jones that was considered a fine conception, skillfully executed. That
was the opinion of so good a judge as Captain Seaver himself.
Therefore, for some reason the man's genius must have forsaken him."

"I think that is true," agreed Alora, "for my mother's estimate of art
was undoubtedly correct. I have read somewhere that discouragement
sometimes destroys one's talent, though in after years, with proper
impulse, it may return with added strength. In my father's case," she
explained, "he was not able to sell his work--and no wonder. So now he
does nothing at all but read, and even that doesn't seem to amuse him
much."

The Colonel had now remembered that Antoinette Seaver Jones was a woman
of great wealth, and therefore her daughter must be an heiress. What a
shame to keep the girl hidden in this out-of-the-way place, when she
should be preparing to assume an important position in the world.

"May I ask your age, my dear?" he said.

"I am fifteen, sir," replied Alora.

"And your father is the guardian of your fortune?"

"Yes; by my mother's wish."

"I suppose you are receiving proper instruction?"

"None at all, sir. Since I have been in my father's care I have had no
instruction whatever. That isn't right, is it?"

"What isn't right?" demanded a gruff voice, and all three turned to
find Jason Jones standing in the doorway.

CHAPTER IX
MARY LOUISE SCENTS A MYSTERY

Colonel Hathaway instantly rose.

"I beg your pardon," said he. "I am Colonel James Hathaway, an
American, and this is my granddaughter, Mary Louise Burrows. Our
carriage met with an accident on the main road below and we wandered in
here while waiting for repairs and chanced to meet your daughter. You
are Mr. Jones, I believe?"

He nodded, still standing in his place and regarding his visitors with
unconcealed suspicion. Under his arm he held several books.

"Who informed you that I was living here?" he demanded.

"I was wholly unaware of the fact," said the Colonel, stiffly. "I did
not know you were in Italy. I did not know such an important person
existed, strange to say, although I can remember that an artist named
Jason Jones once married Antoinette Seaver, the daughter of my old
friend Captain Robert Seaver."

"Oh, you remember that, do you?"

"This is the first time I have had the distinguished honor of meeting
you, sir, and I trust it will be the last time."

"That's all right," said Jason Jones, more cordially. "I can't see that
it's any of my affair, either way."

"We have been making the acquaintance of Tony Seaver's daughter, Miss
Alora Jones, in your absence. But we will not intrude farther, Mr.
Jones. Come, Mary Louise."

"Oh, don't go!" pleaded Alora, catching Mary Louise's arm. And just
then Leona entered with the tea and biscuits.

"Sit down, man," said Jason Jones in a less aggressive tone. "I've no
objection to your coming here, under the circumstances, and you are our
first visitors in three years. That's often enough, but now that you
are here, make yourself at home. What's happening over in America? Have
you been there lately?"

He laid his books on a table and sat down. But after that one speech,
which he perhaps considered conciliatory, he remained glum and allowed
the others to do the talking.

Colonel Hathaway had stayed because he noted the leading look in Mary
Louise's eyes. He was himself interested in Alora and indignant over
her evident neglect. For her sake he would bear the insolence of his
host, an insolence he recognized as characteristic of the man.

Alora, in her father's presence, lost her fluent speech and no longer
dared mention personal matters to her guests. Both Mary Louise and her
grandfather tried to lead Alora and Jason Jones to speak of
themselves--of their life and future plans--but the man evaded direct
answers and the girl had suddenly become silent and reserved.

Finally, however, Mary Louise had an idea.

"We are bound for Sorrento," said she, "where we intend to stay a week
at the Hotel Vittoria. Will you let Alora come to us for ever Sunday,
as our guest? We will drive here and get her the day after to-morrow--
that's Saturday, you know--and fetch her home on Monday."

"No," said Jason Jones.

"Oh, why not, father?" pleaded the girl.

"You've no fit clothes. I don't want you hanging around Sorrento," he
replied.

"It will be a nice change for your daughter and it will give us much
pleasure to entertain her," said Mary Louise.

"It's a capital idea," declared the Colonel positively, and looking the
other man straight in the eye he added: "I am sure you will withdraw
your objections, Mr. Jones."

The man dropped his eyes, frowning. But presently he said to Alora:

"Go, if you want to. But keep out of the town. Don't leave the hotel
grounds."

"Why not?" asked his daughter in a defiant tone.

"It's not safe. I know Sorrento, and these rascally Italians would be
glad to steal you, if they had the chance, and then blackmail me a
ransom."

Mary Louise laughed.

"What a fine adventure that would be!" she exclaimed. "But we will
promise to guard Alora and keep her from the clutches of bandits. I
didn't know there were any left in Italy."

"To get rid of them you'd have to depopulate the country," said Jason
Jones. "It is no laughing matter, young woman, and--my daughter is
somewhat valuable."

CHAPTER X
MERE SPECULATION

The driver returned with the wheel. It fitted the axle but was some two
or three inches larger in diameter than the other rear wheel and,
moreover, it was flat on one side, so that when they started to
conclude their journey the motion of the carriage was something
startling--a "rock-a-bye baby ride" Mary Louise called it.

But the wheels turned and the carriage progressed and when they were
well on their way the girl said:

"What do you think of that man, Gran'pa Jim?"

"Do you mean Alora's father, Jason Jones?"

"Yes, of course."

