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I could go.”

      “What a crazy thing to say, wasn’t it?”

      “It was because we had been talking about the play of Macbeth. You remember, ’Till Birnam Wood shall come to Dunsinane.”

      “Oh, yes, and then it did come – by a trick.”

      “Yes, the men came, carrying branches. We’d been talking about it, discussing some point, and then – it seemed clever, I suppose – to Appleby, and he wrote that about the sycamore.”

      “Meaning – never?”

      “Meaning never.”

      “But Birnam Wood did go.”

      “Only by a trick, and that would not work in this case. Why, are you thinking of carrying a branch of sycamore into Massachusetts?”

      Maida returned his smile as she answered: “I’d manage to carry the whole tree in, if it would do any good! But, I s’pose, old Puritan Father, you’re too conscientious to take advantage of a trick?”

      “Can’t say, till I know the details of the game. But I doubt Appleby’s being unable to see through your trick, and then – where are you?”

      “That wouldn’t matter. Trick or no trick, if the big sycamore went into Massachusetts, you could go. But I don’t see any good plan for getting it in. And, too, Sycamore Ridge wouldn’t be Sycamore Ridge without it. Don’t you love the old tree, dad?”

      “Of course, as I love every stick and stone about the place. It has been a real haven to me in my perturbed life.”

      “Suppose you had to leave it, daddy?”

      “I think I’d die, dear. Unless, that is, we could go back home.”

      “Isn’t this home?”

      “It’s the dearest spot on earth – outside my native state.”

      “There, there, dad, don’t let’s talk about it. We’re here for keeps – ”

      “Heaven send we are, dearest! I couldn’t face the loss of this place. What made you think of such a thing?”

      “Oh, I’m thinking of all sorts of things to-day. But, father, while we’re talking of moving – couldn’t you – oh, couldn’t you, bring yourself, somehow, to do what Mr. Appleby wants you to do? I don’t know much about it – but father, darling, if you only could!”

      “Maida, my little girl, don’t think I haven’t tried. Don’t think I don’t realize what it means to you and Jeff. I know – oh, I do know how it would simplify matters if I should go over to the Appleby side – and push Sam’s campaign – as I could do it. I know that it would mean my full pardon, my return to my old home, my reunion with old scenes and associations. And more than that, it would mean the happiness of my only child – my daughter – and her chosen husband. And yet, Maida, as God is my judge, I am honest in my assertion that I can’t so betray my honor and spend my remaining years a living lie. I can’t do it, Maida – I can’t.”

      And the calm, sorrowful countenance he turned to the girl was more positive and final than any further protestation could have been.

      CHAPTER V

      THE BUGLE SOUNDED TAPS

      Although the portions of the house and grounds that were used by Wheeler included the most attractive spots, yet there were many forbidden places that were a real temptation to him.

      An especial one was the flower-covered arbor that had so charmed Genevieve and another was the broad and beautiful north veranda. To be sure, the south piazza was equally attractive, but it was galling to be compelled to avoid any part of his own domain. However, the passing years had made the conditions a matter of habit and it was only occasionally that Wheeler’s annoyance was poignant.

      In fact, he and his wife bore the cross better than did Maida. She had never become reconciled to the unjust and arbitrary dictum of the conditional pardon. She lived in a constant fear lest her father should some day inadvertently and unintentionally step on the forbidden ground, and it should be reported. Indeed, knowing her father’s quixotic honesty, she was by no means sure he wouldn’t report it himself.

      It had never occurred – probably never would occur, and yet, she often imagined some sudden emergency, such as a fire, or burglars, that might cause his impulsive invasion of the other side of the house.

      In her anxiety she had spoken of this to Samuel Appleby when he was there. But he gave her no satisfaction. He merely replied: “A condition is a condition.”

      Curtis Keefe had tried to help her cause, by saying: “Surely a case of danger would prove an exception to the rule,” but Appleby had only shaken his head in denial.

      Though care had been taken to have the larger part of the house on the Massachusetts side of the line, yet the rooms most used by the family were in Connecticut. Here was Mr. Wheeler’s den, and this had come to be the most used room in the whole house. Mrs. Wheeler’s sitting-room, which her husband never had entered, was also attractive, but both mother and daughter invaded the den, whenever leisure hours were to be enjoyed.

      The den contained a large south bay window, which was Maida’s favorite spot. It had a broad, comfortable window-seat, and here she spent much of her time, curled up among the cushions, reading. There were long curtains, which, half-drawn, hid her from view, and often she was there for hours, without her father’s knowing it.

      His own work was engrossing. Cut off from his established law business in Massachusetts, he had at first felt unable to start it anew in different surroundings. Then, owing to his wife’s large fortune, it was decided that he should give up all business for a time. And as the time went on, and there was no real necessity for an added income, Wheeler had indulged in his hobby of book collecting, and had amassed a library of unique charm as well as goodly intrinsic value.

      Moreover, it kept him interested and occupied, and prevented his becoming morose or melancholy over his restricted life.

      So, many long days he worked away at his books, and Maida, hidden in the window-seat, watched him lovingly in the intervals of her reading.

      Sitting there, the morning after Samuel Appleby’s departure, she read not at all, although a book lay open on her lap. She was trying to decide a big matter, trying to solve a vexed question.

      Maida’s was a straightforward nature. She never deceived herself. If she did anything against her better judgment, even against her conscience, it was with open eyes and understanding mind. She used no sophistry, no pretence, and if she acted mistakenly she was always satisfied to abide by the consequences.

      And now, she set about her problem, systematically and methodically, determined to decide upon her course, and then strictly follow it.

      She glanced at her father, absorbed in his book catalogues and indexes, and a great wave of love and devotion filled her heart. Surely no sacrifice was too great that would bring peace or pleasure to that martyred spirit.

      That he was a martyr, Maida was as sure as she was that she was alive. She knew him too well to believe for an instant that he had committed a criminal act; it was an impossibility for one of his character. But that she could do nothing about. The question had been raised and settled when she was too young to know anything about it, and now, her simple duty was to do anything she might to ease his burden and to help him to forget.

      “And,” she said to herself, “first of all, he must stay in this home. He positively must– and that’s all there is about that. Now, if he knows – if he has the least hint that there is another heir, he’ll get out at once – or at least, he’ll move heaven and earth to find the heir, and then we’ll have to move. And where to? That’s an unanswerable question. Anyway, I’ve only one sure conviction. I’ve got to keep from him all knowledge or suspicion of that other heir!

      “Maybe it isn’t true – maybe Mr. Appleby made it up – but I don’t think so. At any rate, I have to proceed as if it were true, and do my best. And, first of all, I’ve got to

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