be expected, but she did not like to lose these impressions, and she did not like to leave this warm sunshine, these busy, moving streets, this contact with active life, and so she wandered on out Claybourne Avenue. There was slowly taking form within her a notion of eking out her pleasure by going to see Elizabeth Ward, but she did not let the thought wholly take form; rather she let it lie dormant under her other thoughts. She walked along in the sunlight and looked at the automobiles that went trumpeting by, at the carriages rolling home with their aristocratic mistresses lolling on their cushions. Gusta found a pleasure in recognizing many of these women; she had opened the Wards' big front door to them, she had served them with tea, or at dinner; she had heard their subdued laughter; she had covertly inspected their toilets; some of them had glanced for an instant into her eyes and thanked her for some little service. And then she could recall things she had heard them say, bits of gossip, or scandal, some of which gave her pleasure, others feelings of hatred and disgust. A rosy young matron drove by in a phaeton, with her pretty children piled about her feet, and the sight pleased Gusta. She smiled and hurried on with quickened step.
At last she saw the familiar house, and then to her joy she saw Elizabeth on the veranda, leaning against one of the pillars, evidently taking the air, enjoying the sun and the spring. Elizabeth saw Gusta, too, and her eyes brightened.
"Why, Gusta!" she said. "Is that you?"
Gusta stood on the steps and looked up at Elizabeth. Her face was rosy with embarrassment and pleasure. Elizabeth perched on the rail of the veranda and examined the vine of Virginia roses that had not yet begun to put forth.
"And how are you getting along?" she said. "How are they all at home?"
Gusta told her of her father and of her mother and of the children.
Elizabeth tried to talk to her; she was fond of her, but there seemed to be nothing to talk about. She knew, too, how Gusta adored her, and she felt that she must always retain this adoration, and constantly prove her kindness to Gusta. But the conversation was nothing but a series of questions she extorted from herself by a continued effort that quickly wearied her, especially as Gusta's replies were delivered so promptly and so laconically that she could not think of other questions fast enough. At last she said:
"And how's Archie?"
And then instantly she remembered that Archie was in prison. Her heart smote her for her thoughtlessness. Gusta's head was hanging.
"I've just been to see him," she said.
"I wished to hear of him, Gusta," Elizabeth said, trying by her tone to destroy the quality of her first question. "I spoke to Mr. Marriott about him–I'm sure he'll get him off."
Gusta made no reply, and Elizabeth saw that her tears were falling.
Elizabeth saw that her tears were falling
"Come, Gusta," she said sympathetically, "you mustn't feel bad."
The girl suddenly looked at her, her eyes full of tears.
"Oh, Miss Elizabeth," she said, "if you could only know! To see him down there–in that place! Such a thing never happened to us before!"
"But I'm sure it'll all come out right in the end–I'm sure of that. There must have been some mistake. Tell me all about it."
And then Gusta told her the whole story.
"You don't know how it feels, Miss Elizabeth," she said when she had done, "to have your own brother–such a thing couldn't happen to you–here." Gusta glanced about her, taking in at a glance, as it were, the large house, and all its luxury and refinement and riches, as if these things were insurmountable barriers to such misfortune and disgrace.
Elizabeth saw the glance, and some way, suddenly, the light and warmth went out of the spring day for her. The two girls looked at each other a moment, then they looked away, and there was silence. Elizabeth's brows were contracted; in her eyes there was a look of pain.
When Gusta had gone Elizabeth went indoors, but her heart was heavy. She tried to throw off the feeling, but could not. She told herself that it was her imagination, always half morbid, but this did not satisfy her. She was silent at the luncheon-table until her mother said:
"Elizabeth, what in the world ails you?"
"Oh; nothing."
"I know something does," insisted Mrs. Ward.
Elizabeth, with her head inclined, was outlining with the prong of a fork the pattern on the salad bowl.
"Gusta has been here, telling me her troubles."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Mrs. Ward.
"You know her brother has been arrested."
"What for?"
"Stealing."
"Indeed! Well! I do wish she'd keep away! I'm sure I don't know what we've done that we should have such things brought into our house!"
"But it's too bad," said Elizabeth. "The young man–"
"Yes, the young man! If he'd go to work and earn an honest living, he wouldn't be arrested for stealing!"
"I was just thinking–" Elizabeth finished the pattern on the salad bowl and inclined her head on the other side, as if she had really designed the pattern and were studying the effect of her finished work,–"that if Dick–"
"Why, Elizabeth!" Mrs. Ward cried. "How can you say such a thing?"
Elizabeth smiled, and the smile irritated her mother.
"I'm sure it's entirely different!" Mrs. Ward went on. "Dick does not belong to that class at all!"
XIII
The truth was that Elizabeth had been worried for days about Dick. A few evenings before, Ward, who took counsel of his daughter rather than of his wife in such affairs, had told her of his concern about his son.
"I don't know what to do with the boy," he had said. "He seems to have no interest in anything; he tired of school, and he tired of college; and now he is of age and–doing nothing."
She remembered how he had sat there, puffing at his cigar as if that could assist him to some conclusion.
"I tried him in the office for a while, you know, but he did not seem to take it seriously–of course, it wasn't really serious; the work went on as well without him as with him. I guess he knew that."
Elizabeth sat and thought, but the problem which her father had put to her immediately overpowered her; there seemed to be no solution at all–she could not even arrange its terms in her mind, and she was silent, yet her silence was charged with sympathy.
"I've talked to him, but that does no good. I've pleaded with him, but that does no good. I tried giving him unlimited money, then I put him on an allowance, then I cut him off altogether–it was just the same."
Ward smoked a moment in silence.
"I've thought of every known profession. He says he doesn't want to be a lawyer or a doctor; he has no taste for mechanics, and he seems to have no interest in business. I've thought of sending him abroad, or out West, but he doesn't want to do that."
And again the silence and the smoking and the pain.
"He's out to-night–where, I don't know. I don't want to know–I'm afraid to know!"
There was something wild, appealing and pathetic in this cry wrung from a father's heart. Elizabeth had looked up quickly, her own heart aching with pity. She recalled how he had said:
"Your mother–she doesn't understand; I don't know that I want her to; she idolizes the boy; she thinks he can't do wrong."
And then Elizabeth had slipped her arm about his neck, and, leaning over, had placed her cheek against his; her tears had come, and she had felt that his tears had come; he had patted her hand. They had sat thus for a long while.
"Poor boy!" Ward had said again. "He's only making trouble for himself. I'd like to help him, but somehow, Bess, I can't get