"I am surprised at two things," said the old Colonel. "First, it is
curious that Tony Seaver, a rarely cultured woman, should have married
such a man, and again it is amazing that she should have confided her
daughter and her fortune to his care."

"Do you know," observed Mary Louise, sliding closer to him and dropping
her voice, although there was absolutely no chance of being overheard,
"I scent a mystery in that family, Gran'pa Jim!"

"That seems to be one of your regular diversions--to scent mysteries,"
he replied. "And usually, my dear, the suspicion is unwarranted. The
most commonplace people frequently impress you with the idea that they
are other than what they seem, are leading double lives, or are
endeavoring to conceal some irregularity of conduct. You've a faculty
of reading the natures and characteristics of strangers by studying
their eyes, their facial expressions and their oddities of demeanor,
which is interesting psychologically but too often----"

"You are unjust, Gran'pa!" declared Mary Louise indignantly. "Didn't
you yourself say there are two curious and surprising things about this
man Jones?"

"Not exactly. I said it was curious and astonishing that Antoinette
Seaver should have trusted so fully a man who impresses me as a churl.
His own child, little Alora, appears to dislike and even to despise
him, and----"

"There!" cried Mary Louise. "I'm vindicated. Your observations fully
justify my remark that there's a mystery in that family. Did you notice
the books he brought home and laid upon the table?"

"No," said Colonel Hathaway, rather bewildered.

"They were novels by Marie Correlli, H. G. Wells and O. Henry. A
student? Then a student of modern novels, a man who reads and reads to
keep his mind from dwelling on past history. He is a disappointed
artist, to begin with."

"That is certainly odd," rejoined the old gentleman, reflectively. "The
one picture I ever saw by Jason Jones was certainly good. I remember
that once when I was lunching with Bob Seaver--that was Antoinette's
father, you know--he told me his daughter was interested in a young
artist of exceptional talent, and he took me to a gallery to show me
what this man could do. I am not an art critic, as you are aware, my
dear, but this landscape of Jason Jones appealed to me as delightful.
Captain Bob knew art, and so did Antoinette, so it is evident that
Jones _could_ paint, but for some reason became dissatisfied with his
work and abandoned it. Perhaps his ambition was too lofty for human
skill to realize, yet nothing less would content him."

Mary Louise sat silent for a while. Then she asked:

"Did Jason Jones impress you as a man capable of a great ambition?
Would you guess him an artist who had once accomplished admirable
things?"

"Artists are always peculiar," stated her grandfather. "They must be
temperamental in order to be artists, and temperaments differ widely.
Had I not known something of Jason Jones' history I might have felt, on
making his acquaintance to-day, that he is not an ordinary man. For,
gruff and churlish though he proved, it is undeniable that he has
selected a charming and retired spot in which to live----"

"Or to hide," she interrupted.

"Or that, with considerable wealth at his command, he lives simply and
unostentatiously, enjoying nature's choice gifts and content with the
simple life he leads, with only the society of his young daughter."

"Whom he neglects and refuses to educate properly," declared the girl.
"What makes you think he is wealthy?"

"I know that Antoinette made millions, after her father died, from the
mines. By current report she retired and invested her money wisely, in
sound securities, which accords with her excellent business reputation.
Her daughter not being of age--let me see: she must have been but
eleven when her mother passed away--there would be a guardian appointed
for the heiress, and Alora told us that it was her mother's wish that
her father act as her guardian. So the conclusion is evident that Mr.
Jones has a large income at his command."

"All the more reason he should be generous, but he isn't spending much
of it," said Mary Louise.

"No; he is probably living simply in order that his daughter's fortune
may increase during the years of her minority. That is a point in his
favor, you must admit."

"Nevertheless," asserted the young girl, "I think there is something
wrong in the Jones family. It isn't due to Alora; she's a dear little
thing, wild and untamed but very lovable, I'm sure; so the fault must
lie with her boorish father. Allowing that once he was a big man,
something has mysteriously soured him and rendered his life hateful not
only to himself but to all around him."

"Look, Mary Louise; we're getting into Sorrento," said the Colonel.
"Here the road leaves the sea and crosses the plateau to the town.
You'll like Sorrento, I'm sure, for it is one of the quaintest places
in old Italy--and the hotel is really comfortable."

CHAPTER XI
ALORA SPEAKS FRANKLY

On Saturday forenoon the Colonel engaged a carriage--a substantial one,
this time--and with Mary Louise drove to Jason Jones' villa, so that
Alora might return with them in time for lunch. They did not see the
artist, who was somewhere about the grounds but kept out of view; but
Alora was ready and waiting, her cheeks flushed and her eyes alight,
and she slipped her foreign little straw satchel in the carriage and
then quickly followed it, as if eager to be off.

"Father is rather disagreeable this morning," she asserted in a sharp
voice, when they were on the highway to Sorrento. "He repented his
decision to let me go with you and almost forbade me. But I rebelled,
and----" she paused; "I have found that when I assert myself I can
usually win my way, for father is a coward at heart."

It pained Mary Louise to hear so unfilial a speech from the lips of a
young girl. Colonel Hathaway's face showed that he, too, considered it
unmannerly to criticise a parent in the presence of strangers. But both
reflected that Alora's life and environments were unenviable and that
she had lacked, in these later years at least, the careful training due
one in her station in society. So they deftly changed the subject and
led the girl to speak of Italy and its delightful scenery and romantic
history. Alora knew little of the country outside of the Sorrento
peninsula, but her appreciation of nature was artistic and innately
true and she talked well and interestingly of the surrounding country
and the quaint and amusing customs of its inhabitants.

