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girl's time is her own after business hours, and I try not to burden them when they come home. I'm willing she should do your work as suits you, if it's her wish; but I don't like to press her. The good times she misses now, it's not you nor me, sir, that can make them up to her. These young things has their feelings."

      "Oh, I don't want to press her, either," Wanning said hastily. "I simply want to know that you understand the situation. I've made her a little present in my will as a recognition that she is doing more for me than she is paid for."

      "That's something above me, sir. We'll hope there won't be no question of wills for many years yet," Mrs. Wooley spoke heartily. "I'm glad if my girl can be of any use to you, just so she don't prejudice herself."

      The plumber's son rose as if the interview were over.

      "It's all right, Mama Wooley, don't you worry," he said.

      He picked up his canvas cap and turned to Wanning. "You see, Annie ain't the sort of girl that would want to be spotted circulating around with a monied party her folks didn't know all about. She'd lose friends by it."

      After this conversation Annie felt a great deal happier. She was still shy and a trifle awkward with poor Wanning when they were outside the office building, and she missed the old freedom of her Saturday afternoons. But she did the best she could, and Willy Steen tried to make it up to her.

      In Annie's absence he often came in of an afternoon to have a cup of tea and a sugar-bun with Mrs. Wooley and the daughter who was "resting." As they sat at the dining-room table, they discussed Annie's employer, his peculiarities, his health, and what he had told Mrs. Wooley about his will.

      Mrs. Wooley said she sometimes felt afraid he might disinherit his children, as rich people often did, and make talk; but she hoped for the best. Whatever came to Annie, she prayed it might not be in the form of taxable property.

      IV

      Late in September Wanning grew suddenly worse. His family hurried home, and he was put to bed in his house in Orange. He kept asking the doctors when he could get back to the office, but he lived only eight days.

      The morning after his father's funeral, Harold went to the office to consult Wanning's partners and to read the will. Everything in the will was as it should be. There were no surprises except a codicil in the form of a letter to Mrs. Wanning, dated July 8th, requesting that out of the estate she should pay the sum of one thousand dollars to his stenographer, Annie Wooley, "in recognition of her faithful services."

      "I thought Miss Doane was my father's stenographer," Harold exclaimed.

      Alec McQuiston looked embarrassed and spoke in a low, guarded tone.

      "She was, for years. But this spring,--" he hesitated.

      McQuiston loved a scandal. He leaned across his desk toward Harold.

      "This spring your father put this little girl, Miss Wooley, a copyist, utterly inexperienced, in Miss Doane's place. Miss Doane was indignant and left us. The change made comment here in the office. It was slightly--No, I will be frank with you, Harold, it was very irregular."

      Harold also looked grave. "What could my father have meant by such a request as this to my mother?"

      The silver haired senior partner flushed and spoke as if he were trying to break something gently.

      "I don't understand it, my boy. But I think, indeed I prefer to think, that your father was not quite himself all this summer. A man like your father does not, in his right senses, find pleasure in the society of an ignorant, common little girl. He does not make a practise of keeping her at the office after hours, often until eight o'clock, or take her to restaurants and to the theater with him; not, at least, in a slanderous city like New York."

      Harold flinched before McQuiston's meaning gaze and turned aside in pained silence. He knew, as a dramatist, that there are dark chapters in all men's lives, and this but too clearly explained why his father had stayed in town all summer instead of joining his family.

      McQuiston asked if he should ring for Annie Wooley.

      Harold drew himself up. "No. Why should I see her? I prefer not to. But with your permission, Mr. McQuiston, I will take charge of this request to my mother. It could only give her pain, and might awaken doubts in her mind."

      "We hardly know," murmured the senior partner, "where an investigation would lead us. Technically, of course, I cannot agree with you. But if, as one of the executors of the will, you wish to assume personal responsibility for this bequest, under the circumstances--irregularities beget irregularities."

      "My first duty to my father," said Harold, "is to protect my mother."

      That afternoon McQuiston called Annie Wooley into his private office and told her that her services would not be needed any longer, and that in lieu of notice the clerk would give her two weeks' salary.

      "Can I call up here for references?" Annie asked.

      "Certainly. But you had better ask for me, personally. You must know there has been some criticism of you here in the office, Miss Wooley."

      "What about?" Annie asked boldly.

      "Well, a young girl like you cannot render so much personal service to her employer as you did to Mr. Wanning without causing unfavorable comment. To be blunt with you, for your own good, my dear young lady, your services to your employer should terminate in the office, and at the close of office hours. Mr. Wanning was a very sick man and his judgment was at fault, but you should have known what a girl in your station can do and what she cannot do."

      The vague discomfort of months flashed up in little Annie. She had no mind to stand by and be lectured without having a word to say for herself.

      "Of course he was sick, poor man!" she burst out. "Not as anybody seemed much upset about it. I wouldn't have given up my half-holidays for anybody if they hadn't been sick, no matter what they paid me. There wasn't anything in it for me."

      McQuiston raised his hand warningly.

      "That will do, young lady. But when you get another place, remember this: it is never your duty to entertain or to provide amusement for your employer."

      He gave Annie a look which she did not clearly understand, although she pronounced him a nasty old man as she hustled on her hat and jacket.

      When Annie reached home she found Willy Steen sitting with her mother and sister at the dining-room table. This was the first day that Annie had gone to the office since Wanning's death, and her family awaited her return with suspense.

      "Hello yourself," Annie called as she came in and threw her handbag into an empty armchair.

      "You're off early, Annie," said her mother gravely. "Has the will been read?"

      "I guess so. Yes, I know it has. Miss Wilson got it out of the safe for them. The son came in. He's a pill."

      "Was nothing said to you, daughter?"

      "Yes, a lot. Please give me some tea, mother." Annie felt that her swagger was failing.

      "Don't tantalize us, Ann," her sister broke in. "Didn't you get anything?"

      "I got the mit, all right. And some back talk from the old man that I'm awful sore about."

      Annie dashed away the tears and gulped her tea.

      Gradually her mother and Willy drew the story from her. Willy offered at once to go to the office building and take his stand outside the door and never leave it until he had punched old Mr. McQuiston's face. He rose as if to attend to it at once, but Mrs. Wooley drew him to his chair again and patted his arm.

      "It would only start talk and get the girl in trouble,

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