you must show me all the rooms right away. We can talk as we go. Come on."
She led the way and Daniel followed. The house was shown from top to bottom. Gertrude asked many questions, the majority of which seemed to have little to do with the new establishment and more with the life which her parents had spent in it. Captain Dan answered these questions in the intervals between rooms, and his answers were less guarded than they might have been under different circumstances. At length the young lady ceased to question, and the tour of inspection was finished in silence on her part.
When they returned to the library, the captain, who had been waiting for some expression of approval from his daughter, suddenly blurted out:
"Well, why don't you say somethin', Gertie? Don't you like it?"
Gertrude, seated in the easy chair, her elbow resting on the chair arm and her chin supported by her hand, answered promptly.
"No," she said, "I don't like it at all."
"What! Don't LIKE it? Don't like this house? Well, for mercy sakes!"
"Oh, not the house; I like that well enough. I liked our old one quite as well--but never mind that now. The house is all right. It is the rest of it that is all wrong. I don't like that."
"The rest of it? What do you mean?"
Gertrude did not answer. Instead she raised her head and looked at him. It was a long look and a steady one, and the captain found it hard to bear. He fidgeted for a moment and then blurted out:
"Well, what is it? Why are you starin' at me like that?"
The stare continued.
"What is it?" demanded Daniel. "What does ail you, Gertie? Or is it me?"
His daughter nodded. "Yes," she said, "it is you. Why don't you tell me all about it, Daddy? I have a right to know. Why don't you tell me?"
"Tell you? Tell you what?"
"You know. Why don't you tell me? You have told me so much already that you may as well make a clean breast of it. Why, you silly old Dad, what do you suppose brought me here a week ahead of my vacation? Why do you think I came?"
"Why do I think--? Why--why, you came because you wanted to see your mother and me, I suppose. That's reason enough--or I flattered myself that 'twas. I thought you was as anxious to see us as we was to see you."
"So I was; but that wasn't reason sufficient to make me leave my work at college before the term was over, leave it for good, very likely. I came because I was sure you needed me. And your letters made me sure."
Daniel gasped. His letters had been triumphs of diplomatic evasion, so he considered. He had been so careful to write nothing of his troubles, to leave out everything which should hint at his disturbed state of mind. He had taken pains to express, in each epistle, his contentment and happiness, had emphasized them. And now--
"My letters!" he exclaimed. "My letters made you think--made you sure--"
"Yes; your letters and mother's. Hers were full of all sorts of things, the very things that you never mentioned. She didn't say she was having a good time here, but it was plain enough that she was. You said it in every letter--that you were having the good time, I mean--but it was perfectly plain that you weren't. And her last letter was so short--she was so busy with the Atterbury preparations that she could not write more, she said--and yours was so very, very long, and SO full of lonesomeness--"
Her father interrupted. Lonesomeness was the very thing he had tried to keep out of that letter.
"Gertrude Atwell Dott!" he shouted. "How you talk! I never wrote a word--"
"Yes, you did. It was all there, between the lines. I could read it, for you and I have been acquainted a good many years. As soon as I received that letter I made up my mind to come at once. Since I have been here I have asked a good many questions, and you have answered them. But I didn't need the answers. Just to look at you was enough. You are miserable, Daddy dear, and, because you are you, you won't admit it. But you've got to; you've got to tell me the whole story. I want to know all about everything."
The wind was taken completely out of Daniel's sails. He could only sit there, guilt written plainly upon his face, and stammer frantic protestations.
"No, no," he declared. "It ain't so. You're all wrong, Gertie. You're way off the course. The idea of you sayin' your mother was neglectin' me."
"I didn't say it. You have said it a dozen times, but I haven't."
"_I_ said it? I never. Your mother is a fine woman, Gertie; as good a woman as ever was."
"I know that. And she would not neglect you wilfully for the world. But she has not had experience. She takes people and things at their face value. She doesn't understand--Why are you smiling? Is it so funny?"
Captain Dan rubbed the smile from his lips. In spite of his perturbation he had been amused for the moment.
"Why," he observed, "I don't know as 'tis, but--but--well, I couldn't help wonderin' how old you'd got to be in the last couple of months, Gertie. You talk as if you was the grandmother and your ma and I were young ones just out of school. About how much experience have YOU had, young lady? now that we're speakin' of it."
Gertrude's earnestness was too real to be shaken by this pertinent inquiry.
"I have had a good deal," she declared. "One can get a lot of experience in college. There are as many kinds of character there, on a small scale, as anywhere I know. I have seen girls--but there! this is all irrelevant, away from the subject. You ARE neglected, Daddy; you are lonely and miserable. Now, I want you to tell me all about it."
But her father had, in a measure, recovered his composure, and he declined to tell. He had been longing for a confidant, and here was the one he had longed for most; but his sense of loyalty to Serena kept him silent.
"There's nothin' to tell," he vowed stoutly. "I'm all right. You're dreamin', Gertie."
"Nonsense! I shall lose patience with you pretty soon, and I don't want to. Judging by what I have seen and learned so far, I am likely to need a great deal of patience in this house, and I can't waste any. Mother has gone head over heels into this precious Ladies of Honor work of hers, hasn't she?"
"We-ll, she's terrible interested in it, of course; but she's so smart anyhow, and here in Scarford she's got the chance she's been lookin' for."
"And she is very much in society here, isn't she?"
"Yes. That's natural, too, with her smartness and all."
"What kind of society is it?"
"Hey? What kind? Why, it's the genuine gilt-edged kind, I should say. _I_ never saw such clothes, nor such dinners, nor dances. It--"
"Hush! Yes, I can believe all that. You wouldn't be likely to see them--in Trumet. And I can believe in the gilt; the genuine part is what I am most doubtful of. Mrs. Black is as influential with Mother as ever, isn't she?"
"Yes. She and Serena bein' such close friends, it--"
"I know. Tell me, Daddy, are the rest of Mother's friends like the Blacks?"
"Pretty much. They're all the same tribe--that is, I mean they're all brilliant, fashionable folks."
"I see. What sort of friends have YOU made?"
This was straight from the shoulder and the captain was somewhat staggered.
"Well," he admitted, after a slight pause, "I--I ain't made so dreadful many friends, Gertie. Most of the men here are--are kind of different from me, seems so. They belong to clubs and such, and they're out a lot nights. I don't care