"How long do you expect to remain here?" asked Mary Louise.

"I've no idea," was the reply. "Father seems entirely satisfied with
our quarters, for he has no ambition in life beyond eating three simple
meals a day, sleeping from nine at night until nine in the morning and
reading all the romances he is able to procure. He corresponds with no
one save his banker in America and sees no one but the servants and me.
But to me the monotony of our existence is fast becoming unbearable and
I often wonder if I can stand it for three years longer--until I'm
eighteen. Then I shall be my own mistress and entitled to handle my own
money, and you may rest assured I shall make up for lost time."

They let that remark pass, also, but later in the afternoon, when
luncheon was over and the two girls were wandering in the lovely
gardens of the Hotel Vittoria, while the Colonel indulged in an
afternoon siesta, Mary Louise led Alora to speak freely of her past
life.

"My grandfather says that your mother must have left you a good deal of
money," she remarked.

"Yes; mamma told me it was a large fortune and that I must guard it
wisely and use it generously to help others less favored," replied
Alora thoughtfully.

"And she left it all in your father's keeping?"

"Not the principal. That is all invested, and thank goodness my father
cannot touch it in any way. But the income is paid to him regularly,
and he may do as he pleases with it. I am sure mamma expected I would
have every reasonable wish gratified, and be taught every womanly
accomplishment; but I'm treated as a mere dependent. I'm almost
destitute of proper clothing--really, Mary Louise, this is the best
dress I possess!--and I've been obliged to educate myself, making a
rather poor job of it, I fear. I read the best of father's books, when
he is done with them, and note carefully the manner in which the
characters express themselves and how they conduct themselves in
society as well as in worldly contact. I do not wish to be wholly
_gauche_ when I come into my kingdom, you see, and the books are my
only salvation. I don't care much for the stories, but some of the good
writers are safe guides to follow in the matter of dialogue and
deportment. Fortunately, father's books are all in English. He doesn't
understand much Italian, although I have learned to speak the language
like a native--like our native servants, you know."

Mary Louise reflected on this confession. "I'm afraid, Alora dear, that
modern novels are not prone to teach morality, or to develop a girl's
finer intuitions," she said gravely. "I think you express yourself very
well--better than I do, indeed--but you need association with those who
can convey to you the right principles of thought and thus encourage
your mental development. Culture and refinement seem to come more from
association than from books, although there is an innate tendency in
all well-born people to acquire them spontaneously. But there! you'll
accuse me of preaching and, after all, I think you've done just
splendidly under rather trying circumstances."

"You don't know how trying they are," declared Alora, with a sigh.
"Father and I are wholly uncongenial and we fight on the slightest
provocation. This morning our trouble was over money. I wanted a little
to take with me, for my purse hasn't a _lira_ in it; but, no! not a
_centisimo_ would he give up. He insisted that if I was to be your
guest you would pay all my expenses."

"Of course," said Mary Louise. "But what does he do with all that big
income? Is he saving it for you?"

"No, indeed! he's saving it for himself. Mamma told me, the last time I
saw her before she died, that if father was good to me, and kind and
loving, I could provide for him in some way after I came into my money.
She said she would leave the manner of it to my judgment. But he isn't
kind, or loving, or good, and knows very well that when I'm of age
he'll never see another cent of my money. So now he'd hoarding my
income for future use."

"Isn't it strange that your mother should have trusted him so fully?"
asked Mary Louise.

"Yes, it does seem strange. I remember her saying that he loved luxury
and all the comfort that money will buy, and so she wanted him to have
this income to spend, because he was my father and because she felt she
had ruined his career as an artist by surrounding him with luxuries
during their early married life, and afterward had embittered him by
depriving him of them. But the man doesn't know what luxury means, Mary
Louise. His tastes are those of a peasant."

"Yet once your mother loved him, and believed in him."

"I--I think she believed in him; I'm quite sure she did."

"Then his nature must have changed. I can imagine, Alora, that when
your mother first knew him he was hard-working and ambitious. He was
talented, too, and that promised future fame. But when he married a
wealthy woman he lost his ambition, success being no longer necessary.
After a period of ease and comfort in the society of his lovely wife--
for Gran'pa says your mother was very lovely--he lost both the wife and
the luxuries he enjoyed. A big man, Alora, would have developed a new
ambition, but it seems your father was not big. His return to poverty
after your mother's desertion made him bitter and reckless; perhaps it
dulled his brain, and that is why he is no longer able to do good work.
He was utterly crushed, I imagine, and hadn't the stamina to recover
his former poise. He must have been ten years or so in this condition,
despairing and disinterested, when the wheel of fortune turned and he
was again in the possession of wealth. He had now the means to live as
he pleased. But those years had so changed him that he couldn't respond
to the new conditions. Doubtless he was glad, in a way, but he was now
content merely to exist. Doesn't that seem logical, Alora?"

Indeed, Mary Louise was delighted with her solution of the problem. It
was in keeping with her talent for deducing the truth from meagre facts
by logically putting them together and considering them as a whole. It
was seldom she erred in these deductions. But Alora seemed unimpressed
and noting her glum look Mary Louise said again: "Doesn't all this seem
logical, dear?"

