LITMIR.BIZ

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even. “My uncle, who has given me my start in life – the only relative I have – has written me to come back to New York at once. I’m to give up being an architect. When it’s the only thing I am fitted for! He has something else for me. He doesn’t explain what. He does vouchsafe the information that the place is quite impossible, but, he says, what are a few years out of a young man’s life?” His voice was a trifle unsteady. Years seemed eternity to him just then.

      “I must go, of course, unquestioningly,” he went on, holding himself in check. “Considering that I owe him everything, it’s a military command. And I have no right to say anything but good-by to – to any woman. I’m out of things, that’s all.”

      So much, at least, he vowed he would tell her; but he was determined that he would not be so weak as to ask her to wait for him.

      The years of his uncle’s bounty fettered him hopelessly. When he knew where he stood, when he had something definite to offer her, then – but not till then. But it was bitter. He had supposed, of course, that he would go back in the autumn, open an office, be self-supporting, and then —

      It was a few seconds before Elenore spoke. When she did her voice was cheerful and friendly.

      “There is always something interesting in the most impossible places,” she said. “It may be rather fun. And we shall expect you to make it as picturesque as possible in your letters, if we tell you all the gossip here in exchange.”

      He said to himself that she understood, at least. He thanked Heaven for that, as youth is prone to thank Heaven when Heaven lives up to its expectations. And if the place was not so very impossible —if– and perhaps—

      So hope began to whisper. And then because If and Perhaps were all he could take with him, because she was so winsome and dear and so desirably human, because she was so daintily proud, and because the things he was not to tell her refused to be held back, he caught her hands in his, whispered: “God bless you! I shall write you everything – that I can,” and, wrapping his New England conscience round him, went without a backward glance.

      Elenore stood quite still for a moment. The shadows were beginning to thicken in the long room, and she felt a certain restfulness in the half-light.

      Then she turned resolutely toward her brother. Something in the dejection of his poise quickened her instantly.

      “Ned! What is it?” she demanded.

      “It’s the deluge – without an ark,” said Carrington, without stirring.

      “Well?” said Elenore, tersely.

      “I’m not going east with Velantour. I’m going home,” he said, mechanically.

      “Not dad?” she said, breathlessly.

      “No.” He answered the unfinished question. “But he’s broken his leg, poor old dad! And other things are wrong, and he wants me.”

      “And me?” she questioned, quickly. “Doesn’t he want me?”

      “No,” said Carrington, impatiently. “He wants his son, he says, and he shall have me. And he shan’t know I ever whimpered about coming. I’m not cad enough for that. But going east with Velantour is the chance of a lifetime, and it takes a minute or two to get heroic about giving it up, that’s all. All except that it’s bitter to think how little use I shall be to him when I get there, for it’s partly business, and I haven’t a particle of business ability. That will be his disappointment, which is bitterer still.”

      “Do you mean to say that he doesn’t want me?” Elenore demanded. “Where is the letter?”

      Carrington held it out to her without a word.

      Dear Ned (it read), I’m sorry to call you home, but I must. I’m laid up with a broken leg – compound fracture. Don’t be alarmed. I’m in no danger of dying. But there are business complications I want to talk over with you – things it’s only fair to you to let you help decide. It may be only for a few weeks. Then you can go back. Let Elenore stay in Paris. It’s all man’s work to be done here. Just responsibilities to be met.

Your father,John Carrington.

      Ned Carrington was turning over the pages of the morning Herald.

      “I can catch the train for London in an hour, and sail from Liverpool tomorrow, or – no, here it is – I can leave here in the morning and get a boat at Boulogne. That will be better,” he planned.

      “And Velantour?” Elenore questioned.

      He threw out his hands despairingly.

      “I’ll drive to the station and tell him,” he said. “Then I’ll come back and unpack – and pack.”

      “Why can’t I go to dad instead of you?” Elenore demanded.

      “Because it’s man’s work to be done,” said Carrington, impatiently. “Don’t argue it. I wish I had your brains for it, though. But it’s me that dad wants, and what he wants he shall have.”

      “Two people are going to America who don’t want to go in the least. But they are men, and so, presumably, useful,” she said, spiritedly. “And the one person who would really like to go can’t; because she is a woman, and so, presumably, useless.” She flung her head backward a bit impatiently as she looked at her twin. He was fumbling among the papers on his desk; and the long mirror above it showed his face flushed and perturbed and boyish. Then she caught sight of her own in the glass, and started.

      “There isn’t a pen here,” Ned said, irritably. “I must send dad a cable.”

      “There’s one in my room,” she said, and her tone was full of energy and spirit. “Get it, while I tell Berthe to run for a cab, and you can take the message to the office on your way to tell Velantour.”

      Her hand was on the bell as he disappeared. She had snatched up paper and pencil the next second, and was dashing off a note.

      “Berthe,” she said, as the little maid hurried in, “you are to go for a cab, and see that it gets here in just fifteen minutes precisely; not before, mind. Tell the cocher that he shall have five francs pourboire if he is exact.”

      “Bien, mademoiselle,” said the little maid.

      “Post this note to Mrs. Walden, and come back with a second cab in twenty-five minutes, without fail. Either my brother or myself will give you your last instructions for the summer.”

      “Bien, mademoiselle,” said the little maid – as she would have said it to any command short of murder.

      She sped out, pleasingly stimulated by the silver coin in her palm.

      “Has she gone?” demanded Ned, feverishly, as he reappeared with the pen.

      “Yes,” said Elenore. “Write your message and read it off to me when you’ve done it, will you? I want to tuck some things into the bag that’s going to America.”

      She nodded, smilingly, as she sped into his room.

      Carrington sat down with a stifled groan. The sweetness had gone out of life. It was duty now. Say what you will, six years’ absence loosens ties of blood; and though he was ashamed to confess it himself, it was with a lagging loyalty that he thought of going home.

      His whole life had been bent in one direction, and this abrupt break demanded a heroism which he resolved to simulate, at least. But he need not begin yet.

      He could make his little moan to himself for this instant when he was alone.

      He dipped the pen in the ink.

      The first sheet of paper blotted hopelessly. And the second. The fingers that held a brush with unfaltering and delicate touch were clumsily nervous now.

      John Carrington, Yellow Dog, Mich, (he got down). Am coming first boat.

      “What was the boat?” he demanded of himself, and helplessly turned back to the Herald for information.

      Kaiser

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