answer. The young lady hurried up the stairs and they heard her chamber door close. Cousin Percy shrugged his shoulders.
"Too bad our friend was called away so suddenly," he observed. "Very much of a surprise, wasn't it? Too bad."
No one replied, not even Serena, who was not wont to ignore the comments of her aristocratic relative. Her next remark was in the nature of an order and was addressed to her husband.
"Come! Come! Come!" she said fretfully. "Do come to bed!"
Daniel, pausing only to extinguish the lights, obeyed. Mr. Hungerford, with another shrug and a covert smile, preceded him up the stairs. As the captain was about to enter his bedroom, a voice, which sounded as if the speaker was half asleep, called from the third floor.
"Is there anything I can do, sir?" asked Hapgood. "I 'ave just been aroused, sir."
Daniel turned. Here was a heaven-sent vent for his feelings.
"Do!" he repeated. "Anything you can do? Yes, there is. Shut your door and turn in."
"But, sir--"
"And shut your head along with it!"
There were some inmates of the Dott mansion who, probably, slept peacefully the remainder of that night, or morning. Cousin Percy doubtless did, also Mr. Hapgood. Azuba, sleeping at the rear of the house, had not been awakened at all. But neither Captain Dan or Serena slept. Mrs. Dott's nerves kept her awake, and the combination prevented Daniel from napping. Nerves were a new acquisition of Serena's; at least she had never been conscious of them until recently. Now, however, they were becoming more and more in evidence. She was fretful and impatient of trifles, and the least contradiction or upset of her plans was likely to bring on fits of hysterical weeping. It was so in this case. Daniel, trotting for smelling salts and extra pillows and the hot water bottle, was not too calm himself. His plans, the plans founded upon John Doane's remaining in Scarford for a time, had been decidedly upset. He pleaded with his wife.
"But I don't see what ails you, Serena," he declared. "John's gone, that's true enough, but you didn't know he was comin'. He was here, a little while, and that's some gain, ain't it? I don't see--"
"See! You wouldn't see if your eyes were spyglasses. Oh, dear! why does everything have to go wrong with me? I thought when John came that Gertie--"
"Yes. That Gertie what?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing! Oh, my poor head! It aches so and the back of it feels so queer. Where are the pillows? Can't you get me another pillow?"
"Sure I can! You've got three already, but I can fetch another. It's all this society business that's breakin' you down, Serena. That everlastin' Chapter--"
He was sorry as soon as he said it, but said it had been. He spent the next hour in explaining that he did not mean it.
Serena was not on hand at breakfast time. Neither was Gertrude. That young lady came into the library at ten o'clock, looking pale and worn and with dark circles under her eyes. She had a thick envelope in her hand.
"Daddy," she said, "will you post this for me?"
Her father looked up from the pile of papers on the writing table before him. He, too, appeared somewhat worried.
"Sartin," he announced promptly. "I've got a stack of stuff for the postman, myself. Bills and checks they are, mostly. Serena usually attends to the house bills, but she's kind of under the weather this morning. Say, Gertie," gravely, "it costs a sight to run this place, did you know it?"
"I suppose it does."
"You bet it does! Why, I never realized--But there, I suppose likely these bills are heavier than usual. I suppose they are. Good land! if they ain't! But, of course they are. I'll ask Serena about 'em by and by, when she's better. Give me your letter, Gertie, I'll mail it."
"You won't forget?"
"Not a mite. I'll put it right here with the others and give 'em to the postman when he comes. Humph! it's to John, isn't it? You're pretty prompt in your writin', ain't you? But that's natural; I remember when I used to write your mother twice a day. It's a wonder she stood it and kept her health, ain't it. Ha! ha!"
He chuckled and turned back to his bills and the checkbook. Gertrude left the room.
Captain Dan wrote and enclosed and affixed stamps. The pile of envelopes on the table grew steadily larger. Mr. Hungerford entered, seeking the cigar box.
"Good-morning," he observed, cheerfully.
Daniel looked up, grunted, and went on with his work. Cousin Percy smiled. A querulous voice called from the second floor.
"Daniel!" called Serena. "Daniel, where are you? Why don't you come up? I am all alone."
The captain sprang to his feet, "Comin'! Serena!" he shouted. "Comin'!"
He hurried out. Mr. Hungerford, left alone, helped himself to a cigar and strolled about the room. The pile of letters on the table caught his attention. Idly he turned the envelopes over, examining the addresses. All at once his interest became less casual; one of the written names had caught his attention.
Five minutes later the postman rang the doorbell. Captain Dan ran downstairs, entered the library, seized the letters from the table and hastened to hand them to the carrier.
"Daddy!" called Gertrude from above, "did you post my letter?"
"Sure!" was the prompt answer. "Just gave it to the mail man. It's on the road now."
Serena's "nerves" were in much better condition the following day, and her spirits likewise. Gertrude, however, was still grave and absent-minded and non-communicative. Toward Mr. Hungerford in particular she was cool and distant, answering his chatty remarks and solicitous inquiries concerning her health with monosyllables, and, on several occasions, leaving the room when he entered it. This state of affairs was even more marked on the second day after Mr. Doane's abrupt departure, and still more so on the third. She seemed nervously expectant when the postman brought the mail, and depressed when each consignment contained no letter for her. On the fourth day this depression was so marked that her father asked the cause.
"What ails you, Gertie?" he inquired. "You look as if you just come from a funeral. What's wrong?"
Gertrude, who was standing by the window, looking out, answered without turning her head.
"Nothing," she said shortly.
"Well, I'm glad of that. I thought you was troubled in your mind about somethin'. Ain't frettin' about John, are you?"
His daughter looked at him now, and the look was a searching one.
"About--Why should I fret about him, pray?" she asked slowly.
"I don't know. I thought maybe his goin' away so sudden was a sort of disappointment to you. 'Twas to the rest of us. Hey? Did you say somethin'?"
"No."
"Oh, I thought you did. Well, you mustn't be disappointed, Gertie. You see, business is business. John did what he thought was right and--"
"Daddy, do be still. I do not intend to trouble myself about--him. Don't talk to me, please. I don't feel like talking."
Daniel talked no more, at that time, but he wondered, and determined to ask Serena her opinion when the opportunity came.
It did not come immediately. A new development in Chapter politics was occupying Mrs. Dott's mind, a development so wonderful and so glorious in its promise that that lady could think or speak of little else. Mrs. Lake's term as president of Scarford Chapter was nearing its end. Annette Black, the vice-president, would have been, in the regular course of events, Mrs. Lake's successor