"No," said Alora. "Father isn't the man to be crushed by anything. He's
shrewd enough, in his _bourgeois_ way. Once, long ago--back in New
York--a woman made him give her money; it was money, you know; and I
have often thought he ran away from America to escape her further
demands."

"Who was the woman?"

"My mother's nurse."

"Oh. Was it her wages she demanded?"

"Perhaps so. I may have misjudged father in that case. But it seemed to
me--I was a mere child then--that it must have been a larger sum than
wages would have amounted to. Yet, perhaps not. Anyhow, he left America
right afterward, and when we had wandered a year or so in various
countries we settled down here."

"Won't he have to account for all the money he has spent and given
away, when you come of age?" inquired Mary Louise.

"No. Mother distinctly told me I was to ask for no accounting whatever.
Her will says he is to handle the income as he sees fit, just as if it
were his own, so long as he provides properly for his daughter and
treats her with fatherly consideration. That's the only reason he keeps
me with him, guarding my person but neglecting the other injunctions.
If he set me adrift, as I'm sure he'd like to do, I could appeal to the
court and his income would cease and another guardian be appointed. I
believe there is something of that sort in the will, and that is why he
is so afraid of losing me. But he gives me no chance to appeal to
anyone, although I sometimes think I shall run away and leave him in
the lurch. If I could get to Chicago and tell Judge Bernsted, my
mother's lawyer, how I am treated, I believe he could make the court
set aside my father's guardianship. But I can't get ten miles away from
here, for lack of money."

"How your dear mother would grieve, if she knew her plans for your
happiness have failed!" exclaimed Mary Louise.

Alora frowned, and somehow that frown reminded Mary Louise of the
girl's father.

"My mother ought to have known my father better," she declared
sullenly. "I must not criticize her judgment, for her memory is my most
precious possession and I know she loved me devotedly. But there is one
thing in her history I can never understand."

"And that?" questioned Mary Louise curiously, as Alora paused.

"My mother was an educated woman, well-bred and refined."

"Yes; Gran'pa Jim told me that."

"Then how could she have married my father, who is not a gentleman and
never could have impressed a lady with the notion he was one?"

Mary Louise hesitated, for to admit this would send her deductions, so
carefully constructed, tumbling in ruins. But Alora ought to know the
man.

"If that is true, dear," said she, "it is the strangest part of your
story; and, of course, we can only guess the reason, for the only one
who could have explained it properly was your mother."

CHAPTER XI
JASON JONES IS FRIGHTENED

When Alora had retired to her bedroom that night Mary Louise told to
her grandfather, who was her trusted confidant, all that the unhappy
girl had related.

"Of course," she added, "Alora's explanations dispel my half formed
suspicion that there is some mystery about Jason Jones. I now see that
you were right, Gran'pa Jim, to laugh at me when I suggested such a
thing, for in truth the man is easily understood once you become
acquainted with his history. However, I now dislike him more than
ever."

"In justice to Jason Jones," remarked the old Colonel, "we must acquit
him of being a hypocrite. He doesn't attempt to mask his nature and a
stranger is bound to see him at his worst. Doubtless Antoinette Seaver
understood the man better than we are able to and sixteen years ago, or
so, when he had youth, talent and ambition, his disagreeable
characteristics were probably not so marked. As for Alora, she is
strongly prejudiced against her father and we must make due allowance
for her bitterness. The feeling probably arose through her sudden
transfer from the care of a generous and loving mother to that of an
ungracious father--a parent she had never before known. A child of
eleven is likely to form strong affections and passionate dislikes."

"Do you know," said Mary Louise, "it shocks me, this hatred of her
father. It seems so unnatural. I wish we could bring them to understand
one another better, Gran'pa Jim."

"That might prove a difficult task, my dear," he replied with a smile,
gently stroking her hair the while, "and I do not think we are
justified in undertaking it. How many times during our travels, Mary
Louise, has your impulsive and tender heart urged you to assume the
burdens of other people? You seem to pick up a trail of sorrow or
unhappiness with the eagerness of a bloodhound and I have all I can do
to call you off the scent. One small girl can't regulate the world, you
know, and in this case we are likely to see very little of Alora Jones
and her artist father. We will be nice to them during the few days we
are here, but we must soon move on or we'll never get home for your
birthday, as we have planned."

Mary Louise sighed.

"You're almost always right, Gran'pa Jim," she admitted; "but in all
our European travels I've not met so interesting a person as Alora, and
she's an American girl, which draws us still closer together. I'm going
to make her promise that when she's of age and her own mistress she
will let me know, and come to us for a visit. Wouldn't that be all
right, Gran'pa?"

He assured her it would be quite proper and that he also admired Alora
and was sorry for her.

On Sunday forenoon they went to the cathedral and in the afternoon took
a boat to the blue grottoes. In the evening there was a concert in the
hotel. All that day the two girls were arm in arm and chatting
together, developing their mutual liking, while the old Colonel trudged
along in their wake and was generally ignored in the conversation. On
Monday they planned an excursion to Capri, "For you won't mind if we
don't get you home until after dinner, will you?" asked Mary Louise.

"Not at all," said Alora. "I want to make the most of this vacation."

"Her father may mind, however," suggested the Colonel.

"I don't care whether he does or not," retorted the girl, tossing her
head. "He has no consideration for me, so why should I consider him?"

"I don't like that attitude, dear," said Mary Louise frankly. "I--I
don't wish to be snippy, you know, but you should not forget that he is
your father."

"That," replied Alora doggedly, "is merely my misfortune, and I'm not
going to allow it to ruin all my life."

On Monday morning they had scarcely finished breakfast when Jason Jones
appeared at the hotel, having driven over from the villa in his little
automobile--a tiny foreign contrivance that reminded one of a child's
cart but could cover the ground with considerable speed. They were
sitting on the big piazza when Alora's father came striding up to them
with a white, fear-struck face. In his trembling hands he held the
morning Naples newspaper and without a word of greeting he said
abruptly:

"Have you heard the news?"

Colonel Hathaway rose and bowed.

"Good morning, Mr. Jones," said he. "I do not read the local
newspapers, for my knowledge of Italian is indifferent."

"So is mine," responded the artist, "but I know enough of their lingo
to make out that Italy has entered this fool war. She's going to fight
the Austrians," he continued, his voice shaking nervously, "and do you
know what that will mean, sir?"

"I can't imagine," replied the Colonel calmly.

"It means that presently we'll have all that horde of Germans
overrunning Italy. They'll conquer this helpless land as sure as fate,
and we'll all be burned out and tortured and mutilated in the fiendish
German way!"

"My dear sir, you are frightened without warrant," declared Colonel
Hathaway. "It will take some time to conquer Italy, and I cannot
imagine the Austrians acting as you suggest."

"Back of the Austrians are the Germans, and those Prussians are worse
than wild American Indians," insisted Jones. "If they got their
clutches on my daughter it would be more horrible than death and I
don't propose to leave her in danger a single minute. I'm going to quit
this country. I've come for Alora. We must pack up and catch the first
ship from Naples for America."

There was blank silence for a moment.

"I'm not afraid," said Alora, with a laugh, "but if it means our
getting out of this tiresome place and sailing for home, I'm glad that
Italy's gone into the war."

Colonel Hathaway was grave and thoughtful. The agitation of the artist
seemed to increase with every moment.

"When does the next boat for America leave Naples?" asked Mary Louise.

"Tuesday," said Alora's father. "We've just time to pack our
possessions and leave."

"Time!" cried his daughter, "why, I can pack all my possessions in an
hour. Go home, sir, and fuss around as much as you like. I'll join you
some time this evening."

He gave her a queer look, hesitating.

"We are surely safe enough for the present," remarked the Colonel. "The
first act of war will be to send all the soldiers to the north border.
The fighting will be done in the Trentino for some time to come."

"You don't know these people," said Jones, shifting uneasily from one
foot to another. "They're all brigands by nature and many of them by
profession. As soon as the soldiers are sent north, all law and order
will cease and brigandage will be the order of the day!"

"This is absurd!" exclaimed the Colonel, testily. "You're not talking
sense."

"That's a matter of opinion, sir; but I know my own business, and I'm
going to get out of here."

"Wait a week longer," suggested Mary Louise. "We are to sail ourselves
on the boat that leaves Naples a week from Tuesday, and it will be nice
for Alora and me to travel home together."

"No; I won't wait. Get your things, Alora, and come with me at once."

"Have you made reservations on the boat?" inquired Colonel Hathaway,
refusing to be annoyed by the man's brusque words and rough demeanor.

"I'll do that at once, by telephone. That's one reason I came over.
I'll telephone the steamship office while the girl is getting ready."

"I will go with you," said the Colonel, as the artist turned away.

While Jones used the telephone booth of the hotel Colonel Hathaway
conversed with the proprietor, and afterward with the hall porter, who
was better posted and spoke better English.

"This is outrageous!" roared the artist, furiously bursting from the
booth. "To-morrow's boat is abandoned! The government requires it as a
transport. Why? Why? Why?" and he wrung his hands despairingly.

"I do not know, sir," returned the Colonel, smiling at his futile
passion.

The smile seemed to strike Jones like a blow. He stopped abruptly and
stared at the other man for a full minute--intently, suspiciously. Then
he relaxed.

"You're right," said he coldly. "It's folly to quarrel with fate. I've
booked for a week from Tuesday, Hathaway, and we must stick it out till
then. Do you take the same boat?"

"That is my intention."

"Well, there's no objection. Now I'll go get Alora."

But Alora, hearing of the postponed sailing, positively refused to
return home with him, and Mary Louise, supporting her new friend, urged
her to extend her stay with her at the hotel. Strangely enough, the
more he was opposed the more quiet and composed the artist became. He
even ceased to tremble and an odd apathy settled over him.

"The hall porter," said the Colonel, "thinks this is the safest place
in Italy. The troops have been on the border for months and their
positions are strongly fortified. There is no brigandage outside of
Sicily, where the Mafia is not yet wholly suppressed."

Jones grinned rather sheepishly.

"All right, take his word for it," said he. "And if you'll be
responsible for the girl you may keep her till we're ready to sail.
Perhaps that's the best way, after all." Then, without a word of
good-bye, he entered his little motor car and started down the
driveway.

"A strange man," said the Colonel, looking after him. "I wonder if it
really was the war that frightened him--or something else--or if he was
actually frightened at all?"

Alora laughed.

"You can't guess father, try as you may," she said. "Usually he is cold
as ice, but once in awhile he gets these wild fits, which I find rather
amusing. You can't understand that, of course, but if you were obliged
to live under the same roof with Jason Jones you would welcome his
outbursts as relief from the monotony of contemptuous silence."

CHAPTER XII
SILVIO'S GOLD

Jason Jones urged his little car to its best speed until he gained his
villa. Entering the ground, he was confronted by his factotum, the
Italian, Silvio.

He sprang out and approached the man.

"Is the prisoner safe?" he whispered.

"Certainly, Signore."

"Is she still in the grape-house?"

"With the wine presses, Signore."

"And she can't get out?"

"Unless she becomes small, like a rat, Signore."

Jones glanced around suspiciously, then fixed his gaze on a little
outbuilding of stone, with a tiled roof, which stood quite removed from
the others of the group.

"Has she screamed, or cried out?" he asked the man.

"Not since I put her in, las' night, Signore."

"Good. You've fed her?"

"The plenty. She eat very well. It's a nice lady, Signore."

"She's dangerous. Listen, Silvio: we must keep her there a week
longer."

"If I am jailer a week, I mus' double my price," he asserted, shrugging
his shoulders.

"Nonsense!"

"The lady will offer me more to let her out. She say so."

"What! You'd betray me?"

"Not if I have the gold--here, in my hand--_now,_ Signore."

Jones grew red and then white. He eyed the man wickedly. He scowled,
and Silvio smiled pleasantly. Silvio was big for an Italian; big and
brawny; as his smile faded his face assumed a look of stubborn
determination.

"So you want the gold now, Silvio?"

"At once, if it please the Signore. The gendarmes are ugly if the law
is broken. Their jails are not as pleasant as the grape-house. So the
gold must be twice the amount we had spoken of, Signore."

"And you will promise she shall not escape; that you'll keep her safe
until--until I tell you to let her go?"

"That is our bargain, Signore."

Jones sighed regretfully.

"Very well, then, Silvio," he said. "You're a robber--the son of a
brigand--the spawn of a bandit! But come with me to the house, and you
shall have your gold."

* * * * * * * *

Alora stayed all that week with Mary Louise, hearing nothing of her
father and almost forgetting her unhappiness in the society of her
delightful new friend. It was Sunday evening when the Colonel and Mary
Louise drove their guest over to the villa and the two parties did not
see one another again until they met on the deck of the steamer in
Naples on the following Tuesday morning.

The Joneses came aboard very quietly just at the last moment and at the
gang-plank Alora's father was confronted by a grimy Italian boy who
handed him a letter. Without pausing to read it, Jones hurried below,
and he kept his stateroom until the ship was well out in the blue
Mediterranean, on its way to Gibraltar and New York. But no one missed
him, for Alora and Mary Louise were happy at being reunited and Gran'pa
Jim was happy in seeing them happy.

CHAPTER XIII
DORFIELD

In one of the middle-west states there is a delightful little city
called Dorfield. It hasn't so many thousand inhabitants, but in all its
aspects and its municipal equipment it is indeed a modern city. It has
factories and a big farming community to support its streets of neat
and progressive shops, and at the west side of the business district is
a residence section where broad, wooded streets furnish the setting for
many cozy homes. Some of the houses are old and picturesque, and some
are new and imposing, but each has its flower-lit garden, its fruit and
shade trees and its little garage or barn tucked away in the back yard.

When you come to Oak Street there is a rambling frame house on the
corner, set well back, where Peter Conant, the lawyer, lives with his
good wife and his niece Irene Macfarlane, who is seventeen. This is one
of the ancient dwellings of Dorfield, for the Conants are "old
inhabitants." Right next them stands a more modern and expensive, if
less attractive, mansion, with grounds twice as large and a velvet lawn
that puts the Conants' carelessly-cropped grass to shame. But the two
families are neighbors and friends nevertheless, for in the new house
lives Colonel James Hathaway and his granddaughter Mary Louise Burrows.
At least, they live there when at home and, although they seem
persistent ramblers, they are glad to have this refuge to return to
when wearied with traveling and sight-seeing.

One morning in June Mr. Conant was just seating himself at the
breakfast table when a messenger-boy delivered a telegram--a "night
letter" from New York. The lawyer, a short, thick-set man of middle
age, with a stern countenance but mild blue eyes, laid aside his
morning paper and read the telegram with his usual deliberation. Mrs.
Conant silently poured the coffee, knowing any interference would annoy
him. Irene, the niece, was a cripple and sat in her wheeled chair at
the table, between her uncle and aunt. She was a pleasant-faced, happy
little maid, consistently ignoring her withered limbs and thankful that
from her knees up she was normal and that her wheeled chair rendered
her fairly independent of assistance in all ordinary activities.
Everyone loved Irene Macfarlane because of her brave and cheery
acceptance of her misfortune, and her merry speech and spontaneous
laughter rendered her, as "Aunt Hannah" often declared, "the light of
the house." Irene was, moreover, an intimate and highly valued friend
of her next door neighbor, Mary Louise Burrows.

Mr. Peter Conant, sipping his coffee reflectively, read the lengthy
telegram a second time. Then he said, somewhat irritably and chopping
his words into distinct syllables, as was his habit at all times:

"I wonder why people imagine a lawyer's duties cover every phase of
life? My clients use me as a real-estate agent, a horse trader, a
purchasing agent, a father confessor, an automobile expert, a medical
adviser, and sometimes--in their simplicity--as a banker!"

"What's wrong now, Peter?" inquired Mrs. Conant with wifely sympathy.

"Colonel Hathaway wants to know--"

"Oh, is Mary Louise coming back?" cried Irene eagerly.

He frowned at her.

"What does the Colonel wish to know, Peter?"

"I object to this unwarrantable cross-examination," said he. "It is
customary to first allow one to state his case."

"Forgive me, Uncle Peter!"

"Take your time," said Aunt Hannah, composedly buttering the toast.
"You will, anyhow, and I'm sure Irene and I have both learned to curb
our feminine curiosity."

He glanced at the telegram again.

"Do you know if the Pelton place has been rented, my dear?"

"The Pelton place? Why, it wasn't rented yesterday, for I passed by
there and saw the rent sign still in the window. Mr. Harlan is the
agent."

"I know. And where can we find a female house-servant, Hannah?"

"Now, see here, Peter; it's all very well for you to keep your own
counsel, when there's a professional secret to be guarded, but if you
want any help from me you've got to open your mouth and talk out
plainly, so I can answer you in a sensible way."

"You're always sensible, Hannah," he observed, quite unruffled by her
demand. And then he ate a whole slice of toast and drank his coffee and
handed his cup for more before he spoke another word.

Irene devoted herself to her breakfast. She knew Uncle Peter's ways and
that it was useless to attempt to hurry him or force him to explain,
until he was quite ready to do so. Aunt Hannah bided her time. Peter
was a thoughtful man, and he was doubtless thinking. His wife was not
only a clever helpmate but was noted for her consideration of her
erratic spouse.

"The Colonel," said Mr. Conant at last, "has run across a man who wants
to make his home in Dorfield. A very sensible idea. The Colonel met the
man in Europe. The man----"

"What's the man's name?" inquired Mrs. Conant.

He referred to the telegram.

"Jones. Jason Jones."

"I never heard of him."

He looked at her reproachfully.

"Why should you, my dear? The Colonel found the man in Europe. We live
in Dorfield. The man, it seems, has a daughter----"

"Oh, goody!" cried Irene.

"Who has become a friend of Mary Louise, therefore the Colonel wires to
ask if there is a furnished house to rent at a modest price and if a
competent female servant can be secured for the man and his daughter.
He requests me to wire an answer promptly. That is the gist of the
telegram, although the Colonel, in his usual extravagant way, has paid
for more words than were required to express his meaning."

"And what are you going to do about it?" demanded Mrs. Conant.

"I am endeavoring to gain information from my wife."

"Very well. What does he mean by 'a modest price'? The Pelton place is
expensive. The rent is sixty dollars a month, while a comfortable house
like that of the Widow Harrington rents for fifteen dollars, with good,
solid furniture."

"Is Mrs. Harrington's house for rent?" he asked.

"Yes. She'll go to live with her married daughter as soon as she can
find a tenant. The poor creature needs the money, and her house is just
around the corner from here and her back yard backs up to the Colonel's
back yard. Now, the Pelton place is two blocks from here, and the
Peltons don't need the money, because they're already too rich and
aristocratic to live in Dorfield any longer."

"H-m-m!" murmured Mr. Conant. "It occurs to me that a friend of Colonel
Hathaway might desire a more luxurious home than that of the Widow
Harrington."

"Doesn't the telegram say 'a modest price'?"

"It does. I'll quote both places and let the man Jones take his choice.
And how about the female servant, Hannah?"

"Leave that to me; I can hire plenty. But if Mr. Jason Jones takes the
Pelton place he will want one kind of a servant, and if he takes Mrs.
Harrington's house he'll want a different sort."

He gazed at her admiringly and passed his cup again, saying:

"You've a logical mind, my dear. Had you been a man you might have
become a fairly good lawyer."

"No, Peter; not another drop. You've two cups already."

"Are you sure, Hannah?"

"Absolutely positive!"

"Then," said he, rising with a sigh, "I'll go to the office."

To Mr. Conant's disappointment, to Mrs. Conant's delight, to Irene's
satisfaction and the astonishment of all, Mr. Jason Jones selected Mrs.
Harrington's modest house and ordered it rented and prepared for his
arrival on the following Thursday. This was conveyed in a second
telegram from Colonel Hathaway, who requested the lawyer to inform old
Uncle Eben and Aunt Sally, the Colonel's own faithful colored servants
and caretakers, that he and Mary Louise would return home on the same
day.

"You see," said Aunt Hannah, triumphantly, "I sized the Joneses up
pretty well. It isn't necessary for a man to be rich to be a friend of
the dear Colonel, for he considers a man, rather than a man's
pocketbook."

"Yet a man who can afford to travel abroad, with his daughter," began
Mr. Conant, argumentatively, "should certainly be able and willing----"

"What do you know about him, Peter? Perhaps he has spent his ready
money in Europe and is now obliged to economize. Unless that is the
case, why does he come to a sleepy little town like Dorfield, which is
almost forgotten by the big world, to settle down?"

"Why, he's the Colonel's friend," retorted the lawyer, stiffly.

"And Mary Louise is his daughter's friend," said Irene. "That accounts
for it, of course, and they couldn't have picked a prettier place.
Dorfield may be sleepy, and quiet, and half forgotten by the rest of
the big world, but it's simply delightful as a residence. Didn't
Colonel Hathaway choose it for a home? And the Colonel could afford to
live at the Waldorf-Astoria, if he wanted to."

"I know why you are pleased, Irene," remarked Aunt Hannah, smiling upon
her niece. "You're going to have another girl friend."

"She won't be as nice as Mary Louise, though," was the reply. "There's
no girl in the world as sweet and lovely as Mary Louise!"

"Or one that innocently gets into more trouble," declared Mr. Conant.

"That," said Aunt Hannah, "is because she can't let other people's
troubles alone."

CHAPTER XIV
HOME AGAIN

Mr. Conant, who was Colonel Hathaway's lawyer and confidential agent,
was at the train to meet his important client on his return to
Dorfield. The first to alight from the coach was the Colonel, who
greeted his lawyer with a cordial handclasp. Mary Louise kissed Peter
Conant upon his impassive cheek and presented him to a pretty young
girl who clung to her arm smiling, yet half bewildered by her arrival
in a strange town. There seemed no one else with the party and Mr.
Conant glanced over the crowd of passengers and said:

"Mr. Jones did not accompany you, then?"

"Why, yes; I suppose he's here," answered the Colonel carelessly. "I
believe he traveled another car."

"I don't see him anywhere," added Mary Louise. "I wonder if anyone
reminded him that this is the place to get off?"

"Never mind," said Alora; "if father can't keep track of himself, let
him go on to another station. I can't lose him for long, that's
certain."

"There he is, up ahead," announced Mara Louise. "He's quarreling with
his porter about something."

"To save the tip," suggested Alora, scornfully.

Mary Louise rushed to greet an old colorful man with snow-white hair,
who was picking up their hand baggage.

"Oh, Uncle Eben, I'm so glad to see again!" she exclaimed. "And how's
Aunt Sallie? And is my pony well? And are the goldfish still alive?
And----"

"Bress yo' soul, Ma'y Weeze!" said the delighted old servant,
"ev'body's well an' joyful to see you-all back ag'in."

The Colonel shook Uncle Eben's hands--both of them--in a kindly but
dignified manner. "I suppose the automobile is still running, Uncle?"

"Not jes' dis yere minnit, Kun'l," with a glad chuckle, "but dat car's
gwine ter run jes' as soon as we-all gits aboahd. What yo' think I's
be'n doin' all winter, Kun'l, in dat lonesomeness house, 'cept keepin'
dat car greased up?"

"Did you grease it in the house, then, Uncle?" asked Mary Louise
gravely, but with twinkling eyes.

Old Eben chuckled again, for this was a happy hour for him, but while
he chuckled he led them to where the automobile stood waiting. Behind
the others slowly followed Jason Jones, carrying his own luggage and
eyeing every detail of his surroundings in the manner of a countryman
paying his first visit to town. He was inwardly sizing up Dorfield as a
place of residence. When Jones got into the car the Colonel briefly
introduced him to the lawyer.

"This is Mr. Jones, Mr. Conant."

He looked at the lawyer and gave a slight nod, and Mr. Conant's bow was
very stiff and formal. Already he had, with fair accuracy, grasped the
relationship of the man to the others. Alora Jones seemed a fine girl--
the right sort--and Mary Louise was evidently fond of her. The Colonel
barely tolerated the man Jones, whom he did not like, for the
daughter's sake. The girl herself lacked in respect for her father, and
this unfilial attitude seemed condoned by both Mary Louise and the
Colonel, which was evidence that there was something wrong about Jason
Jones. With such a cue for guidance, Mr. Conant decided he had no use
for Jason Jones, either.

Uncle Eben first drove the car to the Widow Harrington's cottage, where
Mrs. Conant awaited the new tenants to introduce them to their servant
and to assure them that everything was prepared for their convenience.
Then they drove to Colonel Hathaway's home, where Irene was at the gate
in her wheeled chair, a bunch of her choicest roses in her hand, ready
to welcome her friend Mary Louise and to be kissed and hugged with
girlish enthusiasm.

It was a happy homecoming, indeed, for Mary Louise. And Colonel
Hathaway breathed a deep sigh of relief as he entered his own portals.

"From now on," he said to his granddaughter that evening, "I am under
no obligation to assist that impossible person, Jones, or to even
associate with him. For your sake, my darling, I have suffered the
infliction of his presence with fortitude, even going to the extent of
locating him in our beloved town of Dorfield, that you and Alora might
enjoy one another's society. But from this time forward Jason Jones is
to be a distant acquaintance rather than a companion. Congratulate me,
Mary Louise!"

"I do, Gran'pa Jim," she replied soberly, "and I thank you, too. It has
been a trial for both of us, but we've been really helpful to poor
Alora. I want to try to bring a little happiness into her life and
encourage her to become as sweet and lovable a girl as she has the
nature to be, and this could never have been accomplished had we
allowed her to drift in the sole companionship of her disagreeable
father."

CHAPTER XV
THE PUZZLE BECOMES INTRICATE

Alora formed an immediate friendship for crippled Irene Macfarlane,
first based on sympathy and afterward on genuine admiration. That one
condemned to pass her entire life in a wicker wheel-chair should be so
bright and cheerful, with no word of protest or even a reference to her
own misfortune, was deemed wonderful by Alora, and she soon found that
Irene had an excuse or explanation for every seeming annoyance her
friends suffered and delighted to console them. At the same time she
allowed no one to console her, because she declared she needed no
consolation.

Such a disposition invited confidence, and soon Irene knew more of
Alora's past history, including her trials and tribulations, than even
Mary Louise had yet learned, and was shocked and grieved at the girl's